by Lauren Rowe
“Then what happened to get you so riled up?”
“He was just incredibly rude to me, that’s all. Even if he’s not attracted to me, he didn’t have to treat me like shit. Now please, call him and tell him I don’t want to talk to him. Do this for me, honey. Please. Do it for womankind. I promise you won’t get into trouble.”
Danica rolls her eyes like she’s dealing with an insane lunatic, but she nonetheless grants my request. She picks up the phone and punches the number for Penthouse A. “Hello, Mr. Ford,” she says, smiling into the phone. “Nope, sorry. Danica again. Abby asked me to tell you she’d prefer not to speak to you and that she’s not coming up to your room because you treated her like a piece of shit and that’s simply not acceptable.” She winks at me, and then listens to whatever he’s saying. Her eyes go wide with obvious shock. “Okay, hang on.” She puts the call on hold. “Lucas Ford said to tell you, ‘I’m sorry, Abby. Please forgive me. I was an asshole and I deserved everything you said, and more, and I’ll never do it again. Now will you please get your stubborn ass up to my room so I can show you that I am, in fact, capable of treating you like a human being?’” Danica puts her hands on her hips. “What the fuck is going on, Abby?”
I ignore Danica’s question, and instead lean forward and whisper, “Tell that bastard if he’s truly sorry he can get his VIP rock star ass down here and apologize to my face like a gentleman, or else he can go to motherfucking hell.”
Danica gasps in shock. “Abby.”
I continue. “And if you don’t say all that to him, word for word, I swear I’ll never forgive you as long as I live.”
Danica looks like she’s going to have a stroke. Of course, she knows my threat is absolutely ridiculous. I love her to pieces and she knows it and nothing will ever change that, but she’s never witnessed even a distant glimmer of this side of my personality before, and clearly she didn’t even suspect it existed. “Who are you?” she whispers as she picks up the phone, but she’s smiling devilishly from ear to ear as she says it. “Hi, Mr. Ford,” she says primly into the telephone. “Nope. Danica again. Yes, sir, I told Abby your message exactly as you conveyed it to me, but she’s still refusing to come up to your room. Actually, she has a message for you which I’m now going to deliver to you word for word, so please don’t shoot the messenger, okay?” She clears her throat. “Abby told me to tell you, ‘If you’re truly sorry, you can get your VIP rock star ass down here and apologize to my face like a gentleman, or else you can go to motherfucking hell.’”
My heart is beating wildly. I just went all-in and I know it. If Lucas doesn’t take the bait, I’ll have no more chips to play and this delicious game will be over.
Time stops as Danica listens to whatever Lucas is saying.
I can’t stand it. My heart is hammering like a steel drum with anticipation.
Finally, Danica says brightly, “I’ll tell her, Mr. Ford. Thank you.” She gently places the phone receiver in its cradle and grins at me. “Mr. Ford said, ‘Goddamnit!’” She giggles. “And then he said, ‘Fine. Tell that ass-kicker I’ll be right down.’”
Chapter Nine
I’m holding my breath as I stare at the elevator bank in anticipation of Lucas Ford emerging to apologize for his boorish behavior. I can’t help worrying this might be some sort of trick. Is he coming down here to embarrass me again the same way he did the other night in his suite, but this time in front of Danica? Or will he apologize to me sincerely?
Loud singing and giggling erupts to my right, and when I look toward the noise I see a gaggle of thirty-something-year-old women entering the lobby, fresh from what looks like a drunken night out. A girls’ trip or bachelorette party, I presume. We get that sort of thing a lot here at The Rockford.
I make my way from behind the front desk toward the loud revelers, my fake smile firmly in place. “Hey, ladies,” I say. “I’m sorry to be a buzzkill, but you’re going to have to take the volume down a bit so we don’t—”
“Oh my God,” one of the women blurts, her eyes fixed on a target behind me.
“Lucas Ford!” another one yells.
“I love you!” a third woman shrieks.
And they’re off, rushing past me in a frenzy of excitement.
I whirl around to find Lucas standing fifteen feet away in a dark gray T-shirt and jeans, half-heartedly waving at the women as they rush him. And in seconds—whether he’s in the mood to be ambushed or not—he’s sucked into the eye of a tornado. Wow, these women are relentless. They’re taking selfies, giving Lucas hugs and kisses, and enthusiastically fawning all over him. One of the women rummages into her purse for a pen and asks Lucas to sign her boob—which he does, much to the shrieking delight of the group. Another member of the group calls her sister, who apparently was dead asleep when the call came in, and shoves her phone under Lucas’s nose and demands he sing happy birthday to her.
I amble behind the front desk, watching the frenzy. “Wow,” I whisper to Danica. “Dance, monkey boy, dance.”
“Give the poor dude some personal space,” Danica whispers back.
“If this is Lucas’s daily life,” I whisper, “I wouldn’t switch places with him for anything.”
Finally, after Lucas has kissed every last one of his adoring fans and sung to the sister and signed the boob and posed for selfies and signed a cell phone cover and grocery receipt and chuckled and smiled and been as gracious as any rock star could possibly be, he waves to the women and says, “Okay, I’ve got to do my thing now, ladies. Have a great night.”
The women titter and giggle and hug him and kiss him again, and finally head toward the elevators on a cloud of euphoria, finally leaving Lucas free to approach the front desk.
“Hello, Mr. Ford. Sir,” I say, punctuating that last word with unmistakable snark.
“Hey, Abby the Assassin,” he replies. He rests his muscled forearms on the counter between us. “I’ve decided Ass-kicker doesn’t do you justice anymore.” He rolls his eyes and it takes all my willpower not to grin. “Can I talk to you privately for a sec?” he asks. He motions toward a quiet corner of the lobby. “Please?”
“Whatever you have to say to me, you can say it in front of Danica,” I say primly. I cross my arms over my chest.
Lucas cocks his head to the side and flashes me a panty-melting smile I’ve not seen from him before. A smile that plainly tells me he finds my attitude toward him highly amusing.
“What is it, Mr. Ford?” I ask. “I’m listening.”
Lucas looks at Danica. “Can you give us a minute?”
“Stay,” I command to Danica, not taking my eyes off Lucas.
Danica fidgets but doesn’t leave.
Lucas exhales with obvious exasperation.
“Say what you need to say here, Mr. Ford. And please get to it. I’ve got some reports to do.”
“Abby,” Danica chastises me.
But I don’t care if I’m being bad. This asshole deserves everything I’m serving up to him and more. I continue staring at Mr. Rock Star, my jaw clenched, waiting to find out if this is a trick or the real deal.
“Jesus,” he finally mutters, shaking his head. He runs his hand through his hair and exhales. “I’m sorry I was a dick to you, Abby. Please forgive me. Sometimes, I forget the world doesn’t revolve around me. Because, you know, the world actually does revolve around me.” He smirks. “Now, would you please come to my suite so I can show you something?”
“Whatever you want to show me, I’ve already seen it,” I say. “I’ve seen your sex tape, remember?”
Danica snickers.
But Lucas doesn’t seem to find my comment funny. In fact, he looks like he wants to strangle me. I must admit, it’s a good look for him. “I don’t want to show you my dick,” he says, his jaw clenched. “If that’s what I want, I could have fucked the woman who asked me to sign her tit and tried to slip me her room key.” He rolls his eyes. “Abby, I want to play you a song I wrote. A song about you.”
&nb
sp; My jaw drops.
Lucas flashes me a cocky smile. “And then I want to show you my dick.” He grins at Danica and she literally snorts. Lucas looks at me again. “So will you please come up to my suite now? I’m not going to stand here begging you all night. People are gonna come in and swarm me again if I stand here much longer and I’m not in the mood to be Lucas Fucking Ford tonight. I’m tired—really fucking tired, Abby—and in the middle of an amazing writing session. So, decide. Are you coming with me or not? You’ve got three seconds to make your decision and then I’m out.”
I look at Danica, my brain short-circuiting and my heart racing.
“Three… two…” Lucas says.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Danica blurts. “Go, Abby! He’s Lucas Fucking Ford!”
Chapter Ten
Lucas presses the button for Penthouse A while I stand as far away from him inside the elevator as possible. I’m pretty much crapping my pants. Lucas Ford wrote a song about me? And now he’s going to play it for me privately…in his suite? My fifteen-year-old self would need the crash cart.
“I really am sorry I was such an asshole to you,” Lucas mumbles. “It had nothing to do with you. I’d had a particularly rough show that night and I guess I took it out on you. Sorry.”
I nod, acknowledging his apology. “We all have bad nights. Nobody’s perfect, not even rock stars.”
“Especially not rock stars.”
“Yeah, well, hotel clerks aren’t perfect either, so don’t feel too bad.”
“What?” Lucas says, feigning shock. “Miss Indoor Clean Air Act of 2007 isn’t perfect?”
“2006. And no, I’m not. I’m actually more fucked up than you could possibly imagine.”
The elevator doors open and Lucas politely motions for me to step outside first, which I do, and then we walk down the short hall toward Penthouse A.
“You couldn’t possibly be more fucked up than me,” Lucas says as we walk. “I signed a four-record deal with my label at seventeen. A deal that gave those cocksuckers full creative control.” He sighs. “I’ve just got to get them to green-light the songs for my fourth and final album and I’ll finally be free.” He sighs. “Unfortunately, that’s a whole lot easier said than done.”
“That doesn’t sound like you’re ‘fucked up,’” I say. “It just sounds like you’re creatively fucked.”
“Same thing. If I’m not the master of my own creative destiny, there’s no point to any of it. Trust me, being creatively fucked has led to me being royally fucked up.”
We reach the door to the penthouse and Lucas opens the door for me, and the moment we’re inside, he strides to the couch and grabs his acoustic guitar. “Have a seat, Assassin,” he says, indicating a chair a few feet away.
I sit and immediately notice two sets of sandwiches and side dishes on the coffee table.
Lucas begins tuning his guitar. “I assume you like BLTs? That’s what you ordered the other night.”
I feel my cheeks coloring. “They’re my favorite. Thank you. That was thoughtful of you.”
“It’s the least I can do. Or, hey, that’s what this cute little ass-kicker assassin told me is the least I can do. And thank God for that. When you left the other night after spectacularly kicking my ass, this song flowed out of me like lava from a volcano. It was like it was already written in some secret code and I just needed to unlock it.” His eyes are on fire. “Man, it felt incredible to have a song pour out of me like that again. It’s been a really long time.”
My heart is racing. “I’m elated for you.”
“I’ve had pretty severe writer’s block for about three years,” he says. “I haven’t been able to write a damned thing. At least not for myself. I’ve written a ton of junk-pop bullshit for plenty of other artists. Tons and tons, actually. But no ‘Lucas Ford’ songs. After a while, it seemed pointless to try. My label owns my soul and they kept vetoing the songs I sent them. Why bother?”
“Don’t they want to release the fourth and final album of your contract as much as you do?”
“Only if it’s filled with the kind of songs they want me to release. Only if I’m ‘on brand.’” He shakes his head with disgust. “And if not, that’s fine with them. I can stay in artistic purgatory forever as far as they’re concerned. Honestly, I think it gives ’em a raging boner to keep me locked in the tower.”
“But that’s against their own economic interest.”
“Welcome to the music industry, sweetheart.” He begins strumming his guitar as he speaks. “I’ve been a pretty big dick to those cocksuckers for the past five years, so it’s become personal. They’ve deserved my wrath, no doubt, but it’s only recently dawned on me it doesn’t matter if they deserve it. Being an asshole to them is ultimately the same thing as being an asshole to myself. At this point, I’ve decided to grow up once and for all and do whatever I’ve got to do to get out from under this fucking contract, even if that means writing whatever ‘Lucas Ford’ songs I’m contractually obligated to write. But that’s easier said than done. Creativity doesn’t work on command. I mean, you know, writing bullshit songs for another artist? Pfft. Like falling off a log. But writing songs that resonate emotionally? The kind those cocksuckers will approve for a Lucas Ford album? Yeah, that’s really fucking hard.” He flashes me a huge smile. “Until the other night, that is. Right after I met you.” His smile broadens. “Abby the Ass-kicker kicked my ass without holding back and bam! The most badass song in the history of the universe popped out like I’d ordered it from a vending machine.” He laughs. “It was the damnedest thing ever.” His strumming of his guitar has become more and more energized. “Okay, enough talking, Assassin. You ready to hear my song?”
I nod, every molecule in my body feeling like it’s buzzing.
“Okay, here it is. It’s called… You guessed it… ‘Assassin.’”
Without further ado, Lucas launches into an upbeat, catchy song about “a girl who looks like a slice of the sun” but who, it turns out, “is an assassin, son. She makes her way as a hired gun, taking shit as she goes from no one. Assassin kicks your ass so hard you cry, tells you the truth, makes you wish for the lie. When she’s done with you, it’s your turn to die. She’s a killer, son, an assassin. Fall in love with this girl as she walks out the door. But she leaves you for dead, leaves you begging for more. She’s a killer at large, a femme fatale. Don’t fall in love with this one, she’s an assassin.”
Lucas’s voice is oozing with sex appeal as he sings. His song’s melody is instantly memorable and addictive, and his guitar playing is swoon worthy. In short, I’m in heaven. This is the Lucas Ford I’ve always adored. The sexy troubadour who burst onto the scene a decade ago with “Shattered Hearts” and stole the entire world’s collective heart.
When Lucas is done performing his new song, he looks up from his guitar and beams a sexy smile at me, his eyes smoldering. “So what do you think, Assassin? You dig it?”
I clap and swoon. “I dig it,” I say, feeling light-headed. “It’s amazing.” I clutch my racing heart. “I think this is one of the most exciting moments of my life. Gimme a minute. I seriously can’t breathe.”
Lucas chuckles and puts down his guitar. “I’m glad you like it.”
“No, no, I love it. It’s going to be a smash hit. I’m positive your label’s going to approve it for your album.”
“Yeah, they already did. I recorded a quick demo of it on my iPad and sent it to the warden earlier. He and the rest of the cocksuckers went apeshit over it. Finally, after four fucking years, we’ve got a mutually agreed upon first song for my final album. Hallelujah.”
“Wow, congratulations.”
Lucas’s eyes are positively sparkling. “Thanks to you. I couldn’t have written it without you.”
“Me? I didn’t do anything except call you an asshole.”
Lucas grins. “You did quite a bit more than that. You spoke the truth, which allowed me to peek inside your soul. Just for a split second ther
e, but it was enough. Exactly what I needed, as it turned out.” His eyes are burning with sexual heat. “You inspired me, Abby.”
Arousal whooshes between my legs. “Oh…well…whatever I did, I’m glad it helped you. Anytime.”
Lucas shoots me a wicked smile. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
My clit is pulsing, just that fast. Something really dirty just flashed across Lucas’s mind. I could see it in his eyes.
“You hungry, Assassin?” he asks.
I look at him sideways, trying to decipher the expression on his face. “Um, sure,” I reply. “Thanks.”
Lucas hands me a full plate from the coffee table and we both begin tearing into the food he’s ordered for us.
“So where are you from, Abby?” he asks politely. But before I can answer, he batters me with more questions. “Tell me a bit about yourself, Abby. What are your goals and ambitions, Abby? What’s your favorite color, Abby?”
I return his snarky expression with one of my own. “You’ve got a good memory.”
“Just making sure I don’t get my ass kicked again by a certain assassin.”
We share a smile.
“Seriously. Tell me a bit about yourself,” he says. “You’re an enigma to me. I can’t quite figure you out.”
“That makes two of us,” I say. “I can’t quite figure me out, either.”
Lucas chuckles. “It’s now abundantly clear to me you’re not at all what you seem.”
“You said that before.”
“But this time I mean it in a whole new way. Now I can physically smell it on you.”
I’m mortified. “You can smell what on me?”
He closes his eyes and inhales deeply. “Your aroma. Your body’s unique perfume.” He opens his eyes and stares me down. “It gives you away.”
I look at him like he’s crazy.
“You know what I’d call your aroma if I were going to bottle it and sell it as a perfume?” he asks, his eyes positively smoldering.
“What?” I manage to ask.
