“I’m sorry, Dante. The agreements—they make sense. They’re best for the label. My emotions keep making me forget that. I shouldn’t have come here and asked you to join me at the nightclub.”
He crossed his arms. “When I made this about you and me, you hid behind the fucking company.”
“It’s not hiding. It’s prioritizing.” She put space between them. Because he stood in front of the door, she backed up to the den and didn’t stop until she bumped into the piano. When he eventually followed, she explained, “I wasn’t thinking clearly when I drove here. I was focusing on stupid shit. You’re leaving next week because you have a life in Washington. You’re a farmer. All of this isn’t real for you.”
“Fucking you, talking to you…That felt mighty fucking real to me.”
“There will be other women to fuck and talk to out west. My pussy’s not your one and only.”
“No, it’s not,” he agreed. He pushed the cigarette between his lips, drew from it, and the tip glowed. Smoke swirled, then faded away as he advanced on her in a casual stride. “But it’s my favorite.”
“Oh, that’s romantic.”
“I’m not trying to be romantic. Turn around.”
He didn’t have to tell her twice. Chelsea spun and clutched the edge of the piano. Watching him over her shoulder, she swayed her hips and bit her lip in anticipation of his nearness. “Show me I’m your favorite. The best you’ll ever have.”
She felt smoke caress her skin. It occurred to her that she didn’t really know Dante—never had. Instinct led her to trust him. Love begged her to trust him. Guilt seduced her to regret the ways she’d hurt him. But they’d always kept slices of themselves out of each other’s reach.
It hadn’t ended well for them when they’d been involved before.
“Put out the cigarette,” she said, her voice so sharp it rang in her ears. “Don’t touch me until you do.”
“Do you think I’d hurt you with this?” he asked, bringing the cigarette into her field of vision. “You think I’d burn you?”
“I want to remove the possibility, is all. You might drop it. Accidents happen.”
“So does revenge. Right?” Touching her because he could, and because he knew she wouldn’t duck and run, he moved her hair aside, unzipped her dress, and exposed her from the nape of her neck to the crack of her ass. “I never said I forgave you for that shit with Marquis Redd.”
When Jude Bishop had learned that Dante was working on tracks with Redd, he’d accused him of corporate espionage and said Dante was no longer his son. But it’d been Delilah who’d engaged in closed-door meetings with board members and conspired to sign a rapper without Jude’s authorization. Chelsea had lied and persuaded, seeing only a vision for the label’s future and not the toll it’d take on Dante.
Jude had turned against his son, and his son had turned against Chelsea.
“I’m starting to accept that you never will forgive me for that,” she told him. “We have sex, you wear my rubber band, and I gave you a hymnbook, but it doesn’t touch the pain you blame me for, does it?”
“Are you asking me for forgiveness?”
“I’m asking you to put out the cigarette. You’re not the nicest guy around when you’re pissed off.” When he’d hurt her before, he’d done so with vile words. But she hadn’t survived as COO of a hip-hop label without being the target of fucked-up name-calling and cruel threats, so words didn’t render the same heart-constricting devastation as they once had. Dante knew that. She had weaknesses, but she was stronger now, and if he meant to cause damage, he’d need to reconsider his weapons.
“I’m not pissed off now. Frustrated as fuck, but it’s all on me.” He put a hand to her back, slid it up, and knocked her dress out of the way. “Your skin’s too beautiful for me to want to mess it up. No matter what you do, I’d never hurt you like that, Chelsea.”
She lifted a hand and he surrendered the cigarette. “I’m sorry, but…”
“But the trust you have in me has limits.”
“Yeah. It’s the truth. Can’t help it.”
“Then this probably won’t change a damn thing, but the Redd deal and what happened with my dad—I let that go. I stopped blaming you.”
He forgave her? Then what explained the sense that he was being reserved and distant with her?
“Do you smoke, Chelsea?”
She considered the lit end of the cigarette. “I haven’t in a long time.”
“Finish it. It’s a quality smoke and really shouldn’t go to waste.”
“Oh, hi, peer pressure. I didn’t see you come in,” she said sarcastically. “Dante, what’ll you do while I’m smoking on your cigarette?”
“Get nice and deep in this.” He slapped her butt. “I’m going to grab a condom.”
God, he was the sexiest bad influence to look her way. Chelsea’s first drag from the cigarette was awkward and the smoke tangled in her lungs. But she tapped the ashes into a tray and tried again, reacquainting herself with nicotine and smoke and the invisible thrill that jangled through her system.
He was wearing her rubber band and she was smoking his cigarette. They were trying on each other’s self-destruction—sharing in a beautifully intimate and perverse way.
She was smiling when he came back. A condom was in one hand, and a notebook in the other.
“What this?” she asked, mashing the cigarette into the ashtray.
“I want to show you that your pussy’s my favorite.” The look he gave her was almost hot enough to melt her dress off her body. “Here.”
She grabbed the notebook and at first doubted her own eyes. “You wrote a song about me?” “In You” was about her vagina, to be perfectly precise. It was so erotic and vulgar that she was ready to ride him on the spot. “How many people know about this?”
“You and me.”
“When did you write it?”
“When I was with someone else.”
She stared at him, feeling hurt for the other woman. “You’re kind of a bastard to be in a relationship with one woman but writing songs about screwing me.”
“I know that.”
“And what, am I supposed to be proud that I’m the pussy on this page?”
“You’re the whole fucking notebook, Chelsea. It’s you. The songs are about you. I wrote thinking that if I could put you on those pages, you’d get the hell out of my head. It didn’t work. So don’t feel proud because you think it’s what I want.”
Chelsea was stuck between fear and elation. She wanted to touch every page, read every lyric, feel his every thought.
She kissed him instead. Setting things aside, catering to their lust, that was their habit. It was convenient and dangerous.
In the bedroom, she dropped the notebook and he peeled off her dress and thong. The dress was going to collect wrinkles scrunched on the floor like that, but each wrinkle would remind her of these moments and give her reasons to slip out of the party early to come back to Dante’s bed.
“Chelsea,” he said, unfastening his pants and revealing he was already hard for her, “the songs—”
“No.” She lay back on the bed and opened herself. “No serious talks while I’m soaking your sheets.”
Acceptance passed over his face as he yanked her to him. His mouth met her body, wet heat to wet heat, and he shut them both up.
—
They didn’t talk about the notebook. After they fucked and he went to the bathroom to trash the condom, Chelsea grabbed the notebook and greedily absorbed the other songs. Some were untitled and some unfinished, but they were pure and raw and brilliant. Running a blueberry farm was Dante’s life now, but songwriting was still his God-given talent.
The lyrics in Dante’s notebook haunted the back of her mind as she drove to Opera alone. It was fortunate that he’d declined her invitation. How in hell would she concentrate on mingling with colleagues and clients and celebrities if Dante Bishop was somewhere in the building with his nasty mind and incre
dible mouth?
“I was going to send out a search party for you,” Emma said when Chelsea entered the opera-house-style nightclub. The DJ had Vitalz on tap and it appeared that every crevice of the place was crammed with gyrating bodies. “But I had a pretty good idea what was keeping you. Did you bring him here?”
“No, he’s not coming.” Chelsea took a flute of champagne from a scantily clad waitress. “I invited him, though.”
“I’m glad calmer thinking prevailed. One Bishop at this party is enough.”
One Bishop? “Is Delilah here?”
“Yes. She told me Shatter sent her to gather intel, but I don’t trust a woman who blew through here, grabbed a drink, and slipped off to VIP. I already had a conversation with management about taking care of…traces. Know what I mean?”
“Was she high when you spoke with her?”
“A little glassy-eyed, but she was lucid. Of course, that was over a half hour ago and she can usually find somebody willing to give her what she wants.” Emma swept her gaze around the darkened club, though they both knew it’d be difficult to spot anyone in the masses covering the wood floor and dancing under the lasers. “Finish your drink. Enjoy. And don’t leave before midnight. Vitalz is performing.”
“ ‘Nasties’ is doing well,” she said, hating to jinx the single’s success but also desperate to talk about a company achievement. For so long Devil’s Music artists’ successes had been overshadowed with disputes and declining profit. “You, Joshua, and me should toast to that.”
Emma was quiet for a moment. “You and I should toast. He’s not leaving the dance floor anytime soon. See him over there?”
Chelsea looked past guests and photographers to where Joshua was grinding against a sleek-haired brunette wearing a frilly romper, fishnets, and boots. “Who’s the Nightclub Barbie he’s dancing with?”
“You see her every day and don’t recognize her? That’s my shiny new PA.”
“Seriously? That’s Alexis? Well, I can’t see her face clearly, since she’s got her back to us and is rubbing her ass against your husband’s crotch.” Forgoing the toast, she drank the entire glass of champagne. “I’m going to put some space between them.”
“Leave them be. She deserves a break and this is what Joshua does.”
“Impregnate women on dance floors?”
“Don’t be difficult, Chelsea. They’re just dancing. She’s tamer now than she was twerking on the pole earlier. Guys started giving her business cards and Joshua intervened.”
How could Emma not be threatened, knowing what Joshua had done with Delilah? “Emma, listen. Alexis clarified that she’s not straight or gay—she’s bisexual. If she and your husband decide they really enjoy grinding with each other…”
“They’re not going to have an affair. I’m not worried about that.”
“How can you be so confident?”
“It would put our project in jeopardy. Besides, she’s still mourning her girlfriend. She hasn’t been with anyone since Melanie died.”
Chelsea traded a waitress her empty flute for a full one. “Alexis doesn’t seem comfortable volunteering personal shit. How’d you manage that kind of info?”
“She doesn’t talk much with hearing people. When she signs, she’s more relaxed. She opens up to people who communicate with her that way.” Emma shrugged a shoulder and her slinky deep red dress quivered. “In the limo she was very reserved, but this night is wild and now she’s following Joshua’s lead. If anything, I’m glad he’s keeping an eye on her. If she’s left to wander around here with drinks in her hand, who’s to say how freely she might talk? Sensitive information spoken in the wrong ears wouldn’t be good.”
Chelsea thought that someone ought to keep an eye on him, but it wasn’t her place to keep offering advice to people who didn’t want it. She’d experienced more than enough of that with her parents. “All right, two glasses of champagne in and I’m ready to try out the dance floor. C’mon.”
“Me? No, I shouldn’t. I’m observing tonight.”
“Hell, no. If you won’t dance, then I won’t, either. And if the CEO and COO won’t dance at their own company’s bash, then that’s pretty fucking lame. So…?”
The pulse-jarring beat and gritty rap lyrics called them to the crowds, and finally Emma relented and let Chelsea lead the way. They twisted and rocked to the music for barely a minute before men clustered around them.
A few songs later, Joshua found his way to his wife, and Chelsea broke away to work the room. She knew Shatter wasn’t the only label that had sent a representative. In fact, she’d anticipated a percentage of uninvited guests. Spying was a way of life in the entertainment industry, and it only meant that she needed to be vigilant.
Returning to the main floor and finding Alexis relaxing with a mixed drink, she signed How are you? because her sign language skills were limited and she didn’t know the correct gestures to ask Are you having a good time tonight?
“Thanks,” Alexis said. “You don’t have to sign. Your lips are easy to read.”
Chelsea nodded. “You look unbelievable.”
“Dressing for the job. The vibration here is intense. But this is fun.” She sipped the drink, staining the rim of her glass with sensual pink lipstick. “Oh—Clint Jermaine is looking for you.”
Chelsea had been searching for him before she’d found herself on the main floor and had spotted Alexis. “I’ll go find him.”
Pushing through knots of people, music hammering in her ears, she scoured the place for Vitalz’s lead rapper. As she started for the balcony, someone obstructed her path.
“I’m here.”
Chelsea glared at Moniqua Prenz. “Get the hell out of this club. This is a private Devil’s Music event.”
“I’m still a Devil’s Music client, bitch. That’s number one. Number two, y’all motherfuckers—”
“Security,” Chelsea yelled. A bouncer wearing an EVENT STAFF T-shirt came quickly. “Escort Ms. Prenz outside. She’s prohibited from this party.”
Moniqua burst into violent profanity, but Chelsea didn’t feel much like giving a fuck and kept walking. It took her a while to search the upper level and ask around before someone finally hinted that Clint Jermaine was outside shooting craps.
Whatever he’d paid security to look the other way must’ve been hefty. A cop could cruise through the streets and cause all kind of hell for the label.
Outside, building lights glittered against the night and warm air fluttered in Chelsea’s hair as she walked downstairs. Paparazzi, guests, and security lined the street. She got swept into hugs, handshakes, and photos before she slinked away to resume her search for Clint. Detecting voices underneath the remnants of pounding music, she pursued the side of the building. As she turned the corner, she heard an engine grind and tires spin.
Clint had spotted her and was lifting a hand in greeting when a dark sedan paused on the street. A door didn’t open, but a back window lowered, and Chelsea stopped breathing. Flares of light and bursts of sound came from the open window.
Pop! Pop-pop! Pop-pop!
Bodies jerked and crumpled, and Chelsea tried to scream. But she was down, too, sprawled on the sidewalk watching with blurry eyes as the car tore down the street and blood blossomed across her silver dress.
—
Delilah swirled a chicken tender in a ramekin of chipotle barbecue sauce, sighing over the drone of Top 40 music filling On Tap tonight. It was the second full meal—the first a pulled pork sandwich and waffle fries—that she’d put away since sitting across from Dante at the filthy joint.
He’d washed down a burger with a couple of beers and wondered how much more his sister would eat before the munchies let go of her. “How much shit did you hit over at the Opera?” he demanded.
Coldness had smacked him when he’d gotten her call earlier. He’d thought she’d stay the fuck away from Devil’s Music events, but she’d insisted that the Shatter Records CEO had sent her to Atlanta and that if she
refused, he’d be tipped off that she wasn’t on the up-and-up. And then, right on the heels of the news that she’d gone to the party, she’d told him, “This party’s not that hype. I’m going to find a bar or something, unless you think you might want to visit with your only family.” The guilt trip had grabbed him, and he’d suggested On Tap. She’d arrived transparently high, started eating, and now, it appeared, she wouldn’t stop.
“I was there on company business,” she murmured. “All I did was sample what was offered to me.”
“What’d you put in your system?”
“I don’t know. Judgmental ass.” She bit a chunk off the tender. “It’s not all that potent anyway. Devil’s Music had the best refreshments when I was at the helm. Glory days—soon to be again, if you accomplish what you came here to. You have news for me?”
He looked into Delilah’s expectant face. “Yeah, I have news.” Giving the bar a quick scan and seeing no one apparently tuned in to his conversation, he told her the truth. “It’s not going to happen. Chelsea’s not selling me her shares.”
“How can you say that with certainty? I mean, I’m confused. Did you ask to buy the shares? Did you make the case that she owes you this?”
“She doesn’t owe me, Delilah. I willingly gave up my claim to the label.”
“Then she owes me!”
“Calm the hell down.”
“Fuck you.” She overturned her plate. “I didn’t voluntarily leave the company. She stole from me, and you promised me you would take care of this for me. But you’re content to let her run the Bishops’ legacy into the ground because she opens her legs for you. You’re letting her pull your strings, and it’s pathetic.”
“Shut the fuck up and listen to me, Delilah.” He reached over and took a firm grip on her arm, holding her in her seat. “It’s not my place to play with her mind to get my hands on her stake in the label. It’s not right.”
“I think it’s too late for you to start developing a conscience now. Does she know that this whole time you were after her twenty-four percent?”
Sin for Me Page 19
