by Caisey Quinn
Once she was out of the room, Van glared at the man. “Well, thank you very much for the cock block. Remind me to return the favor, asshole.”
Sid rolled his eyes and stepped closer. “Listen to me. You have much bigger problems than missing out on a blowjob.”
Van grinned. Damn, his manager knew him well. “Oh yeah? Like what?”
Sid set his cup on the raised tray next to Van’s bed. “Like the fact that Epitaph has no intentions of signing someone who’s going to cost them more in damages than he’s going to sell in records. And they’ve placed a few stipulations on signing the band.” Sid checked his watch as if he had somewhere more important to be.
“What kind of stipulations?” Van sat up straighter to brace himself for more corporate record label bullshit.
Sid cleared his throat before answering. “Either you successfully complete rehab in a facility of their choosing and agree to let a drug treatment counselor accompany you on all future tours or the deal is history. As in, don’t call them and they won’t call you.” His manager shrugged like this wasn’t the shittiest news since Lynyrd Skynyrd’s plane went down.
Van raked a hand through his thick hair, which was in serious need of washing. “What is wrong with everybody? Can you people not get online and search lead singer in rock band and catch a goddamn clue? This is how it is. I’m not doing anything that all the other guys aren’t. You all treat me like I’m the antichrist for doing a little blow.” He huffed out a breath and considered throwing something. Nothing in reaching distance would make a satisfying enough noise, so he resisted the impulse. Barely.
Sid’s veins throbbed in his bald head—a sure sign that Van was pushing him past his limits as well. In a lot of ways his manager was the closest thing to a father he’d ever known. But he was on the payroll and needed to remember that.
“Don’t bullshit me, son. Do the other guys get messed up from time to time? I’m not an idiot. I know they do. No one’s debating that. But you go at it like an overachiever with a death wish.” Van opened his mouth to interrupt, but Sid held up his hand, signaling him to keep it shut. “A few lines every now and then is ‘a little blow.’ Ten lines or more after a handful of painkillers and a bottle of whatever the hell you were drinking, is a suicide attempt.”
Van tried not to let his fists clench by his sides, but he couldn’t stop them. The needle jammed into the top of his hand pinched hard. Sid didn’t know the details about what had happened with Val, so he couldn’t know how deep that word cut him. Van wanted to throttle him all the same.
And the man wasn’t done. “Tell me honestly. Do you want to die? Is this life so terrible for you? Millions of fans and a platinum album? ’Cause I gotta tell you, a lot of guys would kill to be in your shoes. And if you keep heading down this dark path at the rate you’re going, one of them will be. Soon.”
Pieces of the party came back to Van in flashes. The pills a roadie had slipped him. The eleven-hundred-dollar-bottle of Bourbon. A redhead sucking him off while he’d snorted coke off a glass coffee table in a room full of people. Val would be disgusted by him.
Hell, he was disgusted by him.
Every time this happened, remembering it was like watching a documentary about someone else’s screwed-up life. And he told himself he’d tone it down a notch next time. But in reality it was more like he was constantly trying to one-up himself every other night. Or maybe off himself like Sid suspected.
“We’ve tried the rehab thing. Shit doesn’t take,” he said quietly, still lost in the memories of parties past.
Sid let a hand rest on the rail of Van’s bed. “It might have, if you’d stayed the course. You can’t just bail because someone or something pisses you off or doesn’t go your way.”
Yeah, he was guilty of that. But the robotic drone doctors in rehab didn’t know shit about him yet they pretended to have the answers to all his problems. Who wouldn’t bail?
“So this is it then? No second chances? Epitaph is sending me to rehab and I have to fake my way into a whole new me or else I ruin it for the whole band? That’s some messed-up shit, Sid.”
Now it was the manager’s hand that fisted, clenching the rail tightly as he stared at Van in disbelief.
“You have got to be screwing with me, kid. You’ve had more second chances than any other person on the planet. And as much as I hate to say this to you, if you don’t complete the program this time and get your shit together, Epitaph won’t be the only one washing their hands of you. This is your last second chance, Van. Plain and simple.”
Whoever the sadistic bastard was that invented stilettos, Stella wanted to knee him in the balls. Hard. Maybe more than once.
An hour into her tour of the Second Chance Ranch, her feet were killing her. She’d worn the gingham shift dress she’d bought from White House Black Market with a smart blazer over it. She’d received her fair share of approving glances from the males on staff as Dr. Ramirez escorted her through the facility. Hellhole it wasn’t.
Stella didn’t even feel like they should be able to call the place a ranch. She’d grown up on a ranch, a nice one even. Ranches included mud and straw and the ever-present stench of horseshit. This place was immaculate with a mahogany welcome desk the size of Texas and flat screen televisions and hardwood floors that shone like glass. She’d seen the infinity pool, and beyond that, expansive pastures dotted with the occasional horse, at the beginning of the tour. The top of the steel stables was visible from behind the enormous mansion-style patient housing facility.
It was everything she could do not to gape in awe at her surroundings. Her heels clicked on the hardwood as Dr. Ramirez walked her through the grand foyer to the glass entrance.
“As I was telling you, many of our physicians and other staff members reside in them until they move into more permanent housing.” He gestured to the area downhill where the staff housing was located.
Right. Because she wasn’t just going to work here, she was going to live here, too. Stella struggled to remain focused on the man giving her the tour as he began detailing the agenda for new employee orientation that would begin first thing Monday morning—if she accepted the job. He handed her two folders and a spiral-bound book thicker than any of her textbooks had ever been. She struggled with the added weight, attempting to shift it to the arm not shouldering her purse, but someone bumped her from behind.
“Oh!” she cried out as the book and folders slipped from her arms and landed on the floor with a loud slap.
Smooth, Stella Jo.
The man who’d bumped her looked up from the slim black cell phone in his hand. Light gray sky at sunrise eyes clouded over as he took her in. She’d never seen anyone like him before. At least not up close and personal like this.
He was tall, looming over her despite the added height of the stilettos, and seconds from committing a felony, judging from the expression he wore. Dark tattoos wrapped around his arms and neck, claiming his otherwise flawless skin. The black T-shirt pulled taut across his broad chest had faded script on it that she couldn’t make out.
She knew one of them should apologize for the collision. But neither did as they were both paralyzed in the gaze of the other.
Dr. Ramirez cleared his throat, snapping her out of her trance.
Jesus. Where was she?
Oh, right. Embarrassing herself horribly in front of her future boss.
Choked laughter escaped her throat as she bent down to retrieve what she’d dropped. The man did the same and she caught a whiff of expensive cologne and liquor. Ah, he was checking in then. Dr. Ramirez leaned down to help, as did the bald guy with the man who’d bumped her.
“Thanks,” she said to all of them as they handed her the papers. Standing upright, she allowed herself one more lingering look at whoever this creature was. His thick brows, straight nose, and square jaw created such perfect lines on his face that she wondered if anyone had ever painted his portrait. If not, they damn well should. She was ready to take up sc
ulpting and erect a shrine in his honor. She could only imagine the muscles that would be underneath his clothes. And despite her best effort not to, imagine she did.
She nearly died of humiliation when he handed her a form that had fallen from her folder and she had to take it from him with a trembling hand. No man had ever had this kind of an effect on her. Clearly she’d been single for too long.
Snap out of it, Chandler.
“Thank you,” she mumbled, averting her eyes and snatching her hand back.
She looked up just in time to see him raising a brow at her. “For slamming into you like a maniac?”
Good Lord, the deep rumble of his voice was sensual music that weakened her knees.
“Um, no, for—”
“Are you all right, Miss Chandler?” Dr. Ramirez broke in.
Was she? No, she sure as hell wasn’t. She was a few missed breaths away from panting or passing out. And lightheaded. And unable to think straight because of the scorching heat burning her up from the inside out. And…wait. What was the question again?
She sucked in a deep breath in an attempt to steady herself. “Yeah. I mean, yes, sir. I’m fine.”
Dr. Ramirez placed a hand on her elbow and steered her to the exit. As they began to walk away, he turned and spoke to the beautiful creature who’d bumped into her.
“Mr. Walker, everything is prepared for your stay. Please let us know if there’s anything we can do to assist in making you more comfortable. If you ask for Celeste Bradshaw at the desk, she’s ready with your paperwork.”
Stella watched as Mr. Walker’s expression darkened from pensive and amused to lethal and pissed off. Either he didn’t want her to know his name or he didn’t want her to know he was a patient. Or he hated Celeste Bradshaw with a vengeance. Stella didn’t know whether to envy the woman he was about to head off to or be worried for her.
Once they were out of hearing distance, Dr. Ramirez stopped walking and turned to her.
“Miss Chandler, I hate to pry, but do you know him?”
“Who?” she asked, playing dumb even though she knew exactly who he was referring to.
“Mr. Ransom.” The doctor regarded her with a suspicious stare. “Or Mr. Walker, as he prefers to be called.”
“No, I don’t. He just startled me is all.” She gripped the materials she carried tighter to avoid fidgeting as the doctor led her to the cabin-style buildings he’d told her were used for housing employees.
“My apologizes. It just seemed like there was…something between the two of you. And as you will learn upon reading the employee handbook, we can’t have you working with any patients—er, clients—that you’ve known previously.” The doctor sighed loudly. “Though I do have ears and I know several of my nurses on staff know full well who he is and are interested in getting to know him intimately. Even if it costs them their jobs.”
A pang of an emotion she didn’t recognize stabbed sharp and deep in Stella’s midsection, but she forced a smile. “Well I can honestly say I’ve never seen him before in my life, nor do I have any interest in getting to know him in any capacity other than as a patient. Um, client.” That distinction was going to be a hard one to get used to.
The older man pulled out a key and regarded her with a genuinely pleased smile. “So you’re accepting the position then?”
Stella nodded, though it felt like her intestines were practicing multiple knot-tying strategies in her stomach.
“Yes, sir. I would like to.”
Because it’s an amazing opportunity, not because of the captivating stranger who just scrambled my brain and my libido.
“Well then, welcome home.” Dr. Ramirez opened a door that led to Stella’s impressive new digs.
It was a studio-style apartment where the small living area, kitchen, dining room, and bedroom were all occupying one cozy space. The only closed-off sections were a closet and a bathroom with an old-fashioned tub and pedestal sink. Still, it was much nicer than the tiny two-bedroom apartment she and Tess had shared off campus. And it was already furnished. She thanked Dr. Ramirez, and he welcomed her to the team before leaving to let her get settled in.
She had a truck full of boxes to unpack and a million forms to fill out before Monday morning. She had to make a very stressful phone call to her mom as well. But at the moment, all she could do was collapse into one of her plush living room chairs and try to recover from whatever the hell had just happened with the mysterious Mr. Walker-Ransom.
She was the first woman he’d ever hated on sight. Because one look at her and he knew. Knew everything he’d ever done was sick and wrong and made him the kind of man who would never be good enough. But when she looked back at him with those gleaming emerald eyes wide with surprise and darkening with need, none of that mattered. Because he damn sure felt the overwhelming desire to try to be. Like his fucking life depended on it.
Van used the few moments Sid was busy checking him into the Second Chance Ranch, the rehab facility Epitaph had chosen, to try and locate his sanity. And his balls.
If one glance from the woman made him regret his whole life, he hoped he never laid eyes on her again. He’d never had his mind blown before. Not by a woman. Any woman. Not even the ones who got him off so hard he nearly passed out. They were like the drugs and the booze—something to get him through, to drown out the voices and dark shit in his fucked-up head. But this one…Christ almighty, this one was another animal entirely.
The Hispanic doctor had said that he could let them know if he needed anything. He almost told the man that they could just lock him in his room with the brunette with the skin like silk for ninety days and he’d be cured.
Even after she’d turned to leave with the man in the white coat, he couldn’t tear his eyes from her. There was something about the way she moved that was beyond sexy. She walked with a deliberate slowness that had her hips swaying with a hypnotic rhythm that probably had men falling at her feet. Just like he had.
“Let’s go, Mr. Walker,” Sid said, nudging him out of his daze.
After unloading his shit in his room, he decided to walk around the property. The place was huge, and it did have a relaxing vibe to it—minus the sex on legs he’d literally run into upon arriving. She’d amped him up more than all the lines he’d ever done combined.
The folder she’d dropped had NEW EMPLOYEE ORIENTATION PACKET typed on the front cover. So she worked here then—or she would soon.
He knew it probably would not please Epitaph if he screwed a staff member and got kicked out of this place. But damn, he couldn’t get her eyes and her warm vanilla and wildflower scent out of his head. And those legs. Why, oh why, had she been wearing fuck-me heels? It was as if she’d been sent here to torture him.
As if to confirm his theory, when he turned the bend to where the property dropped off into the pastures, there she was. Sitting with her back to him, watching the sun set like a mirage. The orangey-pink hue of the setting sunlight glinted off her body creating an angelic effect that stole his breath.
Backing up so she wouldn’t see him, he stood silently and watched her. She’d changed into jeans and a plain white tank top. Seeing this much of her skin was doing things to him. For the first time in a very long time, he wondered what a woman was thinking.
What had her sitting here all alone, watching the horses graze as the light faded from the sky? Was she happy? Sad? Nervous about the new job? And why the hell did he even care?
He didn’t have a clue what his deal was, but he wished he had a pen because he could write a song about this moment. Maybe a couple of songs. The kind that would make every guy in the band call him a pussy.
When he saw her shoulders shake and heard the light sniffle, he almost turned and ran. She was crying.
Son of a bitch.
Once upon a time, he’d had a sister. She was three years older than him and for the life of him, her crying had always been his undoing. Sure, he’d seen women cry since then. But these were usually high bitches h
aving a bad trip or begging him to pay attention to their crazy asses. Those he’d ignored easily. But his sister had always cried in private, when she thought no one could see or hear. Like this woman was doing.
His brain alerted him that it was time to bail out and go back to his room. Like now. But his body didn’t listen. In a few strides, he’d lessened the gap between them. When he cleared his throat, she jumped. As she struggled to her feet, he reached out a hand without thinking. Then the damnedest thing happened. She took it.
Pulling herself up with his help, she looked into his eyes. And it was just like before. Something he hadn’t known existed inside of him roared to the surface. Something that demanded he try to be a decent man—hell, a good man. Because the guy he’d been so far wasn’t worthy of speaking to her, much less any of the other things he wanted to do to her.
Shit, he was gripping her hand too hard and for too long.
Let go, man.
But she didn’t look upset. She looked like she was about to throw herself into his arms. Well, he was certainly not opposed to that. Even though the thought of actually touching her that way scared him shitless. Most likely, this was wishful thinking and in reality she was seconds away from telling him to get the hell away from her before she called security. His breath came hard and fast, and she looked as lost as he was. Tears glistened in her eyes, and he finally let go of her hand to wipe one from her cheek.
“Rough day?” he asked, surprised at the strained sound of his own voice.
She smiled, but it was forced. He could tell because it didn’t reach her eyes. “Something like that.”
Her tears were still moist on his fingertips. He had the oddest urge to lick them. Taste her sweet pain and then try to figure out how to keep her from ever hurting again.
“I should get back,” he said, jerking his head toward the facility that separated pieces of shit like him from angels like her. Something flashed in her eyes. He thought for a second it was disappointment, because he was obviously so bad-off he was delusional. Maybe he should be in the nut house instead of rehab.
