Jennifer Seasons - Throwing Heat

She wanted the real truth.

He stopped playing abruptly and hissed painfully when he jarred his shoulder. The glare he shot her was withering. “It’s none of your goddamn business.”

But it was her business if she was going to get her life back. “I deserve to know.” Her hand shot to her hip and she took a sip of coffee as a way to direct and diffuse her energy. God, the man had a way of pissing her off like no one else.

“You don’t deserve any such thing. But knowing you, you’ll keep hounding me until I go insane, so fine, here’s the truth: I won’t play in public because it’s very, very personal to me. It’s mine, my heart, and I don’t share it with random fucking people.”

That shut her up. Briefly. “But you play all the time at barbeques and gatherings with the team.”

She watched him grab his guitar and hold it to him like it was a shield for protection. “They’re not random.”

Leslie puffed out a breath, totally frustrated. The guy had an incredible talent. It deserved to be heard and seen. “This doesn’t make any sense to me at all. You’re a professional athlete. You play a game that entertains people. How is singing any different?”

He looked her dead in the eye. “It’s my soul.”

Her mouth opened and nothing came out. Snapping it shut, Leslie tried to think of something to say and came up blank. Mentally scrambling, she finally blurted, “You’re willing to play at the club if you lose the bet to me, though. I don’t understand. Why then did you agree?”

Peter stopped playing and stared her down with cold, remote eyes. “It’s all about my dick, baby.”

HE WAS SUCH an asshole.

Peter shoved his arm through his coat sleeve and swore when his shoulder objected painfully. He deserved it, though, for being such a prick to Leslie. For the rest of the day he’d felt like a douchebag for the crummy things he’d said to her. And all day he’d done his best to avoid his conscience, but to no avail.

Now here it was, pushing two in the morning on a snowy October night, and he was on his way to Hotbox to apologize to her. Apparently his conscience had decided that it couldn’t wait one more hour until she was off work and back at his place. Which just figured. His inner good boy always had bad timing.

Hopping in his FJ Cruiser, Peter was one the road and pulling up in front of the nightclub less than twenty minutes later. From the outside the place wasn’t much to look at, just a big square industrial brick warehouse. But on the inside was a whole different story. Since Leslie had taken over management it had changed a whole lot, going from a wreck to Denver’s hotspot for killer live music. The woman had an ear on her and a way of showcasing unknown bands that went on to do big things eerily fast. It was one of her many gifts.

Peter knew that if she was so determined to put him in the spotlight, it meant he had something special too. And he thought it was great she felt that way about him.

Playing baseball was what he did and he was damn good at it. It was how he defined himself, how he saw himself. And he’d found a home with the Rush and loved being a part of such a close-knit team. They were all more like a big family—the only family he’d ever really known, honestly.

But music, music was who he was.

Whether he liked it about her or not, Leslie saw that truth in him. And she pushed. She pushed like a frigging bulldozer to get him to share it with the world at large, believing that it was his duty to share his gift with every-damn-body.

He completely disagreed. Writing songs, singing and playing his guitar—that was for him. So why he’d agreed to perform in her club specifically for the bet sure beat the hell out of him. He didn’t even understand it, so how could he explain it to her when she’d asked?

He couldn’t. But that didn’t mean he had to be such an asshole about it. Then again, that was pretty much his M.O. Corner him and push him about his feelings and he lashed out verbally. It wasn’t one of his more admirable traits. And given that he wasn’t feeling too upbeat about the state of his life at the moment, put together the whole thing was a recipe for disaster.

Peter checked the time on his black leather bracelet, which doubled as a very discreet wristwatch. The bar was just closing. He’d thought he’d get there sooner, give himself a few minutes to prep. Crap.

Mario, the over-muscled bouncer, had just stepped out to lock the front door when Peter hailed him. “Hey, man. Can I get you to hold that for me?”

Catching sight of who was hollering, the enormous ex-bodyguard smiled and pushed the door back open. “For you I will, Pete. How’s the shoulder?”

He stepped inside on the landing and replied, “It’s been better.”

Mario slapped him on the back with a smile and nearly sent him flying over the guardrail. “Recover fast, man. The Rush need you back yesterday.”

Didn’t have to tell him. “I’m working on it.” From his perch on the raised landing, Peter surveyed the now empty place. “Is everyone already gone?”

The bouncer nodded. “Leslie’s in her office, but everyone else just left. It went dead the last hour with the weather and she sent us all home. I was just locking up. What can I do for you?”

Peter shook his head, grateful that he’d indulged in an extra dose of ibuprofen earlier. The man was ridiculously large and his backslap had nearly dislocated his shoulder again. He probably thought he was being gentle too. “I’m good. I just came by to have a word with the boss lady.”

Mario locked up the front and they climbed the steps down to the main floor of the building before making their way across the hardwood to the hall on the other side. Once there the bouncer continued toward her office. Peter stopped him. “Hey man, why don’t you head on out? I’ll see to it that Leslie gets to her car safely.”

The bouncer cast a quick glance down the hall. “Sounds good.” He smiled. “The lady won’t be expecting me home early. This will be a nice surprise.”

Mario wished him a good night and went out the back door, muttering with a frown, “I thought I’d already locked this.” Peter waited until it shut behind him and then secured the latch, not wanting to be disturbed. He had some apologizing to do and didn’t really want any witnesses. Or interruptions. But mostly witnesses.

Once that was done he turned toward the hall and was about to walk down it when he heard a shuffle and a noise coming from Leslie’s office. What was that girl doing? Rearranging furniture?

Shrugging it off, he had just taken a step when he heard a muffled scream and something crash to the floor. His heart started pounding hard and something like fear lodged in his throat. “Leslie? Leslie, are you okay?”

Another crash came from her office and this time along with her scream he heard, “Stop it!”

He sprinted down the hall and slammed her door open in a heartbeat, his injured shoulder completely forgotten on the rush of fear and adrenaline. Inside he found Leslie sitting on the floor, a table lamp shattered next to her and her potted bamboo plant broken, dirt scattered everywhere.

And stumbling toward her with a crazed look in his eye was Seth.

Rage flooded Peter and he grabbed the bartender by the back of his shirt, bellowing as he yanked, “Don’t you dare, motherfucker!”

Seth flew through the air, slammed into the wall, and Peter was on him instantly, ramming his fist into his face. Seth’s nose shattered from the force of the blow and began bleeding profusely, but Peter didn’t stop. He couldn’t see beyond the red haze of fury.

“I just wanted to touch!” the bartender wailed and swiped at the blood pouring down over his lips, cradling his busted nose. “I love her!”

“You crazy bastard!” Leslie cried out as she scrambled to her feet. She was shaking, but he didn’t think it was from fear.

Her eyes shot daggers at her employee and she ran toward him, clearly intent on doing bodily harm. Peter grabbed her around the waist and pulled her in tight, effectively stopping her. But she swung out a leg and almost connected with Seth. “How dare you come in drunk and cop a feel on me! You’re not even allowed here after hours!”

With blood running between his fingers and down his arm, Seth looked up at them both with unexpected loathing. “You’re a bitch.”

Peter let go of Leslie and yanked Seth up by his collar, so full of white-hot fury he could barely see, and slammed his fist into his solar plexus. Seth doubled over, gasping for air, and just as Peter was going to punch him again, Leslie made a sound like a choked back sob.

He whipped his head around toward the sound to find her wiping at a cut on her hand, and the sight of her blood pushed him over the edge. He snapped. “How dare you touch my woman!” he shouted and spun back around.

Seth was gone.

His footsteps were fading quickly down the hallway. Then the back door creaked open and slammed shut. Fuck.

Peter was about to go after him when Leslie stopped him with a hand on his arm. Shaking, adrenaline and rage a thundering, furious concoction inside him, he looked up from her slender, bleeding hand. “I’m going to kill that son of a bitch.”

“Let him go,” she replied. “I’ll call the cops and file a report. I’ve got all his information, Peter. They’ll find him.”

“Not if I find him first.” He couldn’t think. Couldn’t reason. His blood was pumping and a primitive, primal need to protect her overrode all else.

Panting, Peter raked a hand through his hair, swore, and gave her a very thorough once-over. Other than the wound on her hand and messy hair she looked all right. Definitely less shaken up than him.

But her office was a mess. How much had happened before he’d arrived? “I hope you hit that bastard in the head with your broken lamp,” he muttered, grabbing desperately for a measure of control.

Leslie smiled at him in a way that had the anger subsiding a little and said matter-of-factly, “He kept trying to grope me, so I threw it at him.”

That’s my girl.

“Then I slipped on some potting soil and fell on my ass. That’s when you came in.”

“Are you okay?” he asked, realizing the question was more than a smidge belated as his brain started functioning again. Not much, but enough to remember to ask.

“I’m okay.” But she was looking around at the state of her office, frowning. He raised a hand and grabbed hers, held it still while he assessed the extent of her injury. It wasn’t much of one, thank God. Just a small cut at the base of her left thumb. No doubt it’d been from the porcelain lamp shattering.

“I’m going to go double-check the lock on the back door and make that call,” Leslie informed him, already striding out the door. And the sight of her ass all smeared with dirt had anger sizzling in his gut like acid.

Stomping after her, Peter was at a slow boil the whole time she made her report. When she refused to have an officer come to the club for her statement he scowled at her. She just held up a finger, giving him the signal to wait, and finished the phone call, providing her statement by phone.

When Leslie hung up, she put the cordless phone back in its cradle behind the bar and said, “An officer will get back to me tomorrow for a follow-up, but they have all they need now to find Seth.”

“Good.” A tick started in his jaw.

She leaned her elbows on the bar and cocked her head to the side, looking at him with her gorgeous hazel eyes. All he saw was messy hair and her dabbing at the cut on her hand with a bar towel. “Are you all right, Peter? You went after Seth hard and I’m worried about your shoulder.”

He didn’t feel any pain. “I’m fine.”

But he wasn’t fine and she knew it. “You’re not moving your arm.”

Peter glanced at his shoulder, shrugged. “It’ll hurt like a bitch tomorrow, but it’s fine. Felt good shattering the fucker’s nose.”

“Thank you for doing that.”

For some reason her gratitude pissed him off and he rounded on her. “What the hell was he doing in your office after hours in the first place?” The answer had better be nothing.

Watching him with what looked like caution in her eyes, Leslie answered softly, “Not what you think, Peter. He’d already been sent home for the night, along with the rest of the crew because of the snow. I was shutting down my computer when he came in reeking of whiskey and stumbled into my bamboo plant, knocking it to the floor. Then he tried to get handsy with me.”