“Anyway, I’d like to start the interviews tomorrow, if that’s possible. Is anyone available?”
Shawn smiles broadly and lifts his hand. “I have tomorrow off. I could come to you.”
I make a note on the folder. “Whatever works best. If you feel more comfortable at your place, I can meet you there.”
The girl who is wearing a sundress in February grips Shawn’s wrist so tightly, I’m concerned for his bones. “He’ll come to your office.”
I purse my lips. “That’s fine . . . Carrie, right?” The other girl nods. “Would you like to be interviewed as well? Talk about merch?” Her eyes grow wide, and she releases her death grip on Shawn before agreeing.
Jealous band girlfriends are kind of my forte. One of the reasons I’m tired of this already.
I snap the folder closed and stuff it back into my bag before slinging it over my shoulder. I hand Shawn the address of the office before turning back to face the group. “I’ll be going. This will be painless, I promise.”
“Are you sure you have to leave?” Hollis asks.
“I should. I haven’t been getting much sleep since I moved in.” I turn my attention toward Tyler but he ignores me, chewing that damn candy like he has a vendetta against it.
Out on 6th Street, I start thinking back to my father’s warnings and stick my hand into my bag, wrapping my fingers around my trusty bottle of pepper spray. The crowds are moving at a steady rate, and I maneuver around people to get down the sidewalk. My leg is starting to hurt a bit, and the thought of getting some sleep before Tyler comes back to the building is almost too good to be true.
The crowds dissipate a bit the farther away I get from the bars. I’m passing only a couple of people at a time and finally start to slow down so I can breathe easier. From behind me, I hear heavy footsteps running at an alarmingly fast pace toward me. I step to the side to let the person pass but feel a hand wrap around my upper arm instead.
I can’t believe I’m being mugged.
I whip my hand out of the bag and scream before firing off the pepper spray in the perp’s face.
“Oh my God!” The would-be attacker screams, high-pitched like a school girl. “Why the hell does it burn so bad?”
I stand back and clamp my hand over my mouth when I realize who is standing there. “Shit . . . oh, Tyler. I’m so sorry. I thought you were a mugger!” I drop the can of spray and stand frozen, unsure of what to do. “I lived in New York . . . I’m so sorry.”
He clamps his hand over his eyes and bends at the knees, bouncing in pain. “I mean, holy shit! How do you get it to stop? Do I literally have to pull my eyes out to get the burning to go away?”
Looking around in panic, I grab hold of his elbow. “Don’t rub it in! Don’t touch your face. We need to get you to your place and wash it off with some soap. Oh, I . . . I can’t apologize enough . . .” My mind is racing, and I try to focus on getting him the rest of the way up the block to the building. He is whimpering and whining the whole time, and it makes me feel a thousand times worse.
“Why were you running after me, anyway? I’m a woman alone on a street at night. You really should have yelled my name or something. Give a girl some warning.”
“I did yell, but you were too far away. Oh. My. God. It feels like my face has been dipped in a vat of acid!”
We stop walking, and I pat his pockets. “Where’s your phone? I’ll call Hollis and tell her what happened so that they can load your drums while I get your face to stop burning.”
“Not what I’m worried about right now!” He shifts his left hip toward me anyway, and I reach into his pocket, only vaguely aware of the fact that my fingers are in his pants near his dick.
I make the call while we cross the threshold of the apartment building, and Hollis assures me that Jon will have the drums loaded and delivered to Tyler. I only half hope they won’t bring his kit back tonight so that I can get some sleep.
Which I immediately feel awful for.
Kinda.
“Which door?” I ask and Tyler makes a painful sound in response.
“On the left.”
I yank him down the hall to the unlocked apartment before shoving him inside. The layout is exactly the same as my place but bigger, so I know where the shower is. “Strip. You have to get out of those clothes and burn them.”
“What?” he yells as I start the shower and yank his shirt over his head.
“No, that’s not right.” My mind is flipping through all my knowledge and going haywire under the duress. “You just need to put them in a bag and wash them immediately. Get your pants off—you need to get into the shower. Now.”
He follows my instructions, dropping his faded jeans and pulling the white T-shirt above his head before I shove him under the spray in his boxers. Without a thought, I jump in with him and pull his hands from his eyes, handing him the bar of soap from the tray. He works it into a lather to wash his hands and arms before I grab it from him to suds up my own hands and run them gently across his eyes. “I know it hurts . . . I’ll make it better, I swear,” I whisper with each pass.
I push him back gently and watch the soap run off his nose in a foamy river.
“Try to open your eyes.”
He does and squeezes them shut again. We repeat the soap three more times until he can at least open his lids under the water. When I’m sure he’s going to be okay, I step out of the shower and grab a towel for him.
He looks at it, then me, and lets out a laugh. “You’re soaked. Fully clothed.”
I glance down and sigh. My jeans are waterlogged, and my red AC/DC shirt hangs long and wet, dripping all over his bathroom rug. “Yeah, that seems to be the case. Do you have something I could borrow to get upstairs? I’ll wash and return it tomorrow.”
He tells me to check the dresser, and I thank him while he dries off. Stripping out of my drenched clothes, I shiver when the cold air hits my wet skin. My pants and shirt discarded, I bend over in my panties to find a T-shirt and pair of sweatpants or something. Anything.
There’s a sound from behind me, and I turn quickly to see Tyler standing in his towel, staring at me. I’m pretty much naked in his apartment with the world’s hardest nipples and the most see-through white underwear. I press a shirt to my chest and flush bright red. “I wasn’t thinking. I’m sorry . . .”
He doesn’t look away, so I turn and shove the shirt over my head before facing him again. His towel hangs low, displaying the slender build that I was trying not to look at.
I am staring, so I rip my eyes away from him to glance around the open space. “Do you have a bag for these?” When I bend over to grab my wet clothes, he makes another sound, and I stand back up to look at him.
He’s grimacing.
“Are you okay? Is it your eyes?” Dropping the clothes, I cross over to him and lift a hand to his face.
He steps back and flinches a little. “No, nothing’s wrong with my eyes.”
I drop my hand and take a step backward.
He slides by and reaches into one of his drawers, pulling out some shorts. “Can you put these on, please?”
I do, unsure of what is bothering him.
Finally he turns back toward me and lets out a ragged breath. His tone is soft. “I chased you down to give you the debit card you left with the bartender. It’s in my wallet if you’d like to get it.” He walks toward the kitchenette while I dig through his pants to get the card.
He hands over a plastic bag and a towel, so I bag up my wet clothes and wrap my hair in a turban. When I reach his door, I hesitate before pressing my lips together and turning back. “I . . .”
He steps closer, and I lose my train of thought while my eyes wander back down to his towel.
“I really am sorry. That was massively unprofessional.” I lift my gaze back up to his face.
He bends forward just a hair, and my body reacts by flushing hot, my heartbeat buzzing in my ears and eyes instinctively closing. “You can stop apologizing no
w,” he says next to my ear before I hear the doorknob turn.
My eyes fly open when I realize he is just being a gentleman and opening the door for me. “Okay. I’ll see you. Soon.” I offer a weak smile and turn to leave.
Halfway to the stairs, I look back and see him leaning against the door frame with his arms crossed and a slight smile on his lips—an image that sears itself into my memory in an instant.
Chapter Six
From the Private Journal of Tyler Macy
This is the end. I can feel it. The situation just took a turn for the worse, and I thought for sure it would be our big break. That this would be the thing that gets me out of Austin. But now?
When I close my eyes, she’s naked. Naked in my bedroom like it’s no big deal. Like she’s not going to be the one to make us or ruin us.
Not that I minded the view.
I think that’s the worst part.
—M
Chapter Seven
Laura is staring at me with so much concern that I think her forehead might stay creased for the rest of her life.
“I need an energy drink. Some caffeine gum. Do you think a doctor around here could give me a vitamin B shot?”
“You look terrible.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it. Tyler . . . Macy. Whatever. The drummer is a Piano Man, too. He did a four-hour concerto last night after I maced his face. It wasn’t even one song. It was, like, twenty.”
Laura stops breathing for a moment before she presses her right hand over her eyes. “You did what?”
“I maced him. In the face. I thought he was going to mug me. It’s not my fault I’m cautious after living in New York.”
“How ironic. Tyler Macy. Maced in the face. Since you have a penchant for nicknames, I assume you’ll call him Mace Face from now on.” The steam from her coffee disappears when she blows on it.
“Shut up, Lola. I shoved him into his shower and jumped in with him to get the pepper spray off. When I got out I stripped. He saw me practically naked. I’ve been here less than a week, and the music man downstairs, who is my assignment for the next few weeks, has seen more of me than anyone else in the past several months.”
“He looks good naked, right? Hidden tattoos. That V or whatever? Muscles?” Her eyes glaze over, and I kick at her shin to make her stop.
“Yes to the first. No to the second. And hell yes to the last two.” Attraction to a musician is new for me. I don’t want to be attracted to him. It’s dangerous.
“The eyebrow piercing, though . . .”
Grier glares from the doorway. “I heard that.” His attention turns to me for a second. “Your interview is here.”
I find Shawn standing in the doorway, his confidence from last night nowhere in sight. I give a wave, and he returns it, nodding at Laura behind me.
“This is Laura. She’s my coworker.”
When he shakes her hand, she slides her eyes to me and widens them to let me know she thinks he’s hot. I point my finger at the conference room and tell Shawn I’ll meet him in there. Once he’s cleared out, I flick Laura on the arm, and she winces, rubbing the spot.
“You’re terrible.”
“Looking never hurt anybody. Besides, I like to keep my man on his toes. Mr. Deets loves it when the boys think I’m pretty.” She bats her eyelashes, and I palm her face, pushing her away with a laugh.
I make sure I have everything in place before I sit in front of Shawn at the table. Behind closed doors, his cockiness comes back, and I take a moment to look him over before we speak. Shawn Thoreaux is just under six feet tall, but his build makes up for it. I wouldn’t call him ripped, but that’s what he’s aiming for. The green eyes and sandy blond hair don’t hurt either—or the full sleeve on his left arm. There’s no doubt in my mind that if he goes on tour he’ll dump Carrie’s ass. He probably thinks he’s the next Adam Levine.
“So, Shawn. Tell me how you got here.”
“I walked.”
I try not to openly laugh at the response. Good looks are one thing, but being dumb just ruins it. “No. How did you get involved with the band?”
He blushes a little and bows his head, planting his elbows on the table. “Sorry, I was confused. Um, I was the original drummer. I don’t write the music at all. I’m just the front man, I guess.”
I chew on my pen top and think before I speak again. “Can you explain a little more? Your vocals are, I mean . . . you started as the drummer?”
“Mace. He was the lead singer, and he is ten times better than me any day of the week. But he can’t be in front, so he suggested taking the drums and letting me have the mic. That guy can play all our instruments with his eyes closed. Actually, he does when he writes the music. He’ll record all our arrangements and parts and e-mail them, and then we listen and practice from there. He used to, I mean. We haven’t had any new material in almost two years.”
“It’s like an opposite Dave Grohl situation. The singer goes behind the drums instead of the drummer becoming a singer? Interesting. I’ve never heard of that before. Any reason you haven’t had new music?”
Shawn smiles, but it wavers before he responds. “You should probably ask Mace.”
The interview wraps up fairly quickly, and while I’m walking Shawn to the door, he hands me a CD. “Do they make these anymore?” I joke and take it from him, which makes him smile.
“We’re going out tomorrow night. Hollis asked me to invite you.”
“Okay, what time?”
“Just ask Mace.”
I lean forward, crossing my arms while I catch his eye. “Why would he tell me?” For some reason, my heart rate has accelerated, and I hate it a little.
“Isn’t he your next interview? We discussed it last night before he ran after you . . .”
A blush flames across my face and down my neck while I stutter. “There wasn’t . . . he didn’t say anything since, you know . . .”
“You pepper sprayed him. I heard. It was kind of a mass text after you called Hollis.” He grins wider and punches my arm playfully. “You’re ballsy. I think he likes that.”
I’m not that ballsy, but I like that he thinks I am.
He’s a dick.
I stare into my mailbox in utter disbelief. There, wrapped in a red ribbon, is a set of earplugs.
First, he opened my mailbox, which I’m sure is a Federal offense. Second, he’s an asshole to think that I’d put in some plugs so he doesn’t have to stop his nightly concerts. It’s common decency to let other people who are paying for a place to sleep get some damned sleep. Not that I was paying, but the magazine was. If I want to be able to do my job, then I’m not going to let someone else’s nocturnal habits screw up my chances of moving up in the company.
I’m debating whether to have a confrontation with him, but I think better of it. If he’s looking for a war, he just started one.
Laura has a smirk on her face when she sticks her head into my office. “Your interview is here,” she fake-whispers, raising an eyebrow.
“Tell Mr. Macy I’ll meet him in the conference room shortly.”
“Oh God, you’re so proper today, Ms. Portman.”
I wait ten more minutes just because I can, and when I’m sure he’s had enough, I get up and take the small bag that I shoved under my desk with me into the room. Tyler is sitting with his legs spread wide, arms folded, and two fingers twirling the ever-present lollipop. I’m unnerved at the sight of him in a light blue button-up and dark jeans. He’s always so casual. I feel bad now that I see he dressed up a little.
And then he speaks. “Finally.”
My purpose is back, and I give a fake smile. “I apologize. I had a call to take.”
His eyes are trained on my shirt, and I’m about to tell him to stop staring at my tits when he clears his throat. “I didn’t peg you for a Coldplay fan.”
Oh. The shirt. “It’s one of those things. The magazine gets band tees, and they hand them out, depending on your size.” I take my seat and lay
my notepad down next to me, taking my pen out and giving it a couple of clicks. “Do you prefer Tyler or Macy?”
His eyes narrow, and he shifts in the seat. “Macy.”
“Any reason?”
“Not that I want to give you.”
“Fair enough. Macy it is, then. Okay. I’m here to get to know you as an artist, so tell me what your motivation is. What makes you tick. Gets you off.”
He chokes a bit and pulls the sucker from his mouth while blinking a couple of times. “All right.”
“First question—when did you stop smoking?”
There’s a long moment of silence before he leans back and drums his fingers on the lacquered table top. “What gives you the impression that I smoked?”
“The suckers. My dad chewed gum. I know a smoker with a new habit on his hands. You fidget, too.” I lift my hand and hover above my crown. “The hair thing.”
He’s staring at me like I might be full of shit, but I’m right and he knows it. “I quit a few months ago. It was an unhealthy coping mechanism that I’ve replaced with Blow Pops, which keep my hands busy and satisfy my cravings.”
“That sounds like you heard it from a therapist, but I’ll take it. Would it be too personal to ask what you were coping with?”
“Do you need to know that for your article? Or are you nosy?”
“It’s my job to be nosy. Want to talk about your family instead? Where you grew up and what age you lost your virginity? Because we could always go that direction.”
He leans back and sighs, leveling his eyes at me. Again, there’s a feeling in my chest that makes me want to take a deep breath, but I exhale slowly through my nose instead. “I went through a bad breakup, just like every other guy on the planet.”
“I get that.”
“It’s not a big deal anymore. Addie, um, Adelaide wanted . . . something else. I wanted this.”
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