Playing Dirty (6 page)

“Yeah,” Martin said quickly as Owen stumbled in from the bathroom.

“Yeah, what?” Owen asked.

Quentin turned to Owen. “Would you do her?”

Owen looked shocked. “Who?”

“The Wookiee, dumbass,” Martin said. “Who did you think?
Erin
?”

“I can’t do Erin,” Owen said self-righteously. “Rule Two.”

“So,” Quentin pressed, “hypothetically, would you do her?”

Owen asked, “Who?”

Quentin and Martin looked at each other.

Owen clarified, “The Wookiee?”

“Yes!” Quentin and Martin said.

“Oh. Yeah, I’d do the
Wookiee.
” Owen picked up the pitcher and walked toward the door to the patio. “But she’s frightening.”

As Owen passed through the doorway, Erin came in. The two of them rubbed against each other and laughed in a way that made Quentin uncomfortable. If he asked, they would say they were touching because Sarah could see them from the table outside. But Quentin wasn’t so sure. He and Erin had played lovers and yet resisted each other for two years. Surely Erin
and Owen had been able to resist each other for a week of pretending? Of course, when Quentin had faked a relationship with Erin, he’d also had the band manager on the side. Owen hadn’t been in a steady relationship in a couple of years.

Erin snapped Quentin out of his thoughts by asking sharply, “What have you boys been talking about in here?” Then, in a complete failure at an imitation of a man’s deep voice, she asked, “Would you do her?”

Martin laughed and went outside, leaving them alone, as Quentin told Erin, “
No,
that’s not what we were talking about, and I’m offended that you would assume such a thing. We’re not shallow. We were talking about the potential impact of current unemployment figures on US Treasury note prices.”

Erin grinned. “If you’re not interested in Sarah, then you won’t want to hear what she said about you.”

Quentin’s gaze darted outside to Sarah at the table. She and Erin must have had a girl talk. Oh God. “What’d she say?”

“It looks good for you,” Erin teased him. “It’s a shame you’re not allowed to have sex with her.”

“What’d she say?”

“She said you’re cute. You remind her of Ernie from
Sesame Street
.”

“Ernie,” Quentin said, nodding. “Good guy. Jolly prankster.” He paused. “Not the sexiest fellow.”

Erin smiled smugly. “Better than Bert.”

“Speaking of Bert,” Quentin said, searching her
innocent blue eyes, “you’re not breaking Rule Two with Owen, are you?”

She grimaced and stuck her finger in her mouth, as if to say
Gag me
. Then she asked brightly, “Did we fool you? We’ve been working hard on it.” She tilted her head and considered him. “You’re drunk.”

He gave up. “I guess.”

“Come on.” She took him by the hand and led him back outside to Sarah.

Sarah
. Sexy white high-heeled sandals. White pants that flared at the bottom and tapered up to hug her perfect ass. A black blouse that pooled in the front to reveal her cleavage, and in the back—well, there
was
no back, just some thin strings keeping the front on. He could have reached behind her and bared her with a few tugs. Clearly no bra. Red lips. Crazy hair.

With a twist. She gave the first impression of being tall, unattainable, hardened. But he’d studied her while calling her bluff. She was average height or smaller. The longer he gazed at her, the smaller and softer she got. Her eyes were brown and gentle. And her name:
Sarah
, like a sigh.

And the way she said his name. Not
Quentin
, enunciating every consonant. Soft and lazy and half-gone,
Que’n
. He detected the slightest Southern drag on her voice, from somewhere far south. Maybe Mobile, with old money.

And a nasty scar following the line just under her
chin, as if the soft girl playing hard had gotten in over her head at least once.

He was sure the punk Amazon attitude was an act. Despite the fact that most of her was showing, he didn’t see a tattoo on her anywhere. If she were who she’d seemed at first, there would have been a heart in flames on her lower back. He didn’t feel annoyed or threatened by her deception. He was thrilled that she’d attempted to play a player.

And he was eternally thankful that he had the good luck to be single. He was the logical one to pair off with Sarah, whereas two weeks ago, when he was still pretending to be with Erin, it would have been Owen who was unengaged. As he thought this, Quentin balled his fists—then realized what he was doing and tried to relax. He needed to stand down. Neither he nor Owen could be with Sarah, ever, because that was against Rule Three. But still.

He’d had the idea to hand Erin off to Owen last year, reasoning that a love triangle among the band members would be terrific tabloid fodder. But he hadn’t insisted on it until he’d decided to fire their manager, Karen, so she wouldn’t find out about Martin’s drug use and spill the beans. They’d never let her in on the band rules. She’d believed Quentin and Erin were (mostly) together. This had kept her at arm’s length, expecting nothing but a good time with him.

Karen had been beautiful. Karen had been smart. Karen had even been a pretty good manager. She’d
been able to steer the band through all the crises they’d made up, and some they hadn’t. Karen had been an excellent lay. But Karen didn’t have that—

As he sat down beside Sarah at the table, she looked up at him with those dark-fringed brown eyes and smiled.

—
spark
. “I swear you’re just as sober as you were when you got here,” he told her, making sure she could hear his disappointment.

“Tequila doesn’t make me stupid, I’ll give you that.” She touched his knee. “It does make me loose. How about a shot?”

Quentin raked back his chair again and ran inside. He brought out one of the bottles of tequila and two shot glasses and poured for each of them, ignoring the looks he was getting from Erin and, you know, whomever. Who cared?

“To loose,” he toasted Sarah.

She clinked his glass with hers and said, “Lautrec.”

Toulouse-Lautrec, 1864 to 1901
, he remembered from a college art history class twelve years before as he downed the shot. He had to be careful or something like that would come out, and then they’d be forced to build an even more elaborate facade to explain to Sarah that he was some kind of idiot savant.

She picked up the bottle of tequila and examined the label curiously, but she didn’t seem drunk. She was beating everyone at poker. Of course,
he
was drunk, and during the next hand he lost to her again and had
to throw his shirt into the pool, yet he was still coming in second. But that was because Martin sucked at poker, try as he might to keep his long-sleeved shirt on. Erin was pretending to suck at poker. And Owen, on top of sucking at poker, was pretending—at least he’d
better
be just pretending—to give all his attention to Erin.

After a few more hands, Quentin told Sarah, “I hope you’re still getting loose, because you ain’t getting stupid, far as I can tell.”

She winked at him over her cards. “Tolerance. I spent the past nine months in Rio with Nine Lives.”

“Oh boy,” Quentin said. He wished she’d mentioned this when he first brought out the shot glasses.

“The rock star?” Martin asked. “I thought I read in the paper that he’s in jail down there.”

Owen gave Sarah a thumbs-up. “Good job.” Erin hit him.

“He went to jail on day two hundred seventy-five.” Sarah sounded irritated. “I kept him out of jail for the first two hundred seventy-four. You try it.”

“I feel better,” Quentin said.

Sarah poured two more shots, downed hers, and pointed at Quentin’s. “Are you going to drink that?”

“What do you call him?” he asked her. “Nine, or Mr. Lives?” He knocked back his shot.

“Either, if you’re having sex with him.”

Quentin spit out his shot, just managing to hit the patio rather than Erin’s bare leg.

Erin squealed, “Gross!”

Unfazed, Sarah refilled Quentin’s glass. “If you’re not, Bill.”

Quentin knocked back the shot again and said, “You ain’t answered the question. What do
you
call him?”

She grinned at Quentin. “Bill.”

He let his eyes travel lazily from her crazy hair down her curves to her high heels. “That’s a little hard to swallow.”

Erin stood up. “Q, I’m on empty. Come help me make more margaritas.”

Quentin sighed. Usually he didn’t mind cooking, but these people acted like they couldn’t even make themselves a ham sandwich. And he was busy getting in Sarah’s pants. “Step one,” he said, “take lime juice from freezer—Ow!” Erin was pulling his hair. “Don’t move,” he called to Sarah as he followed his hair into the kitchen.

Erin pushed him against the oven and stood with her hands on her hips. “What are you doing? Are you trying to break Rule Three and get kicked out of the band and leave me with these two nutcases?”

“Y’all have got to let me break Rule Three,” he pleaded. “Just this once. You have to admit this is special.”

“
You
made the rules,” Erin said. “If the rest of us can’t break them,
you
sure as hell can’t.”

Quentin sighed. “But she’s so pretty.”

“I know.” Erin patted his chest sympathetically. “And it’s so cute to see you happy. You’re staring at her like you can’t
believe
it.”

He laughed at the accuracy of that statement. And kept laughing.

“Lay off the shots,” Erin said. “We shouldn’t have made you get drunk.”

“It’s too late now.” He laughed.

The door opened. Sarah walked in behind Erin and leaned against the refrigerator. Quentin stepped toward her.

Erin scowled at both of them, then went back out to the pool, wiggling three fingers above her head.

Sarah touched the side of her nose and asked him, “What happened right here?”

He touched his own nose, feeling the fresh scab from earlier that evening. “Erin slapped me. What happened right here?” He traced a line under his chin equivalent to her jagged scar.

She didn’t touch her own chin.

Holy cow. A shadow descended over her as he watched. He reached out to her scar. She turned her head away, murmuring, “Don’t.”

Fascinated to find a genuine hard part in the soft girl, he bent to kiss her.

She opened her mouth for his. She tasted of tequila and sweetness, and he wanted more. He held her against the cold steel of the refrigerator and let his lips travel down to her neck, around to her ear. When she shivered, he pressed his whole body against her to warm her.

He didn’t stop when the kitchen door opened and Martin called back outside to the others, “Q’s kissing the Wookiee.”

Sarah tried to pull away from Quentin, but against the refrigerator, she didn’t have anywhere to go, and Quentin was determined to stay with her.

Owen shoved his shoulder hard, sending him into the middle of the kitchen.

“Owen,” said Quentin in warning.

“Quentin,” said Owen in the same tone.

“Owen,” Quentin said again, and burst out laughing.

Owen rolled his eyes.

“I’ll make margaritas,” Quentin suggested, vaguely remembering the pretense Erin had used to bring him into the kitchen. He waited for Owen and Martin to back slowly out the door. Then, as he gathered ingredients, he explained to Sarah, “They don’t want anything to happen between us. The record company sent you, and our relationship with the record company is contentious.”

What was he saying?
As he got more drunk, he was having a hard time editing out words longer than five letters. But maybe Sarah wouldn’t notice, because his drawl got worse and made him sound more backwoods the more he drank. Or so he’d been told. Like he could tell.

She edged up to him while he ran the blender. When he flicked off the icy roar, she put her hand to the waistband of his shorts and slipped one finger inside. “I don’t want to be a Wookiee,” she said seductively. “I want to be Leia. Like in your song.”

Oh shit, she was
coming on
to him!

He glanced outside through the glass-paned kitchen door and saw Erin, Owen, and Martin each holding up three fingers.
Rule Three.

“Let’s go finish these guys off,” he said, filling the pitcher and grabbing Sarah’s hand.

It didn’t take long. Martin was clinging to his long-sleeved shirt for the time being, but Owen was down to his tighty-whities. Erin must have decided it was time to intimidate Sarah with her nakedness, because she threw the next hand and lost her shorts.

Quentin knew from experience that the sight of Erin wriggling out of her shorts was pornographic. He shielded his eyes and turned toward Sarah.

Sarah smiled. “You can look.”

“That’s right generous of you,” Quentin said, “but I’d get slapped. Again.” After the shorts flew into the pool and Erin safely sat down again, he turned back to the table.

Erin also lost the next hand. “T-shirt, thong?” she asked. “It’s not really a choice.”

“Why don’t you take a dip in the pool, and we’ll count that,” Quentin suggested.

“Good idea,” Martin said.

Owen looked like he was going to murder everyone.

They all turned to watch Erin walk slowly, seductively down the pool steps, swim underwater to the side, and climb slowly, seductively up the ladder, long blond hair slicked back, soaked T-shirt clinging to her breasts. She called, “Does this mean I’m all in?”

“I think we
all
are,” Martin said.

Now they were watching Quentin expectantly. Right. The burly hick act. He was supposed to start a fight. “I’d like to
get
all into that,” he called to Erin. It was a lame line, but the best he could come up with under the circumstances.

Owen jumped up, fists balled. “That’s it! Come on!” he hollered at Quentin, sounding and looking as threatening as he could manage in his underwear. Martin ducked away from the table. Erin splashed out of the pool to pull on Owen’s arm.