The Good Chase (14 page)

He started to pace, something he never did, as hopeful adrenaline coursed through him. “Sure.”

She chuckled. “You don't even know what it is.”

Right. “So what is it? I reserve the right to refuse now if you throw out something like . . . something like polo. Or painting pottery.”

She snort-laughed, and it was totally adorable. “Don't worry. Not anything like either of those.”

“Are you going to tell me?”

“No, I'll keep you guessing. I'll text you the address at eight on Tuesday night. Can you get there by nine?”

“Is this some sort of dating test?”

“Something like that. I'm seeing if I can do this, go out with someone I met through work. This place is nowhere near the Amber, nowhere near my apartment. It's neutral territory, but it means a lot to me, so yes, I guess it is a test. I'm sorting it all out.”

“I'm dying of curiosity now.”

“But it's not really a date-date. Bring a friend if you want.” She quickly added, “Just not Dan.”

Byrne rolled his eyes. “No problem. Not looking to fail your test on the first try, thank you very much.”

A group date, then. He was totally fine with that. He just wanted to get to know her better.

“Oh, and you can leave Bespoke Byrne at home, too,” she said.

He grinned. “Want me to throw on my cleats and go roll around in the dirt before I show up?”

“Now we're talking.”

He put her on speakerphone and scrolled through his appointment calendar. “You know, I may not have a choice. I'll be coming straight from the office that night, so I'm afraid a suit and tie is what it'll be. Would've been perfect for a proper date.”

“Who says what's a ‘proper date' or not, Byrne? You and I have hardly been proper so far.”

Mischief, that's what this woman was up to. He could hear it in her voice. He loved it. Wanted more.

There was something profoundly comforting about having her on the other end of the line, even when several moments came and went without either of them saying anything. They inhaled at the same time, as if to speak, and then exhaled at the same time, too. God, he loved her laugh.

Byrne crossed his legs at the ankle and relaxed against the counter. Damn smile wouldn't go away.

“Byrne.” Her voice was sunset warm. “I'm really glad you called.”

A memory came to him. The sight of her face, lips parted, eyes dreamy, just before he kissed her.

“I'm really glad you called me back,” he replied.

“See you Tuesday, then.” So hushed, so lovely.

“Bye.” His own voice was barely more than a breath itself.

And for a guy who spent eighty percent of his day either on the phone or talking, talking, talking, he found he did not want to hang up with her. He could've kept talking to her until daylight.

Now how about that.

*   *   *

F
or the next six days, Byrne filled his mind with images and memories and fantasies of Shea. The odd thing was, they weren't all sexual. So many of them involved only words.

By the following Tuesday, Byrne had pretty much reached the end of his patience rope. But it was the best kind of expectation, the best kind of anticipation.

The day had been nonstop, without time even for a proper lunch, so by the time he stepped out of the cab at the Upper West Side address Shea had texted him forty-five minutes earlier, he was more than ready for his “not really a date” date. The suit felt like chain mail, and he wanted nothing more than to strip it off and throw on some jeans, but if he'd gone home first to change, he'd have been late. And Shea had requested nine p.m. sharp.

He checked and double-checked the address on his phone against the one on the building in front of him. And groaned.

The place was an old movie theater, a semicircular marquee extending over the sidewalk. A mannequin wearing a hazmat suit sat inside the foggy-windowed ticket booth. The black block letters on the marquee spelled out: “Karaoke. Every Tues.”

The people heading into the bar—or was it a club? A nuclear waste site?—were hipsters to the nth degree, at least ten to fifteen years younger than he and dressed about twenty years older.

The cab pulled away from the curb, and he was half tempted to call it back.

Karaoke. Wow.

Not three seconds later, Erik pulled up in his own cab after having taken some Canadian guys out to dinner. His phone was pressed to his ear as he got out, but it dropped from his face as he looked up at the marquee.

He abruptly cut off his conversation by saying something in German. Then, to Byrne, “No fucking way.”

Erik swiveled around as if to leave and Byrne grabbed his arm. “Come on. I think she brought a friend. Might be fun.”

“I'm not singing.”

Byrne pressed a hand to his chest. “Hell no. Neither am I.”

Erik loosened his tie. “What if that's what she wants in order to sleep with you again?”

“In that case, you just might get the most spectacular version of ‘I Will Survive' you've ever heard in your life.”

Erik laughed. “Let's get the hell inside, then.”

A five-dollar cover, paid to a girl who was dressed like a seventies-era movie star. She didn't look at them as she checked their suit coats, her gum snapping.

A short hallway led them to an open space with a vaulted ceiling painted with chipped murals of vineyards. The old theater seats had been mostly removed, except for a nostalgic row along the very back. Byrne stopped there, scoping out the scene, looking for Shea. The slanted floor had been reconstructed into crescent-moon-shaped levels, dotted with high tables and delicate chairs on spindly legs. The bar curved around the right side, with padded booths forming a VIP section on the left.

There was a guy onstage, microphone in hand, singing something by the Beatles . . . and he was
good
. Really, really good. Byrne knew only enough about the Beatles to discern their sound and a few songs, but this man, who was about as unassuming as the person who got you coffee every day but whom you would never recognize on the street, was owning the song. His body moved all over the stage, and his voice filled the auditorium. He played to the crowd, but not in that cheesy, reality-show way.

Every table was filled, and each person watched the singer with rapt attention and clear appreciation. This was no two a.m. drunken karaoke night.

“Didn't scare you off then.”

Her.

Byrne turned, and he was glad a drink ledge was right in front of him to grab on to, because the sight of her almost knocked him over.

A dress. Shea Montgomery was wearing a dress. It was black. And small. The thing only went to her midthigh and, damn, her legs were incredible—so pale against the dark dress, and too strong and long to be real. Big, shiny jewelry decorated her wrists and neck, and she'd done something to her hair to make it a little curly and crazy. The heels on her sparkly shoes made her as tall as he, and he found that he really liked that.

As he stepped closer, he shoved his hands into his pockets because suddenly he felt like she was a priceless painting that he shouldn't touch. Even though he desperately wanted to.

“You look,” he said, “incredible.”

“Thank you.” Her nod was the same brief, professional one he'd seen her give her tasters and customers, but the smile was all genuine. All for him. “So do you.”

“Even in the tie?”

She let out an overly dramatic sigh. “I suppose it will do.”

Erik cleared his throat and Byrne was jostled out of his staring. “Oh. Sorry. Shea, this is Erik.”

Shea was the first to hold out her hand. “Saw you in Gleann. Nice to put a name with a face.”

“Nice to have a name,” Erik said with a smile. “Great to meet someone who makes Byrne here leave the office at a decent hour.”

A ten-dollar bill waved in front of Shea's face, and Byrne blinked at the short brunette who was holding it. Her smile dug two dimples in her cheeks.

“I bet her,” the brunette said to Byrne, “that once you saw it was karaoke, she'd get a text saying you had to cancel.”

Shea snatched the ten and slipped it into her tiny handheld purse. Her eyes twinkled as she glanced at Byrne.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” he told her.

Shea shrugged. “It was more hope than anything.”

Fantastic
. The night was incredible already.

“This is Willa,” Shea said, dragging the brunette closer to her side.

Willa saluted the men with two fingers. She was voluptuous and heavily painted with makeup, and kind of fascinating to look at. She was dressed like she'd stepped out of a nineteen-forties war movie, with big rolls in her hair.

“Hello, I'm Erik.” Erik thrust out his hand to Willa. “Your conversation partner for the evening.”

“Oh, hey, wingman!” Willa shook Erik's hand vigorously. “I'm the wingwoman. We need call signs or something.”

“I'll be the German Gigolo.”

Willa raised her empty drink glass. “Excellent. I'm Wonder Tits. We're going to be very happy together.”

Erik burst out laughing, and Byrne knew his friend had met his match. “You look dry. How about I buy the first round?”

“Absolutely.”

They peeled off, arm in arm, and Shea watched them go, saying, “Well, at least we know how their night is going to end.”

Byrne was entranced by the gloss on Shea's lips. “I should warn you that Erik is the biggest flirt on two continents.”

Shea laughed. “Willa hasn't been into anything more than casual sex for over a decade. I should probably warn Erik about her instead.”

Byrne grinned.

Shea met his eyes, and hers did that thing where they seemed to glow, like they'd done when she'd been kneeling in front of him, taking off his pants.

The way she bit the inside of her cheek to repress a smile was both adorable and wonderfully hot. “Hope you don't mind the friend thing. Thought we both might need an escape route, if need be. You're not offended by that, are you?”

“Not at all.”

“Good. Because this is where Willa and I come every Tuesday, and I couldn't cancel on account of a
boy
.”

She pivoted to head for the bar, and even though he'd seen her naked, had spent most of their time naked staring at her ass from behind, he couldn't help but stare at it again.

A tiny black dress was far, far more preferable to boring black pants.

“What are you drinking?” she asked over her shoulder as she rested her hands on the edge of the bar.

“Beer. That one.” He pointed to a tap capped with a giant anchor. “Can I buy?”

“I asked you here. Let me.”

Onstage, the guy singer finished on an incredible note, the music ending on a strong guitar chord. The whole place erupted in applause and whistles. He caught a towel thrown to him and wiped off his forehead, then left the stage.

“For the record, I asked you out first,” he said. “Up in Gleann and also back here in New York.”

“Potato, potahto. Just let me buy the first round, Byrne.”

“Here you go, Shea.” The bartender pushed Byrne's lager and Shea's drink over to them. “You lose Willa already?”

Shea laughed. “This is Byrne. We're not on a date.”

“That's right,” Byrne said. “I'm still just in test-drive mode.”

The bartender volleyed a look between them, not quite getting it. “Okay.”

As Shea guided them back to the drink ledge, she said, “I've never brought someone who wasn't Willa here before.”

Byrne wouldn't be a true guy if that didn't make him stand a little taller, didn't make him want to grab that microphone and growl out some sort of prehistoric sound of satisfaction.

“Vodka?” Byrne guessed, pointing to her tall glass filled with clear liquid and a bunch of sparkling ice.

Her lips fastened around the straw. How she could sip and smile and look like she wanted to devour him all at once, he didn't know. And he didn't really care.

“Water,” she said. “I'll want a dirty martini after.”

He took a drink of his beer. “After what?”

“Next up onstage,” came the drawn-out boom of an unseen announcer, “Shea.”

A new smattering of applause.

Byrne almost choked. “You
sing
?”

“Don't sound so shocked! Or I'll make you get up there, too.”

The beer sputtered in his mouth, and he had to lean forward so it wouldn't dribble down his shirt. “No.” He dabbed at his chin with a napkin. “No, I'm not singing. At all. And I'm not bad-shocked, I'm good-shocked.”

She fiddled with her straw. “Good. Because I'm a little nervous myself.”

“So why do you do it then? You don't have to—”

“Oh, but I do. I'm always nervous before I go up, but I know how awesome I'm going to feel after, and it makes it all worth it. Kind of like rugby.”

He nodded, completely transfixed.

She pointed over his shoulder. “Why don't you go stand by Willa and Erik? You don't even have to watch.”

“Why on earth wouldn't I watch?”

Was it even possible to look away from this woman?

She looked honestly perplexed. “Well, I'm not doing this for you,” she said, and then handed him her water. She skirted around the back part of the crescent-shaped auditorium, heading for the wood stairs on the right side of the stage.

Byrne didn't go up to Willa and Erik, because he simply could not get his feet to move. They came to him, standing on either side.

“She's really glad you came,” Willa said, “even if she doesn't come out and tell you.”

Shea reached the top of the stairs and met a wiry man who smiled genially as he handed Shea the microphone. They talked for a few seconds, Shea gesturing and the man nodding, and then he disappeared.