Page 23 of Beyond the Bright Lights

The patio area is a mini oasis with all the plants and flowers placed up against the back of the building and along the fence. The picnic tables on the massive concrete slab might be my favorite part—the perfect place to sit on a warm sunny day watching people throw axes at the tall blocks of wood or aim darts at a bullseye on boards hung along a fence on the opposite side.

It’s impressive. Lana is impressive.

I find the stairs at the side of the building where she said they’d be, tucked behind trees and bushes and hidden enough not to be found unless you were drunk or lost and stumbled upon them.

I swallow the lump in my throat as I ascend the steps, trying to forget what Eloise told me about the conversation she overheard between Lana and Ginger at the bar while I was singing. About how Ginger urged her friend to fuck me. About how Lana deserves love again, even if in the form of a hot summer fling.

I’m prepared to give her that.

At this point, I’d give her whatever she asked for. Whatever she demanded of me. That should scare me. Instead, the idea of her ordering me around excites me to no end.

I adjust the box to one hand, coffee tray on top, and as I lift my hand to knock, the door swings open. Lana’s beautiful hazel eyes find mine before moving down to the box.

I hold my breath at the sight of her. She's braless, wearing black sweatpants and a tight black tank top. It rides up slightly, enough I can see her belly button and stretch marks on her stomach. I have the sudden urge to drop the donuts and coffee and touch that stomach or trace those marks with my tongue. I want to worship her body, smooth my palms over her tattooed sleeve and admire the design—red, yellow, pink, and orange flowers, like the ones at the front of her bar, with dark green vines weaving throughout. I don’t know what kind of flowers they are, but they’re stunning.

“You brought breakfast?” Her question forces me to tear my eyes away from appreciating her body.

“Um, yeah. I hope that’s okay. I didn’t wake up in time to eat, so . . .” I lift the tray of coffees and hold the box out to her.

She opens the lid and the smile she was trying to hide breaks through.

“I fucking love donuts.”

She takes the box and motions for me to come in.

“Great. Does that mean you’ll take my strike away?”

I stand in the open kitchen combination dining area of Lana's loft, which stretches across the length of the bar and is decorated just as rustic—wood paneled walls and a chocolate cotton couch with a matching recliner. Underneath the couch and chair, a fake white fur rug covers mahogany wood floors. Beyond the living area is an alcove for sleeping where I can see the end of her bed.

“Not a chance. You earned that strike.”

“I don’t think I did.”

Lana sets the box of donuts on a red-topped vintage table next to where I put down the coffees. She takes two paper plates from a stark white cabinet and grabs two sheets of paper towels.

“Want anything for your coffee?”

“No, I take it black.”

She scrunches up her nose like a mean little bunny and bends over to fish creamer out of her fridge. It gives me the perfect view of her ass. My hands twitch to touch it, to fuck it, to spank it.

Lana pours way too much creamer in her mug then puts it back in the fridge before returning to the table.

“I gave you a strike because you didn’t know what ‘drunk as a skunk’ meant, then I took it away because maybe it’s not a common phrase, especially for your generation. Or maybe it’s a southern saying. Then I gave the strike back when you kissed me without my permission. So . . . yeah, strike stands.”

“Okay, fine. I deserve the strike.”

Lana wiggles her fingers as she inspects the box of donuts, trying to decide which one to take. She chooses a crème filled one. I grab a donut with bacon on top.

Lana bites into her pastry and lets out a moan so sexual, I nearly choke on my coffee and spill it down my front. She dances in her seat while chewing and washes the food down with her sweetened coffee. Watching her appreciate this meal is an entire sexual experience. One that I plan to revisit later when I'm alone.

“Jesus, woman,” I say, a bit breathless. “Are you eating that donut or fucking it?”

She raises a brow then shoves more donut in her mouth, not breaking eye contact with me as she chews and swallows.

“Donuts are better than sex.”

“What kind of sex are you having?”

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