“You didn’t?” he called after me.
“Nope. I gave you ten.” I closed the sliding glass door on his infuriating ass and got my day started. With any luck, the next six months would be the last I’d have to spend with Nixon Winters.
The rest of that week, he did his best to show me exactly how much trouble he could get into when left alone for those ten precious minutes.
In the time it took me to go to the bathroom, he left the building entirely. I found him at a driving range forty minutes later, slaughtering golf balls with the worst swing known to man. When he’d looked genuinely surprised to see me, I simply crossed my arms and waited for him to finish. What? Like I wouldn’t have his phone tracked? I wasn’t a rookie, and I sure as hell wasn’t about to fail when I was this close to making it.
I’d be able to hold my head up in my little town the next time I went home.
Today, I’d taken a call with Ben on the deck, and four minutes later, found myself racing for the car, tracking Nixon’s cell phone through traffic to a yoga studio.
“I’m going to throttle him,” I muttered, shoving the heavy glass door open a little harder than necessary and walking straight into a small, crowded reception room with a dozen people in exercise clothes.
“Just a moment, and we’ll begin our session,” a calm voice called from the back of the room.
I rose on my tiptoes, sweeping my gaze from left to right, but I felt a tap on my shoulder before I hit the midpoint.
“Glad to see you could join us,” Nixon said, flashing a smirk from under his ball cap. At least he hadn’t been recognized yet.
“Seriously? This isn’t on the schedule. And you couldn’t wait for me to get off the phone?” I turned to face him, thankful we were in a corner.
“Not everything has to be scheduled, Shannon. There’s this little thing called spontaneity.” He folded his arms over his chest, pulling the fabric of his T-shirt tight against his biceps.
“Then be spontaneous when I’m not on the phone!”
“Friends, we’re ready for you now,” the voice called out over the crowd, and people began moving toward the back of the room.
“Guess it’s time.” Nixon leaned over and picked up two rolled yoga mats, holding one out toward me. “Figured you might be unprepared.”
“It’s hard to be prepared when you don’t tell me what you’re doing,” I muttered, glancing at the light blue mat. “Wait, I’m not doing yoga. I’m in a freaking pants suit!”
“Better than a dress.” He shrugged, moving around me and heading toward the reception desk. The rest of the class had already filed into the studio.
“I’ll just wait for you out here.” I clutched the long strap of my messenger bag, already mentally planning what I could get done during his session.
“And when I sneak out the back door?” he asked over his shoulder.
I blew out a long, frustrated breath. “Fine. I’ll watch from inside.”
“Put her session on me,” Nixon told the receptionist as he walked by, then paused to hold the door open to the studio. “Let’s go, Shannon. You’re making us late.”
“I’m making us? Ugh. Thanks.” I took the mat he offered and walked into the studio. It was bright, with pale hardwood floors and lined with mirrors. The rest of the class had already taken their positions, leaving the back row open. I found a spot against the wall and set my bag down as Nixon kicked off his shoes and spread out his mat.
I sat against the wall and did my best not to notice the way his athletic pants draped over the curve of his ass but failed miserably until the instructor stepped into my line of sight.
“Come now, there’s room right here,” she said with a glowing smile, gesturing to the space next to Nixon.
“Oh, no, I’m just watching.” I offered her a smile of my own and reached into my bag for my planner.
“There are no spectators here,” she said joyfully. “Only participants. Tell me, do you want to be a participant in this world? Or are you going through life as a spectator?”
My jaw dropped an inch.
“Yeah, Shannon. Are you really just existing to watch other people?” Nixon asked with mock concern, his eyes dancing.
My eyes narrowed slightly on Nixon before turning back to the instructor. “Fine. I’ll participate,” I told her, slipping off my heels.
“Good. Your attire might limit your motions, so just modify as you feel comfortable,” she said in a soothing tone that grated on my every nerve. “Welcome to Baa-Maste.” She walked away, taking her position at the head of the class.
“Weirdest name ever, but okay,” I muttered, unbuttoning my suit coat and draping it over my bag. At least my silk blouse was sleeveless and my pants had a little Lycra for stretch.
Nixon laughed softly, ducking his head so I couldn’t see his expression under his ball cap. “Bet you’re wishing you’d gone a little more casual, huh?”
“Shut up.” I unrolled my mat and sat, modeling myself after Nixon’s pose—cross-legged with my palms facing up on my knees.
“Welcome to Baa-Maste,” the instructor said. “Our friends Juniper, Juno, Jules, and Jose are joining us momentarily. Please remember that they may leave gifts, but there’s often no odor.”
“What the hell?” I whispered at Nixon.
He laughed quietly, his shoulders shaking.
A door opened on the right-hand wall, and four baby goats bounced in, followed closely by a handler. Two of them rammed heads.
“Don’t worry, that’s just how they play!” the handler said with a wide smile.
“Oh my god.” My eyes flew to Nixon’s. “Goats? You brought me to goat yoga?”
“Baa-maste, Shannon,” he replied with a wink.
“Unbelievable.” I’d just bought this suit.
“When in doubt, trust the goats,” the instructor said, her voice monotone.
She led us through a breathing exercise, which I did with one eye open. There was zero chance I was getting blindsided, even if they were the cutest little goats I’d ever seen. They even had tiny little shoes.
“Try to relax, Shannon. Trust the goats,” Nixon whispered.
“Bite me,” I responded, moving into child’s pose on my knees and stretching my arms out in front of me.
“Better watch it, you’re coming unraveled over there,” he said, looking my way. “Is that a hot pink bra strap? You little rebel.”
“Get a good look, because this is the only time you’ll see my underwear,” I retorted as a goat climbed onto my back. Okay, that wasn’t too bad. Kind of fun, actually…until I felt a yank at my scalp. “Stop eating my hair!” I flailed, tugging the now-slimy strands free and receiving a bleat of protest.
“Yes, they do like to eat hair,” the instructor said, like it was the cutest thing in the world. “And don’t worry if they leave a gift on your back. It happens all the time.”
They pooped on people?
Nixon flat-out laughed.
“If a goat poops on me, you’re buying me a new suit.”
“It would be worth it just to see your face.”
“You really do love getting under my skin, don’t you?”
“It’s the highlight of my day,” he replied as we rose to tabletop, bracing our weight on hands and knees. His gaze flickered back to my ass, then snapped forward as the hair-hungry goat approached his head. “Hey, little dude.”
Little dude took the hat straight off Nixon’s head.
I sputtered a laugh as Nixon reached to steal it back, but the goat was too quick, leaving Nixon flat on his face. He regained his pose quickly as we moved into cat, arching our backs.
“I think that goat just peed,” he whispered, nodding toward the wall where a goat meandered away from a puddle.
“And now it’s eating the paper towels,” I noted as we were given the instructions for tiger pose.
“Do you have questions there in the back?” the instructor asked.
“Nope, we’re all good h
ere,” Nixon replied.
“Okay, then please pay attention to your breathing, not your fellow classmates,” she lectured as the goat sauntered by, munching on a paper towel.
“She told you,” I whispered at Nixon.
“Better watch your planner,” Nixon said with a smirk, kicking his back leg up but unable to catch it for the pose.
“That’s not even funny.” My gaze snapped to my messenger bag, which was still zipped shut. Then I battled my pants and won, kicking my right leg back and gripping my ankle with my left hand.
“Hot. Damn. Who would have thought someone so rigid could be so…flexible,” he noted, lifting his eyebrows.
“I’ll have you know I’m incredibly bendy,” I said as straight-faced as possible, my lips quirking up at the end.
“Apparently.” The appreciation in his eyes flushed my cheeks.
“Now breathe deeply, moving the air into your core with intention,” the instructor said. “Exhale the negativity, and inhale the positive energy of our little friends.”
Another goat climbed onto my back. “Oh no, I’m not that good at—” Its weight threw me off balance and sent me careening into Nixon.
His arm wrapped around my ribcage as he tucked me against his chest, cushioning me from the impact as we fell to the floor, the goat bounding away to harass the next available student.
“You okay?” Nixon asked, his mouth against my ear, sending a shiver down my spine.
“Yep,” I squeaked, managing a nod. At least I would be as soon as I could put an inch or two between us. His hand was splayed protectively under my breasts, holding me tight, and my entire body heated. The man somehow did the impossible and managed to smell delectable in a sea of goats. “Thanks, I’m good.”
“Please be mindful and present,” the instructor sang, her voice no longer so soothing as she arched her eyebrows at us.
“Oh, I’m present,” Nixon muttered as he released me. “A little too present.”
I scurried back to my mat as we entered wheel pose, which was basically the same as the backbends I’d done as a kid. My shirt came untucked, sliding over my belly, but I hit the pose.
“Better watch that shirt, Shannon,” Nixon teased. “Pretty soon, I’ll be seeing a lot more than just your strap.”
I scoffed, but the silk slipped even higher, resting above my belly button as a goat walked perilously close to my messenger bag. “Don’t even think about it!”
He pranced, jumping slightly.
“Guess it’s about to be digital only,” Nixon joked.
“If you two can’t be mindful of your classmates, I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” the instructor said, coming up behind us.
“We’ll be good,” I promised her, the blouse falling to pool at the undersides of my bra. Nixon was right, the entire class was about to get an eyeful, but I wasn’t giving him the pleasure of breaking the pose.
“Speak for yourself,” Nixon chided as she walked away, his focus shifting to my very exposed midsection.
The goat bleated, jumping and prancing as he came our way.
“See, aren’t you glad I—” The goat backed up a step and then charged, headbutting Nixon in the face with an audible thunk.
“Oh!” I winced as Nixon collapsed, falling out of his arch and smacking flat on his back.
“You have got to be kidding me.” He laid there for a second, rubbing his forehead as the goat pranced to the next row.
I laughed hard and loud, almost dropping myself.
“Are you okay there in the back row?” There was zero peace in the instructor’s voice this time.
“Yep,” Nixon answered, climbing to his feet and walking onto my mat. “You win this round. I’m sneaking out the front door. Want to come with? Or follow via tracker?”
“Come with,” I answered.
Before I could drop to the mat, Nixon gripped my waist with one hand and spread the other over my back, lifting me to my feet. The blood rushed from my head as my blouse slid in a rustle of silk, stopping at his hands as it fell back into place.
There were a few gasps in the class as more than one person recognized him.
“Let’s go before the goats turn on us,” he said quickly.
I nodded with a laugh as my equilibrium returned, but the slide of his hands on my skin as he pulled away made me lightheaded again.
“You two—”
“Don’t worry, we’re leaving,” Nixon announced as we rolled our mats.
I slipped on my heels, grabbed my coat, and threw my bag over my shoulder while Nixon put his shoes on. As we left, the instructor crossed her arms and shook her head at us.
“Baa-Maste,” I said to her with a grin, joining my hands and bowing my head slightly.
I laughed as Nixon gripped my elbow and pulled me out of the studio.
The next day, he’d made it into the crowd of adoring fans just outside his building by the time I caught him. He spent a half hour signing autographs and taking pictures with a primarily female audience, and his smile never faltered, even as the swarm thickened. They were mad about him, which bode well for record sales, but there was a part of me that wished they’d give him a little more space. The ropes that marked the path clear from the street to the door were hardly enough to keep them from reaching for him.
It was worse than living in a fish tank. Thanks to social media, fans felt like they knew him—like they deserved access. It was a double-edged sword.
“How was Palau?” one co-ed asked as he signed her T-shirt just below her shoulder. I had to give Nixon a little credit—she’d offered him a few inches lower.
“Gorgeous. Peaceful. Perfect.” He grinned at her with a wink, and the brunette damn near melted as I snapped the picture for her.
I was the only one in the crowd besides Nixon who knew he hadn’t been to Palau. That was just another picture on an Instagram account he was barely involved in.
“Hungry?” he asked me as he finished making the rounds.
“Sure. You want to go out or order in?” I was already flipping through the apps on my phone, looking for his favorite restaurants. When he didn’t answer, I looked up and caught him staring at the pub across the street with a painful gleam of longing in his eyes. Oh no. “Want me to grab some carryout?”
His mouth tensed, and when yet another fan called out his name, his smile faltered.
“Come on.” I put my hand in the middle of his back to urge him inside. “I’ll order for delivery. Fish and chips?” That was his favorite.
He nodded, uncharacteristically quiet as I led him back up the elevator.
“You sure you don’t need a meeting?” I asked.
“For the tenth time, it wasn’t a twelve-step program,” he growled. “And if you think I’m going to stand up in front of a bunch of strangers and air my shit, you don’t know me half as well as you think you do.”
Okay. No meetings.
Instead, he spent an hour on the phone with his therapist from the rehab center.
Two days later, I left him playing Madden on the X-Box while I grabbed a quick shower. I’d confiscated his wallet, car keys, phone, and even tipped the bellman to alert me the second Nixon tried to leave the building without me, so I felt relatively safe during the nine minutes it took to wash the day off me.
My hair dripped as I wrapped a thick terry robe around my body. The loud, pumping music coming from the living room made me groan. What the hell was he up to now?
I threw open the bathroom door, then marched through the guest suite and into the hallway that led to the living room. It was lined with pictures of the band mid-show. Some were almost a decade old, and others were from this last year. I pulled the edges of my robe a little closer as I strode into the living room.
“What the he—” My jaw dropped.
Nixon sat lounged on his couch, his arms stretched across the back and his thighs spread wide as two young ladies in underwear ground on each other in front of him.
This was ex
actly the kind of scene I would have expected to stumble in on a few months ago, so I wasn’t sure why I was remotely shocked…but I was.
“Want to join in?” Nixon called over his shoulder, barely sparing me a glance.
“Think I’ll pass.” I shook my head but didn’t turn around. There were parts of my job that I absolutely loved—this was not one of them. I picked up the remote, pressed a button, and the music died.
“Hey!” the girls complained.
“Come on, Shannon, you gotta let a guy have a little fun,” Nixon threw at me with a smirk. “Or did you think I was going to tone it down just because you’re in the guest room?”
“I honestly don’t give a shit who you have fun with,” I snapped as my stomach turned over. To be fair, I’d walked in on him in far more compromising situations. Nixon’s biggest addiction after the alcohol was sex. The drugs had always come after that. “But I do need to see some IDs, ladies.” That was one scandal that wasn’t happening on my watch.
One girl—the blonde—grabbed her purse while the other one scoffed.
“Nine minutes,” I said to Nixon. “I’m impressed.”
“Only took three.” He shrugged with a grin. “Didn’t even have to leave the building. Just pointed through the glass doors and nodded.”
Great, because that was going to do a ton for discouraging the fans to stake out his door.
“Here’s—” The girl fumbled her wallet and dropped the purse. “Crap,” she muttered as the contents spilled on my bare feet. Condoms, lip gloss, some cough drops that looked like they’d been purchased during the last presidency…and one small skull-shaped bottle of vodka.
Shit.
Nixon rose to his feet, his eyes narrowing on the bottle.
This was bad. This was so, so, so bad. Any other liquor would have been better.
“Sorry,” she muttered, shoving everything but the vodka back into her bag. That, she held between her fingers until her friend snatched it, offering it to Nixon like a tithe.
No, no, no.
“It’s Crystal Head,” the girl explained, like we were idiots. “We read that article in Rolling Stone, and you said it’s your favorite.”
Muses and Melodies (Hush Note Book 3) Page 3
