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Authors: Jasinda Wilder
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the police to look for my dead body. She hated my job and was always worried guys were going to attack me leaving the bar. I've tried explained to her several times that serial killers don't kill fat girls. I turned to check for a car before I started to pull out, but jammed the brakes when the passenger-side door opened.
"I didn't want to let you go without getting your phone number." Chase's bassline voice washed over me from the open door.
"My mother taught me not to give my phone number to strange men."
"So I'm strange, now, huh?" He shot me the smirk again.
"You know what I meant. I don't know you." It took all my control to keep my voice even.
"What if I want to get to know you?" He smiled at me again and I swear I forgot what my name was.
And then he kissed me. Not a tiny, friendly, introductory kiss either; it was a deep, almost-tongues-touching kiss. A soul-scorching kiss. My foot slid off the brake and the car started rolling, and he had to jump out of the way to avoid being run over.
"Sorry about that," I mumbled, trying not to touch my lips where his had just been.
"I'll see you again, Anna. Real soon." He shut the car door before I could finish mumbling "Goodnight."
He smiled at me as he turned to jog back to the restaurant.
* * *
He swaggered into The Dive the following week, wearing tight leather pants and a sleeveless black T-shirt. It was a look not many men could have pulled off, but he wore it like he'd invented it. I mean, damn, those pants hugged his ass like a second skin, and his arms were brawny, bulging, and writhing with gorgeous tattoos. He was lean in the hips, wide in the shoulders, and...
I was completely screwed.
That was before he picked up the mic. He let a few others go first, some not-quite drunk regulars that had decent voices, people I could rely on to get the night started. Chase picked "All I Want" by Toad the Wet Sprocket. He took the mic in one hand, curled the cord around the other, standing with his weight on one foot, head down, tapping a toe to the opening notes. Most people, when waiting for their song to start, glance at their table of friends for encouragement, or stare with nervous eyes at the prompter, waiting for the lyrics to start turning blue.
Chase milked the moment like a true performer. He drew everyone's eyes, and he knew it; rather than just waiting for the cue to start singing, he was building tension, making sure every eye was on him. The music shifted from the intro to the first verse, and Chase lifted the mic to his mouth, drew a deep breath...and blew me away. The man could sing. He worked the crowd, getting those who knew the song to join in on the chorus, got the rest clapping and trying to sing along. He turned a dingy dive bar into a concert hall before his first number was over.
Of course, at the time, all I could see was his glorious body and smooth skin. All I could feel was the rush of pure desire coursing through my body to gather in a damp pool between my thighs. I remembered the heat and pressure of his lips on mine one week ago, and desperately wanted more.
His eyes burned into me as he owned the stage. Every time he glanced my way—which was often—I found myself pinned in place, my legs turned to jelly by the blaze of raw lust burning in his eyes.
Why is he looking at ME like that? I wondered. There were dozens of other women in the bar, prettier, richer, skinnier women half my size. Just about every woman in the bar was oozing desire for Chase, lining up around the stage area, all of them wearing sexy little outfits sized in the single digits instead of double.
Yet Chase had eyes only for me, with my size-eighteen mini skirt and three-inch heels elevating me to nearly six feet tall. I knew I looked good, for me, but compared to all these other model looking women, I knew I shouldn't have a chance in hell with a guy like Chase. But yet here he came, burly arms swinging, eyes fixed on me like he
"I didn't want to let you go without getting your phone number." Chase's bassline voice washed over me from the open door.
"My mother taught me not to give my phone number to strange men."
"So I'm strange, now, huh?" He shot me the smirk again.
"You know what I meant. I don't know you." It took all my control to keep my voice even.
"What if I want to get to know you?" He smiled at me again and I swear I forgot what my name was.
And then he kissed me. Not a tiny, friendly, introductory kiss either; it was a deep, almost-tongues-touching kiss. A soul-scorching kiss. My foot slid off the brake and the car started rolling, and he had to jump out of the way to avoid being run over.
"Sorry about that," I mumbled, trying not to touch my lips where his had just been.
"I'll see you again, Anna. Real soon." He shut the car door before I could finish mumbling "Goodnight."
He smiled at me as he turned to jog back to the restaurant.
* * *
He swaggered into The Dive the following week, wearing tight leather pants and a sleeveless black T-shirt. It was a look not many men could have pulled off, but he wore it like he'd invented it. I mean, damn, those pants hugged his ass like a second skin, and his arms were brawny, bulging, and writhing with gorgeous tattoos. He was lean in the hips, wide in the shoulders, and...
I was completely screwed.
That was before he picked up the mic. He let a few others go first, some not-quite drunk regulars that had decent voices, people I could rely on to get the night started. Chase picked "All I Want" by Toad the Wet Sprocket. He took the mic in one hand, curled the cord around the other, standing with his weight on one foot, head down, tapping a toe to the opening notes. Most people, when waiting for their song to start, glance at their table of friends for encouragement, or stare with nervous eyes at the prompter, waiting for the lyrics to start turning blue.
Chase milked the moment like a true performer. He drew everyone's eyes, and he knew it; rather than just waiting for the cue to start singing, he was building tension, making sure every eye was on him. The music shifted from the intro to the first verse, and Chase lifted the mic to his mouth, drew a deep breath...and blew me away. The man could sing. He worked the crowd, getting those who knew the song to join in on the chorus, got the rest clapping and trying to sing along. He turned a dingy dive bar into a concert hall before his first number was over.
Of course, at the time, all I could see was his glorious body and smooth skin. All I could feel was the rush of pure desire coursing through my body to gather in a damp pool between my thighs. I remembered the heat and pressure of his lips on mine one week ago, and desperately wanted more.
His eyes burned into me as he owned the stage. Every time he glanced my way—which was often—I found myself pinned in place, my legs turned to jelly by the blaze of raw lust burning in his eyes.
Why is he looking at ME like that? I wondered. There were dozens of other women in the bar, prettier, richer, skinnier women half my size. Just about every woman in the bar was oozing desire for Chase, lining up around the stage area, all of them wearing sexy little outfits sized in the single digits instead of double.
Yet Chase had eyes only for me, with my size-eighteen mini skirt and three-inch heels elevating me to nearly six feet tall. I knew I looked good, for me, but compared to all these other model looking women, I knew I shouldn't have a chance in hell with a guy like Chase. But yet here he came, burly arms swinging, eyes fixed on me like he
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