Humor sparked in his blue eyes and he let out a low laugh. “Not where it counts, princess.”
She couldn’t resist. “And where is that, Peter?”
He stopped strumming and pinned her with a look that went hot and a little hazy. “If you weren’t so hell-bent on winning this bet you could come over here right now and find out.” A slow, wicked smile upturned his incredible lips. “In fact, you could just come over here and find out, period.”
It was tempting. Really, really tempting after last night. The way he’d made her feel without even trying still had her reeling. And the things he’d said . . . whoa.
She replied flippantly, “Or, you could simply agree to play at the club and we could forget this silly bet altogether.”
The sun had made its final ascent into the sky, or at least Leslie assumed it had as she admired the view outside. Snow was still coming down steadily and the sky was heavy and overcast. She couldn’t actually see the sun.
Turning back to Peter, she caught him staring at her with hard, unreadable eyes. “I don’t play in public, Leslie.”
“Then why did you even agree to the bet in the first place?” she asked, instantly frustrated and crossed her arms, still holding the coffee mug.
He went back to strumming his guitar, dismissing her, and it got her back up. “I knew I wouldn’t lose.”
Oh he did, did he? That capped it, now she was officially angry. He thought she was just that easy? “Wrong, Kowalskin. You’re going to be performing, guaranteed.”
A sound that was suspiciously like a snort of amusement came from him and she bit her tongue to keep from saying something mean that she’d regret later. “I don’t think so.”
A hard ball of mad formed in the pit of her stomach. She ignored the tiny skittering fear that said he might be right. “What the hell is your problem with playing guitar in public anyway?” she burst out, exasperated. Not liking to play in public was the same bullshit excuse he’d been telling her for two years and she was tired of it.
She wanted the real truth.
He stopped playing abruptly and hissed painfully when he jarred his shoulder. The glare he shot her was withering. “It’s none of your goddamn business.”
But it was her business if she was going to get her life back. “I deserve to know.” Her hand shot to her hip and she took a sip of coffee as a way to direct and diffuse her energy. God, the man had a way of pissing her off like no one else.
“You don’t deserve any such thing. But knowing you, you’ll keep hounding me until I go insane, so fine, here’s the truth: I won’t play in public because it’s very, very personal to me. It’s mine, my heart, and I don’t share it with random fucking people.”
That shut her up. Briefly. “But you play all the time at barbeques and gatherings with the team.”
She watched him grab his guitar and hold it to him like it was a shield for protection. “They’re not random.”
Leslie puffed out a breath, totally frustrated. The guy had an incredible talent. It deserved to be heard and seen. “This doesn’t make any sense to me at all. You’re a professional athlete. You play a game that entertains people. How is singing any different?”
He looked her dead in the eye. “It’s my soul.”
Her mouth opened and nothing came out. Snapping it shut, Leslie tried to think of something to say and came up blank. Mentally scrambling, she finally blurted, “You’re willing to play at the club if you lose the bet to me, though. I don’t understand. Why then did you agree?”
Peter stopped playing and stared her down with cold, remote eyes. “It’s all about my dick, baby.”
Chapter Thirteen
HE WAS SUCH an asshole.
Peter shoved his arm through his coat sleeve and swore when his shoulder objected painfully. He deserved it, though, for being such a prick to Leslie. For the rest of the day he’d felt like a douchebag for the crummy things he’d said to her. And all day he’d done his best to avoid his conscience, but to no avail.
Now here it was, pushing two in the morning on a snowy October night, and he was on his way to Hotbox to apologize to her. Apparently his conscience had decided that it couldn’t wait one more hour until she was off work and back at his place. Which just figured. His inner good boy always had bad timing.
Hopping in his FJ Cruiser, Peter was one the road and pulling up in front of the nightclub less than twenty minutes later. From the outside the place wasn’t much to look at, just a big square industrial brick warehouse. But on the inside was a whole different story. Since Leslie had taken over management it had changed a whole lot, going from a wreck to Denver’s hotspot for killer live music. The woman had an ear on her and a way of showcasing unknown bands that went on to do big things eerily fast. It was one of her many gifts.
Peter knew that if she was so determined to put him in the spotlight, it meant he had something special too. And he thought it was great she felt that way about him.
Playing baseball was what he did and he was damn good at it. It was how he defined himself, how he saw himself. And he’d found a home with the Rush and loved being a part of such a close-knit team. They were all more like a big family—the only family he’d ever really known, honestly.
But music, music was who he was.
Whether he liked it about her or not, Leslie saw that truth in him. And she pushed. She pushed like a frigging bulldozer to get him to share it with the world at large, believing that it was his duty to share his gift with every-damn-body.
He completely disagreed. Writing songs, singing and playing his guitar—that was for him. So why he’d agreed to perform in her club specifically for the bet sure beat the hell out of him. He didn’t even understand it, so how could he explain it to her when she’d asked?
He couldn’t. But that didn’t mean he had to be such an asshole about it. Then again, that was pretty much his M.O. Corner him and push him about his feelings and he lashed out verbally. It wasn’t one of his more admirable traits. And given that he wasn’t feeling too upbeat about the state of his life at the moment, put together the whole thing was a recipe for disaster.
Peter checked the time on his black leather bracelet, which doubled as a very discreet wristwatch. The bar was just closing. He’d thought he’d get there sooner, give himself a few minutes to prep. Crap.
Mario, the over-muscled bouncer, had just stepped out to lock the front door when Peter hailed him. “Hey, man. Can I get you to hold that for me?”
Catching sight of who was hollering, the enormous ex-bodyguard smiled and pushed the door back open. “For you I will, Pete. How’s the shoulder?”
He stepped inside on the landing and replied, “It’s been better.”
Mario slapped him on the back with a smile and nearly sent him flying over the guardrail. “Recover fast, man. The Rush need you back yesterday.”
Didn’t have to tell him. “I’m working on it.” From his perch on the raised landing, Peter surveyed the now empty place. “Is everyone already gone?”
The bouncer nodded. “Leslie’s in her office, but everyone else just left. It went dead the last hour with the weather and she sent us all home. I was just locking up. What can I do for you?”
Peter shook his head, grateful that he’d indulged in an extra dose of ibuprofen earlier. The man was ridiculously large and his backslap had nearly dislocated his shoulder again. He probably thought he was being gentle too. “I’m good. I just came by to have a word with the boss lady.”
Mario locked up the front and they climbed the steps down to the main floor of the building before making their way across the hardwood to the hall on the other side. Once there the bouncer continued toward her office. Peter stopped him. “Hey man, why don’t you head on out? I’ll see to it that Leslie gets to her car safely.”