Page 7 of Branded By Bishop

Callie Jenkins is the kind of beautiful that makes a motherfucker stupid, the lush curves, bright eyes, sweet-as-apple-pie kind. She's also the kind that has my dick aching like a motherfucker for a single taste of her as she belts out the lyrics to her most popular song, her bare foot tapping to the beat.

Her voice is sultry on the radio. In the same room, it wraps around you as if she's singing only to you. I don't know much about music, but it doesn't take a genius to hear talent. The woman has it in spades.

Even her band is impressed when the last notes fade, and her brown eyes pop open. She blinks, her gaze slowly shifting around the studio like she's trying to remember where she is. She certainly wasn't here while she was singing. She was in her own little world.

"Damn, girl," Rita, her tattooed guitarist, says, grinning. "You sang the shit out of that."

"Thanks." Callie blushes, her eyes darting to me, then away as she fidgets with the microphone. "Um…I guess we're done for the day."

"When are we practicing again?" Logan, her drummer, asks.

"Not until next week." She grins at them, pulling her curly hair back from her face into a quick ponytail. "I don't want to overdo it and strain my voice when we have the Park Ave performance next weekend, and then Houston the next weekend."

"Good deal." Logan winks at her, and I kind of want to break his nose, despite the wedding band on his finger. "I guess we'll see you next week, then."

"Cool."

I stay out of the way while the band packs up and trickles out. Callie spends a few minutes speaking to each of them, and I quickly realize that she isn't going over notes with them. She's asking about their lives, their families, or the things that matter to them, not as if she's trying to check something off her list, but as if she genuinely cares.

It was never like that with my mom. When she talked to people, she tuned out two seconds into the conversation. She was great at nodding along and pretending she heard every word, but she never did. Callie actually listens. She remembers.

I watch, fascinated, as she and Rita whisper back and forth. When they both glance at me and then quickly away, I realize they're talking about me. I pretend to scroll my phone, trying to give them privacy, but I'm curious as hell what they're talking about.

Eventually, Rita heads out, leaving me and Callie alone again. She lingers by the door for a long moment before strolling toward me, her hands in her pockets.

"You didn't have to stay," she says when she reaches me.

"Part of the job description," I lie.

"Oh. Well…thanks."

I stare at her for a long moment, wondering if she'd kill me if I tried to kiss her. I want to do it, and that is such a bad idea. She's meant for the stage, not for a cowboy like me. But damn. A motherfucker can dream, can't he?

"So…" she says.

"You ready to head out?" I ask at the same time.

She laughs nervously and then nods. "Yeah, I guess so."

I rise from the stack of flooring tiles in the corner, waiting for her to grab her bag and the leftover pizza.

"Here," I murmur, taking both from her.

"I can carry that," she protests.

"No need. I've got it."

"Fine." She fidgets with her fingers, then huffs a breath. "You're very stubborn, aren't you?"

"Been told that a time or two."

"Only a time or two?"

"Maybe a few more than that."

She grins up at me, her eyes crinkling at the corners.

Fuck, she's beautiful.