Leather Pants

  Sarah rubbed her brow. “I’m so sorry. I can’t be back until late in the afternoon. I have to be in court, and I would never trust anyone with your notebook.” Taylor, for example, would be reading that thing like her favorite erotic novel, gobbling up every word. Maria would absolutely sneak a peek. Holly, who she could probably trust, was off in London, appraising a new collection for the auction house she worked at based out of LA.

  It’s up to me. And only me.

  Sarah fully expected Colton to start up again, but he didn’t. Instead, he began breathing slowly, closed his eyes, and hummed.

  “What are you doing?”

  “A calming technique Ms. Luci showed me.” Colton continued for a few more minutes while Sarah put her hand on his back, making little circles between his shoulder blades. Damn. His warm body felt good under her palm.

  Colton opened his eyes and took his pulse.

  “It worked?” she asked.

  He nodded. “I’m sorry for being so rude to you. I’m just…” He let out a deep sigh that sounded more manly than forlorn. How did he do that? “I’m frustrated. I want my goddamned life back, but I shouldn’t take it out on you.”

  His apology instantly melted away any bitterness she felt toward him. Not that she would’ve stayed angry for long, now knowing the truth about his very strange and difficult situation. The strangest part being that he still carried himself like a tall, cocky man who wasn’t afraid of anything and owned the world.

  Maybe because that’s who he is. The sort of magnetism and masculine confidence Colton exuded couldn’t be forgotten.

  “And once again,” she said, “I’m very sorry for taking your notebook. I truly meant no harm. Is there anything I can do?”

  He jerked his head to his side. “Maybe.”

  She stood to leave. “Name it. Anything you need. But make it quick because I have to go.” She couldn’t risk getting stuck in rush-hour traffic, which sometimes started around five thirty in the morning.

  He stood, too, and looked at her, his eyes flickering with something intense she wasn’t able to decipher. “Oh, I’ll make it quick.” His gaze dropped to her breasts, lingering long enough for her to get his drift.

  Her eyes went wide. Huh? Did he just…?

  He stepped in closer and put his hand on her hip, pulling her body towards him without allowing them to actually touch.

  Heat. She felt his heat. And her body instantly reacted with flushness and sinful tingles.

  “Did you just proposition me?” she whispered, knowing he had, but unable to believe it. They’d been at each other’s throats only a few moments ago.

  “Yes.” He closed the gap, placing him well inside her personal-space bubble, where the only authorized personnel were her gyno, closest friends and family, or someone with carnal clearance.

  “But why?”

  “Now I know you’re the woman from Friday night,” he said in a “yanno what I mean” tone.

  Meaning what? That she knew Little Colton had had a case of prolonged stage fright, but had come out to sing for her? Well, it was only one song, a really quick one, and now her ass was on the line for it. Dammit. Speaking of… She probably should tell Colton about the video and Judge Wright. On the other hand, he’d feel like she was only helping him to help herself. Not a good move. He had enough problems and worries.

  As for his proposal, she wasn’t into him. Okaaay, yeah. She was. He was smokin’ hot. As in panties on fire, salivary ducts at full blast to produce a steady stream of drool, and girly spot painfully throbbing simply from looking at the man. Or just from thinking about his long, hard cock sliding so, sooo deep. The night they were together she’d felt every inch of him moving inside her, lighting her up. It had been unreal. But at the end of the day, that was all physical chemistry, and Colton Young had some serious issues. She couldn’t stand the thought of being with him, only to be forgotten again. It had made her feel disposable, and knowing about his condition wouldn’t change that.

  Hey, and don’t forget about the whole morality issue. Maybe no one would ever find out about them, but that didn’t make their involvement any less wrong.

  “Colton.” She looked up at him, wanting to shut the door on anything sexual. Instead, she gazed into those intense hazel eyes, instantly feeling that draw again. He was so annoyingly magnetic. The way he carried himself, that tall well-built frame, that square stubble-covered jaw and sexy long hair only a real man could get away with while still looking like a complete badass.

  Khal Drogo. Bun man from Instagram. Brad in Legends of the Brad or Interview with the Brad. Or Seven Years with—

  Wait. No, no. That’s the cave woman part of your subconscious psyche telling you he has powerful sperm and will provide you with a bountiful supply of red meat.

  Must ignore cave girl.

  “I can’t, Colton. It wouldn’t be—”

  “Consistent with your judgmental ways?” he said with a bite of bitter sarcasm.

  Her jaw fell open. “I was going to say ‘right.’ It wouldn’t be right. But you think I’m turning you down because I’m judgmental?”

  “Don’t go all diplomatic on me now, Your Honor. We both know you would’ve gladly fucked me about ten minutes ago, before you learned I’m damaged.”

  “Wrong.” She put her hand on her hip. “Wait. So that was some sort of test to see if I’m shallow?”

  “No, I really want to fuck you. I think I might enjoy it, and that’s a rare commodity in my life these days. But you already knew that.”

  She looked up at the ceiling, pleading with God or whoever was out there for strength. A whole lotta-lotta strength. Because she really wanted to fuck him, too.

  She looked down at her sneakered feet and then up at him. “I can’t—no, strike that. I won’t. Because despite what you believe, I am not a coldhearted, judgmental woman. I care about things. Probably too much. So casual and I aren’t friends, and for you this—us—would be nothing.” How could it be otherwise if he wouldn’t remember her in the morning?

  “You’re not ‘nothing’ to me. You read what was in my notebook.”

  Did he have any understanding of how complicated his life was and how many complications he could create for her, all leading to a giant dead end?

  Sarah was about to simply say goodnight and leave it at that, but she noticed a flicker of pain in his eyes.

  Dammit! Why did he have to look so masculine and vulnerable at the same time?

  She slid her hand into his. It was rough with calluses and much warmer than she’d expected. “Colton, despite the other night, I really meant what I said: I don’t do casual. So please understand that I’m not saying no because you’re damaged. I…I—this sort of thing doesn’t work for me.”

  Colton’s hazel eyes filled with emotion, only this time they swayed toward compassion. Not irritation or horny manliness, but compassion. Like he truly understood how she felt, which, frankly, shocked the hell out of her.

  “So,” he said with a sigh, “you’re saying no to a sick man, whose only peace and happiness in over a year was between your juicy thighs?” He smirked.

  “Ohhh…screw you! That was so dirty.” He’d been messing with her the entire time.

  He laughed, grabbed her by the shoulders, and kissed her.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Sarah. Her lips were softer than the softest rose petals dipped in satin, rolled in velvet, and tasting of strawberries. That was what he’d remembered most about the woman from Friday night. Not fucking her—although that certainly had been memorable—not her funny little laugh or those blue, blue eyes, but her lips. Strange what his brain decided to remember. Sieve. I’m a fucking mental sieve.

  He could argue that the memory loss was random, but something in his gut told him otherwise. It was as if his mind wanted to ration the small amount of control it had to store the things most important to him. And it—he—wanted to remember Sarah’s lips. And that kiss. Just as he would likely remember this one. r />
  So soft, he thought while his lips pushed against hers and he held her by the shoulders. She wasn’t wiggling out of this. No. He needed this and needed to know why he remembered her. Why was she important to him?

  He inhaled deeply, savoring the warmth of her body next to his, the heat of her mouth, the—

  She pushed away and slapped him hard across the face, a fiery look in her sky blue eyes.

  “Ow.” He placed his hand over the stinging cheek. “What did you do that for?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “So you won’t forget.” She shoved her finger in his face. “Don’t do that again.”

  “Don’t worry; I won’t.” Oh, but he so, so would. The sooner the better. “I only kissed you to find out if it was like I remembered.” It was better. He stared down at Sarah, who looked like she might detonate. “Nothing special. Must’ve been drunk when I wrote all that stuff about you.” He’d been completely sober as far as he could remember—or maybe he’d had one drink. But he definitely hadn’t been drunk. Otherwise his cock wouldn’t have shot off as quickly as it had. That was the other thing he remembered: being so fucking hard for her that it had taken hours for his dick to flag after he’d come. She’d left him wanting more. More of that soft curvy body, the sweet smell of her hair and skin, more of that mouth. But something happened at the end of their fuck. She got angry. He got angry. He didn’t exactly remember why. Only that he had never done that with a woman—not that he recalled, anyway—yet, she’d treated it like nothing. But he knew himself, he knew the way he operated. He didn’t fuck random women in bathrooms or the back of limos or even in his dressing room. He kept his dick in his pants and behaved professionally. Being a musician was his life and his love, yes. But it was also his job. Only juvenile assholes went around fucking every woman within arm’s reach at their work. No, his mother—God rest her soul—had taught him better than that, which was why he would never end up being one of those rock stars who threw away all they’d achieved on drugs, booze, and cheap women.

  Of course, none of those ethics really mattered in the end, because they hadn’t prevented the accident. Why had he been driving so fast? Why had he crashed?

  I can’t remember.

  But he did know he had less than thirty days before the world would learn his secret, before they’d see he couldn’t remember the lyrics to any songs nor could he recall the chords on his guitar. In thirty days, he would lose everything he’d worked for. Ironically, according to the doctors, there was nothing wrong with him. Not that they could physically find.

  Yes. He had not forgotten these things. Nor had he forgotten Sarah. Well, not entirely. Friday Night Lady had left more of an emotional impression, while Judge Alma’s icy face—the way she looked down her nose at him—was much clearer. Which was why he found it hard to believe they were the same person—fire and ice. Something about her dichotomy intrigued him.

  “Congrats,” she said, responding to his comment about his being drunk when he’d written her postcoital praises. “You climbed up another spot on my list of world’s most horrible people.”

  He shrugged, playing the role of indifferent prick he was so good at. “Don’t blame me if you’re a lousy kisser.”

  She dropped her jaw and scowled.

  “But I’m a generous man and am willing to allow a do-over.” He cracked a smile and puckered.

  She rolled her eyes. “Ohmygod. You’re the worst.” She glanced at her watch. “Crap. I have to go.”

  “When will you be back with my notepad?” It truly was the only thing that grounded him in reality. Without it, he felt lost. One moment, he could be doing something or going somewhere and he’d simply forget. He rarely panicked since the sensation was more like when a person walked into a room and suddenly forgot what they were going to do; however, he still needed the book.

  “As soon as possible, I promise,” she said. “But with paperwork and traffic, it might be late.”

  He shook his head. “Fine. But now you really do owe me another fuck.”

  Sarah’s brows knitted together, and her eyes narrowed into little slits.

  He grinned. “Okay. Just let me put the tip in. I promise I’ll be quick.”

  Sarah swatted his arm—“Ohmygod! The worst!”—and left the room. “Never again!” she yelled before he heard the front door close.

  “Yeah, well, we’ll see about that, Your Honor.” He could tell that Sarah needed some fun in her life as much as he needed a steady anchor to help him survive this. Maybe that was why she seemed special. They could be good for each other.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Seriously, vagina? Sarah glanced down at the V of her red slacks as she sat at a stoplight after work, around six p.m., finally knowing what it was like to be a man. All day long, Little Sarah had been whining and tugging on the hem of her coat. “Pleeease, Sarah,” it whined, “pleeeease? I want to play with Little Colton again.” To which Big Sarah had responded, “No! We are not letting him into our sandbox. He’s trouble.” And if anyone in this world was qualified to recognize trouble, it was her.

  Fact: Colton Young was a world-famous rock star and sex symbol. Yes, action figures, posters, mugs, and tees—you name it. He was almost as popular as Benjamin Franklin (aka, the C-note).

  Fact: Colton Young had millions of women chasing after him and his sexy leather pants. (Okay, really they were after what was inside his pants after he’d been ranked #1 in Hung Like a Donkey Magazine by a famous porn actress.) God, did he really date porn stars? Somehow, she couldn’t see it. Colton came across much more down to earth and serious than she’d imagined. Except for that little “putting the tip in” crack.

  She laughed to herself. Okay, he was kind of funny. And okay, she did like him. Just a little. But she couldn’t ignore another fact: She didn’t do casual, and she could never see herself seriously dating a man like that, even if he was capable of monogamy, because she had her eye on the state supreme court. With his arrest record and notoriety, she would be seen as unfit for the position if she dated him. There was an expectation that a supreme court justice lead a very squeaky-clean life, not shack up with a reckless musician who’d been arrested multiple times, one of which was on drug charges. Innocent or not, it was irrelevant. He was not squeaky clean; therefore, she would be seen as “not squeaky clean.” Birds of a feather, fuck together—as she and her GFFs (girlfriends forever) liked to say.

  Speaking of fucking, that look in Colton’s hazel eyes, a flirty intense cockiness, as he’d asked to sleep with her this morning had been playing in her head on a loop all day.

  Pleeeease, Sarah, said her vage with a shrill English accent, may I have another?

  “Seriously, Little Sarah? Now you’re Oliver Twist?”

  The car behind her gave a honk to get her moving with the green light.

  “Oh, sorry! I’m chatting with my immature and needy hoohaw.” She gave a wave in the mirror to the driver behind her and hit the gas, but the car kept on honking and flashing its brights.

  “Jesus. Drink too much coffee today, buddy?” The car continued honking aggressively, following with its nose up her tailpipe. The drivers of the cars around her kept looking over, curious as to what the hell was going on. This idiot is going to cause an accident. Likely, one that would involve rear-ending her. That’s what.

  It went on for two more busy city blocks before Sarah began to suspect that this was not random. She tightened her hands around the steering wheel. Judges were targets all the time—violent people came into her court every day, and some were the kind to seek revenge on anyone who had a hand in their incarceration. Frankly, as a single woman, it was one of the reasons she felt safer living upstairs from Maria. And her gun.

  Honk! Hoooonk! Honk!

  “All right!” Sarah barked. “Fine!” She would head straight to the police station—there was one ten blocks away—and call 9-1-1. The moment she drove by, there’d be a squad car waiting, and they’d take it from there.

  Sarah slowe
d, made a right-hand turn at the light, and hit the Bluetooth on her steering wheel, but as she turned, the crazy bastard kept on going straight. In her mirror, Sarah caught a quick glance of the rear of the car as it passed through the intersection behind her.

  A silver sedan. Same as last night.

  Sarah shook her head and quickly dismissed it as a coincidence. Half the cars in the city were silver. Still, to be on the safe side, she’d wait a few minutes before heading home in the direction the rage-roader went.

  Fifteen minutes later, Sarah arrived to her apartment. The street, lined with colorful Victorians—purples, pinks, blues and greens—always made her feel like she was entering dollhouse world and cheered her up. Except the parking. That doesn’t cheer me up. Because there was none.

  She circled the block two more times before deciding to park behind Maria’s car in the driveway. It would only take a moment to run upstairs, grab the notebook, and head for Mrs. Luci’s ranch. With the rush-hour traffic, she’d be lucky to get there by eight o’clock.

  With an anxious flutter in her stomach that was absolutely, in no way shape or form related to her excitement over seeing Colton again, Sarah unlocked the front door that led to the stairs and up to her top-floor apartment. The moment she rattled the old lock, Maria’s front door, which was right beside hers, popped open.

  Marie’s head popped out. “Hey, Sarah. We made extra spaghetti if you want to come in and grab a bite.”

  “You want me to watch the boys, don’t you?”

  Maria smiled. “Can’t fool you. It’s so annoying. But yeah, there’s a movie Franco and I want to catch.”

  “I’m so sorry—I have a thing tonight. But maybe this weekend?”