Straddling the Line. Sarah M. Anderson

he had no idea if she was pulling him or if he was doing it himself.

      “And before that—”

      He kissed her before he could stop himself. His tongue hit her lips, and she opened for him. Lemons. She tasted like lemonade, sweet and tart and just right. She made a small mewing sound in his mouth, a sound of surrender.

      Somehow, he managed to break away from her. He had to, before he did something vulgar like have sex with a woman he barely knew in a closet in a bar.

      “I didn’t know.” Her voice shook this time. “I should have guessed—the way you drummed the desk with that pen—but I didn’t recognize you. You always wear the sunglasses and the bandanna…. I didn’t know it was you.”

      He kissed her again, rougher this time. His teeth nipped at her lower lip before his tongue tangled with hers. He shouldn’t believe her, but he wanted to, more than he’d wanted anything else. He wanted to believe that this beautiful, intelligent woman liked his music without wanting anything else from him. That she might like him without wanting shop equipment or school supplies or anything.

      She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him to her. He felt her stiff nipples press against his chest, felt the heat when she tilted her hips up into his. God, she really wanted him, as much as he wanted her.

      He wanted to believe her.

      But he couldn’t.

      He shoved himself away with everything he had. He sucked in air—which didn’t help, because her scent hung around him. Her chest—in all its glory—was heaving, a sight he’d love to behold any other day. He swiped his hand across his mouth in a desperate attempt to erase her sweetness. Mistake. He’d made a mistake, but he couldn’t tell who he was madder with—her, or himself. “Does that work?” he demanded.

      “Does what work?” She had the damn nerve to look innocent and confused.

      “That—using sex to trap me.” And he’d fallen right into it. Damn it, skin-to-skin contact was a major mistake. “Does that get you what you want?”

      He braced himself for the crack across the face—he expected nothing less than outright condemnation and denial from her—but she didn’t smack him. Instead, a look of pain crossed her face for a second before it disappeared underneath something else. Something sad, which made him feel like the world’s biggest jerk. “You already said no—I wasn’t—”

      Her eyes skimmed over his arms—and found his tats. Damn sleeveless T-shirts, he cursed silently. She could see the one that had Mom’s birth—and death—date. He thought about turning the other way, but that would be worse, because then she’d see the one for Moose, his dog. He crossed his arms and gave her his meanest stare. She didn’t even blink.

      For a blinding second, he hated her—the way she seemed to look right into him, the way she made him feel like hell for being a jerk, the way she had the nerve to feel bad for him—he hated all of it.

      When the hell would this break end? If he didn’t start beating his drums again right now, he was going to have to punch a wall or something.

      Then she did something even weirder. She came to him, touched his tats and whispered, “I’m sorry.” And then she kissed him. After he’d all but called her a slut to her face, she kissed him—again.

      This was different—softer, easier. Against his will, his arms uncrossed and then folded again, with her inside them. Her weight was warm and comfortable against his chest. She fit well there.

      Something strange happened. The solitary quiet he usually felt when he thought about Mom seemed less solitary. It almost seemed like Josey White Plume understood how alone he felt surrounded by his brothers, how hard it was to always have to be the responsible one, how exhausting the daily battle with his father was, how damn tired he was of not being good enough. She understood it all and was happy to take some of the burden off his shoulders.

      She broke the kiss and rested her forehead against him. Oddly, that was almost as good as the kiss. Forget the last time he’d gotten laid. When was the last time he’d held a woman—without feeling like she wanted something from him?

      Josey’s chest rose and fell against his, strong and steady. Her arms were around his neck, holding their bodies together. For some stupid reason that should have everything to do with his groin but didn’t, Ben would have been happy to stand here and hold her all night long.

      He didn’t get the chance. Right then, someone began to pound on the door.

      “Benny! Zip it up, kick the chick out and let’s rock!”

      Josey jolted, and Ben was forced to let her go. She straightened her top, shook her hair out and licked her lips. Could she still taste him, like he could taste her?

      “I came for the music,” she said, her voice reaching his ears over the pounding on the door. “No strings attached.”

      “No strings attached,” he agreed. So why did it feel like she’d just bound part of her to part of him?

      The band continued banging on the door like it was a secondhand drum set. He didn’t need his spine rearranged, so he got out of the way.

      Toadie, Stick and Rex fell into the room. Rex was giggling—a sure sign that he was happily on his way to roaring drunk. When they caught sight of Josey, the merry band of idiots came to a screeching halt. Toadie was the first to make his move. “Holding out on us, Benny? Or were you planning on sharing?”

      Ben’s thoughts went in two directions. One part of him wondered how many shots they had done and if they would be able to get through the next set before Rex passed out on the floor.

      The other part of him got real pissed, real fast. He wasn’t about to let these jerk-offs call her character into question—never mind that he’d just done the very same thing. Whether she was conniving or innocent, Josey White Plume was no floozy, happy to let any slimeball do shots off her boobs. He’d be damned if he let these morons drool all over her. She deserved better than that.

      Rex punched Toadie in the arm and stepped up. “Ma’am, ignore the cretin,” he said, doffing an imaginary hat and mispronouncing cretin. “And, if I may be so bold, may I suggest joining me after the show’s over? You are clearly way, way out of Benny’s league. Stick with me, and I’ll show you what a real man can do.”

      The next thing Ben knew, he was shoving Rex, and Rex was shoving back. Stick tried to grab Ben, and Toadie made a halfhearted effort to hold Rex, but Ben didn’t care. Rex wanted a fight? Fine. Ben would enjoy beating the living hell out of him.

      He didn’t have to. Instead of ducking for cover, Josey stepped between him and Rex. She looked the singer up and down, shaking her head with distaste. She turned back to him and smiled—whoa. How could a woman look so fiery and so innocent at the same time?

      “Thanks for the offer, but I prefer drummers.”

      So hot, he thought as she stood on her tiptoes and brushed her lips over his. The guys began catcalling behind them, but Ben didn’t give a damn. He just wanted to remember this moment, this feeling of no strings attached.

      She started to pull away, but he grabbed her around the waist. “I’ll find you after the show.”

      “Are you guys going on or what?” The bar’s manager stuck his peevish head through the door. “It’s getting ugly out here.”

      With the door open, Ben could hear the riot about to break out in the bar. Josey slipped from his arms and finally he got to appreciate the sight of Josey White Plume walking away.

      Rex looked like he was going to pop an O-ring laughing. “Not a word,” Ben said, cracking the knuckles on each hand with his thumb—a trick he’d learned from Dad, one that was pretty effective when a guy was trying to look menacing. “Not one stinking word.”

      Toadie made the motion to lock his mouth and throw away the key, but Rex still looked