In the mirror was one cold bastard.
It was all in the perception. Physically he hadn’t morphed into a different guy simply by boarding a plane to Georgia. But the perceptions he triggered—from Chelsea, who accused him of hating her; from a stranger who might’ve put a cap in him for a wristwatch but had instead run from the bar; from himself, standing in a grimy john—were different now.
He was wealthy and had a name folks recognized, but Dante Bishop was still mortal and vulnerable to the shadows that existed in this city and this industry.
He felt as if he’d been struck, though no one had touched him. He grabbed a man making tracks for the urinal. “Sorry, man. Look, I need a pen or something.”
“Dude, what?” The guy grumbled and patted the pockets of his jeans, then he came up with a dull stub of pencil. “All I got.”
Dante took it and yanked sheets of paper towel from the roll on the lone sink. Taking the paper to a wall, scraping back a bit of the wood on the pencil to expose the lead, he started to scribble.
He wrote, swore, scratched out lines. As men came through, pissing on the floor, leaving shit unflushed in toilets, fucking women on the sink, trading cash for drugs, he kept writing.
When he emerged from the john, he felt manic and drained at the same time. On the paper towel jammed in his pocket were the lyrics to “Turned Out Dirty”—the title track on Devil’s Music’s private album.
The label had the authority to call the album and the song whatever the fuck it wanted—or reject it entirely. But he knew it wouldn’t happen.
Fred was wrong. Dante wasn’t in up to his neck in this. He was completely taken under.
Chapter 8
The following afternoon, Chelsea concluded a garden-patio meeting with the social media team and lingered at the table after everyone had packed up their technology and dispersed. A fly that had respectfully buzzed around the awning during the meeting finally swooped down to contaminate her pasta primavera. She didn’t mind. She’d filled up on a tortilla chip loaded with queso dip and hadn’t the interest in eating anything more substantial. At least now someone might enjoy the pasta. It was ordinarily one of her favorite dishes, and she’d thought she might have the appetite for more than snack food, but she couldn’t bring herself to even pick at her plate—as she had during dinner last night.
Though she hadn’t known hunger growing up—both of her parents had worked two jobs, and she was their only offspring—she’d been taught to not be wasteful.
As a kid she’d treated Kraft out of the box as if it were a gourmet entrée. Now she let actual gourmet meals grow cold and uneaten.
This wouldn’t be the first Coin family lesson she’d let fall by the wayside. What were some others? Live with integrity. Be practical-minded. No sex until marriage.
She could laugh at how enthusiastically she rebelled against that last one. She might have snapped the skin off her wrists completely if she hadn’t learned to channel her stress into sexual energy.
Dante had opened that gateway—in the garage that stored his father’s collection of classic automobiles, in fact. She was one of the few known virgins in her graduating class and taunted for it, but how many could say their grand entrance had taken place on the hood of a Duesenberg Model A?
Every time they were together, he left an invisible impression on her heart, and she’d figured she wasn’t going to be sorry that she was fucking a guy without the benefit of a ring. She’d rather associate sex with something good and important, like love, than something tangled and bitter, like marriage.
Perhaps her logic had been skewed then, but who the hell cared now that she knew firsthand that love, too, was immaterial when it came to screwing. And she wasn’t sorry for that, either.
Chelsea scrolled through the notes on her tablet, not quite registering the content as the July wind sighed against her skin. A hot morning had greeted her, so she’d responded by putting next to no thought into her clothes. Jeans, flats, and a white cotton button-down that was thin enough to display her bra had to suffice. The bun at the top of her head was because upon arriving at the estate she’d been briefed on yet another antagonistic Twitter campaign from Moniqua Prenz and had started snapping almost immediately. Emma had discreetly suggested that she find another use for the rubber band before her lunch meeting, and that’s why she sat under an awning with the thing binding her hair in a loose knot.
“Terri said I’d probably find you here.”
She looked up at Dante as he approached. His shadow fell over her plate. Interesting—he’d brought so much light to her world before, and now he brought darkness. “Found an ally already?”
“I doubt Terri would admit to that, seeing as I pushed her boss through glass last night.”
“Terri would be one of the first to run down all the instances where Joshua survived much worse than a few shallow cuts. Not many would guess by the suits and expensive shoes, but he used to street-fight for money.”
“Yeah, and was that before or after his prison stint?”
“Oh, bae, you don’t have to remind me who I’m dealing with. His past is no secret to me.” She waved at the waiter, who advanced on them with a pitcher of iced water. “You didn’t track me down to exchange Joshua Drake trivia, so what’s up?”
He straddled the chair next to her, his eyes hidden behind glasses that reflected her frowning face. “I wrote something last night.”
“Diligent as always,” she said, though pleased to know directly what others had speculated this morning when he’d shown up early for studio time. Eager for a listen—hell, to read the lyrics, even—she sat straighter. “Want to run it by me?”
“What’s your schedule look like?”
“I have a dinner meeting at Rathbun’s.”
“Shouldn’t miss that,” he commented, indicating her full plate. “You didn’t touch your food. Keep going like this and you won’t have any kind of ass for me to grab.”
“So funny.” She pasted a pretend smile to her lips and considered the pasta primavera. The fly had buzzed off, but it’d spent a solid few minutes creeping along the creamy, cheesy terrain. “Why don’t you eat it? You’re more than welcome.”
“There’s insincerity in your voice that makes me suspicious. Did the plate fall on the floor or something?”
Damn it, he was smart. “Something,” she said in a sort-of admission. “Don’t comment on my shape. I might splash my drink in your face next time, as opposed to trying to trick you into eating an entrée that a fly molested.”
“If you can set a guy up so casually, I’d better not get to thinking I can trust you,” he returned, propping his arms—oh, God, the muscles—on the top rail of his chair.
Were the only clothes he packed ones that emphasized his mouth-wateringly taut form? Should she be concerned that she teetered toward distraction each time he crossed her path?
“What are you staring at, Chelsea?”
“Your forearms.” She closed her tablet case, grabbed her purse, and got up.
Dante reached and caught her around the middle with one of those amazing-as-hell arms. His skin wore the sun’s golden touch, and she was envious of it and the wind and everything else with permission to initiate contact.
“I detected a whole lot of honesty in that answer.”
“Because I was being honest. Back to the song. That is why you’re here.”
He shut up and followed her from the patio to the stone walkway that led to the courtyard; from there they could take a shortcut to the recording wing.
“I got out of the studio a little while ago, brought things back to the guesthouse,” he told her when he realized their route. “You good with listening to it there? I wasn’t heading back to the studio until tonight.”
“Certainly.” She observed him for a moment as they changed course and headed to the parking area, where her practical I-don’t-feel-like-showing-off late-model Buick convertible waited.
The benefit to wearing an un
attractive elastic was that it kept her hair from tossing this direction and that during the short drive to the guesthouse. Quaint compared to the sprawl of the main house, the large cottage frequently hosted high-profile Devil’s Music visitors and on occasion celebrity entourages best kept contained on the premises.
Assigned a dedicated concierge, housekeeping, and security crew, the property contained a plethora of luxuries. Still, most guests found inadequacies and flaws and reasons to complain.
“How’s this working out for you?” she asked Dante as they climbed out of her convertible and ventured to the porch. A gleaming, mammoth black SUV was parked in front. She’d heard that a loaner car had been delivered, and this was a beaut. “Comfortable enough? Clean enough?”
“I thought details like that weren’t your responsibility,” he said, leading her inside and tossing his sunglasses onto a table. The air, fragrant from the flowers housekeeping delivered fresh daily, now held the bergamot essence and leather notes of his cologne. Perverse woman that she was, she filled her lungs with the scent.
“It’s just that most of the people who stay here are pampered and think faultfinding is required of the celebrity persona. We address their concerns and won’t treat you any differently.”
“It’s a roof over my head, it’s got working plumbing, and there are instruments. I’m all right.” He walked into the open den area that had been cleared of lounge furniture in order to hold a piano, guitars, a drum set, and a computer with audio mixing equipment. “I put this together last night. Got a concept, worked out a rough beat in my head to get this on paper for your crew.”
She accepted the music and sat on the floor. “ ‘Turned Out Dirty,’ ” was all she said until she finished reading the music, and then she started again, ignoring the music altogether and playing with only the words in her mind, visualizing the naked flow of the lyrics.
Thank me ’cause I made you—dirty
Ride me ’cause you deserve it—dirty
No shame on me ’cause I fucked you—dirty
Pray for me
Bleed for me
Apologize for me
Get on your knees…like that—goddamn it, don’t tease…like that—swear you ain’t tellin’ lies to me…like that
Chelsea was hung up on those lyrics, pulled into the bold darkness but basking in the sensation of healing the words triggered.
“Dante, am I reading a song about rough sex or something spiritual?”
“Rough sex can be spiritual.” He lowered to his haunches, hooked a finger onto her top button, and pulled her forward. She was ready for that filthy mouth, craving that first strike of his tongue, and he didn’t disappoint. “When you want to explore that, test my theory, let me know.”
Now. Get down here and fuck me now. “I’ll keep that in mind. So which is it?”
“Depends on which you want it to be. Music’s interpretation—you know that.”
“Save all philosophical discussions for another conversation. I think I’m a little bit pregnant after reading this. The brilliant sleaze of your mind is an impressive thing.” She kept her eyes fixed on the sheets in front of her. This was only a dash of ego stroking. Artists liked that.
Get him nice and cocky with some encouraging words, and he’d crank out more hot tracks. She needed him to find the hit-maker. His songwriting lightning had struck many times before. Now that he was older and retired, he was still a gamble. “Turned Out Dirty” was fucking hot, but it was only a single song.
“Let me put a little instrumental under it. Keep it simple.” He sat at the piano, leaving the music in her hands—of course he’d written this last night but had it memorized already—and made the keys submit to a sultry, stripped-bare tune.
As he began to sing, the harshness of his R&B sound drew her off the floor. Pressed to the wall, she watched him perform as though no one else was in this cottage with him.
Musicians fascinated her. She had an ear for music but lacked the ability to create or even replicate it with any quality. She even lip-synched Christmas carols because her vulgarly off-key voice threw off the other carolers.
Dante’s voice seemed to lure her close yet hold her off. It mimicked his touch, inviting her and forsaking her at the same time.
“Help me out with something,” he said, his strong fingers still on the keys. “Come in with an oh at ‘thank me,’ and sustain it ’til ‘dirty.’ ”
“No, no, no, I can’t sing at all.”
“Two words, babe. ‘Oh’ and ‘dirty.’ ”
“You’re not listening. I suck terribly.”
He gave her a quick frown. “Disagree. From what I remember, you suck phenomenally.”
“You know what I meant.” And thanks, actually.
“I’ll lower all expectations. Try this with me?”
She shrugged. “Okay. Make those expectations lower than low.”
Dante’s quick smile was a flash of sunlight through overcast. “Know what to do?”
“Yeah.” When the hook approached, she slipped in, blending her voice with his and went with it, hearing herself entwine with him.
The music led her from the wall until she was standing in front of the piano, entranced with him and herself.
She could still hear the raw lyrics and tight sound after he took his hands off the keys and left the piano.
“I want to add percussion and violin on that. Give it more texture,” he said, his face so serious, his mind so deep in concentration. “What’s your impression?”
“It’s our debut.” She’d fight producers, the marketing team, the CEO—anyone who tried to argue for another single. The song was unrefined and the vocals could change the quality of it, but this was the introduction Delilah had been talking about at their meeting.
“If you’d said it was good or hot, I would’ve scrapped it,” he admitted.
“Dante, it’s going to slap the shit out of the charts.”
Get on your knees…like that—goddamn it, don’t tease…like that—swear you ain’t tellin’ lies to me…like that…
The words looped around her. “Say the hook. Speak it, like you’re talking to me.”
The command hit its mark. Dante was on her fast, his hands framing her face, his mouth seducing her when she was so into him it seemed seduction ought to be pointless.
They moved while they kissed, clumsily drifting to a different room. It took a moment before she noticed the bed.
The linens were neat—hotel-room neat, as the bed in the executive bedroom suite was at the top of every morning after housekeeping came through in the afternoons. The calendar in the gold holder on the nightstand still presented yesterday’s date. Had a maid already visited today and forgotten to update the calendar, or had Dante not slept here last night?
She remembered throwing him a condom after her assistant had interrupted them in her office. Had he used it?
Her breath became shorter. Ask him? Would I be offended if he asked me? Does it make a difference?
“Get on your knees,” he said.
Chelsea stared into his eyes. He was going to let her touch him, finally, and the question might cause what was building between them to crumble, but damn it, she deserved to know if she was sharing him. “Were you with someone else last night?”
“No. But I wanted to be.”
Ooh, that hurt. “Who?”
“Anyone. I went out in a taxi, had the guy drive around so I could look at hookers. I met up with my attorney at a bar, wrote this song in the worst motherfucking john I’ve been to in a while, and crashed on the couch.”
“I’m so comforted to know I’m a step up from a weeknight hooker. Thanks, Dante.” She arched a brow. “Are you going to come back with some line that price is the only difference between a hooker and me? Or are you going to wax poetic about the high quality of my ass? Which way are you going to go with it?”
He took her hands, laid them on his chest. Hard as stone. Unbreakable. It had been so long sinc
e they’d shared this simple contact. “Be pissed off. What happened before isn’t license for me to keep hurting you with shit like that.”
“It’s not,” she reinforced, letting her hands glide up to his shoulders. “I’m not going to apologize again for South Sounds and lying to you about Marquis Redd so you’d write his songs. That doesn’t mean I’m not sorry anymore. Just that I’ve got to move forward here.”
For the first time, there was total quiet around them. Yesterday there had been the growl of the limo’s engine, the voices of people working in their offices, the music floating through the walls from her assistant’s space.
With Dante’s hands no longer on the piano, there was just them. Breathing, thinking, reaching toward some midway point that would let them take a step away from the past.
He nodded. It was acceptance, and that was something with value, but she’d made apologies in the past and he still hadn’t. He had cut her down seven years ago and in the aftermath she’d modified how she navigated life and what she believed in.
Maybe she was too hung up on hurt feelings or searching for a reason to hold some part of herself away from him, but until he made amends for that night, that fight, she would handle him with caution.
Cautiously, smartly, she’d satisfy her greed for him.
“Tell me again,” she said, flexing her fingers against his shoulders.
“Get on your knees.”
She kept her palms flat on his abdomen as she sank in front of him. She took his hands, kissed them, then found his belt.
His approval came in a whispered, “Like that.” He pulled off his T-shirt, smiling down as she anxiously worked open his jeans.
His cock was heavy in her hands. She reacquainted her tongue with the tip of it and his fists latched onto her bun, guiding her head.
But when she applied a sweet kiss to his thigh and laughed, he said, “Goddamn it, don’t tease me.”
Aroused, Chelsea felt her muscles clench. She licked her palms, her saliva lending some slip between his skin and hers. From base to tip, she jerked him.
“Like that,” he said, his groans raining down on her.
Sin for Me Page 12
