Incapable (Love Triumphs Book 3) (27 page)

When Georgia settled against his shoulder he knew he had to use his voice, give her the new score. “I don’t want to specialise in freaking you out, but I love you, Georgia and that is a little crazy quick, but I walked into a truck and I’m concussed so if you need an out, it’s that I’m not right in the head.”

“And if I don’t want an out?”

He laughed and didn’t care that it felt all kinds of unhealthy. He rolled a length of her hair around his finger and tugged it and she lifted her head. He brought her face close so he could whisper in her ear. “Then we’re both fucked, and that sounds perfect to me.”

22: Vulnerable

Georgia was late and Moon Blink was rocking. Loud, crowded, with a make a big night of it vibe going down. They were three deep at the bar. Angus would be pleased. Damon was on stage belting out Queen’s
Fat Bottomed Girls.
She could hear him but not see him. It was standing room only.

She eased her way through to the one spot she knew she could stand and watch him and not be jostled or hassled. Jammed in the corner by the kitchen servery hutch, she got a whiff of bleach that made her blink and her first unobstructed view of the stage. Her mouth dropped open in surprise.

Burn in hell
. Damon was some kind of dirty magic tonight. He wasn’t wearing his usual smooth, cool; he was all hot and ruffled. He’d ditched his suit and gone with blue jeans and a white button-up shirt—untucked, unbuttoned. All the way off would’ve been less provocative. He had a beer bottle and a cigarette in his hand.

He had to be illegal; cigarette aside, he was electric. The song, the voice, honey-cured and smoking; the look, the moves he was making, all fluid hip and knee, flash of rippling abs and head flick. He was wet, sweat on his chest, his hair shining in the light, counting them into the next song. He was positively prowling around that stage, saved from walking off it by a new kick plate that replaced the white paint. He no longer wore his sunglasses up there because the footlights didn’t bother him anymore, so she could read the expression around his eyes—sin.

Good Lord, he was gorgeous and dangerous and hers.

He was also, based on the new beer being passed to him, hand to hand over people’s heads, not entirely sober. She’d never known him to drink, other than a glass of wine with dinner and even then only when they were at his place or her flat. He said alcohol mucked with his balance, with his spatial orientation, worse than for a sighted person.

There was no evidence of that, he was totally in command up there and his whole orientation was sex. He could have any woman and a good percentage of the men he wanted with the cut of a dimple.

If there wasn’t a crowd, if he wasn’t mid-song and wrecking himself with enjoyment, she’d drag him off stage and improvise a lap dance worthy of a rock star, because waiting to get him home was too long to wait to have her hands on him. And she’d had her hands on him this morning before work. It was hard to tell which one of them was more insatiable. The only thing saving her from being a bona fide sex addict was her insistence on keeping her own place and spending at least two nights there alone every week.

Carmella approved in a nodding way. Taylor attempted to move out and sign a new lease and Georgia begged her not to. Damon grumped, in an I hate this, how can I persuade you to change your mind way. He said they’d spend enough time apart when he started working again and he didn’t see why they had to ration things now. She blamed Fluffy. A girl needs fish time. But those two nights were significant, even if they often included falling asleep with the phone at her ear and Damon’s voice in her dreams. They were a health check; they were not getting consumed to her cuticles by Damon’s world. They were a reminder he didn’t need her, except a in bone shaking, organs turned to liquid mush manner that was utterly appropriate and made her feel so brushed smart and shiny new she was thinking that lap dance idea was a good one.

That man, that sexy, swaggering musician with a voice that could inspire dystopian revolution or mass orgies, was in love with her and he’d never even know what she looked like in the traditional way and that didn’t matter. She had no idea what she’d done to deserve him.

A hand on her elbow. “Hey.” Heather’s big smile. She untied her apron and shoved it through the servery hatch. She looked tired but not unhappy to be here.

She shrugged at Georgia’s what gives look. “What could I do, Angus called in a panic. We’re going to have to get you a responsible service of alcohol certificate, teach you to pull a beer, make a cocktail and take a dinner order.”

“Me?” She’d never waitressed or poured a beer. She’d worked retail before she qualified, like Taylor still did, but the idea she was enough part of this crew for Heather to suggest she pitch in was a little thrill. She’d learn to be the best beer puller in town if it would help out. Meanwhile, watching Damon wasn’t helping her sanity.

She inclined her head towards the stage and an eyebrow towards the ceiling.

Heather laughed. “He’s a fire hazard in more ways than one tonight.” She blew on her fingers as if they were burning. “Scorching.”

Georgia turned back to watch Damon and gagged on her happiness. She was too late with the lap dance. Another woman, young, blonde, attractive, was in the process of putting Damon’s fire out, or maybe turning it into an exploding star. She was gyrating on his hip, arms looped over his neck while several of her girlfriends at the edge of the stage catcalled and whistling.

“That’s Liz. She’s a regular. She’s always had a thing for Damon.”

Georgia didn’t need to be jealous, but
Jesus
. Damon had an arm around Liz’s waist. She choked out. “Have they?” He might’ve been trying to hold Liz upright, or stop her pushing him over. Liz might’ve been humping his leg.

“She’s a nice person, but she drinks too much. She never got past Taylor.”

“Past Taylor?”

“Best wingman a fella could have.”

That made sense. Georgia shook her head. She couldn’t take her eyes off Damon. “How did I get past Taylor?”

Heather elbowed her. What Georgia wouldn’t give for alien eyes in the side of her head so she could look at Heather and shoot daggers at Liz at the same time. She did a half turn double-take and felt a tendon ping in her neck—
ow
, it hurt. She put her hand to the electric shock. She was ridiculous.

Heather laughed and slid an arm over her shoulder. “You snuck right under her guard, and we’re all so glad you did.”

Georgia whimpered, adding pathetic to her tally of ineffective responses.

One of Liz’s girlfriends had climbed onto the stage. The two women flanked Damon as if he was a pole they could dance. Someone had taken the beer and the cigarette from him and he had a hand each on Liz and her partner in sexual aggression. They got his shirt right off and there was a roar of approval with a high female note of hysteria to it. But maybe that was just her and Heather, they were both adding their voices to the madness, though Heather was cheering and the sound coming out of Georgia’s mouth was more like what happens when a cow plays chicken with a semi-trailer.

She did not like this at all. It wasn’t fair, it wasn’t safe, and Damon was absolutely rocking it. He’d lost the bemused expression he’d worn when Liz arrived and he was working this for every beat, every riff, every groove there was.

He was growling in the mic, being free with his hands. He had a smile as wide as an airstrip. She felt like bursting into tears for no good reason. He was having fun. The audience was into it. The rest of the guys were playing up to it: Jamie on his knees, strumming his fingers raw in front of Damon, Taylor imitating the bump and grind with a bloke she’d plucked from the audience, Sam laughing like a loon.

“Georgia, girl.” Heather’s hand on her arm. “That’s just fun. If that man was any more into you it’d be a natural disaster warning.”

Georgia dropped her head, closed her eyes against a useless teenage flood of emotion. Heather was right and there was no suspense, no unanswered question about where she was with Damon, but she was twenty-nine years old and still naïve in love and its shadow plays. She’d had one serious boyfriend, one marriage gone bad, one chance at an affair not taken, and years of suppressing her feelings and denying her desires. She was furious with Liz and her friend. She had a bilious green case of jealousy and she wanted to slap Damon so hard he never touched another woman again.

“Go get him, girlfriend.”

She tried to breathe out the dragon that’d coiled inside her. The place was full of movement, a standing ovation, a run on the bar for last drinks. The guys were unplugging for the night. Damon was surrounded. All of Liz’s posse grabbing at him. Taylor managed to give him his shirt, and he got it back on, but he didn’t need Georgia, he was well looked after.

“Look at him. Really look at him,” said Heather.

She looked, frowning, and then she saw. He wasn’t enjoying this. The show was over and he wanted out, but he was stuck. He needed his cane or someone to help him off the stage. Jamie was hovering, unsure what to do, looking out at the bar as if for rescue. He wasn’t leaving Damon, but he couldn’t exactly manhandle the women away from him.

She moved across the room, weaving in and out of tables, cutting between people, skirting around big groups until she got to the edge of the raised platform that served as a stage.

Jamie said, “Thank fuck,” when she stepped over the kick plate. “Get him out of there.”

Up close, Damon’s expression told her how much her sixteen-year-old fears were a waste of headspace. How could the women not see his discomfort at their pawing, but they were drunk and high on each other and the fact that he was hotter than salsa and their captive. She couldn’t very well manhandle her way to him either.

For a second she imagined shouting, “Hands off. He’s mine,” before diving in there to haul him out, but she’d be hard pressed to be heard above the laughter and he wouldn’t be able to tell her touch from anyone else’s.

Except for the one touch that would tell him someone who understood was standing by. He might think she was Taylor, but that didn’t matter.

He wasn’t touching anyone, except to bat grabby hands away. Some woman had her hands over his butt, another was trying to smooth his hair. She tapped the nearest woman on the shoulder and said, “Excuse me.”

The blast of polite was shock enough to make the woman step away, with a quick, “Sorry,” and a hot blush. Georgia tapped another shoulder and did the same thing, and then she was close enough to put the back of her hand against the back of Damon’s.

That’s all it took. He flipped his hand and grasped hers, his head snapping around. “Georgia, baby.”

She didn’t know how he knew it was her, but it made the other women instantly invisible. “I’m here.”

He said, “Thank Christ. Get me out of here,” turning so he could take her arm. “Liz, Bron, ladies, glad you enjoyed the show. See you next time. No driving. Ask them at the bar to call you a ride home.”

They peeled away; satisfied they’d had their fun, their piece of him, cackling and calling goodnight.

“Love you, Damon.”

“Night, Captain Vox.”

“Sweet dreams.”

“I know mine’ll be dirty.”

Georgia got him off the stage and into the green room, giving Jamie a wave before they got inside. The whole episode had probably only taken five or six minutes. Another man would’ve simply disentangled himself and walked away, or turned it into something more.

She pushed the door closed and Damon hugged her from behind. “Georgia on my mind. You’re late.”

Trent was letting her sit in on production meetings for an all girl group who’d stumped up their own cash to record an album. It ran later than expected. She’d normally be here before Damon went on.

She could smell salt sweat and alcohol on him, it was rock hero appropriate. She turned into him; the heat coming off his torso was distracting. “You were being groped.” That came out half accusatory, half amused.

He cocked his head, trying to read her. “What can I say?”

“You’re sozzled.”

He grinned, it had swagger in it. “That I am.”

“What’s the occasion?”

A shrug that pulled her attention to the fact there were no buttons on his shirt. “Seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“And now?” She slipped her arms under his shirt, around his back.

“Now it’s time you shut up and kissed me.”

She had something so much better in mind and he deserved to be tortured just a little. “No, I don’t think so.”

His swagger fell in a heap. “You’re mad with me.”

She pulled away, checked the door. No lock on it, just the latch. That might cramp her style; as confident as she’d become, she was no exhibitionist.

“Georgia.”

She left him standing there and pulled a chair out of a stack against the wall.

He spun around to follow the sound. “Babe?”

She scoffed. “Babe! You do know it’s me?” She set the chair in the middle of the room, facing away from the door.

“You’re my baby. My girl. My love. Those other women are nothing.” He was swaying as if the music was still in him, or his balance was shot. “Don’t be mad with me, I’ll make it up to you.”

He would, in squirms and pants and enough frustration to make up for her missing the moment his shirt got ruined. She went back to him and took his hand. He made a grab for her, but his aim was off, the drink starting to slow his usual unerring accuracy in assessing where he was in relation to people close to him. “What do you want? Whatever you want, it’s yours.”

She wanted all the things those other women would never get. She wanted him desperate and dependent on her in all the best ways. She wanted his self-control shredded and his mind blown. She led him to the chair, moved it so the back of his knees made contact and he sat.

“What are you up to?”

“No damn good.” She glanced at the door over his head. Any of the guys could come through it. Maybe she couldn’t pull this off.

Damon made a purring sound, big caged cat. He shifted his hips, leaned back harder in the chair and his legs sprawled out in front. He said one word, “Bring,” and she forgot about the outside world.