Page 77 of On The Rocks

“Maybe,” he mumbled around another bite. He cleaned his spoon and slouched in his seat, kicking out his feet. Today’s socks were white with shamrocks.

I pulled up my feet to sit cross-legged and leaned over for more ice cream. “You have enemies?”

“No. A few crazy fans over the years.”

I frowned. “You think that’s what’s going on?”

“Not really. Not like I advertise where I am. I kept my name out of the concert stuff just in case.” At my raised eyebrows, he laughed. “Fortuners are mostly harmless, but there’s always a few that make you grateful for security.”

“Fortuners?” I snickered.

“I didn’t make the name. We weren’t much into the fandom stuff, but there’s plenty of unsanctioned social media spaces. There was even a tribute band or two over the years.” He flipped his spoon and licked it clean before setting it on the end table.

I took over the pint and took another healthy scoop now that it had melted a little. I was a sucker for sweets. “What about the thing you mentioned at the taproom?”

He rolled his head along the cushion to look at me. “We sharing tonight?”

I wasn’t exactly the sharing type and yet I’d given him more details about myself than anyone else in a damn long time. “We all have a reason for trust issues. Parents, lovers, life...”

“Toxic band members, a dash of abandonment issues, and a healthy dose of fame are my monsters. How about you?” He stole my spoon and took a taste before handing it back.

“You have a spoon, you know.”

“I like yours better.”

I rolled my eyes. “Toxic band members for $400, Alex.”

He snorted. “Well, there is a reason the band broke up.” He reached for my braid and found the pin that kept it tucked under in a bun, then started unwinding the thick braid. “Was pretty cliché, to be honest. Pretty sure Fleetwood Mac did it better.”

“Oh.” I resisted the urge to groan as his clever fingers massaged my head where the braid had been tightest. “Swapping partners?”

Did that mean him too?

“Swapping, sharing, you name it. They did it.”

“But not you?” I asked, as I stabbed into a chunk of cheesecake, staring into the pint like it had the answers. It wasn’t my business, and I should have said as much, but the words wouldn’t come.

He cupped the back of my head and turned my attention onto him. “No. I didn’t want any part of their mess.” He seemed to be choosing his words, and my back went rigid.His hand slid from my hair, down my back in a soothing stroke.

“Sorry, it’s not my business.”

“It is if you want it to be.” His green eyes were tired, but clear. There was no haze of alcohol or reticence to share.

“Fine. I want to know.”

He tucked his hand lower and scooped me up off the couch and onto his lap. “They were a hot mess. Marcus, our singer, always wanted her. And Irene knew it. She was the drummer.”

I pictured his band members. I was a casual fan for the most part, but a vague memory of a blond tickled the back of my brain. “Marcus was the shorter guy with the big attitude?”

“That’s about right.” He laughed and leaned forward for a taste.

I scraped out a spoonful from the side of the rapidly disappearing pint and fed him. The intimacy poked at something in me I didn’t want to dissect. “And the blond was super hot, wasn’t she? Irene? Like hey, take care of me, but secretly, I’m going to wreck your life vibe?”

“Sure you’re not more of a fan?”

This time, I laughed as I ate a bite. “My line of work, you figure out people quick. She seems like the kind that would get two guys to fight over her at the bar and then just smile when they came to blows.”

“Well, that was a staggeringly accurate assessment of Irene. I’m pretty sure you missed your calling as a profiler.”

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