“Play?”
“Yeah, the one where you tried to play it cool as you ever so sweetly handed him his ass on a platter. That play.” She felt his eyes as they roamed the length of her body. “I underestimated you, Miss Pamela Myers.”
“Most men do.” She hadn’t intended to say that flip comment it just tumbled from her mouth.
“I bet they do. I just bet they do.”
Chapter Four
When he’d first seen little Miss Pamela Myers in her pristine pants suit and schoolmarm hair, she resembled a librarian more than a woman about to embark on a three and half month rock tour. Even with her hair pulled back so tight that her eyes had been lifted, he’d seen a hint of something more with that red lipstick. Barely there eye makeup, a soft blush but brazen red lips? Why it fascinated him, he had no clue. Of course, she had that rockin’ little body going for her. A foot shorter than he was, Chains had noticed her abundant curves from afar as she approached his car from the airport. Nice hips, small waist, and a killer rack. He wondered what that blonde hair looked like when it was down. He’d put money on the fact that there was more to Miss Red Pouty Lips than met the eye.
Didn’t matter anyhow. He didn’t do relationships and she had commitment written all over that Hillary Clinton pantsuit of hers. “Jesus,” he muttered to himself. Why was he even thinking about this—about her? The woman was far from his type…her curvaceous body withstanding. No, Chains tended to lean toward women who were covered with ink, too much make-up, and a helluva lot less clothing. Not to mention less inhibitions. The breed that didn’t bat a heavily mascaraed eye at a one-night stand.
Just so happens he had always been attracted to women completely opposite than Miss Pamela Myers. Although, her putting Strut in his place was surprising. There was a spitfire beneath that bun of hers. Doesn’t matter…off limits. There’d be plenty of pussy around. No need to sniff around her. It didn’t make sense all around.
Deep Bend had been on a downward spiral for some time now. He wondered if little Miss Priss would be able to get them back on track—as she put it. He’d been brought in because the band required more security after their recent indiscretions had been plastered on every tabloid in the supermarket. Strut’s sex tape had been a disaster. Thankfully, the woman had been of legal age, but just barely. Nine days past her eighteenth birthday, she’d bedded the rock star while her girlfriend videotaped. Strut was probably high as well as loaded during the filming. Not that it would’ve mattered if she had been underage. According to most of the general public, eighteen or not the woman’s baby face was more than enough evidence she shouldn’t have been in the rockers bed. Chains happened to agree with the general population on that fact.
It was still unclear who exactly had blown up their bus at the truck stop in Bowling Green Kentucky. They knew it had been a member of the band, but nobody had fessed up, and no fingers had been pointed. Truth was they had all been drinking and someone thought roman candles would be a fun way to pass the time while the other semis and busses refueled. That idea had literally blown up in their faces. The bus had gone up in a blaze of fucking glory just off Interstate 65. A total loss. That was exactly four weeks after the infamous sex tape made its appearance.
Like the band had needed more bad publicity. Too many shows canceled and too many days of mediocre performances had already put the band in a risky state. Strut liked his booze a little too much and apparently his women as well. Drummer Trey Connovan had passed out onstage more times than Chains could count. They were on their third bass player since the end of their last tour. With their new album barely leaving the shelves and their downloads dwindling? Something needed to change and soon or they were screwed and not the way the band liked. Shit, not even the way the band had on video.
Chains eyed what was supposed to be his bunk. Seriously? How exactly did they expect him to get any sleep on that fucking thing? Apparently, he needed to up his contract stipulations like the new PA. He’d manage; he’d been in a lot worse situations as a security specialist over the years.
It was his job to figure out what exactly Deep Bend needed security wise. Of course, the band hadn’t known that…yet. They merely saw him as another piece of hired muscle. Which he was, but he was also a helluva lot more. They’d find out when the moment was right. For now? For now, he’d keep his eyes open and his mouth shut and his hands off the luscious Pamela Myers.
Looking over the bus while Strut was playing an insanely loud game of Call Of Duty on his Xbox and Pamela had yet to emerge from her room, Chains found a few things that needed to be rectified. Security measures were his life. He was damn good at his job and that’s why Ragged Ruins Promotions had brought him in as well—not that the band knew that.
“Is this where you tell me why you’re looking under bunks?”
He’d been on his hands and knees with his tactical mirror searching for something, searching for anything really. “Nothing,” he answered and closed the telescoped mirror before slipping it into his back pocket. When he stood, he had to admire the way her blue eyes stayed on him. For a small woman, she didn’t back down from him easily. Usually, his sheer size alone had people hunkering.
“Just drop it.” He felt her more than heard her follow him out of the hall and into the living area of the bus. Chains took one of the black leather recliners and swiveled away from the approaching female.
Without hesitation, Pamela turned his chair around and planted her hands on the armrests, leaning in close. “Am I in danger on this bus?”
“Why would you be in danger on this bus?”
“I’m not stupid, Damion. You’re more than the average hired hulk aren’t you?”
Damn woman. It had taken her seconds to figure him out. “Don’t know what you’re talking about, woman.”
Her eyes sparked. “First off you know my name…use it. And second, what kind of security are you?”
When he stood, Chains didn’t wait for her to move. Instead, his chest was pressed up against her, raising her body along with his own. “First off, you know my name…use it. And secondly, I’m a bodyguard.”
They both stood there at an impasse. Neither wanted to be the one to back down.
“By the way, I used your name,” she said as she turned away from him.
“I told you I go by Chains.”
“Oh that’s right. Does your mother call you Chains then or does she still call you Damion?” She offered him a purely evil smile before opening a cupboard door and pulling out a box of granola bars.
He wouldn’t let her get a rise out of him no matter how hard she tried. “Neither.”
“Really?” His answer clearly wasn’t what she expected. “What does she call you then?”
She struggled with the wrapper on the chocolate chip granola bar so he walked over and took it from her ripping it open with his teeth before handing it back.
“Ahh, thanks.”
He really wished he hadn’t watched her take a bite, chew, and then swallow. The visual of those lips closed around—fuck! What was he thinking? You were thinking those red lips would look perfect wrapped around your cock.
“Dami—Chains? You okay?”
She’d caught him staring. “I’m good.”
“Do you want some?”
Yeah, hell yeah I want some, Miss Prim and Proper.
Pamela held the granola bar box toward him. “You can have one or some or whatever if you want.”
“I don’t eat that hippy shit.”
“Hippy shit?” she asked.
“Yeah, granola, granola bars all the same.”
“I’m not a hippy.”
“Tree-hugger maybe? One of those broads against guns, sex, and rock-n-roll,” he laughed coolly. “Probably a member of PETA and drive a little matchbox car like a Prius or something. One of those kinda women.”