Michaela
Moses passed me another drink. “Why are you in this business?”
“I love music and I’m organized as hell, at least at work.”
He held his whiskey to his lips. “Are you saying you’re a mess at home?”
I held my thumb and forefinger an inch apart. “A little bit. But shhh, don’t tell. I need everyone to think I’m type A everywhere. If I give those boys an inch, they’ll take a mile.”
“What are you like at home?”
I puffed a curl off my forehead, but it flopped back down, so I tugged at it. “See this curl? This is me at home. Out of place, a loner, and messy as hell. What are you like when you’re not being Mr. Rock Star?”
It took him a beat to answer. “Honestly? I don’t even know. I haven’t stopped working in five years.”
“Are you recording another album soon?”
He lifted a shoulder. “I haven’t written jack shit in months. I’m uninspired. We’ll probably release a single or two, play a couple small shows, but we’re not anywhere near ready to release a full album.”
I arched a brow. “Release or perish.”
“Fuck, Mic, you know how to take the stress away.”
I laughed. “I’m just saying...you have to keep your name out there or people will forget about you. If you’re not putting out music, maybe you should create a big scandal. Run down the Strip naked or marry a random stranger.”
“Nah, despite appearances, I’m pretty private. Plus, marriage is a big deal to me. I’m only going to do it once, so I wouldn’t waste that on some chick who’s more interested in my famous dick than keeping vows.”
That answer surprised me. “Wow, you’ve put some thought into it.”
He took a slow sip of his drink and set the glass down. “I’ve spent a lot of time on buses and planes. It gives me almost too much opportunity to think.” He cocked his head. “You sure you don’t want to dance?”
“Will you be taking liberties?”
He held up his hands, and I was momentarily distracted by the length of his fingers. They were almost elegant, but the thick calluses on the pads made them just rugged enough.
“If my hands wander, it will only be in a friendly way.”
I laughed. “A friendly butt grab?”
“You say that like it’s unheard of.”
Snatching up the quarters still on the table, I stood, surprised the earth didn’t waver. I wasn’t as drunk as I expected to be at the point in the evening, which was fortunate, since I was having such a good time with Moses. He was young—tooyoung—and famous—toofamous—but I liked him. He was easy to talk to, and he struck me as more real than most people I encountered, musicians or not.
In front of the jukebox, Mo pressed close to my side, and I pressed back just a little. He grinned down at me, but kept his flirty lines to himself, which made me want to press even closer.
“I’ve got my song picked out,” he said.
“Me too.”
He punched his choice in first, then I did mine. When the opening chords to “Everlong” played through the tinny speakers, Mo held a hand out to me. I let him pull me against him, and we swayed together even though it wasn’t really a swaying song.
Mo’s hand splayed across my spine, a finger or two dipping below my waistband. I didn’t object, not when I liked the feel of him there. His other hand brushed my wild curl away from my forehead, but it flopped back, just as it always did.
He breathed a laugh. “That fucking curl.”
“You don’t like that curl, you wouldn’t like me,” I said.
His thumb brushed my cheek. “That curl drives me crazy, but I like it a lot. I probably won’t stop thinking about that curl, even when I’m back on the east coast and it’s out of sight.”