“You’re absolutely right.” My phone buzzed with a text. “Oh. My date with Samson is a go.”
Rohan shot back his whiskey.
“More bonding?” Drio leered.
“More brilliance.” I double clicked my notes file on my desktop. “Okay, so here’s what I learned last night.”
“About time,” Rohan said. “Give us something to take the demon bastard down.”
“Alleged demon. This is all still conjecture.”
“Learned a couple law terms from Daddy, did we?” Rohan poured himself another drink. “You’re not running the show here, and I sure as shit don’t need you telling me how to think about my mission.”
I frowned at him. “I’m not doubting your gut. But you’re the one who said we don’t think of him as a demon until–”
I flinched as Rohan’s glass shattered against the far wall, streaking amber liquid on to the pristine carpet.
Drio jumped to his feet, his hand clamping down on my shoulder. “Go.”
No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get free. He stuffed my laptop, bag, and plug overflowing into my arms, and shoved me into the hallway. I protested the unfairness of the situation the entire time.
Door half-shut at his back, Drio spoke in a low voice so Rohan couldn’t hear. “You can share what you learned with us tomorrow.”
“But–”
He cast a worried glance back at the suite. “Tomorrow.”
I tore into my wardrobe choices, muttering about Rohan needing to get his head out of his ass. If I had been the one costing us precious time in learning something potentially valuable about Samson? Drio would have speed-dialed Mandelbutt to have me exterminated.
I looked at the mismatched red and black shoes that I’d paired with a blue dress. And pulling my own head out in three, two…
Samson hadn’t specified the dress code for tonight, but I needed to be the subject of more photos and provide further evidence of me as a taste-maker. Samson’s tastes at least. I calmed myself down and dressed with purpose.
A narrow band of black fabric wrapped around my neck like a thick choker. A wider band in the same material covered my breasts like a bandeau. The final part of the outfit consisted of a fitted pencil skirt, also black and the same stretchy material, that hit above the knee. Even my high heels were made of three black fabric bands, the narrowest over my toes, then another over the arch of my foot, with the last above my ankle.
All the training I’d been doing over the past few weeks were toning my body in a different way than when I’d been dancing. I posed in the mirror, arms stretched out, enjoying the sleek line of my limbs. The smooth curve of my silhouette. My legs went on for miles. With my hair down and glossy nude lips, I looked pretty damn exquisite.
According to Samson’s text, I had half an hour before he was swinging by to pick me up. I opted to wait in the lobby. Should anybody give me admiring looks, like say rock stars needing to grovel an apology, I’d be fine with that.
I got looks. Even a couple of drink offers. My heart sped up at the sight of a couple that I thought were Rohan and Lily, but it wasn’t them. I wondered if they were together, off doing couple things. My mind wandered down that road for a bit but when the woman in my imaginings started looking less like Lily and more like me, I shut that ridiculousness down.
“Mr. King is waiting for you in the car.” Showtime.
“Brickie!” I greeted the driver like a long lost friend. “How’s it hanging?”
Nothing. He was immune to my many charms. I followed him out to a black Escalade idling at the curb. Brickie opened the door for me and I slid in across from Samson, putting my back to the TV playing a rap video. He was on the phone and didn’t look up as I entered, so I blatantly checked him out. He wore a black knit cap along with a black cashmere sweater and dark pants and looked really good in all of it.
“I don’t give a shit, Forrest,” Samson said. “Work tomorrow’s schedule around my conference call or I don’t show.” My first taste of Samson as temperamental star.
Having never been in an Escalade before, I wanted to examine every customized inch of it, run my hands over the cream leather, see if the tiny lights in the ceiling twinkled, and snoop through all the compartments to reveal their secrets, but Lolita would have been in these a million times so I defaulted back to her general bored disinterest.
I glanced out the window, surprised to see the city speeding by. The ride was so smooth, I hadn’t noticed Brickie starting the engine and beginning our drive to dinner.
Samson’s laughter drew my attention. Still on the phone, he listened to whatever Forrest was saying, before cutting him off with a sharp, “Deal with it.” He hung up, his eyes running over my body.
I got the sense this was more cataloguing than appreciation but I pretended otherwise, preening for him. “Problems?” I motioned at the cell that he’d tossed on the leather seat.
“People forget the pecking order. They need reminding.”
“Peons.” He missed my sarcasm. “What’s your verdict with the photos? Did I intrigue?”
Samson looked at me shrewdly. “Not one for small talk?”
I propped my heels in his lap. “The faster we get business talk out of the way, the faster we get to other lingual pursuits.”
“Works for me.” Samson scrolled through a few pages on his phone, one hand resting on my shins. “For a first encounter with the general public, you didn’t do too badly.”
“More lovers than haters? Told you.”
“Don’t discount the haters,” he said. “We need them.”
“Why?” I pointed over my shoulder at the TV. “Can you turn that down?”
Samson raised the remote, muting the sound. “People hate to love and love to hate. Makes them want you even more.”
“You’re very wanted, Samson. So why retire from acting? Tired of the hatred and jealousy?”
“Nah. If I gave a shit about that, I wouldn’t be in this game. I just get bored easily. Diversity is everything. What about you?” He stroked up my leg. “Can you handle fame?”
I placed one foot on the floor, the other one propped on the edge of the seat between his knees. “Bring it. Those people don’t know me. They know the persona I let them see.”
“Lolita.”
“Exactly. Fans don’t care about who I actually am, only the person they project I am. I simply have to stay one step ahead of them and direct those projections to fall in line with my own goals.”
Samson leaned forward and opened a small panel on the side of the vehicle, revealing a small fridge. He pulled out a bottle of champagne and uncorked it, patting the seat next to him.
I slid across the Escalade.
Pouring us each a glass, he handed me mine, clinking his against it in cheers. “Here’s to women who understand what it takes to succeed in our build-up/tear-down culture.”
“Oh, I understand perfectly.” I sipped the bubbly vintage, the fizzy bubbles falling flat in comparison to my rush at having figured out what he was up to.
When I was a little kid celebrating Hanukkah, after lighting the candles and saying the prayers, my parents would make Ari and me sing what felt like the entire catalogue of Hanukkah songs before we were allowed to open our present for that night. It wasn’t enough to just sing either. We had to be engaged. Failure to do so, like fidgeting or casting longing glances at the gifts, would be construed as a reason to make us start the song again. Two guesses which twin caused the restarts.
Looking back, demons could learn a thing or two from my parents.
This flirting was fun but I felt like I was back at the Hanukkah table making sure I didn’t blow it, when all I really wanted was to get hold of Rohan and Drio and tell them my findings.
If we were correct about his affiliation with Louis XIV and Hitler–and I’d bet we were–then Samson was returning to drawing power from being the one behind the throne. You could get as much light from direct sun as you could from a mirror
. Samson was a great mirror builder, building up other people to take the brunt of the fame for him. Slipping in on the sidelines and deriving his power by controlling the world through actors and idols, feeding off both the love and negativity they inspired on their way up or down in the public’s estimation.
This way, he didn’t make himself a target from either Rasha or other demons by taking center stage. Whether through his own orchestrations or a fickle public ready to turn on a dime, as soon as one client, one mirror, fell to another that he also backed, he still won, no downtime, no downside. Samson could do this forever, having clients in various stages of fame ascend or descend, and no matter where they were, people would hate to love and love to hate.
I picked up the champagne bottle, studying the label, which incidentally I knew nothing about. What I did know was that Samson would not be a guy to stint on the vintage. “More impressiveness, Mr. King.” I topped him up.
He looked at his full glass. “Should I fear for my virtue?”
“Please. Like I’m after anything that easy.”
Samson laughed.
“I’m going to get you drunk and find the gaudy chink in your impeccable image to prove how much you need me.” I tapped a finger against my lips. “Spiderman underwear.”
“I would wear those proudly,” he informed me. “You won’t find it.”
“Bet I will.”
He stretched an arm along the seat behind me. “Babe, I never met a bet I couldn’t win.”
I winked and held out my glass to be refilled. “Bet you’ve met your match in me.”
Under Samson’s appraising look, I leaned back, smug.
Samson held up his phone and snapped a photo of me.
“What’s that for?”
I leaned over his shoulder in time to see him upload it to his management company’s Twitter feed with the tweet, “Intriguing and cocky. Apparently, I’ve met my match.” He’d barely hit send before the likes started coming in.
Samson’s social media presence. That would play a huge role in all this as well. If he was a demon, he could very well feed off both his clients’ own emotions and those of anyone engaging via print and social media. Every new client he signed put another stone in his well-defended fortress that no one even realized he was building.
Interesting that Samson had offered Rohan, someone he couldn’t stand, the chance to be part of this. The chance to toy with him, building the former rock star up before orchestrating his downfall. Banking on Rohan doing the theme song as an indication of his desire to recapture his fame. Samson would have read that situation right, except for one thing.
He wasn’t the only one moving pieces on this chessboard.
Chapter 15
Samson let the champagne bottle fall to the floor. It was just about empty, but a few drops settled onto the lush backseat carpet, staining it. “You’ve gotten awfully quiet, Lolita. In my experience that means that women are thinking about me in all the wrong ways.”
“You’re incorrigible.”
“I’m positive that is not one of the many adjectives applied to me.”
“This oughta be good. Please. Enlighten me.” I tipped back the rest of my drink.
“Charming. Gorgeous. Witty. Insanely talented.”
I gasped. “You read your fan sites. I knew it.”
He covered his face with one hand. The other one, still holding the champagne glass, he raised in the air. “Guilty as charged.”
I’d intended to blind Samson by my light but I was remembering why we mere mortals weren’t supposed to fly too close to the sun. Even this brief exposure to his undivided attention had left me dizzy, with feverish chills. First-degree emotional sunburn.
Still, that didn’t conclusively make him a demon because I suspected that near proximity to Theo James, especially if he spoke in his normal British accent would have the same effect.
Brickie opened the door, revealing a swank-looking steak house. I welcomed the rush of cool night air as I stepped onto the sidewalk.
Samson pressed a hand to my cheek. “Looking a little flushed.”
I swallowed, scrambling to pull myself together. “Don’t try to distract me. I’m pondering your terrible tastes so that I may rescue you from yourself.”
He spread his arms wide as if daring me to try.
“Black silk sheets.” I pointed at him. “No. Satin. With mirrored ceiling tiles.” I clattered up the walk to the steak house.
“Wow. You think that I–Wow.” He held the door open for me. With a smirk, I ducked inside the restaurant that he had booked expressly for our private use. Chandeliers cast warm light over dark wood and crisp white linens.
Our waiter took our coats, pulled out my chair, and brought us more champagne all with perfect aplomb. Just as I was thinking that I needed good help like that, he placed my meal before me. The meal I hadn’t yet ordered.
“I was thinking I’d start by seeing a menu,” I joked.
“I ordered for you.” Samson unfurled his napkin. “Châteaubriand in case you mistakenly slummed it with T-bone.”
Subtle. I pressed my hand to my heart. “Now who wounds?” I slugged back another glass of champagne in order to muster up an appropriate level of enthusiasm for the bloody hunk of meat on my plate, topped with two dollops of green foam.
It looked like a demon kill, not dinner.
Samson dug into his steak with relish. “I wasn’t wrong about your tastes, was I?”
“Not at all.” I eyed the offensive slab, finding a less raw edge to saw at. “Only the best for me.”
“Glad to hear it because if you sign with my management company, we’ll have some spin to do on your image.”
“Such as?”
He laid down his knife. “I’m gonna be blunt. Being Rohan’s groupie is not going to inspire anyone to follow you.”
I snapped a breadstick in half. “Oh?”
“Is that a touchy subject? I heard you two had a fight. And, well,” he placed his hand on mine. “It’s worse if you’re only his former groupie. We have a lot of work cut out for us.”
My face turned hot and tight. Poppy sure knew how to use that mouth of hers. “Not sure where you got your information, but Rohan and I are fine.” Other than me wanting to smack him upside the head. “Also, you’re wrong.” Without even looking the waiter’s way, I held up my champagne glass, expecting it to be refilled. “I’m not his groupie.”
Samson leaned back, a look of pity on his face.
I took a ladylike sip, enjoying the sensation of cold fizzy liquid. “I’m lightning girl.”
“I don’t understand.”
“‘Toccata and Fugue.’”
“Rohan’s first hit,” Samson said. I raised an eyebrow and waited for him to make the connection. “He wrote it about you?”
“Ask him.”
“Oh, I will.” There was something cruel in his smile.
Sweat broke out along the back of my neck.
There was no bill to settle up. Samson threw his napkin down and the meal was over. Still unnerved, I was about to make some excuse to end the evening when he said, “Wait,” busy typing a text.
“We’re meeting up with Rohan.” He stood up.
Awesome. I shoved my chair back.
Brickie once again drove us to our destination. So far, I’d seen no sign of Samson’s security detail. Maybe Brickie was deterrent enough since the restaurant had been empty save for the staff.
This time, there was no chit chat on the ride. Samson watched music videos and I stared out the window into the night, breathing my way through the remnants of feeling humiliated and trying not to dwell on Rohan’s potential reaction when he heard what I’d said.
A sign on the cigar bar that we pulled up to announced the establishment closed due to a private party. I had no idea how Rohan had found this gathering but having seen Samson’s choice of party last night, I prayed this was more sedate. If not, I’d stick with Drio and–Hell was officially freezing over
if that was my upside.
Two hipsters at the front of the line were haggling with the bouncer. “This is shite,” one pronounced in a thick Irish accent. “Poppy assured us we were on the guest list. Check again.”
Poppy? This was her party? I didn’t think my eyebrows could rise any higher.
“Mr. Mitra set the guest list,” the bouncer told him.
Nope. My eyebrows climbed another inch. This was Rohan’s party.
Hipster number two laughed. “Knowing Pops, she’s calling the shots. Check again, man. My bollocks are freezing off.”
I shoved past the pair, finding myself momentarily blocked by the muscle in Tom Ford. He could cross his arms all he wanted. No one was stopping me from getting inside. Pointedly I swung my head between him and Samson.
A beat, then recognition crossed over the bouncer’s features and he scrambled to let us through.
I sailed in, head held high.
“That Poppy,” Samson chuckled from behind me, loud enough to hear over the Latin jazz pumping out through the speakers.
As I glanced back at him, I’d swear his eyes twinkled. My fingers dug into my clutch.
From the mismatched leather vintage furniture to abstract silver flash art stenciled on the walls and the neon-illuminated cigar collection taking up one wall, it was a pretty cool space. The crowd was boisterous, bright eyed, and hammered. Lots of loud laughter, lots of touching.
I couldn’t wait to find Poppy and Rohan and make my night complete. I tossed my coat on a chair as someone grabbed my elbow. I tensed thinking it was Rohan, but it was Drio, an uncharacteristic edginess in his stance.
“Oh good, it’s you,” I said, beyond caring that this was totally weird. He wasn’t Samson and he wasn’t Rohan and that was good enough for me.
“Whatever happens tonight,” he said, “understand that–”
“My man.” Samson joined us, fist bumping Drio.
My fellow Rasha snapped back into his laconic persona. “Dude, we can finally get the party started. Come on. Ro’s back here.” He barreled into the crowd, Samson and I right behind him.
The Unlikeable Demon Hunter Collection: Books 1-6: A Complete Paranormal Romantic Comedy Series Page 42
