Zipless

ZIPLESS

By DIANE DOOLEY

LYRICAL PRESS

http://lyricalpress.com/

KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

http://www.kensingtonbooks.com/

For Michael, as always.

Acknowledgements

My thanks to:

Absolute Write – For all the laughter and the learning.

Corinne
 
DeMaagd – A delightful and talented editor.

Chapter 1

Louisa tugged at her mini skirt for the umpteenth time as she scanned the room. Why on earth had she decided to wear such scanty clothing? The boys in the band had barely been able to control their mirth when they’d all taken the lift down to the basement club. Bluto, always the bravest, had said, “Lou’s a girl?” in an exaggerated whisper, but a frosty glare had ensured no one else had dared utter a sound. Well, except for the childish giggling. Boys!

She readjusted her halter top, wobbling on high heels. So much for impressing the head honchos at the label. They’d put in a dutiful appearance, then scarpered early, leaving her and the band alone on their first night in the city, with a wild assortment of groupies, hangers-on and those who were obviously only there for the free booze. Why had she thought the New York music scene would be classier than Glasgow’s? The women were taller and better-dressed, but most of them seemed more interested in the boys than in their music, which had been blasting for the past hour. The club was classy, at least. Much nicer than what they were used to. The label hadn’t spared any expense, what with the fancy hotel and welcome party.

And the boys in the band were having fun, enjoying the booze and the attention of beautiful, sexually voracious women. Chiz had disappeared into the lift with a blond woman who seemed intent on getting her hands inside his trousers. Bluto was laughing his head off, partying with a crowd as usual. Even bespectacled Alasdair had a gorgeous redhead wiggling in his lap, and she didn’t seem to mind his acne scars one bit. Thank goodness Lou had remembered to hand out condoms. It looked like her boys were getting a very enthusiastic welcome in America. No doubt, rumors of a fat recording contract and an upcoming booking on the Music after Midnight network show had rendered the lads suddenly and irresistibly attractive.

But where was Paolo? Lou tottered around on her heels before spotting her wee brother in the corner, staring into the painted eyes of the pint-size Aussie Goth girl from whom he’d been inseparable since picking her up after the Scunthorpe gig. Banshee, Lou snorted. What a stupid name. Paolo better not be falling in love. This was Guyville’s big break, and the last thing Paolo needed was a winsome distraction in black lipstick. Lou decided to go over and remind him they had an early band meeting. She could glare at Banshee too, letting her know how she felt about her presence. Even if the girl had paid for her own ticket, Lou was the manager and she’d most definitely made it clear that Banshee wasn’t welcome on this trip.

She took a step in their direction, tripped, and crashed to the floor, her legs flying in the air. Jesus Christ. Flat on her back, the mini skirt had bunched up around her waist. She rolled onto her stomach, adjusting her skirt downward as she did so.
Why did I wear these heels?
She lifted her chin from the floor and looked up. Paolo hadn’t even taken his eyes off Banshee. Lou negotiated her body into a sitting position and scowled at the cowboy boots she’d tripped over. Her eyes traveled up the length of denim-clad legs, over a rather impressive bulge at the crotch, stopping briefly at the dark hairs that sprouted out of a tight black leather waistcoat, then continued higher to the amused smile and eyes of a—

“White cotton panties? Under that outfit?” The man toasted her with a beer bottle, then took a sip. “Baby, I think I’m in love.” He sat the bottle on a table, raised a hand and snapped his fingers. “Ice pack. Now.” He leaned forward, sliding his hands under her armpits, then hauled her into his lap. “You hurt, little darlin’?” He put an arm under her legs, stretching them over the seat of the banquette, and proceeded to run his hand down to her ankles, where he prodded gently at them. “I think maybe you should try the four-inch heels next time. Gotta work up to them six-inchers.”

“I…um…think…” Lou couldn’t stop staring at him, her irritation gone, her concern about the band vanishing. Such a sweet, friendly smile he had.

The ice pack arrived. “This one hurt? Looks a little swollen.” He slid the ice onto her right ankle and held it there.

“I…ah…don’t…” Sitting in the lap of the beautiful stranger, Lou couldn’t formulate a sensible sentence. She gazed into his brown eyes, noting the little laugh lines, the sweeping dark lashes, and a rather irresistible twinkle.

“Are ye alright?” Paolo had finally noticed and come over, Banshee in tow.

Lou took a breath to say something, anything…but her mouth only opened and closed like a goldfish in search of a meal.

“She’s blushing!” Banshee squeaked, pointing. “C’mon, Paolo, we’re obviously interrupting something.” She grabbed him by the hand and dragged him toward the lift, with Paolo grinning like an idiot at her over his shoulder.

The man adjusted the icepack slightly. Lou put her hands to her burning cheeks, wondering if she should tell him the only pain she suffered was that of sheer embarrassment. Sitting in the lap of a complete stranger was not a familiar activity. She could feel the shifting muscles in his legs, his hand on the small of her back. And she couldn’t move. All she wanted was to look into those eyes again, hear the slow drip of his honeyed vowels. A hot shudder ran down her back. He felt it. He must have.

He had. Lou lifted her eyes to his smile, listening to him speak. Where was he from? That voice. The way he spoke—slow and smoky and deep.

“You’re a sweet little puzzle to me,” he said. “Dressed like this. Blushing and speechless.” His hand slid up and down her shinbone.

Thank goodness she’d shaved her legs for the first time in a year! Lou closed her eyes, smiled in a manner she hoped was mysterious, and inwardly begged him to keep talking.

“You’ve been eying up the boys in the band all night. But they went for the girls who are much better at this than you are.” His finger circled her kneecap.

Lou smirked. Of course she’d been keeping an eye on her boys. And, yes, they’d avoided her like the plague, like the mother hen manager she was. Had this guy been watching her? The fingers of his other hand were stroking the nape of her neck. So gently, so gently. She let her head dip, a decision forming in the back of her brain.

“And I saw you try your hand with the suits earlier. No go there either, huh?”

Lou shook her head, giggling. He
had
been watching her. He was from somewhere in the American South, his voice slow, making all the vowels go on forever, conjuring up visions of heat and swamps and lazy rivers. Those strumming fingers, ah… Now, they were running down the inside of her arm. She felt like a guitar played by a virtuoso. The idea hardened in her mind. A book she’d read years ago had called it a zipless fuck—a passionate encounter with no strings attached. He was perfect. He’d relieve her tension, give her some laughs. It had been ages—well, months—since she’d indulged. And she was under so much stress. This man, she was sure, could go a long way in helping her with that. A little fun in New York City. No strings attached. Perfect.

“I think you might be too sweet for the groupie gig, honey.” He put a finger under her chin and turned her head toward him. She stared into eyes as dark as her own and reached out to touch the black hair that spilled to his shoulders. He smiled, but his expression was sad. “Fame ain’t nothing worth fucking, you know.” He brushed her bottom lip with his thumb. “And the boys in the band have all gone.”

Lou glanced around. He was right. The band had all disappeared, probably to their hotel rooms for a little fun before she cracked the whip and got them back to work on the morrow. She looked back at him and shrugged. “I prefer men to boys anyway.” She stood, her mind made up, the melted ice pack slipping to the floor. Lou held out her hand. “Your place or mine?”

* * * *

Chris stared at the proffered hand, noticing the chipped nail polish on her nibbled fingernails, just as he’d caught the little nicks on legs freshly shaven with a cheap razor. She was tempting as hell and no doubt about it. Big brown eyes in a heart-shaped face, dark hair short and sleek. He grinned, remembering the sensible white cotton panties under a get-up that would have done the local hookers proud. He’d been watching her with interest all night. Her palpable anxiety when the suits took their leave, her nervous fluttering around the new boys in town. He sighed. It just wouldn’t be right. She was obviously new to the scene. He’d never seen a worse groupie. Could even be her first time on the prowl. But…the hand she was holding out wasn’t trembling and her eyes were bold and confident. She’d sat in his lap and vibrated. The little hairs had stood up on the back of her neck when he’d touched her there. He wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d started purring.

Her hand was wavering a little now, her eyes confused. “What’s the problem?”

“Just thinking, darlin’.” She wasn’t American. Her accent was clipped and vaguely broguish. Where was this band from? Ireland, was it? No. Scotland. He nodded slowly and she perked up, thrusting her hand closer. Yeah, he thought he understood the deal. The band had brought her, and then abandoned her for something a little different and more exciting. Poor kid. Alone in New York City and nothing but the dregs left in the club for her to try for. Lonely little groupie. He took her hand. Well, if a little rock star cock will make her happy, who was he to turn her down? She was old enough, sober enough, and dammit, he wanted to hear her purr. Maybe an exciting little encounter would get him writing again. Maybe, if all went well, they could hook up a few more times while she was in town. A sweet little riff popped into his head. Four insistent notes curling around his brain to the words
your place or mine
.

She smiled sweetly at him, her eyes wanton. “I’ll no hurt ye, mister. Honest.”

Such a purdy accent. And she hadn’t called him Crash, or even Chris. She had no idea who he was. He’d pretend she wasn’t a groupie. Just a woman who wanted him. And, later, she’d have a fine entry for her resume. Fucking Crash Conner at the Chelsea Hotel was something no other groupie could lay claim to. The song continued to write itself in his head.
Your place or mine, said a woman so fine
.

He stood and helped her back into her ridiculous shoes, then handed her the purse she’d dropped. “Mine,” he said, before tucking his hand around her waist and guiding her up the stairs and out onto West 23rd. “It’s just a few blocks to my place. Let’s walk.”