Nashville Naughty Read online

  Bethany Michaels

  Nashville Naughty

  A Ravenous Romance™ Original Publication

  A Ravenous Romance™ Original Publication

  www.ravenousromance.com

  Copyright © 2009 by Bethany Michaels

  Ravenous Romance™

  100 Cummings Center

  Suite 123A

  Beverly, MA 01915

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission from the publisher, except by reviewers who may quote brief excerpts in connection with a review.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-60777-311-5

  This book is a work of fiction, and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Chapter One

  If you look up “bars” in the Nashville Yellow Pages, you’ll find listings for two hundred clubs in the metro Nashville area. Some are dirt-floored holes in the wall only the most devoted of locals or the truly desperate are brave enough to patronize. Some are Nashville fixtures that have been around longer than parts of Dolly Parton, famous for launching the careers of countless country music legends. Some are chains that charge tourists exorbitant amounts for watered-down drinks and the shiny, sexy version of Nashville cool illustrated by hot young country stars in rhinestones and cowboy boots holding Grammys. There are pubs that attract college students with their cheap beer and easy hook-ups, and upscale establishments that host big-name bands with stages, lights and sound systems that rival any entertainment venue in the world.

  No matter which kind of place suits you, there’s one thing they all have in common: music. When the sun goes down on Broadway Street, music fills the air. Every bar, club and café boasts a live band almost every night of the week: blues, rock, country, rockabilly, pop, gospel, bluegrass, and some genres that embody and defy all those categories at the same time. It’s all there, laid out like a smorgasbord for music lovers, some bands better than others, some at the pinnacle of their success, some just learning the biz, but all living the dream, embracing the struggle, doing what they love most in the world with a passion for their art.

  I’d been drawn to Nashville for the same reason as all the others. I grew up on Loretta Lynn and Elvis Presley and singing was the only the thing I’d ever been any damn good at. As soon as I turned eighteen, I jumped the first Greyhound with “Nashville” in the marquee and had known I was home the second I stepped off the bus and heard a cover of Heartbreak Hotel spilling out of the doorway of a downtown coffee house.

  I had answered a few ads for vocalists posted on record shop bulletin boards and done my time in the bar scene. Then I got a job at a catering company that paid in more than free drinks and hook-ups. I realized I didn’t really have the dedication or desire to be a big-time star. All I wanted to do was sing and keep a roof over my head.

  Eventually I got a gig with one of the studios along Music Row and was making a nice little living laying down demo tracks for songwriters who hoped to pimp out their work to big-name stars, labels, or music publishers. It paid a lot better than serving hors d’oeuvres or performing for a bunch of semi-drunk cowboy wannabes. I kept the catering job, though, because I’d made more connections in the business just by serving up a drink, a smile, and a little bit of cleavage in half the time it would have taken me sending out demo tapes or waiting to be discovered in whatever shit-hole bar I was playing.

  So life was good. I had a cushion in my bank account, a job I liked, and I was looking forward to spending my night off hanging out with my best friend and former roommate, Sydney. She’d promised to come downtown and listen to her old Road Kill band mates tear it up at Willie’s, just like the old days. I didn’t see her much since she’d moved in with her boyfriend, the star of countless female fantasies, Dex Wilder. But I couldn’t really blame her. That guy made Brad Pitt look like the Elephant Man and if I were Sydney, I would probably wouldn’t want to do anything but Dex, either.

  I finished the last tepid swallow of whatever crap Willie’s had on tap that night and looked out over the main room of the dull, smoky bar. Road Kill was wrapping up its second set and Sydney was still MIA. I relaxed on a stool at the bar, not really all that disappointed I’d been ditched again. I knew most of the bouncers, bartenders, and bands in the Broadway Street clubs. There was always somebody to hang out or hook up with.

  I did a once-over on the thinning crowd and a guy I hadn’t seen in Willie’s before caught my eye. Everything about him screamed “bad ass,” from the leather to the silver hoop earring and diamond nose stud that caught the neon light of the Budweiser sign on the wall behind him. It was too dark to tell if he had tattoos, but given his look, it was probably a safe bet.

  When he noticed me looking, he flashed me a killer grin full of straight white teeth. Oh, yeah. He’d be a wild one in the sack, just like I liked ’em. I smiled back, letting him see my gaze sliding down his body in silent confirmation that, barring any unfortunate hygiene issues, we’d be horizontal before last call. He’d be in and out and on his way before I even knew his name, which suited me just fine.

  “I think Sydney ditched us,” said Dillon Phillips, Road Kill’s lead guitarist. He pulled up a stool next to me and sat.

  “Looks like it.”

  Dillon nodded and I thought I caught a slight downturn at his lips. I was pretty sure he’d had a bit of a thing for Syd, once upon a time. But it was hard to tell. Dillon was one of those guys who treated every girl with respect, a real Boy Scout. He was a good guy, though, and fun to hang with. I didn’t have to put on a show for him, or worry that he was only being nice to get into my pants.

  “You guys rocked tonight,” I said. “How about a beer?”

  “Beer would be great.” He ran a hand through his damp, sandy brown hair. “I wasn’t sure we were going to get through that last one. Ted lost his place and threw us all off.”

  I ordered two more drafts. “You saved it, though.”

  “Yeah.”

  The bartender set the mugs of beer in front of us and Dillon took a long drink. “God, that’s disgusting.”

  “Yep.” I took a swig of my beer, too.

  “How did you get out of work tonight?”

  “Blue Moon is doing an angel-themed party for Thomas Nelson. You know, the Bible publisher? I don’t think I’m quite the angel type.”

  “True.” Dillon said, not even glancing at me. “Unless we’re talking Victoria’s Secret-type angels.”

  “Right. I don’t think I have quite the right proportions for that.” I wasn’t fat, but I was not the tall, sunken-cheeked, size-zero model type either. I was on the short side, with black hair, dark eyes and, as one hook-up had put it, a figure with more curves than Nolan Ryan.

  “Hailey coming by?”

  Dillon frowned.

  “Uh oh, trouble in paradise?”

  “I think she dumped me.”

  “You think she did?”

  “Well, she stopped returning my calls.”

  “Yeah, she dumped you, all right.” I took a sip of my beer. Dillon didn’t look particularly torn up, just a little confused. Still, I felt bad for the guy, who had probably never not called a girl back. “Took the easy way out, too. She could have at least broken it off face to face. Not that I’m the relationship expert or anything.”

  I smiled. It was no secret that a night or two was the extent of my commitments. Hot, fast, and no messy stuff to deal with once the fun was over with. That was the perfect relationship.

  “Yeah.”

  Dillon sipped his beer and I silently cursed Hailey. Dillon was cute in an I’d-like-to-bake-you-some-cookies way, rather than an I’d-like-to-eat-cookies-off-your-body way. He had sandy brown
hair, nice hazel eyes, and a hint of dimples when he smiled a certain way. He was always well groomed, though not prissy about it, whether he was hanging out with Hailey, heading to his day job at Dutton Music Center or sweating his ass off packing up gear after a show.

  You could tell Dillon came from a sort of ’50s sitcom family, too. He carried himself with the confidence of someone who’d had grown up with a place to lay his head every night and never had to wonder where his next meal was going to come from. Straight white teeth, no doubt courtesy of three grand and two years in braces, completed his clean-cut, all-American look. He had a good voice, too, and the things he could do with a guitar—well, he could do a lot better than Road Kill. Or Hailey.

  “I didn’t want to say so at the time, but Hailey had the most annoying laugh I’ve ever heard. You know, high-pitched and really loud. She kind of reminded me of a hyena.”

  The corner of Dillon’s mouth twitched.

  “A hyena in heat.”

  Dillon smiled and turned towards me, one dimple peeking out.

  “A hyena in heat with a broken leg.”

  “Okay, Okay, Becca, I get the picture. Not a Hailey fan.” He was laughing now.

  I shrugged. “There really wasn’t anything wrong with her. I just think you could do better.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure. You’re not my type, but I could see why a girl would go for you.”

  “Thanks. I think.”

  I ignored the sarcasm. I was in full cheer-Dillon-up mode now. I hated to see the guy so down over a ditz like Hailey. ”You’ve got good hair, for one thing.” I reached across the space between us and ran my fingers through his short, side-parted ’do. “Yeah, really thick and soft. Girls like that.”

  “Good to know.”

  “And your eyes are nice,” I said, looking into them. “They’re a really interesting color, especially when they catch the light in a certain way.”

  “Right, no more shades.”

  “And you’re tall and have good posture. That’s cool.” I let my gaze wander down his form. “You could some help in the wardrobe department, though. All I ever see you in is jeans and those solid-color button-down shirts.”

  “They seem like a safe choice.”

  “Exactly.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing. Just looks like Hailey’s been doing your shopping. She’s that type of girl.”

  “Type?”

  “Perky. Type A. Barbie doll perfect. I bet she even screws without messing up her hair.”

  Even in the dim lighting of the bar, I could see color flood Dillon’s cheeks before he turned away and took a swig of his beer. “Uh, yeah, the once a week or so it happened.”

  “She didn’t like sex?” This seemed impossible to me. I was a firm believer in the old adage that sex is like pizza. Even bad sex is still pretty good. “Damn. I can’t go for more than a few days without the big O. How do you do it?”

  “Cold showers and lots of hand towels.”

  That wasn’t what I expected to come tumbling out of Dillon’s mouth. Just when I thought I had him pegged, he surprised me.

  “Sense of humor. Big bonus. Girls love a guy who can make them laugh.”

  “Well, if I’m such a perfect male specimen, how come I can’t keep a girl interested for more than a few months?”

  I drained the last of my beer and set the mug on the sticky bar before answering. I didn’t want to kick him when he was down, but dang, if it helped the guy a little, maybe it would be worth it. “Truth?”

  “Truth.”

  “Well, you’re a little boring.”

  “Boring.”

  “And too nice.”

  “Nice is a bad thing?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t care what they say, sometimes a girl wants a guy to go totally alpha on her. A guy who makes it clear what he wants with no beating around the bush, so to speak.”

  Dillon rolled his eyes. “Right. Just like high school. The asshole always gets the girl.”

  “No, the interesting guy gets the girl. He might be an asshole, too, but that’s not what draws her in. He’s just not—”

  “Me.” Dillon threw me a crooked grin. “I’ve seen some of the guys you’ve left here with. Definitely interesting.”

  “Exactly.” I peered across the bar towards the bad boy I had been checking out earlier. “See that guy over there? The one with the leather jacket and the earrings?” I leaned in closer to Dillon, speaking into his ear over Trace Atkins blaring on the jukebox and clink of beer bottles.

  “The one who looks like he’s out of prison on a weekend pass?”

  “Yeah.”

  “He’s the kind girls go for?”

  “I guarantee every woman here has checked him out. Not all of them will flirt with him, speak to him, or even allow themselves to look more than once. But everyone noticed him the second they walked into the bar, and wondered on some level about what he was like.” I sat back. “A girl looks at you and she knows exactly what she’s getting.”

  “Okay, so you’re saying that if I want to get the chicks, I need to pierce a few body parts and get some ink.”

  “No. It’s the sexy, confident attitude that attracts the women. Tattoos and leather are just window dressing.”

  “I don’t buy that.” Dillon finished off his beer and ordered us another round. “That guy could be a pussycat when you get him alone.” He turned to me and there was a glint in his eye I hadn’t seen before. “And even though I wear solid-color button-up shirts, fold my underwear, and call my mother every Sunday, I could be a total wild man in the bedroom.”

  The challenge hung in the air between us and if Dillon had been any other guy in the bar, I would have throw-down dared him to prove it. For a split second I considered it. Still waters run deep and all that. But I shook those thoughts off. This was Dillon. Nice, dependable, boring Dillon.

  “You fold your underwear? I knew you had to be a total neat freak.”

  The tension hanging between us dispersed. I gave him an experimental buddy-bump on the shoulder, just to make sure we were out of the Twilight Sex Zone.

  “Not since I moved into Ted’s basement.”

  I glanced at Road Kill’s drummer with his shaggy hair, wrinkled clothes, and tendency to wipe whatever he was stuffing down his face on the sleeve of his sweat-stained T-shirt.

  “Ugh. What’s wrong with your apartment? Too much of a wild man for the landlord?”

  “Funny. The lease was up and he wanted an extra two hundred bucks a month in rent.”

  “For that dump?”

  “Thanks.”

  “Well, it was pretty—”

  “Boring?”

  “I was going to say nasty, but whatever.” I hoped I hadn’t seriously offended him with the boring thing. But, hey, he’d asked and I wasn’t one to blow sunshine.

  “Yours isn’t exactly the Taj Mahal, either.”

  “True. But I’ve got five hundred square feet of prime real estate right in the middle of downtown. I hear ya on the rent, though. Mine just went up, too, and since Syd moved out, I’ve been looking for a roommate who doesn’t smoke, do drugs, or talk to my Elvis figurines whenever I leave the room.”

  “Hmm, that’s a tough one. Did you put all that in your ad? No talking to effigies of dead rock stars?”

  “Laugh all you want, but finding a roommate you won’t want to kill after the first week is tough. I’ve interviewed five girls already. I’m leaning towards the girl with the three cats and the bondage fetish. I hate cats.”

  “I don’t even want to think about Ted in a dog collar and ball-gag,” Dillon said. “But his mom has four or five cats. Mean ones. One of them pissed in my guitar case.”

  “I wondered what that smell was.” I grinned at Dillon. He was probably the only guy I’d spent more than five minutes with that I didn’t want to fuck or kill. I was earning enough that I didn’t actually need a roommate to make rent, but I had built up a rai
ny day fund I didn’t want to touch. I’d learned the hard way that those rainy days were heavy and frequent and I didn’t want to get caught without an umbrella.

  “Hey, I have a crazy idea,” I said.

  “No way. I’m not piercing anything.”

  “Ha. What I was going to say was that since I have a lease I need help paying and you need to get the hell out of the cat farm, why don’t you move in to my place?”

  “Seriously?”

  “Why not? We get along great, and my apartment is really close to a lot of the clubs you play.”

  Dillon turned towards me, leaning on the bar. “True. But what about…you know?”

  I cocked my head. “What?”

  “Well, I’m a guy and you’re…you’re definitely not.”

  “So what? We’re platonic. Same as two guys. It’s not like we’re going to jump each other’s bones, right?”

  “Not a chance. I mean, you‘re attractive and all, just not my type.”

  “Exactly. It’s perfect.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “We can set some ground rules,” I said quickly. The more I thought about the prospect of Dillon moving in, the more perfect it seemed. I didn’t want him to say no just because of an outmoded sense of propriety.

  “Ground rules?” he said, cocking his head.

  “Sure,” I said. “Like number one: no sex. With each other, I mean. Other overnight visitors can be negotiated.”

  “Good rule.” Dillon rubbed his chin. “And no razors left in the shower. That totally grosses me out.”

  “I can live with that. Let’s see, number three: whoever eats the last of the breakfast cereal or uses the last rubber has to buy the next box.”

  “Okay. Though I don’t think that’ll be an issue. I have my own supply of condoms and I usually eat oatmeal for breakfast.”

  “Of course you do.”

  “What? I like oatmeal. Is that a problem?”

  “Nope. Not at all.” I was getting excited now. This was going to work out perfectly and I wasn’t going to have to interview any more nut jobs. “Okay, so you pay the cable, water, and trash. I’ll get the electricity and phone. We split the rent fifty-fifty.”