“Hey—musicians get any preferential treatment?” Abbey was drawn first by his voice, then his smile. The latter transformed the guitarist, light...ng up those steel-blue eyes. She returned the smile, the full white-toothed one that she held back from the jocks. “Yup—one beer, compliments of the house.” She was handing over the bottle when he grabbed her arm, fingers sliding around her wrist, gripping tight. Instinctively she made to yank back her hand, but he held on, pulling her across the bar. “You know, all I have to do is go in there when you’re done and go through them again. Not that I’d want to.” “Then why’d you say it?” she snapped. He'd pushed her to the limit, and she went off like a firecracker. “Huh? What do you mean?” he asked, somewhat perplexed by her emotional response. “Why would you say that, if it wasn’t something you’d do?” she demanded, and he backed away from her, cheeks suddenly aflush. “Are you really that much of an asshole, or are you just really, really bad. More

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