Even with all those reasons why Tucker probably would have preferred a prostate exam over attending the Ransom concert with me, there is one factor that should have surely sealed the fate of our evening.
Tucker hates my job.
Don’t get me wrong—he loves me. But he hates what I do. He hates that I have to constantly jump through hoops for a colorful array of celebutantes and entertainers. I guess one would say he does the same, just in a more personal, intimate capacity. He keeps secrets, while I expose them. And Tucker’s afraid that putting out so many social fires will one day leave me burnt and raw with bitterness. I can’t really blame him. He hears my bitching about the ridiculous demands and expectations of my clients. He sees how it physically wears on me to keep everyone happily relevant and in the public eye. I live in the land of the self-important, and I am their wizard. I swear most of these people wouldn’t wipe their own asses unless I advised them of its social benefits.
I suppose I should be happy that Tucker is taking one for the team, especially after he’s worked his own grueling, sixty-hour week. Yet, I can’t help but be suspicious of this sudden interest in my career. Or maybe it’s interest in Ransom Reed.
I gaze out the window of our town car, watching as the city lights stretch thin like illuminated lines of neon cocaine. Even with us slithering at a snail’s pace in bumper-to-bumper Friday night traffic, everything seems like a blur. The street vendors with their carts of peanuts and waterlogged hotdogs. Makeshift booths with peddlers selling everything from knockoff handbags to bootleg DVDs. Tourists of all walks of life capturing treasured moments through the lens of a Nikon. Annoyed locals brushing past stupid tourists as they fumble with their fucking cameras in the middle of the damn sidewalk.
This is my city. Always has been. And even though my Louisiana transplant husband would much rather rip me from Manhattan’s clutches, carry me down south, and knock me up faster than you can say, Gotcha, bitch, this will always be home. And the baby thing? Don’t even get me started on that.
We turn onto Fifth, giving us a view of Central Park. I smile at the memory of our first date at this very location. I had lived in the city for months yet had never been on a horse and carriage ride. I don’t even remember telling him that during one of our countless meetings. Talking to him had become so seamless; I could almost forget why I was there to see him in the first place. But he listened, he remembered. And that was the very second I knew I could let myself fall in love with him.
“Remember that time . . . ?” I whisper, my head still turned toward the window.
“I do,” he replies. He doesn’t even need to ask me to specify. He already knows what memory has stolen me away from reality. “I remember thinking you had the longest legs I had ever seen. And against the moonlight, your skin looked like porcelain and that white-blonde hair turned to spun silver. You were so beautiful. You wore black tights, a pleated skirt, and a sweater. I told you you’d get chilly and tried to give you my jacket but—”
“I said I knew I’d never be cold. You’d never allow it.” I turn to him and smile, enraptured by the memory of his warm body folded around mine protectively.
His fingertips slide against the soft leather of the bench seat and find mine in the dark. He’s still so warm, even after all these years. “Then afterward, you wanted to go to FAO Schwarz and play Chopsticks on the giant piano mat like Tom Hanks in Big.”
“I loved that movie. Must’ve watched it at least a million times as a kid. I couldn’t wait to grow up.”
“I know. And you did. Maybe too fast.”
I turn my gaze back to the cacophony of lights and sounds as we ride in strained silence with only our fingertips touching. Stardust touches my cheeks, turning my face from pale peach to iridescent periwinkle. I’m so lost in thought that I can barely hear the blare of horns and sirens on the other side of the tinted glass.
“That was a good day,” I remark after a long beat. “The best day.”
“It was,” Tucker agrees, letting his fingers slide over mine with just the barest of touches.
“We were so young. So free and adventurous. So . . . happy.” My voice breaks on the last word, knowing exactly what I’m implying. But he doesn’t withdraw. He simply twines his fingers through mine. Holding me. Keeping me warm and safe like he always has.
“We can be like that again, Bunny. We can go back to that.”
I turn my face to his to find that he’s closer than he was just moments ago. It’s dark but I can feel those knowing eyes on me, studying me. Stripping me naked and exposing all my scars.
“Can we?” It’s barely a whisper. If I say it any louder, maybe he’ll detect the uncertainty in my voice. Maybe he’ll hear the yearning.
“We can. Starting tonight. Starting right now.”
THE RIDE TO MSG is far too short, yet I find myself springing from the backseat as soon as the driver opens my door. I smooth down the bodice of my pearl white Gucci jumpsuit in an attempt to collect my bearings. That moment with Tucker—whatever that was—has left me open and raw, emotions brimming right at the surface of my stoic guise. I can’t have that right now. I need my head in the game, not crammed with bittersweet memories of how we used to be. Broke, but in love. Struggling, but happy.
I feel him behind me, yet I walk ahead to the side entrance of the massive building. Throngs of screaming, adoring fans are held at bay by a partition, but I approach the wall of beefy security like they are nothing but ants under my strappy, metallic Jimmy Choos.
“Heidi DuCane,” I say with all the arrogance of Donald Trump on a good hair day. “The band is expecting me.”
The guy directly in front of the door—a bald, seven-foot beast of a man with a crooked nose—studies a clipboard using a penlight. He thinks I don’t see the way his hand is trembling as he searches for my name. As usual, my reputation precedes me, as it should.
“Here you are, ma’am,” he says, with an almost audible sigh of relief. He peers over my shoulder and looks back down at his clipboard. “And he is . . . ?”
“My guest,” I reply tersely, without an ounce of hesitation or remorse.
“Guest?”
I roll my eyes at his questioning tone. “Yes. Guest. Is there a problem?”
“N-n-no, ma’am,” he stutters like a cowering toddler. “I just need his name and you can—”
“Not important,” I huff out, crossing my arms over my chest. “But since you want to keep us out in this stifling heat all evening, why don’t I call Mr. Berke out here so he can join the party.”
The giant visibly trembles before looking back down at his clipboard. “My apologies, Ms. DuCane. That won’t be necessary. Please, proceed.”
He steps aside, waving us toward the door and the solace of central air. Yet, even with unrelenting humidity sticking to my body like hot honey, a startling chill passes through me.
I don’t turn around as we walk through the door that leads to the backstage common area and dressing rooms. As expected, it’s swarming with roadies, sound techs, and stage grips, yet it is nothing like the usual preshow scenes I’m accustomed to. For starters, there are no skanks. Not one. The only women in sight are fully clothed professionals, and not of the slutty persuasion either. Not one colossal silicone titty or fake mink lash for miles.
There’s also a lack of alcohol or any signs of drug use. I don’t condone the behavior by any means, and have been known to rip a few new assholes because of it for some of my more reckless clients, but I kinda expected the whole Sex, Drugs, Rock ’n’ Roll persona from Ransom.
“I don’t see your boy anywhere,” Tucker says, coming to stand beside me. It’s the first time he’s spoken since the car. I’m just happy he’s speaking to me at all, considering how I completely belittled him at security. But this is a business call. And in this industry, the only marriages that count are the ones that come with the right name and a black card.
“I don’t either. But there’s his agent.”
; Caleb Berke is the epitome of what you expect from a successful talent agent—fast-talking, manipulative, and about as honest as a three-dollar bill. He’s made his millions from representing some of the hottest young talent, from pop princesses to hardcore rap artists. Imagine Ari Gold from Entourage, but taller, fitter, and gayer. Caleb is my most trusted frenemy. Friend, because I genuinely like him. Enemy, because he’s a big, flaming pain in my ass on most days ending with Y. He’s actually the person that tipped me off about Ransom Reed’s desperate need for a new publicist, so on these rare occasions that he actually acts more like a friend, I make note and take it seriously.
“About time you got here,” he gripes just as we approach. “I swear, bitches are always late. And the few extra minutes didn’t do you any favors.”
We fake air kiss before I fire back with, “You’re one to talk, Queenie. Any more bronzer and someone may mistake you for the Tanning Mom. Or a piece of beef jerky.”
Caleb snickers and greets Tucker with a handshake. “Tuck, good to see you, handsome. I’m surprised this old harpy let you out of your kennel.” Tucker laughs off the comment, accustomed to the way Caleb and I tease each other.
“So where’s your client?” I ask, jumping right into business. “You did say you were desperate, correct?”
“In his dressing room. You’ll have to meet him after the show.”
I prop my hand on a slender hip and narrow my wicked, silver gaze at him. “No,” I retort with the frightening calmness of an assassin. “I’ll meet him now.”
Caleb isn’t even phased. “No can do, Blondie. Ransom has a strict routine for performances. He demands that he and his bandmates be left alone to meditate and mentally prep before every show. No partying, no groupies, no business. So yes, you’ll wait.”
“Then why the hell did you insist I be here before the show?”
Caleb shrugs before inspecting his perfectly trimmed cuticles. “Thought you could use some fun, is all. Plus I want you to get him. To know him is to know his music. Without that, you’re just scratching the surface.” He buffs his nails against the lapel of his blue metallic suit jacket. “He’s the real deal, Heidi. But the kid needs help.”
With that, Caleb flicks his eyes up to Tucker, signaling that whatever he needs to say isn’t for public knowledge. And although the good doctor is bound by his vow of confidentiality, Ransom Reed is not his patient.
“Excuse me. I’m going to grab us a few bottles of water before the show starts,” my husband says, taking the hint. He kisses my cheek before giving Caleb and me our much-needed privacy. God, that man is a saint.
Caleb digs right into the dirt as soon as Tucker is out of earshot. “Girlfriend, what’s with the ball and chain tonight?” he probes, his stare burning into Tuck’s retreating back.
I shrug. “He wanted to come. I don’t know, maybe he’s warming up to all this,” I suggest.
“Humph. Or he feels the need to mark his territory.”
I roll my eyes. Leave it up to the drama queen to create some make-believe conflict. “Whatever. Can we get off my marriage and get back to business, please? Or would you like to crawl into our bed tonight too?”
“You wish, bitch,” he fires back, although he quickly switches up his demeanor. “The kid is stupid talented, but he’s a magnet for trouble. Paternity rumors, bar fights, rocky relationships—he’s like candy for TMZ. And that’s just the U.S. tour.”
With a sobering air, Caleb steps forward and rests a hand on my bare shoulder. “Once it’s over . . . I’m worried for the kid. His entire identity is wrapped up in his music. It’s who he is to the core. And with such a long break between this final show and the world tour, I’m not confident that he’ll be able to keep himself out of trouble.”
“Wait,” I say, taking a step closer. “What kind of trouble are we talking about? Is there something I need to know about him?”
Caleb gives me his usual cocky grin and waves me off. “Nothing to worry that pretty little head over. Anyway, I have a band to corral for a concert. Enjoy the show.”
With that, he air kisses my cheeks once more and turns toward the mass of frenzied activity. But before he can get more than a few feet away, he turns back to me, wearing a peculiar, almost jolted look. As if a very important notion has just struck him over the head.
“Heidi . . .” He calls me by my name. Not “Bitch” or “Blondie” or “Legs.” Whatever’s on his mind must be serious. “Just be . . . smart about him. Be careful.” And without waiting for a response, he disappears into the crowd.
Huh.
Be smart. Be careful. What the hell does that mean?
Before I can pick his words apart and concoct all kinds of silly notions about the elusive Ransom Reed, my ears are suddenly bombarded with wild, hyena-like screeches and shrieks, along with the thunder of clapping hands. My eyes search for the source of the rapid change in atmosphere, but keep colliding with a quickly forming wall of bodies, humming with excitement. Instead of moving closer to the scene, I take a step back toward the entrance of the stage where I can blend into the shadow of heavy curtains and dim lighting. But that doesn’t obstruct my view. Not in the least. If anything, it gives me the privacy I need to mentally process what I’m seeing.
Emerging from the crowd first is a tall, shirtless man, twirling a pair of drumsticks between long, thin fingers. Striker Voss, Ransom’s drummer. He’s lean, almost lanky, yet hard ripples of muscle lie just under his taut, tanned skin. His hair is cut short, leaving just dark peach fuzz over his scalp. But what he lacks in hair, he more than makes up for in tattoos and piercings. His eyebrow, nose, septum, lip, ears, and even nipples are all adorned with silver rings or barbells, and every inch of his chest and arms is covered in ink. And that’s just the parts of him that I can see as he stalks past me to the stage.
Right behind him is Cash Colby, lead guitarist and bona fide manwhore. The only thing more infamous than Ransom Reed’s bad boy persona is Cash’s penchant for young, hot bimbos with low self-esteem and daddy issues. And looking at him, I can see why. Think a taller, edgier, hotfuck version of Justin Bieber, minus the douchiness. He’s got the sandy blond hair that’s long enough to fall in his eyes, just begging to be flipped back while he fingers the strings of his Fender with the sensuality of a skilled lover. Rumor has it, those fingers have expertly played with a few of America’s sweethearts, soiling their (manufactured) good girl images.
Following Cash is Gunner Davies, rhythm guitarist and the more mysterious of the bunch. He isn’t adorned with dozens of tattoos or piercings. His clothing is black and nondescript, as well as his hair. He’s not in the press every week, if at all. Come to think of it, I can’t think of a single woman he’s dated or even a story that’s remotely touched on his private life. However, the second he passes me, I feel the temperature drop in the atmosphere, and a sense of danger snakes through me, causing me to physically shrink back a foot and divert my eyes to the tips of my Jimmy Choos. That kid’s got menace in his veins. I can smell it.
The very second I force myself to look up, badassery renewed, I know that he’s emerged. Every cell in my body tingles with expectation and the very breath in my lungs catches on a gasp. No music video, no magazine spread—shit—not even the dozens of pics I’ve Googled could have done Ransom Reed justice. He’s taller than I expected, and he has the lean body of a rock star who can command a stage. And he struts with all the confidence and swagger of a man who knows he’s a big fucking deal—in and out of the bedroom. Dressed in ripped, worn jeans that look as if they were made for him, a V-neck white tee and black leather jacket adorned with silver zippers, he’s the epitome of rock godliness. He runs a hand through his dark brown hair that he wears haphazardly slicked back. Still, a rogue lock of hair falls over his forehead, just short enough to stay out of his eyes, yet long enough to allure the fuck out of me. I swear, that move must’ve been rehearsed. Caleb is beside him, walking double time to keep up with Ransom’s long, leisurely strides. The
closer he gets, the less I breathe. And now that he’s so close—close enough that I could reach out and touch this beautiful urban legend of a man—I don’t think I’ll ever take another breath.
I find the courage to look up into his face as he approaches, and I completely lose the ability to process intelligent thought. His features are severe and angular, from the intensity of his dark, slanted eyes to the gold hoop threaded through his slender nose. The only word to describe his lips is sensual. And his tanned, golden skin speaks of foreign roots—maybe South American.
He’s exotic and enticing and terrifying as hell. And everything that my husband isn’t.
Just as the thought seizes me with a jolt of guilt, Ransom Reed is right in front of me, making his way to the stage where nearly twenty thousand fans are screaming his name. He turns to look directly at me, a smirk on those lips that were designed for kissing a woman’s most intimate parts, and he winks. Then all I can do is watch him disappear from sight as I try to remember how to inhale oxygen again.
“Taller than he looks on TV, huh?”
The sound of Tucker’s voice nearly makes me choke on the electrified air. Seeing me flounder for words, he offers me an ice-cold bottle of water, which I gladly accept and drain in thirty seconds flat.
“Yeah, he is,” I shout over the raucous screams and cheers of adoring fans. The band is hyping up the crowd, thanking them for coming to the last stop on the Hostage tour, which incidentally is being filmed for HBO.
“Your face is red. You all right, Bunny?” he shouts back.
I turn in the direction of the stage, my eyes trained on the lithe movements of Ransom Reed. The band goes into their opening number, a fast paced, sexy song about a man’s yearning for a woman that he shouldn’t have. Although Ransom sings to the crowd, I can hear him as if he were right beside me, whispering those lyrics in my ear. Singing in that raspy tone for an audience of one.
“Yeah, I’m fine. Just fine,” I finally remember to answer.
I know that after tonight, I’ll never be just fine again.
Tryst Page 2
