Play With Me - Brittany Cournoyer Page 0,3

stuck to his cheeks. His white, button-down shirt was rolled up to his elbows and exposed even more tattoos as the fabric clung to his sweaty skin and showed more ink underneath. And his eyes were closed as he played with a passion I could only assume came from his soul. Even the band members had turned on their seats to watch, completely enthralled as his entire body moved in such an enticing way that the lady at the bar let out a low moan that was purely animalistic, and I couldn’t say I blamed her.

My eyes were glued to him, like a moth to a flame, and everything else including the drink I was currently mixing had been forgotten. Never in my life had I thought an instrument was sexy. But as I continued to watch him play, I couldn’t help but wonder if it was the instrument itself, or the tattooed man playing it.

And suddenly I was questioning everything I ever knew about myself.

2

Stellan

Maverick played the last few notes on the piano before the lights brightened a smidgen signaling our break. We’d been playing for three hours, and we got a break for thirty minutes before going back on again. A half hour didn’t seem like a long time, but to me it did because when I was on a stage playing, it was as if time ceased to exist as those minutes flew by. The half hour always crawled because I was so anxious to get back up there.

Like most musicians, I’d dabbled in other instruments and could play the piano and even the drums if the time called for it, but it was the sax that made my heart sing. It was the instrument that made me feel alive like no other could, and when I was holding it in my hands, nothing else mattered. After gently putting it away, I made my way toward the bar. Even though I enjoyed an occasional drink, when I was with the band I stuck with only water. Not because I was worried about being incoherent to play but sweating profusely while downing alcohol was never a good combination for me. The last thing I needed was to pass out while playing a riff. And I wasn’t the only one who felt that way. Yes, during our breaks we were all offered drinks from various people who were flirting or appreciative of our music, but we took our sets seriously and opted with water or maybe a soda.

“Can I buy you a drink?” a sultry voice asked beside me as I waited at the bar.

I mentally rolled my eyes at the overexaggerated rasp in her voice before plastering a smile on my face as I turned to face her. She was a stunning woman, with straight blonde hair hanging loosely down her back and a black dress that rode high on her legs and dipped down low on her chest, showing off ample cleavage. Her eyes were done up in a way my sister described as smoky, and her lips were painted with blood red lipstick. Anyone would’ve loved to accept an offer for a drink from her—and more. Too bad I played for the other team.

“Thanks, but I’m sticking to water,” I said softly before turning back to the bar, hoping she’d get the hint.

“Perhaps I can join you for that water, then?” she suggested before running a finger along my forearm to trace one of my tattoos.

Art was a part of me, and I showcased my love for it with music and tattoos. My body was a walking canvas, and I was covered in ink from neck to toe. I started getting tattooed years ago, and from the first touch of the needle to skin, I’d become addicted. So as the years progressed the more covered my skin became.

I moved my arm out of her reach and tried to be subtle about it by resting both on the bar. While others might’ve found her touch a turn-on, it left me irritated. Just because I played in a band and was covered in tattoos didn’t mean I liked random people touching me without my permission. I was fucking human, after all, and I had boundaries.

The fiery redhead behind the bar headed in my direction, but she wasn’t the one who caught my attention. Instead, it was the man with messy, sandy-blond hair and wide, light-brown eyes. He looked like a deer caught in headlights as he talked to