Page 49 of Something Borrowed

I laugh. “Not good enough for you, princess?”

He shakes his head in disgust, making me laugh harder. It’s a bit too loud, reflecting my inner state. Everything’s off balance lately.

Taking a deep breath, I tug him away from the wall, and we make our way to our spot to the right of the stage. The old box seats have got a fantastic view—we’re almost sitting on the band, and the whole old club is spread out before us. Being here is one of the many benefits of Stan running a wonderful shop that’s so well-loved and popular with musicians and club managers.

The box would fetch a pretty penny if they sold tickets for it, but it needs doing up and there’s no fixed seating here; it’s become a repository for pallets and old chairs.

I stand back quietly as he sends his stick out, tapping around so he knows where he’s safe. “I’m sure there are even more chairs than usual. Are they actually breeding?”

I chuckle. “Not likely. The blue chairs are willing, but the red chairs have a headache, and the silver chairs say they’re holding out for better prospects.”

He laughs and then walks forward, putting out a hand for the railing. I automatically sidle against him, my hand hovering at his back, but I don’t say anything. Stan paid his dues during his teenage years of being poked and prodded and having decisionsmade for him. Now he can do things the way he wants, and I’m fiercely proud of him.

Satisfied, he offers me a wide smile. “I love this box even if it smells of cigarette smoke, a faint trace of body odour, and a touch of weed.”

“Ah, zeromanceof it all,” I say in a hammy voice, making him laugh.

“I hope they never empty it of chairs, and we can always be here for gigs,” he says almost wistfully.

If I could, I would buy the box just for him. And I’d insist he’d let me accompany him to every show so I could watch his enjoyment. Stan’s curls are wild, his face keen and interested, and his colour high.

A memory of how he’d looked sucking my cock slams into my head in full technicolour glory, and I cough and shift as my dick hardens.Whycan’t I forget that?

I guess it makes sense. I love Stan too much for him to become one of the many men I’ve had in my bed, most of whom I only have vague memories of.

“Are there many here? It sounds busy.”

I wrench my gaze to the crowd below. “Oh. Er. Yeah, it’s a full house,” I say hoarsely.

“That’s good. They’re such a great band. They deserve all the good things.”

“Kem said Finn Jameson rang you?”

His fingers tap to the music playing over the sound system. “Oh yeah. A few days ago.”

“And you never thought to mention it?” I say indignantly.

He offers me a mock solicitous smile. “Well, I was saving you from yourself. You’d only have turned up and hung around him, staring and mouth-breathing loudly.”

“I donotdo that.”

He laughs. “If you say so.”

“Does he know what he’s doing by becoming involved with the shop? Soon, you’ll be managing the band.”

“Like Colonel Tom Parker?”

“Doesn’t he make Kentucky Fried Chicken?”

“Ha ha.” He reaches out unerringly, finds my arm, and administers a pinch. “You make it sound like the shop is rather controlling.”

“Well, either the shop or the owner. Didn’t Pat meet a band in the morning and departed on tour with them in the afternoon?”

“Yeah. The Stones. He was gone for six months and needed to sleep for a year when he came back. I don’t think his liver has ever recovered properly.”

“That was probably when the band started going off the rails. How’s Pat doing?”

I love Stan’s uncle. He’s wild and free and utterly irreverent, and he gave Stan his love of music and a place where the only serious subject was who was better—Blur or Oasis.

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