Page 41 of Crave

“You were amazing,” I say softly.

He laughs, but it catches in his throat. “I was terrified.Youwere amazing.”

“First time playing a venue this size?”

He nods and clears his throat. “You’re a singer. You shouldn’t smoke.”

“It gives me that raspy flavor. Mmm.” I blow a smoke ring at the sky.

He’s staring at me. I feel the force of his eyes from the side. “You shouldn’t drink onstage either.”

“Bad for my vocal chords? Or my focus?”

“Both.”

“Yeah, well, you drove me to it.”

“I did?” He looks so horrified that I burst out laughing and pat his shoulder.

“I’m joking. You were so shocked when I threw my shirt at you, I had to drink on your behalf. Where is it, by the way?”

“Your shirt?” An unexpected grin flits across his face. “Here.”

He takes the tiny black crop top out of his back pocket. He’s rolled it up neatly. Maybe he was planning on a souvenir.

I stuff it in the waistband of my checkered pants. His eyes widen adorably. Was he expecting me to put it on?

“Don’t worry, Ben.” Leaning against the brick wall, I thrust out my tits in their black bra. “I don’t drink or smoke the way I used to. I don’t fuck around the way I used to, either. This…” I gesture to the open door of the club, then to the air as music drifts from someone’s apartment. “This is my drug of choice. Music. Better than sex.”

He rubs a hand over his hair. “I guess.” His green eyes dart down the alley and back to me. “I mean, I wouldn’t know.”

“You’ve never— Oh my God. Oh my God!” I holler. “You’re a virgin?”

“Could you say it any louder?”

“I’m sorry,” I say quickly, putting my hand on his arm. He blinks, and his muscles flex under my palm. “I really am. I’m just surprised, because —you’re beautiful.I didn’t mean to yell it to the skies. Can I just ask — why? You have so much going for you. You’re talented and sweet.” The sincerity in my voice surprises me. “Don’t get me wrong. If it’s your choice, I respect that.”

He shrugs. His face is red. “I haven’t met the right woman, I guess. I’m pretty picky.”

Despite my initial reaction, it’s not so surprising. There’s an innocent wildness about him. I look him over. His hair hasn’t been cut in ages. Even in a humble T-shirt and jeans, his body is lean and beautiful.

“What are you thinking?” he whispers.

“I’m thinking that you’re a poem,” I say honestly.

He laughs and looks away, his cheeks turning a deeper scarlet. “No. Uh-uh. A poem is words. I’m flesh and blood.”

“Are you?” I reach out to touch him again.

Slowly, I trace my finger down his arm, bare beneath his short sleeve. I follow the forked paths of the veins on his forearm.

His breathing is fast and shallow.

“Huh. How about that.” My fingertips curl over his hand. “You really are flesh and blood.”

His eyelids flicker, and his mouth opens.

“Kate!” Mikki hollers from the doorway. “Bus leaves in thirty seconds. Get your ass on it or we find a new singer in San Diego. Oh, hey, Benjamin Bunny,” she chirps, giving me a sly smile.

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