I promised I'd post this when my Facebook page hit 4,000 likes, so here's chapter one of Kylie's story, SAVOR YOU. Thanks so much for your support, everyone--you all rock!
“God, he’s looking at you again,” Heidi says in a hushed voice. Gyrating her curvy hips to the technoed-up Adele song blasting through the nightclub, she peeks over my shoulder toward the booths lining the far wall. When I refuse to glance at the guy who’s been eyeballing us for the better part of an hour, choosing to toss back my drink and shrug instead, my closest friend gives me a dark look. “Like he wants to tear your jeans off with his teeth. Like he—”
“Like he’s some stranger who’ll probably strangle the crap out of me when we go back to his hotel room. Thanks, babe, but I’m good.”
She frowns but I’m not sure if it’s due to what I’ve just said or the DJ’s newest choice of song—Heidi loathes Bad Romance. “You’re so morbid,” she finally sighs. Her gaze refocuses on something else, and this time, I turn my head to take in a short tan guy making his way through the crowd with two bottles of Shiner Bock held high over his head.
“More than one beer usually means they’re here with someone,” I say gently, but Heidi lifts her eyebrow wickedly and shakes her head to each side, her shoulder-length strawberry blonde hair swinging around her face.
“Shiner Bock is here with those guys.” She jabs her finger at a group of men across the club. “So yeah . . .”
Heidi and I’d made a deal before we came out to Bourbon Street tonight—we were going back to our hotel room together. But by the way Shiner Bock’s face lights up when the two of them connect eyes, I know there’s no chance in hell she’s coming home with me. And that leaves me alone. I dart my eyes from the man in the booth—the one who’s been staring at me—then down to the empty glass in my hand. Conversation with Creepy Hot Guy? Vodka-infused drink?
Creepy Hot Guy.
Vodka. Infused. Drink.
“I’m going to get a refill,” I say. Heidi offers me a jerky nod of her head. She’s already dancing with Shiner Bock before I make it three steps in the opposite direction. Obviously, he’s forgotten about the intended recipient of the second beer.
Heidi generally has that effect on men.
I shove my way through the club, and by the time I reach the bar and sit down, I’ve had so many body parts brushing against me that I immediately ask the bartender for a double shot in my Bloody Mary.
“Bored?” a voice asks behind me, and I’m not the least bit surprised to see Creepy Hot Guy. He slips onto the barstool next to me just as the bartender pushes my drink across the countertop.
I stir the stick of celery around my Bloody Mary, granting him a little smile. “Tired.” And I was. The trip to New Orleans had been last minute, and I’d barely managed to get all the flight bullshit worked out. Still, exhaustion was worth the alternative—having to be around my older brother’s band as they recorded their newest album.
“Ian,” The man beside me says, breaking my thoughts. He extends his hand out to me, and I glance down, not moving to take it.
“I’ve been wanting to say something to you, but I . . .” Ian’s deep voice trails off and he casts his grey eyes down at the counter.
I take a bite of my celery and wrinkle my nose. “You probably would’ve weirded me out less if you had,” I admit, but I can’t help grinning.
“Look, I don’t—” he starts, but I hold up my hand. It’s better to get this out of the way before I let him get too far into the conversation.
“I don’t do beads.” I nod my head at a few girls dancing around a few feet away with rows of purple, gold, and green beads dangling around their neck. “So don’t ask how far I’ll go for some. And honestly, I think I’d better get back to my friend.”
I’m already scooting off my stool before Ian’s face falls, making a quick getaway before he has a chance to retort. When a hand touches the small of my back, I spin around to face him. “Look, I’m sure you—”
But when I look up, it’s not Ian’s grey eyes I’m looking up into. These eyes are dark blue, and I could pick them out of a crowd without even trying. These eyes literally make my pulse speed up. I tighten my grip around my drink so I won’t spill it all over my boots. No, this is definitely not Creepy Hot Guy.
It’s the man I’d come to New Orleans to escape.
Wyatt leans down until his mouth is level with my ear. Despite the heat caused by all the sweaty bodies around us, I shiver when the piercing at the corner of his lower lip skims my skin. “Too fucking loud in here, Ky. Outside?”
Though I know I shouldn’t, I nod and follow behind him until we’re in the alley. Out here, I can hear not only the upbeat pop anthem playing inside of the club, but music from a street festival too.
Wyatt’s the first to say something—well, do something. He slips his hand behind my back, drawing me close to him until our bodies rub together. Too bad for him I’m not having it. I break our contact, stuffing my hands deep into the pockets of my jeans.
“What are you doing here?” I demand furiously, meeting his dark blue gaze.
“Why weren’t you in Nashville?”
I take a deep breath so I won’t tell him to go and shove the neck of his guitar up his ass. “I’m entitled to a vacation.”
Wyatt lets out a low, dangerous chuckle. “Taken the exact moment we were supposed to see each other again? That bull don’t work with me, Kylie. You’re avoiding me.”
Because he’s using my full name and since we once agreed to be honest with one another—no matter if that truthfulness aches like a fist to the heart—I give him the closest thing to a smile I can summon. “I’m entitled to a vacation that gets me away from you because seeing you always makes me want to slam my knee into your balls.”
Grabbing his chest, he winces. “You’re scary when you’re pissed, Wolfe,” he says, and when I open my mouth to correct my last name, his lips press into a thin line. “Don’t even fucking think about it.”
Sighing, I pull my hands out of my pockets and reach up to grab one of the cigarettes tucked behind my ear down, sliding it between my lips. Wyatt produces a lighter and holds it beneath my face. As I lean forward, I stare up at him from beneath my lashes to see his face slowly furrow into a deep frown. “How’d you find me?” I demand, taking a long inhale of menthol. I support my weight against the brick wall as I wait for him to respond.
“Disable the Foursquare or I’ll do it for you,” he warns in that possessive voice that had me tripping all over myself a few years back. “Anyone can find you with that shit, Ky.”
I cock my head to the side and narrow my brown eyes into thin slits. “Funny, thought I took you off my friend’s list.”
“Didn’t take Cal off of it,” he says, referring to one of his and my brother’s band mates.
“Nice.” That single word sound like poison rolling off my tongue. I take another long drag of my cigarette before dropping it to the black asphalt and crushing it beneath my foot. “Guess I see where Cal’s loyalty lies. So why’d you come?”
“Didn’t want to think of anyone else’s hands digging in that hair.” He reaches out to slide a few strands of my short black and blue hair through his fingertips. When I clear my throat, he closes the space between us. “Couldn’t stand the thought of you getting drunk and wrapping those legs around someone else.” As if to prove his point, he squeezes my thigh, flicking the tip of his thumb back and forth across the V between my legs.
“And now that you know my legs are safely locked at the knees?”
“I’m still not fucking leaving until you come with me,” he says.
I grant him a long, hard look, and he swallows hard, making the tattoo that races across his throat appear as if it’s moving for a moment. I don’t need sunlight to know what it says because I’d been with him when he got it. All Does Not End Well.
Sadly, that’s exactly how things will go down if I go anywhere with Wyatt tonight or any other evening, for that matter.
“If I leave with you, you’ll have no reason to find me through your friends anymore. I mean, isn’t that your forte, babe? A big jealous showdown followed by an even bigger letdown?”
The edges of his lips twitch up into an apologetic grin and he works the tip of his tongue over the labret at the left corner because he knows good and well that crap drives me to distraction. It always has. “You forgot what happens between that showdown and letdown, Ky,” he says.
“Nah. Just didn’t see a point to mention that.” And that is the angry, mind-fucking sex usually fueled by one of our more epic arguments. Shoving my palms up against his hard chest, I push myself away and walk around him, but he grabs my wrist and spins me back around. “I don’t want you here. In fact, I’d rather be third wheel to Heidi and the guy she just met,” I say, but he shrugs my words off.
“You’ve got no choice.”
Of course I do. But when I try to shake free of him again, he shoves my hands over my head, pausing when his gaze locks on my ring finger. “Jesus, get that thing covered,” he growls, his voice low but audible even over the sound of Cajun music pouring from the festival in the streets.
Instinctively, I skim the pad of my thumb over the tattoo of my ex’s last name. “If you hadn’t come, you wouldn’t have to look at it,” I respond calmly, despite the harsh, familiar flash of pain in my ribcage. I want to choke this man. I want to curl my fingers around his freaking neck or slap him.
And after the storm is over—because I’m a glutton for punishment—I want him to kiss me.
I want that love from Wyatt McCrae that I’ve chased for years and that is the precise reason I’m here in the first place. I'm over chasing him.
Wyatt’s midnight blue eyes harden, and he slams my back up against the brick wall, causing the air to leave my lungs for all the wrong reasons. “Do you really think I need to be with you to remember you let some fucker put his name on you?”
“Should’ve done it first,” I counter furiously.
“I’m doing it now.”
Then his mouth comes down on mine, and like so many times before, I’m so lost in him that it causes physical pain to every inch of my body.
(This is unedited and is subject to change in the final version.)The playlist songs from Chapter One: