His Assurance (Assured Distraction Book 3) Page 2

  “Lola, why did you resist? That’s why you found yourself treated like a criminal. You should have done what he asked you to do from the beginning. You know flights are a lot more secure now and have strict rules about problems created on a plane. They will charge you with all kinds of things.”

  “I know, Mother, but what would you have me do, let Mr. Muscles have his way with me and then quietly tell the attendant, ‘Oh yes, by the way, could you help me, please? He raped me in the restroom?’”

  “No, honey, but you could have handled it a little better. You’re no stranger to flying. You know the rules and regulations.”

  “So when the plane landed, they took me off first and to jail in downtown, and you know the rest.”

  “Well, Lola, that’s quite a story. Did you tell all of this to the lawyer?” My mom is giving me a skeptical look.”

  “Yes, I told him the entire thing. I’m not sure he believed me either, though, because Mr. Muscles is the only one looking like he had a beat down. He was a foot taller than me and had a good seventy-five pounds on me, and I beat the poor baby up in the restroom. They even called him an ambulance to check him out and bandage his wound. Also, I have to provide a current drug test to show I’m not on drugs and that I’m clean since I drew blood with my mouth. So stupid.”

  “I suggest you get a bath, rest, and call your father. He’ll be home from court when you wake up, and I know he’s going to want to hear this entire thing.” She turned and looked at me when she got to the door and shook her head like she did not believe a word I said. What reason would I have to lie to her?

  After showering, I climbed in my old bed and stared at the ceiling. “Welcome home, Lola.”

  I can’t believe that was Lola, and she’s here in the U.S. What was she doing in the U.S.? Why had they arrested her? I can find these answers with a click of my mouse.

  Headline News: “Woman arrested for possible terrorist threats aboard a plane from Paris.”

  A woman, claiming to be a U.S. citizen was arrested yesterday on a plane bound for Houston, Texas from Paris, France. Reports say she caused an incident and had to be physically taken down by the Air Marshal along with a couple of passengers who aided the Marshal. According to eyewitnesses, she attacked another passenger when he attempted to leave the plane’s lavatory. The male passenger said they were seated next to each other, and she was very intoxicated when she left her seat. Guess “I’m drunk on a plane” isn’t just a country song. And next…

  That was bullshit. Lola would never attack someone. Damn, I was only with her one night, but even I knew that. I started wondering how I could get in touch with her in Houston or if she was still in jail?

  When my phone chimed it brought me back to Earth, I saw Carter on the ID. “’Sup, dude?”

  “Hey, I just saw that the French chick you banged in Paris after our show on the news.”

  “Hell yeah, it was her. I can pick ‘em, huh? No, but seriously, she was a nice girl.”

  “Yeah, she was real nice when I heard her screaming all of those obscenities in French from your room.” Carter laughingly reminded me. Damn, I hoped no one remembered those kinds of things about her.

  “Dude, don’t talk about her that way. We were alone and had fun together, not breaking any laws, not hurting each other or someone else, so leave it alone.” I knew I didn’t have to take the high road with him, but I wanted to see her again, and if Carter went around reminding everyone of the time we had in Paris, they would all think she was some groupie whore. Even if she was, I didn’t want to know about it.

  “Yeah, so how do you feel about a road trip down to Houston? I want to see her.”

  “Are you serious? The media will be all over that, Gunner. You don’t want to get in the middle of that shit storm.”

  He was probably right about that, but I am determined to talk to her. “I’m going with or without you, so you decide.”

  “When are you leaving? I’m a little preoccupied at the moment.” I knew he had a woman with him. When did he not? When I heard a man’s voice, my ears perked up fast.

  “Dude, who or what are you entertaining over there? That sounded like a man laughing.”

  “Yeah, picked up a couple of girls and a guy came with them. It’s all good. I didn’t cheat on your sorry ass, so don’t worry about it.” I knew he didn’t play for that team but damn, when a guy was close enough I could hear him laughing on the phone, I was a little thrown off.

  “So, uh, are y’all in one bed together?” Carter and I had a routine with our sharing, and I was good with that, but I didn’t know he shared with other dudes, too. I didn’t think it had happened before.

  “No Gun, we did not share anything. I’ll talk to you later about it. What time you want to head to H-town?”

  “I gotta find her first, so I’ll get back with you.”

  “Later, dude.” He ended the call.

  Carter and I shared lots of women. We loved it. We loved sharing several women at the same time even more, and the way things went with the crazy women out on tour, it happened as often as we wanted. The hardest part was finding a room that could accommodate us all.

  We never shared with strange men, though. NEVER. We had some unspoken rules, and that was one of them. We weren’t switch-hitters, either. We might take turns with women but never with each other. We weren’t homophobes or anything, but we just didn’t get off on men. Damn, we always had enough women to keep us satisfied so why even think about going there.

  I pulled up her number on my phone and decided I would start with a text. We hadn’t spoken in over a year.

  Gunner: I see you’re in the States … No that was too lame. [delete]

  Gunner: Hey, it’s been a while…Oh yeah, that sounded a little desperate. [delete]

  Gunner: This is Gunner. I’m in Austin… That was a little better. [delete]

  Gunner: Hey, are you all right? This is Gunner from Assured Distraction. We met in Paris.

  I hit send before I could delete it. It still sounded lame, but I guessed it was better than nothing.

  I spent the rest of the day unpacking, going through mail, and sorting laundry for the lady to do. I had a lady who came over once a week while I was on the road to collect mail and make sure everything was okay in the house. Now that I’m home, she’ll come and clean and do laundry. Sending out my laundry was a luxury I opted for since I sure as shit didn’t know anything about doing it myself.

  By that night, I decided Lola either didn’t want to talk to she or me had changed her number. I thought about it all day and guessed she probably did since she was supposed to be living in France. Hell, her French accent sounded real to me, and she spoke it fluently. The article said she claimed to be a U.S. citizen, though. Why didn’t she tell me that? I think the lady has some explaining to do.

  The banging on my door let me know Carter must have finally extricated himself from his private party. I opened it, happy to see him alone.

  “Dude, I never heard back from you. What’s happening?” Carter moved into my den as he spoke.

  “I haven’t heard back from her. I shot her a text after I talked to you, but she hasn’t replied.”

  “You need to call her. Fuck that texting, get right to the good stuff like that sweet French accent I remember her using on you while she was wrapping those luscious lips around your dick.”

  “Please, don’t remind me. I’ve remembered that since I saw her on TV.” I couldn’t get it out of my mind actually, but I didn’t want to sound over-eager.

  I’d never been that way about a woman we met on the road, but for some reason, it was different with her. I had a hard time getting her out of my mind.

  That was never a problem with new women at every venue. Most of them wanted to fuck someone from the band so they could brag about it. Hell, Carter and I didn’t care. We were happy to accommodate them as long as they were willing to accommodate us however we wanted it that night.

  If I was honest with my
self, meaningless sex with faceless women was becoming tiresome. It got old never knowing who or what was going to end up in my bed or bath or the door or table or couch or hell, even the brick wall outside the venue or side of the bus. Carter and I had sex wherever we wanted and pretty much whenever. I guess it was a miracle one of us hadn’t spent some time in the back of a police car for having sex in public.

  “So, you think I should call even though she didn’t get back with me? I don’t want to seem desperate.”

  “Dude, you are desperate. How long’s it been since you got laid? Your dick’s probably ready to fall off from lack of use.” I guess he didn’t see me leave with the red head. Just as well. Carter popped me on the back of the head. “Call her already.”

  When the phone started ringing, my palms started sweating. What was this shit? I wasn’t that desperate.

  “Allo,” a man answered.

  “Uh, I’m looking for Lola.”

  “This is her phone, but she is not here any longer,” said a thick, French accent.

  “Do you have a number for her in the U.S., uh, please?” I bet he thought I was some weird stalker now.

  “To whom am I speaking?” The man’s tone was very formal.

  “This is Gunner Wallace. I’m a friend of hers from Texas.” Lame, Lame, Lame. What else could I have said?

  “Well, Mr. Gunner Wallace. I will give her the message that you called, and she can return the call if she chooses. I am not in the habit of handing out my daughter’s phone number to strangers.

  “Right, I, uh, understand that. You’re right. You shouldn’t give her number out. I’m sorry I bothered you, sir. Will you please give her my number and ask her to call me soon?” I wanted him to know I was serious about speaking to her.

  “Oui, I will give her this number. Thank you for calling.” He ended the call before I could say anything else.

  I turned and looked at Carter. “Damn, she doesn’t have that phone with her. She left it in Paris with her dad.”

  “It makes sense she would have a U.S. phone while she’s here, dude.”

  “Yeah, you’re probably right. Guess there’s not going to be a road trip anytime soon since I have to wait for her to find me.”

  “Good, let’s get some Torchy’s Tacos. They opened a new one while we were gone.”

  “Now that you mention it, I’m starving.”

  “Oh hello, Papa. Is everything okay there?” He didn’t call me often, so seeing his name on my caller ID surprised me.

  “Yes, ma petite, everything here is fine. I wanted to check on you and see if you had recovered from your ordeal yesterday.”

  “I’m fine. I think the news people found the incident and blew it all out of proportion. That man on the plane was certifiably crazy in my opinion. I did nothing wrong. He attacked me in the lavatory, Papa. I was defending myself.”

  “I know, mon ange, I know. You would never harm someone that way without provocation.” My father knew me well. I was not a violent person. “On another matter, Lola. A man called and sent you a text message to your phone here. He wants to speak with you soon.”

  “A man? Who was it? Did he leave a number? Was he French?” I bombarded him with questions, knowing I rarely gave the number to many people outside my circle of friends. My father was adamant about that given his position in the government.

  “Yes, his name is Gunner Wallace, and he wanted me to give you the number he called from.” I grabbed a pen and was ready to write. I couldn’t believe it. After all this time, Gunner called me. This guy was seriously hot, like sex on a stick hot, and we had a fantastic night together in Paris.

  Oh, but wait. He’s probably wondering what the hell I am doing in Houston. I wasn’t exactly honest with him. I led him to believe I was a French citizen and lived there all of the time. How was I going to explain this to him? I wasn’t in the habit of lying to men, but that was a special night. My friends and I were just out to have a bit of fun, and the next thing I knew we were backstage with the opening act, Assured Distraction.

  About Two Years Ago…

  My friend, JeanMarie, was stunningly beautiful and could talk her way into a club at sixteen without a fake ID. When she grabbed my hand and said come on, I ran with her, and we quickly found ourselves escorted to a room backstage with kick-ass badges to wear. Before we could hardly turn around in the room, these seriously hot, sweaty rockers came busting in the room laughing and talking, fresh off the stage. My eyes immediately searched until I spotted the drummer I might have been eye fucking for the entire set. Everything about him was to die for in a way that made my girly bits stand up and do a happy dance.

  Watching him onstage behind his drum kit, I knew he was going to be the perfect male specimen up close. He obviously spent a lot of time working out because those arms, mmm, pure muscle. I don’t know what he bench pressed, but at that point, I hoped it was me sometime in the near future. His sinuous arms covered in the most beautiful tattoos ever were drool worthy. The art was gorgeous, and the colors that defined them were well thought out by the artist as though he was painting a masterpiece in each section from shoulder to wrist. On stage when he raised both arms over his head to pound out the beat of the next song, the muscles moved in such a way that my heart started beating harder, as though it was in time to the music. To see those muscles ripple in sequence under the ink and down his arms as he forcefully hit those drumsticks together, I thought my heart was going to have a tattoo of the image embedded in it before the concert ended. Instead, I decided I needed to bring a change of panties the next time.

  At some point in the show, he stood up and ripped his white tank over his head. Forget bringing a spare pair; I thought my panties were going to melt off my body. His pecs were perfect and covered in a precise Oriental pattern. They didn’t match, but the two complemented each other in a round image that covered the entire pec. It was simply gorgeous. The colors were bold, and I fucking loved them. That was until I saw his hard, cut abs, and I knew I was in heaven just staring at him. They shined with a sheen of sweat that the constantly changing spotlights enhanced with a different color every few seconds. The smooth cuts of this section were obviously begging to be traced by my tongue while going down each valley as it followed my fingernails on a path to the prize waiting inside his low-slung jeans.

  Yes, I did look at his face, too. How could I not? Blue-green eyes pierced a hole through me when I thought he was staring my way. I’m sure every girl standing in my vicinity believed the same. The irises were a shade that made me wonder if the color changed depending on his mood. First, they looked like the ocean, not quite aqua and not quite emerald, but suspended somewhere between the two keeping me guessing as the music played on.

  His strong jawline seemed to grind a little each time he struck a solid beat on the drums, causing his dark hair to flip around as he played steady beats to the music. It was only long on top, with the sides sheared close to the scalp. To merely say he was hot, handsome, or gorgeous did no justice to his true exquisite look. But for lack of better description, the man was seriously hot, drop dead handsome and…and…to die for gorgeous. I suppose that’s the best my addled brain could conjure up at the time.

  The one specific area I left for last, though, was by far his best feature, and that was his lips. Oh. My. God. I constantly wondered how they would feel as he rubbed them across mine, and smoothed them down my body. They were full and pouty, and all I could dream about was how it would feel to run my tongue over them, pulling that bottom lip in my mouth while I begged for his touch.

  JeanMarie got us backstage just before the band came through. The effects of the concert had them on a high only adrenaline could provide. While she was able to get us in the room, I knew it would be on me to make contact with this man who had my mind so fogged with pure lust. Once we were in, I knew she would go her own way. If anything was going to bring this drummer and me together, I had to make myself known to him. I’m not very good at doing that because p
icking up strangers has never been one of my favorite past times.

  One side of my brain tells me: You can do this, Lola. He’s just a man. He likes women. He’ll like you.

  But the negative part of my brain has to chime in, too: Are you the type of woman he likes? Too thin, too fat, too tall, too short?

  Guess there’s only one way to find out. I plastered on my best I’m coming to get you smile, flipped my long auburn curls back over my shoulder flirtatiously, and walked across the room where he was standing talking to the bass player. Once I was close enough to him, I put my hand on his arm to get his attention. Touching him didn’t accomplish what I hoped for, but when the bass player made eye contact with me, the drummer looked down at my hand on his arm and slowly made his way up to my face.

  “Bonjour. I am Lola.” I tried my sexiest French accent on him. I knew he was American, and it would capture his attention, but all he did was stare at me. The bass player took my hand off his arm and kissed the back of it.

  “Well, hello, Lola. I’m Carter, the bass player for Assured Distraction, and this is my friend, Gunner, the drummer.” He put my hand in Gunner’s. “Kiss the girl’s soft hand, Gunner.”

  “Oh, yeah, right.” He looked at me. “Hello, Lola, I’m Gunner, the drummer.” He then kissed my hand, too.

  Carter spoke again, but neither of us looked at him. “Smooth line, dumbass, I just said that.” He then turned to me and said, “So, Lola, did you enjoy the show?”

  Without taking my hand out of Gunner’s, I answered him, “Oui. Very much so.” Gunner smiled at me. I suppose I could have simply fainted then and there, and that would have made quite the impression, but instead I stared at Gunner like he was staring at me.

  “I guess my work’s completed.” I heard this coming from Carter but didn’t respond to him this time. He finally left us standing there. I knew I had to look like a complete and utter fool, but I didn’t care.