The Break-Up Psychic (7 page)

Fighting the urge to puke over the wild, running horses printed across his shirt, I use my hands to push away from his very impolite boner. He’s having none of it.

“Where you think you’re going,
darlin
? Old
Dawg’s
just getting’ started.”

“Actually, Daryl,” I say, squirming to release myself from his grasp, “I think I’ve had enough dancing for now.”

“I don’t think so,” he says, increasing his hold on me. He gives me a thin lipped smile that seems mean, vicious even.

“Really, Daryl,” I say, using all of my strength to try and push away from him, “I’m done dancing so please let me go.”

Daryl sneers and draws closer to me. I flinch away from him, barely avoiding his thin lips as they come dangerously close to my mouth.

“I said no!” I yell, shaking my head from side to side. “Let go of me now!”

A deep voice to my left cuts through the loud music. “The lady asked you to let go of her.”

Daryl
Dawg
pauses in his search for my mouth and stops dancing. “Who the hell are you?”

“I’m the guy that’s going to kick your ass if you don’t let go of my friend right now.”

I use Daryl’s distraction to break free and look to my would-be savior. It’s Sam. Gorgeous, dimpled Sam. I turn into his broad chest as he wraps a strong arm around me. Daryl’s confusion quickly wears off and he makes a move to reclaim my arm. Sam steps toward him, the movement forcing me behind his back. I peek over his shoulder, glad to use him as a shield between me and the
Dawg
.

“I said leave her alone,” demands Sam, his voice low and serious. “What part of that instruction are you finding difficult to understand?”

“She
ain’t
here with you, she’s here with her slutty friend and I was dancing with her first,” argues Daryl.

Sam tenses, imposing himself into Daryl’s space. His shoulders are broad and his back feels hard and tight beneath the soft leather of his jacket. If he wasn’t working so hard to defend my honor, I’d have to reach out and grab his perfect ass.

“Listen to me, Deliverance,” he says, face dangerously close to Daryl’s. “She does not want to dance with you. She’s with me. If you want to talk about this further I’d be happy to do so outside and with my boot up your ass. Are we clear?”

Daryl’s resolve is wavering and he looks around stupidly for someone to back him up. There aren’t any takers. He nods before taking a step away from Sam. Knowing that he’s lost the fight, Daryl turns into the crowd but Sam places a strong hand on his arm, preventing his escape.

“Go and find this young lady’s friend. Tell her we’re at the bar waiting for her. If she’s not there in five minutes, I’m going to come looking for you, understand?” Sam asks as Daryl jerks his arm away from his grasp.

I watch with relief as Daryl pushes through the crowd, putting as much distance between him and Sam as possible. My belly is pooling with heat over this blatant show of manliness. I swear if Sam puts his boot up Daryl’s ass, I’m going to pass out from lust.

Sam watches the crowd until Daryl’s no longer visible. He turns to me and places a hand at my elbow, giving me a dark look. Dark and hot. I can feel my heart beating against the tight grip he has on my arm and can’t decide if removing my clothes will make this situation better or worse.

“Are you ok?” His voice sounds possessive and a little angry. “What were you doing, dancing with that fool?”

I’d been hoping he’d let that question slide. A week ago I turned down his offer of a date and tonight he finds me bumping with Jethro on the dance floor. “It’s not really what it looked like.” He’s still holding my arm and the connection has me flustered. “I came here with Luanne and she sort of ditched me to go and dance with Daryl’s friend. He kind of hijacked me onto the dance floor.”

“Well, I can’t say I approve of your taste in a dance partner, but I’m glad I was here to intervene,” he says, finally releasing his hold on me.

“Me too.” I bring my arm forward and rub against the spot where he touched me.

Sam’s eyes follow the movement and I see a sly smile working at the corners of his mouth. Oh no, I’ve seen this look before. It usually arrives just before the first kiss and too late for me to make a good decision. I’ve got to remember my resolution. This man is too handsome, too exciting, and too… Oh hell, I can’t remember the rest.

I’m thrown forward when a dancer behind me loses her balance, her drink spilling on the already sticky floor. As I take another half-step forward, trying to prevent cheap beer from staining my suede shoes, I walk right into Sam’s solid chest. It’s through sheer willpower alone that I’m able to stop myself from stroking his
pecs
through the soft cotton of his t-shirt.

“Sorry,” I blurt out, yanking my paws away from his incredible body.

“Sorry for what?” he asks, amused, his trademark grin firmly in place, challenging me. I shift on my feet and look away from him, avoiding the knowing look in his eyes. It’s obvious to me, him, and every redneck in Whiskey Tango that I want him. Putting distance between us is my only chance. I take a step away and end up running into a sidestepping line dancer in the process. Sam pulls me back toward him and places a heavy hand against the small of my back, trapping me.

He leans close to me, murmuring in my ear, “Tell you what. How about I buy us some drinks at the bar while we wait for Luanne to join us?”

Good, more drinks. I always make my best decisions when alcohol is involved.

“How about a Coke?” I suggest, ignoring the feel of his thumb as it rubs small circles into my lower back.

He holds me close for another heartbeat then turns me around so I’m positioned to lead the way through the rowdy crowd. He keeps his hand pressed against my back and it’s seriously impeding my ability to walk normally. I resist the urge to move slower to allow more hand-on-back time. As we reach the bar he releases me, offering up a vacant stool as he calls out an order to the bartender.

“So, I’ve been thinking about you.” It’s a casual statement but it sends a shock through me, starting in my ears and landing with a thud in my nether region. He’s standing very close to me, which I suspect may be part of his plan to wear me down.

“Oh yeah?” I ask, crossing my legs to quash the sensation. “What’ve you been thinking about, exactly?” Please say kissing me. Please
don’t
say kissing me.

“Well actually, I’ve been thinking about how you turned me down for a date,” he says, completely unabashed.

I hope the bar’s dim lights are enough to cover the bright-red blush that’s seared itself to my face and chest. “Well, you never asked me on a date, technically.”

Sam’s eyebrows shoot up and he gives me a wry smile. “I thought the date part was implied. Would it have made a difference if I’d used the word
date
, instead of
experiment
?”

“I guess we’ll never know,” I say, trying my best to look coy.

“It’s a shame. I think we could’ve collaborated on some very exciting research.”

If the fact that I’m grossly turned on by scientific lingo means I’m a bit of a nerd, I don’t care. Hand me a pocket protector and call me four-eyes.

“For the sake of scientific research, let me ask you a question,” he says, moving closer to me. “Would you consider going out on a date with me this weekend?”

Sam’s eyes stare directly into mine, his lips swept upward in a sexy smile. I’m having a real moment of panic here. I know this guy just saved me from getting felt up by Daryl
Dawg
, but Sam James represents everything I’ve sworn to stay away from. He rides a motorcycle, for Pete’s sake! I can’t allow my resolve to waiver. “I don’t think it’s such a good idea right now. I’m still on the rebound,” I say, cringing at my choice in words.

“Maybe we could work on a rebound antidote, get you cured.”

Sweet Jesus, I’d like to take that cure. Thankfully Luanne, bleary-eyed and out of breath, collapses against me before I can offer Sam a response.

“Hey, y’all!” she yells, oblivious to the sexual tension hanging over the bar. “
Dawg
said you were
lookin
’ for me.” Luanne reaches for Sam’s beer and, without permission, takes a good long swig of the brew.

“I just wanted to make sure you were alright,” Sam calls to her. “Ellie’s date was going for the douche-bag world record. I didn’t want you being exposed to that same shameless behavior.”

Luanne takes another drink from Sam’s bottle and sways on the spot. “Nah, old Wyatt and me were just
gettin
’ to know each other a bit better. He’s gone to the little cowpoke’s room and I thought I’d come and check up on my girl here.”

For the first time ever, I’m happy Luanne has such horrible taste in men. It’s given me the perfect excuse to get away from Sam James, his leather jacket, and his inescapable charm.

Seizing the opportunity, I say, “Actually, Lu, I think I’d like to leave. I don’t relish
Dawg
spying on me all night. Would you mind if we got out of here?”

Luanne heaves an exasperated sigh. “Well, I got you outta the house for a whole hour tonight. I guess we can call it a win,” she says, spinning on her heels to face the exit. “Now come on before I change my mind and recruit Sam here to show you a good time.”

Sam smiles at Luanne and raises an eyebrow suggestively at me. That’s my cue. I slide off the stool as Luanne saunters toward the doorman, her booty shaking to the beat of the drum.

“Bye,” I say, daring to look up at him again.

Sam straightens and takes a step away from the bar. His quiet scrutiny makes me nervous. I lift my hand to push my hair back behind my ear, but he beats me to it. His hand is gentle and warm as he tucks away the loose strands, allowing his fingers to graze softly against my neck. His hazel eyes have trapped me, and suddenly everything around us has disappeared. I can’t hear the loud music anymore, can’t see another soul in the bar. All I see is my lust being reflected back at me. I open my mouth to speak, but words won’t come. It’s like the air has been sucked from the room and I can’t breathe.

“Be careful, Ellie.”

“I’m trying to be,” I say, my explanation coming out like a plea.

Sam bites his lower lip, uttering a thoughtful noise before dropping his hand. I drag in a trembling breath and turn my head away from him, shaking his effect from me. Sam turns back to the bar and takes up my vacated stool. I walk away from him on trembling legs, brushing past the fat doorman as I flee.

Once outside I take a gulp of cool night air and spot Luanne chatting up some seedy looking bikers. I made the right decision. Sam James ticks every box on my ‘Cons’ list and I won’t repeat my past mistakes. That he wants me is clear; it’s the what-for that concerns me. My alarm bells are stubbornly silent, but my brain’s telling me he’s no good. Now I just need my body to believe it.

“First new voice message.”

“Eleanor Susan O’Keefe, this is your mother calling. Call me back the instant you get this message, missy. I have some very important news to share and you’re ruining the excitement.”

Oh no, I completely forgot to call my mom back. Ignoring her only means that the conversation will be longer and with a lot more
‘I told you
so’s
.’
It’s not that I don’t enjoy talking to my mom, I do, but she’s always been the one to warn and lecture me about men, and I really don’t need her to remind me that men are scum right now. Tim’s already taken care of that for me. I press the number 7 on my keypad, deleting her message.

“Message deleted. Second new voice message.”

“Ellie, it’s me. Listen, we need to talk. I know I messed things up but if you’ll just hear me out, I think we can work through this. Call me back when you get this message. I miss you, babe.”

I stare blindly at the phone in my hand. He misses me, babe? He misses me, babe! Two weeks without a peep from him and now he wants to talk? I press the keypad violently this time, deleting his message, and trying to stamp down the lump growing in my throat. I caught him making couch-coitus with ‘Suzy Botox,’ so why does my heart still flutter at the sound of his voice? I shove the phone back into my purse and make my way to the front of the Bath Shop.

It’s been a slow workday; we’ve only had a handful of customers and they’ve mostly been old ladies stocking up on rose powders and fancy talc. Amber’s been absolutely no help, working silently on some kind of doll in her shadowy corner rather than lifting a finger to help me.

I walk over to her and squint into the dim light, watching as she deftly moves a needle in and out of the doll’s side. The eyes and mouth have been replaced by black, crisscrossed x-marks. “That’s not a gift for your niece, is it?” I ask cautiously.

“No, it’s for Noel.”

“Noel? As in your ex-boyfriend Noel? What does he want with a doll?”

“The doll isn’t for him,” she says, her eyes focused sinisterly on her threadwork. “It’s for me.”

“I don’t get it.”

Amber rises from her seat and hands me the doll. It’s incredibly detailed. The doll’s wearing a tiny black and white Slayer t-shirt, skinny black jeans, and little painted on Converse shoes. Red spiky hair is sewn into its scalp and there’re little silver balls protruding from the ears. “Amber,” I whisper, following behind her, “is this a voodoo doll?”