Make Me: The Black Lilith Series #3

by Hazel Jacobs

  Harper’s stomach churns at the thought. “Just water, please.”

  Gazing at the mirror while the bartender pours the drink, Harper begins to wonder what her client will look like. The thought is immediately cut off when she sees the sexy drummer’s reflection in the mirror.

  She spins around on her stool, clutching the bar for support. How did… what did, she can’t even form the thoughts.

  He gazes around the lounge, apparently looking for something. Then his eyes fall on her and he blinks for a moment, before grinning. He starts to make his way over to her and Harper begins to panic. He’d looked confused for a moment like he wasn’t expecting her, but what if he’d followed her there? What if he’s still talking to her when her client shows up? She can’t afford to be seen with another man when she’s already been bought and paid for.

  She opens her mouth, but he cuts her off.

  “Tiffany?” he asks, his lips turning up in a crooked smile.

  Harper’s heart pounds in her chest. No way, she thinks, no way.

  “Yes?” she replies hesitantly.

  He sticks out his hand, with its chipped polish and leather cuffs which she hadn’t noticed until now. “I’m Slate. I’m your client.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Harper breathes. It takes her a moment to realize that she’s said it out loud.

  Slate laughs. Harper watches his Adam’s apple bob up and down and has to remind herself to close her mouth.

  “Sorry,” she says quickly, trying to cover up the mistake. “Sorry, I just wasn’t expecting—”

  “Yeah, neither was I,” Slate says cheerfully.

  What kind of name is Slate, she wonders.

  He gestures to the bar. “Did you order something?”

  “Water…” Harper turns and sees that there is, in fact, a glass of water on the bar. And a bartender waiting for her tip. “Did you want something?”

  “Red Bull?” he asks the bartender. Harper winces. Red Bull is a nasty cocktail of chemicals that makes personal trainers want to barf on principle. But Slate is not her training client, he’s an entirely different kind of client, so she doesn’t say anything.

  As the bartender bustles away, Slate takes off his jacket, revealing finely sculpted forearms and a tight button-up shirt which shows off the six-pack Harper had been expecting but apparently hadn’t been prepared for. “So, is Tiffany like a stage name?” he asks.

  He gestures for Harper to take the seat next to him. She does. Her mind is still reeling with the knowledge that the sexy drummer is her client. She had been expecting some poor, unfortunate soul who couldn’t get a date. A few minutes in Slate’s presence is enough to convince her that he could have any woman he wanted.

  He’s paying me to sleep with him.

  I am being paid to sleep with this Adonis.

  Challenge accepted.

  “Yes, it is,” Harper replies, as easily as she can while she climbs onto the bar stool. Slate rests his forearms on the bar, and she takes a moment to admire their definition. Maybe she should recommend drum playing to her clients when she finally gets some. “It’s kind of a requirement for… people like me.”

  “Do you mind if I call you Harper?” Slate asks. He gives her a grin which makes her want to melt. “I like Harper.”

  When Harper became Tiffany, Angelica warned her not to tell clients her real name. She’d said that it makes things personal. That it can make them needy and unwilling to accept that their relationship is strictly business. She’d told her that under no circumstances should she ever reveal her real name or, if she did it by accident, to make it clear to a client that they were to call her Tiffany during their time together.

  “Sure,” she says. “You can call me Harper.”

  “Great!” Slate says.

  The Red Bull arrives. Slate thanks the bartender, but he doesn’t take his eyes off of Harper. It makes her feel special, though she knows that there’s no reason for it. It’s just polite, she thinks, for a man to keep his eyes on his date. Even when the date is a bit… unconventional.

  He flicks the can open with one finger, and the sickly sweet smell of the drink nearly makes Harper gag.

  Despite Slate not paying attention to her, the bartender is clearly paying attention to him. She’s got a napkin and pen in her hand, and she’s biting her lip as if she’s working up some courage.

  “Excuse me?” she asks.

  Slate finally looks at her. “Yeah?”

  “You’re Slate, right? The drummer from Black Lilith?”

  He glances at Harper, but she doesn’t recognize the name. She’s not really into music, except dance because it’s good to work out to. He nods and the bartender makes a movement like she’s trying to contain her excitement. So Slate must be famous.

  While he’s signing the napkin that’s eagerly thrust under his nose, Harper pulls out her phone and Googles Black Lilith.

  Rock band.

  Formed in a garage in high school.

  Rising stars, chart toppers.

  World tour.

  The front man is dating the band’s manager.

  The bassist recently starting dating their lyricist.

  No wonder Slate made Harper sign an NDA before he hired her. But that raises even more questions. A world-famous drummer could definitely get any woman he wanted. Hell, the bartender looks about ready to drop her panties, and she can see quite clearly that Slate’s already here with somebody. So why would he hire an escort for a wedding weekend?

  Slate hands the bartender her napkin, thanks her for her support with a charming smile, then asks if he and Harper can be left alone for a while.

  “Of course, sir. I’ll just be right over here if you need anything. Anything at all.”

  The bartender makes herself scarce. Slate turns to Harper with an apologetic grin.

  “Sorry about that,” he says.

  “I didn’t realize you were famous,” Harper replies.

  “Oh?” For some reason, he looks delighted. “Don’t worry about it. It’s not important.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “It’s actually nice,” he goes on. “A lot of people know. After a while, you start to figure out which ones are more interested in the band than they are in me.”

  Harper nods. She thinks of her own concerns when it comes to people and how she’s constantly wondering what they want. What their motives are, whether or not they’ve got good intentions. Whether they’re planning things for her. She had that fear of other people beaten into her over the years. One too many bad experiences had left a sour taste in her mouth, and she could only imagine how much worse it would be for someone like Slate—already inhumanly gorgeous—to also be constantly on the alert because of fame.

  “I could tell you didn’t recognize me,” he adds.

  “Could you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “To be honest, I don’t think I’ve ever heard one of your songs.”

  He laughs again. If Harper could bottle that laugh and wear it as perfume, she would. It’s doing all kinds of weird things to her head.

  “Well, if you’re gonna pretend to be my girlfriend, we should probably change that,” he says. That statement reminds Harper of why she’s there, but for some reason it doesn’t fill her with the sudden dread which had been following her around all morning like a black cloud. It’s just Slate stating a fact. He doesn’t make her feel like she should be defending her job, and it’s a blissful feeling.

  Once again, she’s struck by how easy it is to talk to this guy. Maybe it’s because he looks at her like what she’s about to say is actually interesting. Maybe it’s because, back when they’d been sharing a cigarette, he’d watched her lips but still looked at her eyes when they spoke. There’s something undefinable about Slate that makes her feel like she can be open with him.

  Which is dangerous in her line of work. But then again this is her first time. She’s bound to make mistakes.

  Might as well make them with Slate. He would
make a wonderful mistake.

  “I’ll listen to some of your band’s songs on the plane,” she says.

  “Tell me about yourself?” Slate asks suddenly. He’s still leaning on his forearms, but his body is twisted toward her, and he knocks back half the can of Red Bull in one gulp, making Harper suppress a shudder of horror.

  “I’m whoever you want me to be,” Harper tells him. “That’s how this works.”

  His grin disappears, replaced by a slight frown, and he runs his hand through his gorgeous blond hair. “I don’t… ah… ” He chews his lip, suddenly flustered, which is a good look on him. “I’ve never really done this before. You know…” he glances over to the bartender to make sure that she’s not listening, “…I’ve never paid a woman.”

  Harper can believe that. He’d probably have a line of women a mile long ready and willing to pay him, but he’s clearly never had to work hard to get a girl into bed. Harper reaches over and rests her hand on Slate’s forearm. Partly because Angelica told her to initiate contact if the client seems shy, and partly because she’s desperate to get her hands on those muscles. She wants to ask him about his exercise routine but now’s not the time. Sure enough, his arm is as hard and hot as she’d hoped it would be.

  “Can I tell you a secret?” she asks. Slate leans forward conspiratorially and nods. “This is my first time, too.” His eyes go wide, and she realizes how that could have sounded. She feels a blush creeping up her neck as she hastens to add, “Not, like, my… first time. Just. My first job. You’re my first client.”

  Would a virgin cost extra?

  “Oh,” he says, his eyes going wide in understanding. Then he grins again. “So we both have no idea what we’re doing?”

  “It would seem that way.”

  “Fantastic!” he says. Harper answers his grin with one of her own. “In that case, why don’t you tell me about the real you. I know I’m the… client… but I want you to be yourself. Or as close to yourself as you’re comfortable being in front of a complete stranger,” he adds, with a self-deprecating shrug of the shoulders.

  That makes Harper pause. She’d been told over and over not to get personal with a client. It was practically Angelica’s Rule #1 on her long list of rules. Until she’d met Slate, Harper had been prepared to follow that advice. She’d been ready to come up with an elaborate back-story to fit whatever her client needed to get himself through the wedding weekend in Iowa. But here is Slate, looking so unfairly handsome, telling her to be herself and looking really genuine about it. And even though there’s always a little part of her that tells her to be careful and not to trust completely until all the facts are available, she wants to trust him. She wants to be personal with him.

  They’re going to sleep together at some point. That’s about as personal as it gets.

  As soon as that thought crosses her mind, it’s instantly chased by thoughts of what it will be like. Good Lord, with those muscles and her stamina, her mind immediately conjures over a dozen possibilities. She wonders if there’s workout equipment wherever they’re staying because she’s had a long-standing fantasy involving exercise balls, and his ab muscles hint at the core strength necessary to pull it off.

  She takes a large gulp of water. Her mouth is suddenly dry.

  “I’m studying to be a personal trainer,” Harper says, reeling her mind back to the conversation at hand, because if she lets herself sink any further into her fantasies then she might not be willing to come out of them. She’ll have plenty of time to explore the possibilities of Slate’s body when they get to Iowa. Or maybe even on the plane. Suddenly a quickie mid-air doesn’t seem quite as daunting. “I’ve got a year to go and then I’ll be certified. I’m an only child, born and raised in Omaha.”

  “Omaha,” Slate says, excitedly. “So you’re a country girl?”

  “In a way,” she replies. “Townie in a farming community. My parents didn’t own land. They ran the sports center.”

  “That’s great!” says Slate, pausing to down the rest of his Red Bull. Harper wants to Heimlich it out of him but reminds herself that it’s not her business what he puts in his body. “You’ll get along great with my family, then.”

  A twinge of something like anticipation runs through her before she remembers that she isn’t going to ‘meet Slate’s family’ in the traditional sense. She’s going to Iowa to pretend to be his girlfriend. She’s meeting his family for show, and not because he’s so proud of her he can’t wait to take her home and introduce her to his folks.

  “Good, I’m glad,” she says to cover up her disappointment. “What do they do?”

  A dark look crosses his face, which surprises her, but in a moment it’s replaced by a cheerful smile. “Mostly they sit around and think about all the ways they’re better than other people.”

  “Then… why would I get along with them?”

  “Your family aren’t farmers… they’re entrepreneurs.”

  “Oh.”

  He winks and sets the empty Red Bull can down on the bar. A sudden burst of Mr. Big fills the air between them making Slate jump.

  I’m the one who wants to be with you,

  Deep inside I hope you’ll feel it too!

  He pulls his phone out of his pocket and sends Harper an apologetic look.

  “Sorry—”

  “No, go ahead.”

  He answers the phone. “Yeah?... Yeah, Tommy, I’m at the airport… Yeah, I have my passport. What are you, my mother?... Yeah, the… ah… Tiffany is here. But her name’s actually Harper. We’re calling her Harper now. And before you say anything, I will remind you Sersha doesn’t know that you wax your chest.”

  “That was one time!” a man’s voice shouts from the phone so loudly that Slate has to pull his hand away from his ear and grimace at the volume.

  Harper covers her mouth so whoever is on the other end of the phone can’t hear her laughing at him.

  “Okay, okay, calm your tits.” The man says something else, but it’s at a normal volume so Harper can’t make out the words. “I see… well, tell Dash he can have as many Pop-Tarts as he wants as long as he replaces them… with the chocolate kind, none of that fucking strawberry bullshit… Okay… give my love to Sersh.”

  He hangs up.

  “Sorry about that,” he tells Harper, stuffing the phone into his pocket and giving her another apologetic look. “That’s Tommy. He’s in the band. I’ll need to tell you about him. In fact…” he runs his hand through his hair and sighs, “…you’ll need to know about everyone, won’t you? For authenticity.”

  She wants to ask him why he even needs an escort, but she senses that now is not the time. Maybe when they’re on the plane.

  “I signed the NDA,” she says, hoping that will ease his mind.

  But he just shakes his head. “I’m not worried about that,” Slate tells her. He looks at her, and she feels like he’s seeing something more than the average person can see. “You’re not a gossip. I can tell. I just don’t even know where to start.”

  Harper takes another sip of her water and glances at her watch. They’ve got an hour before they have to board their flight.

  “Start at the beginning,” she tells him.

  They’re on the plane and halfway to Iowa by the time Slate is finally finished catching Harper up on the strange quasi-family of Black Lilith.

  “Okay… so let me see if I’ve got this,” Harper says. The First Class seat is just as uncomfortable as the ones in economy, but there’s more leg room and free champagne. She wiggles around to get comfortable while Slate watches her with an amused smile. “Logan is the lead singer, dating Mikayla, who was the band’s PA. They dated in secret but Mikayla called it off because she didn’t like to lie, so he wrote a song about her and performed it on tour. And now they’re dating… and she’s the manager?”

  “Correct,” Slate says.

  “That must have been weird.”

  “Well, I knew the whole time,” Slate tells her. He sips his
coffee, he stopped at one glass of champagne and rolls his shoulders to work out the kinks. Harper does her best not to stare at the rippling muscles of his biceps. “But yeah, Dash and Tommy were confused.”

  “I’ll bet,” Harper replies. She only half-believes him when he says that he knew the whole time. “So then Bass Note, your production company, hired Sersha… who is from Ireland… to be the band’s lyricist. Tommy is the bass player, and he’s been your lyricist since you started playing together in high school, so he hated her. But then they started dating because you tricked her into taking him his phone while he was visiting his family.”

  “Also correct.”

  “Are you the band matchmaker?”

  “I should be. None of the guys know what’s good for them.”

  The plane hits a spot of turbulence and Harper feels a jolt of apprehension, but Slate looks unfazed. She tries her best to relax. Flying, she tells herself is nothing to be afraid of. The rest of the passengers in First Class look bored. There’s one couple who caught Harper’s eye right away, sitting at the front next to the exit. The man looks old enough to be her grandfather, and he’s had his nose buried in the latest Forbes since they took off. He’s got his hand on his companion’s knee as well. The woman is closer to thirty, with bleached blonde hair and a permanently pinched expression. She’s had five glasses of champagne since they left New York. They had shared a look when Harper boarded the plane, and Harper understood immediately that they were there for the same reason. The woman had given Slate a longing look as he and Harper had passed.

  Harper’s eyes land on that couple as she tries to organize her thoughts. The various relationships in Slate’s band could make up a soap opera.

  “So Tommy’s ex-girlfriend, Danielle, used to be the band’s PA but Logan caught her stealing money and fired her. She tried to seduce Tommy and Sersha caught them at it, which made her fly back to Ireland… so Tommy had to fly over and get her.”

  “Yes.”

  “And now they’re happily in love.”

  “I don’t think they’ve used the ‘L’ word yet,” Slate says. “Logan and Mikayla definitely have. They’re always wrapped around each other, it’s gross.”