by Eden Summers
With naïve relief, she began counting down the seconds until the end of the charade when the threesome would part ways. She even moved forward, focused on meeting him at the elevator doors to get the inside scoop on what they’d been doing for the past two hours.
But their charade didn’t end.
They didn’t part ways.
In sadistic fascination, she watched them walk toward the elevator, the unmistakable promise of sex following along behind them.
“No.” The plea whispered from her mouth as she shook her head. “Don’t do it, Ryan.”
With each progressive step, her heart clenched a little harder, pumped a little faster. She tried clinging to her band manager role, attempting to disguise her heartache as professional intuition, and failed miserably.
This was personal.
It was about intimacy she craved and feelings she could no longer suppress.
The man who had always been unobtainable due to marriage was now single. He was within reach. An unlikely possibility, however, a possibility nonetheless, and she’d just thrown away the opportunity without a backward glance. Hell, she’d facilitated the transition into a new relationship by bowing to Grander’s heavy hand.
“Ryan, wait.” She wasn’t sure where the words came from, the sound shooting across the empty lobby like a reverberating gunshot.
The trio paused, all of them turning to face her from the elevator doors.
She clutched tight to her belongings—her laptop, notepad, and elusive sanity—then shuffled quickly on her toes to make her way toward them.
“What are you still doing awake?” His tone was filled with a comforting concern.
“I’ve got work to do and I needed more breathing space than my tiny hotel room.” Lies, lies, lies. “Are you calling it a night? Do you want me to organize a driver?”
“No, we’re good.” He had the sense to look guilty. “I’m, umm…”
“Too modest to admit you’re a gentleman who won’t let us travel to the sleeper bus on our own.” The newest member to the fake relationship patted Ryan on the chest, her long red nails scratching into the fabric. “He offered to let us crash in his room.”
“Yeah. Such a gentleman.” Leah swallowed over the bile coating the back of her tongue. “I’m sorry, I know we’ve met before but I can’t place the name.” It was another lie. She knew exactly who the femme fatale was as she offered her hand to shake. The ploy was a last ditch effort to dint the woman’s perfect smile.
“Hannah.” The woman’s grip was strong.
“She’s with Slicker,” Felicity offered. “My bass guitarist.”
Yep. Hannah Olsen. A woman with absolutely everything in common with Ryan.
The elevator doors opened, helping to increase the bile production and the painful pound beneath her ribs. There was nothing she could say to stop him from moving on. There was nothing she could do to make these women leave.
Not without her humiliation playing a major role.
“I’ll…ahh…let you get on with it, then.” She stepped back—from him, from her feelings, from an unobtainable future. How had she slipped so far? She was stronger than this. More realistic and practical, too.
Shark week must be approaching. Yeah, that had to be it. She was being undeniably psychotic because the lining of her uterus was instigating a mass evacuation.
“Enjoy the rest of your night.” She waved them away, a merry little cheerio she wanted to end in a middle-finger salute.
“I’ll catch you tomorrow?” Ryan’s gaze held a plea. Maybe even an apology.
She ignored both, pretending this was another booty call like all the others she’d witnessed from Mitch, Blake, Sean, and Mason. “Yeah. Of course.” She nodded and jerked her thumb over her shoulder. “I’ll get the next elevator. I think I left my pen on the coffee table.”
She held his focus as the heavy doors closed, sealing his fate. Sealing hers, too.
“Whoa.” She exhaled a shaky breath. “That was intense.” An out of body experience. One minute she was working like a good little band manager, the next she was trying to throw her career under a bus. A big bus. Huge bus.
“Fuck you, uterus.”
Her legs moved without thought as she maintained the pretense and headed back to the sofa. For some reason her chest was still aching like a mofo and her limbs were increasingly heavy. Maybe she was having a heart attack. It would explain a lot.
She sank into the squeaky leather cushions and tried to laugh off the brain fade. Tried and tried and failed. This was a good thing. The obtainable was now back to being beyond the bounds of possibility. There was no more temptation. No more bait to lure in her nonexistent sex life. No more snare to entrap her curiosity.
Ryan was officially back to being out of reach.
Fanfuckingtastic.
So why wasn’t she celebrating? Why wasn’t she doing a happy dance to rival all previous happy dances? Why?
Probably because she felt like she’d just let any chance of happiness slip right through her fingers into the waiting hands of someone more willing to appreciate the prize.
Chapter Six
Washington, DC
Shark week had been a bitch. It had also been a thankful explanation for losing her mind over something she should’ve had under control.
But just to be safe, Leah had kept her distance from Ryan, and the band in general, for eight days. Choosing instead to communicate via email and text message while she focused on online sales reports and securing more promo opportunities.
Apart from poking her head into the dressing room or catching up with Mason, Mitch, Blake, or Sean when they were apart from their rhythm guitarist, she’d spent most of her time sulking in numerous hotel rooms, gorging on chocolate and coffee. Even the crew on the sleeper bus had been smart enough to keep their distance. Nobody dared to poke the bear. Not when her head was always stuck firmly in her laptop or her cell was plastered to her ear.
The alone time had given her a chance to regroup and beat herself into a bloody pulp over her stupidity. Now she was fighting fit and ready for battle.
“Nice of you to join us,” Mason drawled, his unimpressed glower eating up her approach.
“I thought it was time to stop working myself to the bone and see if you guys are actually pulling your weight.” She approached the portable table near the front of the empty stadium, Mitch, Sean, and Blake turning their focus from Ryan on stage to greet her with various non-verbal responses. “Do you have any news for me?”
“Nope. We’re all good.”
She quirked a brow. “That’s not what I’m told.” The end of shark week wasn’t her only reason to come back into the land of the living. “Some of the crew have messaged me with concerns over Ryan’s performance.”
Mason glared. “He’s hitting home runs at every show.”
“I’m told he’s late to every sound check, which would explain why he’s the only one on stage at the moment.”
One message she could ignore. Two was something she took on board and held in consideration. But three, four, and five meant she had to start asking questions.
She chanced a look at the man of the moment and suppressed the pang in her chest with Olympic gold precision. There were heavy bags under his eyes, his usually warm skin pale beneath his beard, his adored guitar almost seeming like an unwanted weight in his hands.
“He’s struggling.” She hadn’t wanted to believe it. If he needed nurturing, she’d have to be the one to give it because the men surrounding her didn’t bear an ounce of emotional intuition.
“Yeah.” Mason snickered. “Struggling to keep up with a healthy sex life.”
She winced, immediately regretting her journey out of hibernation. “I’m not joking.” She turned her back to the stage and crossed her arms over her chest. “Why didn’t you tell me he’s been late to the last three sound checks? Clearly, his mind isn’t on the tour.”
“Maybe because you’ve been MIA.”
<
br /> She gave a derisive laugh and pinned him with her trademark scowl. Men with smaller egos had withered under that look. “Have you not seen me every day? Have you not received email updates on an ongoing basis? Have I ever rejected any of your calls or made myself unavailable?” She raised her brow, waiting for a lie or an apology.
It wasn’t surprising he gave neither.
“Moving on,” she purred. “Has he spoken to any of you about how he’s handling his private life?”
A myriad of non-committal gestures were made—a shake of a head, a shrug, a mutter.
“Not one of you has had the sense to check up on him? Not even once?” Her stomach dived under the weight of guilt.
“This isn’t happy hour at the shrink society, Leah.” Blake rolled his eyes. “Not all of us like to share the shit that drags us down.”
Mitch whacked his best friend in the arm and then met her gaze with regret. “Alana said he’s spending a lot of time with Felicity and Hannah. They seem to be tight.”
Sean snorted.
“I meant their relationship,” Mitch grated. “Not the women.”
Leah didn’t appreciate the humor. Nor did she enjoy the mental image. “So I guess the fake relationship has inspired polygamy.”
“The media hasn’t latched onto Hannah yet, but they’re certainly eating up his time with Felicity.” Mason grinned at her, the expression taunting. “And that’s all that matters, right?”
“Yep.” She nodded, determined not to bite.
Unless Ryan’s private life started interfering with the band in a more detrimental manner, who he slept with wasn’t any of her business. Just like it hadn’t been her business throughout his marriage to Julie. And just like it wouldn’t be if he was single and sleeping his way through the millions of groupies wishing to get laid.
Ryan—his heart and cock included—wasn’t her concern.
“Don’t worry. I’ll mention something to him.” Sean moved close and gave her a hip check. “I don’t want his drinking to get out of hand either.”
“Drinking?” She should’ve shut her mouth and walked from the stadium like a manager on a mission to get more exposure. But no, she had to ask. She had to open her damn mouth.
“He’s not drinking that much.” Mason scoffed. “We all need to cut him a break.”
Sean nodded. “I agree. But drinking while on stage or during practice has always been a no-go.”
The look on her face must’ve said it all.
“I said don’t worry.” Sean gave her a half-hearted smile. “He’s not drunk. I think he’s merely taking the edge off a little more than usual.”
She looked at Mitch, Blake, and Sean in turn, noticing the concern she hadn’t seen before. “Has he taken the edge off this morning? Do you know if he’s been drinking today?”
It was already after lunch. Mid-afternoon was an acceptable drinking hour for most, but not when your days started at noon and ended after midnight. This was early morning for them, and the fact they weren’t meeting her gaze meant they knew how concerning it was.
“Let it go, Leah,” Mason warned. “He’s earned his stripes. He deserves to fuck up every now and then. We’ll pull him into line if we need to.”
That wasn’t good enough. She wasn’t going to entrust Ryan’s safety into the hands of Mr. Manwhore and his posse of merry men. “Why doesn’t your leadership fill me with comfort?”
“Maybe because you’ve got more of an invested interest in Ryan than you should.”
Fuck. Me. Where the hell had that bitch slap come from? “Excuse me?”
She’d kept her ‘invested interest’ to herself. The way she was acting was no different from when Blake or Sean or even Mason himself had gone off the rails. It was her job to be invested. Her duty to care.
“Ahh…” Mitch took a step toward the stage. “I’m gonna go see what Ryan’s doing.”
“Yeah, I’m coming.” Blake followed.
Then Sean bailed, too.
She waited until she was alone with Mason, his smug grin increasing her fury to an apocalypse-inducing level. “Have you been spending time with Scott?” she asked. “Because he seems to be rubbing off on you.”
“That’s a low blow.”
“Well, you’d know what it takes to make one.” She rested on her hip and tap, tap, tapped the toe of her shoe on the stadium floor. The desire to kill him was clogging her arteries, no more than it usually did when he was an asshole, but the subject matter on this occasion was uncalled for. “Do you want to explain why you’re being such a cu—”
“Whoa. I can’t believe you were about to say the c-word.”
“And I can’t believe you would be so fucking rude.”
“I’m being rude?” He pointed a lazy thumb toward his chest. “Because here I was thinking you were the one disrespecting us by hiding out in your hotel room and communicating through fucking email. Then you come back and try to work us into a frenzy over Ryan when there’s nothing wrong with him.”
“Oh, my god.” She threw her hands up in the air. “Are you kidding me?” She didn’t know where to start. Didn’t know whether she should verbally chop him down at the knees or end this argumentative dance by punching him in the face. “I’ve got a whole new workload now that I have to babysit Slicker’s sales. And not only do I have to ensure the tour is perfect, I also have to put out my feelers—” she made quotation marks with her fingers, “—because you want to see what other labels have to offer before you consider starting one of your own.”
He opened his mouth but she shoved a finger at his sternum.
“And you think there’s nothing wrong with him turning up to sound check drunk? Are you insane?”
“He’s got a lot of shit on his plate. Don’t expect him to eat it with a smile on his face.”
“I don’t. I expect him to hold the same work ethic he’s had for years because any deviation is a sign there’s something wrong.”
“There’s nothing wrong with him,” he grated. “But maybe you should start scrutinizing things closer to home.”
She balked, in complete shock that he’d be stupid enough to keep slinging fighting words at her.
“You’re the one everyone is worried about.” He glared. “You’re the one who fucked up, Leah. Not Ryan.”
He wasn’t joking… But he had to be, otherwise she was going to hurt him. Permanently. “Watch where you go with this, Mason. I’ve taken enough of your bullshit already.”
“Noted.” He inclined his head and turned to walk away.
“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” Her voice rose. “We’re not done.”
He shook his head and glanced over his shoulder. “No, we’re not. But now’s not the time. Pull your shit together and we’ll talk about this another day.”
Pull her shit together? Her hands shook, her face heated. How dare he accuse her of not succeeding in something she’d worked too damn hard on, for too damn long?
Every day she pulled her shit together. Every fucking minute she had to gather strings and ribbons into a massive bundle to maintain the professional façade they all thought came naturally. They didn’t understand the difficulty in shoving down emotions that refused to be silenced. They didn’t know how badly she wanted to go back to a devastating kiss she should’ve forgotten the moment it ended. A devastating kiss that resembled bliss in hindsight. Because that kiss, no matter how disturbing and punishing, had been sublime perfection. Even if she couldn’t have it again.
Fuck. Mason was right.
She’d completely lost her shit.
“Hey,” Ryan shouted as he jumped off the stage.
She remained quiet with his approach while Mason stared her down, warning her to keep her mouth shut.
“What’s going on?” Ryan wiped his wrist over the sweat on his brow.
“Nothin’.” She held Mason’s gaze. “My friend here was merely playing his favored asshole role. You’d think he’d be sick of it by now.”
“And you’d think you’d be sick of standing in the wings after all this time, but clearly we enjoy what we’re good at.” Mason backtracked, giving her a checkmate smirk as he fled.
Asshole.
“Are you two fighting again?”
She closed her eyes briefly, the hit of his voice punching harder than normal. “Yes. Again.”
It seemed her years had been built on the foundation of battle. She was either fighting with Mason, Grander, her boss, the tabloids, the obsessed trolling fans, or her love for him. Always her love for him.
“What’s it about this time?”
You. She met his gaze and held her breath. We’re fighting over you. “Nothing important.”
“OK…” His brows narrowed, the slightest wrinkle forging its way between those beautiful eyes. “What’s been going on with you? I haven’t seen you in days.”
“I’ve been busy tracking your success. Your dates with Felicity are gaining favorable attention.” She wanted to fist pump for keeping her animosity in check. “Congratulations.”
“Thanks.” His frown deepened, his scrutiny keeping her pinned. “We’re trying to make sure we’re seen as much as possible.”
“You’re doing a great job.” The Internet was currently smothered with images of his puppy-dog eyes and needy hands. Even her Facebook sidebar taunted her with ads containing his bearded face.
“Not everyone would agree. Hannah still has a problem with the project. She’s not being openly aggressive, but her annoyance is there whenever we step into the spotlight.”
“Jealousy?” Leah sure knew how that felt.
He nodded. “Maybe. And I don’t blame her. Me and the guys know how it feels to be in Mason’s shadow. It’s part of the job.” He jerked his head toward one of the exits. “Do you want to chat about this at the hotel? I need to get out of here.”
No. She didn’t want to be in a confined car smothered by his scent. She could barely look at him without being distracted by his beautiful lips, or the misery of knowing he’d paid homage to someone else with them.
Christ, she hated when Mason was right.
“I can’t. I need to speak to a few of the crew before I leave.”
