Sinners On Tour 01 Backstage Pass (25 page)

Brian scowled. “You sound surprised.”

The officer laughed nervously and handed Brian his license and other papers. “Next time, make sure you do this at a rest area.”

“A rest area?” Brian ducked his head to hide his grin. “Okay, next time we’l do it at a rest area.”

Myrna laughed, leaning heavily against the passenger door as she clutched her midsection in hysterics.

“Am I missing something?” The cop scratched his head, a puzzled look on his face.

“Nope.” Brian returned his license to his wal et. “She forgot to take her meds again.”

Myrna slapped at him and wiped tears of mirth from the corners of her eyes. “Thank you for checking on us, sir,” she said to the cop.

“Yeah, thanks a lot,” Brian said.

Myrna burst out laughing again. The two men stared at her as she struggled to contain her hilarity.

“We’d better switch drivers now,” Brian said.

He slid to the center of the seat and Myrna climbed over his lap to settle behind the wheel. She gave his crotch an appreciative squeeze beneath her skirt as they switched places. She waved at the trooper and rol ed up the window before shifting the car out of park and easing back into traffic. Brian slid closer and squeezed her thigh.

“Now,” Brian said, “let’s see how wel you can concentrate on driving with my head under your skirt.”

She grinned at him and took his wayward hand in hers. “Wait until we get to a rest area. I already know I won’t be able to concentrate with any part of you under my skirt.” She squeezed his hand. “Not this.” She lifted her hand to touch his lips. “Or these.”

She cupped his package through his pants. “And definitely not this.”

“What about these?” He pul ed his boot off and wriggled his socked toes at her.

“Hmmmm,” she said, keeping one eye on the road. “I’m not sure about those.”

Tampa 78 miles
. Brian shifted his gaze from the green road sign to his watch. Eleven a.m.

“We’ve got plenty of time before we have to be in Tampa,” he said. “Let’s take a detour.”

Myrna took her eyes off the road long enough to glance at him. “What kind of a detour?”

“I don’t know. The spontaneous kind.”

“I like spontaneous detours. We have to be careful not to get lost, though. No Master Sinclair means no Sinners show.”

“We won’t get lost. At your next opportunity, head west.”

“That won’t take us far. The Gulf of Mexico is west.”

“Exactly.”

She smiled. “West it is.”

Within ten minutes, they were off the main highway and headed west. “It looks like it might rain,” she commented, gazing at the western horizon.

Brian scowled at the bank of black clouds rol ing in from the distance. It figured the weather wouldn’t cooperate on their first real date. He hoped he could manage to keep his hands off her long enough to romance her a little. He had ten days to convince her to stay with him in L.A. In order to get her to comply, he’d need to seduce more than her body.

“Oh wow,” she said. “Look at the water. It’s gorgeous!”

“Not bad,” he said. “California has spectacular beaches.”

She glanced at him sidelong. “I suppose you mean in the Los Angeles area.”

And she was on to him already. “San Diego is better, but yeah, Los Angeles isn’t too shabby.”

“Uh huh. I thought the beaches in California were toxic.”

“Not al of them. Have you ever been to California?”

She hesitated. “Wel , no, but I’m sure I’l get there eventual y.”

Did that mean she was considering joining him? Doubtful.

They entered a smal gulf town. Every sign they passed had some depiction of a clam. Brian’s stomach rumbled. “Do you like seafood?”

“It’s okay. I’m not a fan of fish, but I love clam chowder.”

“Manhattan or New England?”

“New England. The thicker, the better.”

“Hungry?” he asked, watching little restaurants pass.

“Starved. As per usual.”

“Let’s find a place to eat.”

“Just no fast food. I think I’d rather die than eat another french fry.”

“Park over there.” He pointed to the common lot at the end of the block. “We’l walk until we find a good place.”

“How wil we know?”

“Fol ow the locals.”

“Good plan.”

As soon as she pul ed into the nearest parking spot, Brian climbed from the car and hurried around to her side to open her door.

He watched her try to straighten her hair in the rearview mirror with her fingers. He liked to keep it in that “just took a toss in the hay”

style. It suited her. And him.

He opened the door and she looked up at him.

“I look like crap,” she said.

“Didn’t your mother teach you not to lie?”

“I never lie.”

“You just did.” He took her hand and helped her out of the car.

“I have eyes, you know.”

“They must not work very wel . You look gorgeous. You always look gorgeous.” He brought her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles gently.

She surprised him by smiling instead of arguing. “Thank you. You’re very good for my ego.” She stared at the ground as she walked beside him. “Even if you are blind.”

“Are you fishing for compliments, Professor Evans?”

She pointed to her face. “Does this face look fishy to you?”

He shrugged. “It is a little scaly.”

Her mouth dropped open. “Oh real y?”

“No, not real y. I already told you that you were gorgeous. Everyone’s going to wonder why you’re hanging out with a thug like me.”

“I’l tel them I’ve been kidnapped.”

“They’l probably believe it.”

She took his hand. He smiled, his heart warming. She could deny it al she wanted, but he knew she cared. “What that trooper said bothered you, didn’t it?”

Actual y, he hadn’t thought about that trooper since his toes had been used in ways they’d never been used before. He shrugged.

“Eh, I’m used to it.”

She squeezed his hand. “I’m sorry to hear that. No one should have to tolerate being discriminated against based on their looks.”

They paused at a street corner and waited for the traffic to thin enough for them to cross. Brian watched the patrons entering the restaurants in the vicinity. A construction crew, several office workers, and three wel -dressed executives entered a smal eatery in the center of the block. It didn’t look fancy, so the food must be good.
Pam’s Clams
. Myrna wasn’t watching the pedestrian traffic. She was watching him again. He liked it when she couldn’t keep her eyes off him. He pretended he didn’t notice, but she stared at him a lot.

“Pam’s Clams?” he asked.

“Huh?”

“Do you want to eat there?” He tugged her into the street and they hurried across.

“Fine with me.”

By the time they were seated, every person in the place had gawked at Brian at least once. It was a smal town, apparently not used to men with chains, tattoos, dyed hair and leather attire. At least he wasn’t wearing his stage makeup. Had he been drunk, he probably would have cussed them out, but Myrna’s calming presence made it al seem unimportant.

“What sounds good?” Brian examined the smal , laminated menu. Beer sounded good to him. Beer and battered fried clams with french fries. Unlike Myrna, he never tired of french fries.

“They have clam chowder in fresh-baked bread bowls.” She looked orgasmic with delight.

“Is that what you want?”

“Yeah, and a salad. A huge salad. I miss vegetables.”

The waitress appeared. “What can I getcha to drink?”

“Do you have lemonade?” Myrna flipped the menu over to search for their drink selection.

“Yeah.” She scribbled on her order pad. “What for you, dol ?” she asked, pointing the end of her pen at Brian.

“Corona. And we’re ready to order.”

He ordered for the both of them and the waitress col ected their menus before heading to the kitchen.

“We should take detours more often.” Myrna reached across the table and lightly trailed her fingers over the back of his hand.

He smiled. “The tour bus does get pretty boring.”

“I wouldn’t know. You never give me the opportunity to get bored.”

“That’s been my plan from the beginning.”

“I’l be in trouble when you final y get tired of me.”

“I think you’re safe for at least a century.” He linked his fingers through hers and rubbed his thumb over the back of her hand.

“Are you always this sweet?”

His eyebrow shot up in question. “Sweet? Now there’s something I’ve never been accused of before.”

“Real y? I’m surprised. You’re so considerate and complementary and generous.”

“Actual y, that’s not typical of me. It’s only because I lo—” He caught himself and shifted his gaze to the red-checkered vinyl tablecloth. “I like to see you smile.” He’d almost spoken that forbidden word of hers. Had she noticed? When she didn’t speak for a moment, he forced his gaze upward, expecting her eyes to be watery as she thought of that other man. That bastard he despised.

What was his name?
Jeremy.
Myrna wasn’t teary-eyed though, she was staring at their joined hands reflectively.

“I do seem to smile a lot when I’m with you,” she said, smiling as usual. “I guess that means you’re charming, too.”

He chuckled. “You forgot virile and sexy.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Are you saying I’m not—”

She glanced up at him. “I meant that I didn’t forget. It’s obvious, you know. Goes without saying.”

“But you
could
say it.”

“I could.”

Their waitress returned with their drinks and Myrna’s salad. While Brian sipped his beer, he watched her methodical y move the cherry tomatoes and red onions to the edge of her plate.

“I thought you missed vegetables.”

“I don’t like raw tomatoes. And I thought I’d skip the onions so I could make out with the sexiest man alive after lunch without subjecting him to my death breath.”

He grinned at her compliment. He was used to girls stroking his ego, but when Myrna did it, it made him happy. She had such an unusual effect on him. He didn’t try to fight it. He was ready for this and hoped she’d come around soon. He knew he had to keep a rein on expressing these powerful emotions in front of her. The last thing he wanted to do was scare her away.

“You want it?” She speared a tomato with her fork and offered it to him.

“If you put some dressing on it.” Can’t have vegetables without dressing.

She dipped the little tomato into her cup of ranch dressing and held it out to him. He chewed slowly, watching her devour her salad.

“So how much data do you think you need to enter into your computer?” he asked.

She glanced up at him, her fork halfway to her mouth. “Why do you ask?”

He was wondering how much of her time her work was going to take. “Just curious.”

“Let’s see. I’ve been doing about twenty interviews a night, each with forty-two questions. And there have been eight concerts, so that’s about 6,500 pieces of data I need to enter. Give or take.”

“That’s a lot!” he sputtered. “You have to enter al that stuff by hand?”

“Wel , yeah. I don’t have an assistant in my back pocket.” She laughed. “It’s not the data entry that’s hard, anyway. It’s the statistical analysis and reporting the results in journal articles that takes so long.”

“You’re going to be real y busy, aren’t you?”

“I tried to explain that to you earlier. You seem to think I don’t want to go to L.A. with you because I don’t want to spend time with you.”

He shrugged. Was he that easy to read?

“I don’t want to go to L.A. with you because I want to spend
too
much time with you.”

When he tried to respond, she popped another tomato in his mouth.

“So I hope you won’t make it harder on me by getting al pouty.”

He swal owed. “I don’t pout. What if you get done with al your work early? Wil you come with me then?”

“I’l consider it, but don’t get your heart set on it.”

“You don’t want to meet my parents?”

She paled. “Your parents?”

“You realize who my dad is, don’t you? You being a col ector of guitar riffs and al .”

“Uh.” She paused. “I don’t know any other guitarists with the last name Sinclair.”

“He used a stage name. I can’t believe you don’t know this.” He grinned. “I’l give you three guesses.”

Her brow furrowed with concentration. “Is he as good as you are?”

Brian scoffed. “Better. Way better.”

She shook her head. “Now I know you’re making up stories.”

She’d eat those words after she figured it out. Brian had stood in the shadow of a legend his entire career.

“Does he stil play professional y?” she asked.

“The occasional reunion tour, but not real y.”

“Leftie?”

“No.”

“Malcolm O’Neil.”

“So you did know. I wondered how you didn’t know something like that.”

She dropped her fork and stared at him in shock. “Malcolm O’Neil is your father? Oh my God!”

If people weren’t staring at them before, they were now.

He scowled in puzzlement. “You didn’t know.”

“I was joking when I said Malcolm O’Neil. He was the only classic rock guitarist I could think of who was better than you are.” She grabbed his hand. “No offense.” She dropped his hand and pressed her fingers to her forehead. “I mean, I think you’re better than he is, but…”

Brian laughed. “Calm down, Myrna. Is that enough incentive to get you to Los Angeles? Wel , they actual y live in Beverly Hil s.”

“I couldn’t,” she said. “I’d make a total ass of myself.”

“Like now?” He was teasing, but she glanced around the room and flushed in embarrassment.

Their waitress delivered their lunches. “Can I get you anything else?”

Myrna clutched her chest. “A defibril ator.”

The woman’s eyes widened. “Are you having a heart attack?”

“She’s joking,” Brian assured her. “Myrna?”

“I’m joking,” she agreed, stil breathless. “I can’t believe you didn’t tel me you were Malcolm O’Neil’s son.”

“You’re Malcolm O’Neil’s son?” the waitress asked. “Winged Faith’s lead guitarist?”