I decide against being rude. She did buy me a drink after all. Two, I realize when the bartender shoves another beer toward me.
“What do you do?”
She adjusts closer at my renewed interest. “I’m an executive.”
Hell yeah. I see it now. The power suit, the confidence. An attractive, experienced woman who knows what she wants never fails to get me hard. Her phone rattles on the bar, and my dick curses right along with her. She answers with an apologetic look. It’s executive business stuff. Urgent. She’s important.
Damn. Could have been an epic lay.
I’m fully prepared for her goodbye when she hangs up and asks for her check.
“I’m sorry, Wes. I have to run, but it was great to meet you.”
I nod, watching her expression buckle at missing out on the opportunity to bed a rock god. But she’ll get over it. The truth is Executive Miranda will probably be more interested in the fact that my father is Frederick Alton of Alton Media when she looks me up. Yep, that’s out there for public consumption too. Wes Alton: poor rich boy.
“Here’s my number, though. I’d love for you to use it,” she says, scribbling on a napkin. Thick, dark eyelashes pound her message home.
“Thanks. Have a great night, Miranda,” I say, studying her as she bites her lip and hesitates. I must be on point this evening if I’m giving Ms. Important Executive reason to pause when the office calls. Hannah would be proud.
Hannah.
Shit. Now I’m relieved that Miranda chose work over play. So not a rock god move. Classic schlub.
∞∞∞
I go home alone. No bartender, no horny executives, just me and my infuriating list of missed calls. I stretch out on the couch and finally return one, a terrible idea after a night of drinking, but that’s my brand.
“Dammit, Wes. How long were you planning on ignoring me?”
“Thirteen days, apparently.”
“Smartass. Wait, are you drunk?”
“Yes.”
“Shit. I really need to talk to you.”
I close my eyes but reopen them when the spinning makes my stomach churn. “So talk.”
“But—”
“Talk, Jacob.”
“Holland wants to negotiate. Work something out.”
Silence.
“You there?”
“Huh?”
“I said Holland wants to negotiate.”
Negotiate. That’s what coworkers do. Business associates. Exes. Not lifelong best friends. I wouldn’t have been able to respond to that sober.
“Hey, Wes. Hello?”
“Yeah?”
“Okay, so?”
“So, what?”
“I just told you Holland wants to keep the band together.”
“Um, yeah. I heard you.”
“You heard me? Dammit. Stop being a dick and just fix this already.”
“Fix what?”
“Seriously? Unbelievable.”
“She kicked me out. What am I supposed to do?”
“She didn’t kick you out. She said she wants a different arrangement and formal contract between the two of you before you continue. You’re on hiatus until you work it out, so let’s do that and get you back on track.”
My muscles contract, grip clenched on the phone until I fear for its warranty. Maybe it’s the alcohol but this rage feels more universal.
“Come on every band goes through these growing pains. We’ll—”
“Every band?”
“You know what I mean. It’s a spat. It’s—”
“You’re talking about my best friend, Jacob! A band we started when we were teenagers. You’re talking about something I gave up everything for. This is not some fucking business deal. This is my entire existence, everything that’s important to me. So quit making it sound like a real estate transaction.”
I gladly accept the silence on the other end. He doesn’t get it. How could he? How could any of them? No one would except Holland, and she’s done with me. I’m contract fodder now.
His voice is too calm for my temper when he continues. “You assaulted her boyfriend. You’re lucky they didn’t press charges and she’s still willing to work anything out with you.”
“Fuck you, Jacob,” I say because he’s absolutely right.
I hang up and turn off my phone so I don’t have to ignore any more calls. I study the ceiling, letting my blurry mind take me to the moment I threw it all away. The moment my need to protect Holland shattered everything we’d built together. Was it stupid? Yes. Do I look like a jackass now that Luke’s turning out to be a decent human being? Yes. Would I have done anything differently if I could go back? Hell no.
The nausea is beginning to climb from my stomach to my throat, and I force myself off the couch and stagger toward the bathroom. Four full meters. Impossible. Who designed this condo layout? I have to grip the wall for support as I inch toward safety.
New contract equals dissolved relationship.
I don’t make it to the bathroom.
2: MIRANDA
I’m pretty sure rock bottom is a secluded alley with missing body parts, not the floor of your luxury condo, but it’s not a place I’m proud to find myself the following morning.
I groan and force myself up, wincing from the blood throbbing through my head. I smell rotten, or is it the carpet? Probably both. Another proud moment for the new Wes Alton. I finish last night’s failed journey to the bathroom and splash water over my face. The SOB doesn’t look so cocky when he’s staring into bloodshot eyes, wet streaks dripping down his cheeks onto a vomit-stained t-shirt.
I rid myself of the embarrassing reminder and run the shower. Forget my usual oasis in the master suite. I just need this shit off me as quickly as possible. I definitely need to ignore the fear that my disgust won’t be erased by hot water and soap. It feels more permanent, a sickness that no amount of water can fix.
It’s a short shower, ending with my head against the cold tile wall to catch my breath. I don’t bother with a towel and shuffle back to my room. Perk of being alone. It drove one of my exes nuts, but then so did the way I folded my clothes, brushed my teeth, stacked the cabinets, and loaded the dishwasher. We lasted three weeks, which was still six days longer than any other relationship since Holland.
I throw on a pair of boxer-briefs and head to the kitchen to attempt coffee. My phone is still glaring at me from the table, but I’m not sure about that trial yet.
Dammit.
I wake the display, habit I guess, and wait grimly as it gathers evidence of everything I missed last night.
Jacob, check. And check. Oh, and check. C’mon, dude.
Shit. My sister too.
I click on that one.
“Wes!”
“Sophia!”
“Jerk. Hey, you’re coming Friday, right? You never responded to the invitation.”
“Friday?”
“Ugh, seriously? I hate you. My engagement party?”
Right. I sigh. “Depends. You still marrying that douche, Teddy?”
“Theodore, and stop being an ass. He’s a good guy.”
“So good he dumped you, what, three times if I recall?”
“It was complicated.”
“By the fact that he thought he’d get a better offer from Lucy Vander-bitch.”
“Wes, come on. That’s in the past. We worked it out, okay? Please come. For me?”
That damn soft spot for my little sister.
“I don’t suppose Dad will decide to sit this one out?”
“You two can be civil for three hours.”
“Oh, I have no doubt he’ll be civil.”
“Please, Wes? Don’t make me beg. Theodore is insisting on all the rich people crap. Who’s going to make fun of the stuffy linens and canapés?”
“Ah, yes. And the crudités. But of course,” I add, horrible accent and all.
“Don’t forget the catalog of aiolis.”
“Truffle, for sure.�
�
“Duck liver.”
“Right. A zoo of livers.”
“Unicorn tear cocktails.”
I laugh. Damn, she’s got me.
My breath escapes into the phone, and she squeals.
“You’re coming?”
“I’ll be there. But hey.” This is important. “Only for you, got it? There will be no reconciliations, no interventions, and absolutely no references to Holland or any of the shit that went down.”
Her hesitation doesn’t inspire a lot of confidence. “Got it. Just you and your frowny face. But in return, you have to refrain from any backhanded insults to Theodore that he doesn’t understand.”
“Hmm… so I have to lower the reading level?”
“Stop it,” she chuckles. “None at all. He’s not as dumb as you think he is.”
“But you admit he’s still dumb.”
“I’m hanging up now.”
“Love you, sis.”
“Love you too, jerk.”
And yeah. Maybe I’m glad I called her back.
∞∞∞
Today’s bar couple is enraged about the lack of recycling regulations in the States. They don’t compost. All that perfectly good worm food tossed carelessly among the environmental poison that is the trash-bag trash. I gulp whisky to distract my mouth from butting in with an explanation of our garbage situation on tour. God, their crafted man buns would explode.
“Fancy meeting you here.”
Her familiar voice startles me from my musings. It’s the only explanation for the sudden rush of adrenaline slicing through me.
“I could say the same. It’s a Wednesday night. Shouldn’t you be clocking hours? And where’s Geoffrey?”
Hannah drops to the seat beside me, still all lawyered in a stuffy business costume. Decorative scarf and everything. I tug it with a smirk, and she smacks me away.
“I’m sorry. I don’t remember asking your opinion,” she quips while signaling the bartender.
“I didn’t say a word. I mean, it’s December. It’s cold, eh?”
Yep, cuz that blue silky contraption is going to thwart minus twenty winds. I shouldn’t laugh. It’s just, I’ll never not see the girl with black fingernails and a viper tattoo snaking up the left side of her torso. I thought her family was going to murder me after I took her to my artist for her ink. Holland bit my head off when she heard.
Now? Blue silk scarves and pencil skirts.
“It’s called fashion. You should try it sometime.”
There are too many easy strikes to choose just one so I settle on a twist of the lips.
The bartender pushes some fruity-looking thing in front of her.
“I think he forgot the little umbrella thingy,” I say. “You drinking cosmos now like a good sorority girl?”
She shoves a shoulder into mine before taking a healthy gulp for my benefit. “I’ll have you know that it happens to be delicious.”
“Yeah? Did Emma introduce you to that concoction?” I ask, referencing her seventeen-year-old sister.
“Emma doesn’t drink, asshole.”
I grin.
“And what’s the badass rocker drinking, huh?” My glass is legit wrenched from my fingers, and I almost lose my shit at the contorted look that spreads over her face.
“Whisky, ugh.”
“What were you expecting?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know. Troll blood.”
I laugh. “Troll blood? That would have been better than whisky?”
“What you witnessed was shock, not disgust, genius.”
“Oh, I see. Can I have my drink back now?”
My glass slides toward me, accompanied by an exaggerated huff.
“You know, Holland is pissed that you bowed out of the Bahamas charity thing at the end of your tour,” Hannah informs me.
I grunt into my rippling reflection. “Why does everyone keep insisting that I’m the one who doesn’t want me around?”
“Look, I don’t want to get involved,” she lies because this would be the first time ever. “But you both are acting like twelve-year-olds. Just apologize and fix the damn thing. There is no Wes without Holland or Holland without Wes.”
“I did.”
Her look is justifiably skeptical. “Like a real apology or a Wes Alton apology?”
“What’s a Wes Alton apology?” I have to know.
Apparently, it comes with a Wes Alton smoosh-face. “‘Hey, babe, so sorry that you’re wrong about this. Hope you don’t feel bad about how wrong you are.’”
I laugh so hard it hurts. “Wow. What’s with the face? Is that how I look when I’m apologizing?”
“Oh, no. That’s how you look all the time.”
“Really,” I say, leaning back for the fight.
She rolls her eyes. “I’m not going to tell you you’re hot, so don’t even bother.”
“I knew it.”
“Shut up. Don’t start.”
“Hey, that was your Freud-brain, not mine. Never even occurred to me you’d think that.”
“Please.”
I shrug back to casual whisky-drinking mode. “Just saying…”
Hannah stiffens at something behind me.
“Hey, there. I was hoping you’d show up again.”
Shit.
“Hey. Miranda, right?” I’m polite as hell when I acknowledge the executive from Friday night on my other side. Hannah doesn’t try quite as hard.
“Hey. Hannah here.”
Their cool handshake sends my brain to spy movies and daring brush passes between agents and handlers.
“Miranda,” Ms. Polished says, all confidence and possessiveness. “Wes Alton,” she directs at me now that Hannah has been addressed and released. “Lead guitar and co-genius behind Canadian rock legends Tracing Holland.”
“You looked me up.”
“Of course. In the cab on the way to the office.”
Hannah is securing her drink for an escape when I pull her back to the chair.
“Hannah is a good friend of mine,” I say. “We’ve known each other almost our entire lives.” I have no clue where I’m going with this, just that there’s no chance that Miranda Whatever gets to dismiss my almost-sister. It’s that same protectiveness that ruined the most important relationship in my life.
“Oh, right. I remember you from Friday,” Miranda says. Uh, huh. She remembers her competition from Friday.
I’m irritable tonight. She’s got her work cut out for her.
“You were here with friends that night,” the woman continues. Probes?
“Coworkers. I’m a lawyer,” Hannah explains.
“Oh, how interesting. What kind of law?”
“Corporate.”
“Oh? Which firm?”
“Regis, Whitlock & Sons.”
“Wow, impressive.”
“You know them?”
“Intimately. They represented our sister company in our merger two years ago.”
“I wasn’t with the firm then.”
“No, I’d imagine not. You look too young.”
Now, I’m the one who wants to escape.
“I am. Young and hungry, right?”
And here we go. I shoot Hannah a warning look, but she only returns her innocent “payback” face.
“Wes is very familiar with my enthusiasm. Aren’t you?” Hannah says.
“Is that so?”
I’m sure Hannah is more than satisfied with Miranda’s sudden scowl.
“You have a history?” Miranda asks me.
“He was engaged to my sister.”
Apparently, that didn’t show up in her research as she nearly chokes on her gin.
“Oh?”
“Yes, but as you know, it didn’t work out,” I remind the universe.
“No, I guess not,” Miranda says. Is she disappointed or relieved?
Hannah’s phone attracts her attention, and she glares at the screen.
“Who’s that?” I ask.
&nb
sp; She flinches before returning an unconvincing headshake. “Nothing. No one.”
I lean in. “Just your boyfriend,” I observe, and earn a shove.
“Mind your own business,” she snaps, but still lets a smile escape with mine.
“Did he do something? Do I have to march over to Yonge Street?”
“No. You need to mind. Your. Own. Business.” She finishes off her drink and leaves me with her tab.
“She’s adorable.”
Oh right. Miranda.
“She’s like a little sister.”
“It’s obvious she likes you.”
“Please. The woman hates me. That whole family hates me right now.”
My analysis gives her the courage to frame a brave hand on my thigh. Okay, decision time.
“Well, their loss I’m sure.”
I take a breath, sneak another glance, and warn, “Not really. I can be an asshole.”
“Me too.” Her purr complicates matters.
There’s almost no space between us now. I’m afraid she’ll lose her seat to another patron. Shit, then she’d be stuck on my lap all night.
I remove her hand from my leg and force a sly smile. Sly because I’m not good at permanently closing doors to beautiful women.
“Do you actually think fucking a rock star is a good career move?”
I’ve caught her off-guard. Not sure if it’s the question itself or the directness of it. I find both fascinating and wait patiently. Follow up: does it make me an ass that I’m more interested in her answer than actually sleeping with her?
“This isn’t a marriage proposal.”
“Ah. Is that your speech for the board members?”
“Board members? It’s not like I’ll be posting in the company newsletter.”
I stare at her for a moment. Maybe I’ve overestimated her cunning. “I’m Wes Alton of Tracing Holland. Everyone in Toronto knows everything I do with everyone.”
I’m not being a prick. I’m actually being helpful. Starting to think this quick lay isn’t worth the complications.
“We could be discreet.”
“Like now?” I glance around the packed bar, and sure enough most eyes are trained on me. It’s impossible to hide in your hometown. Now, the hard part—I suck at subtlety.
“Do you have a pen?” I ask.
Her confusion doesn’t stop her from reaching into her purse.
Viper (NSB Book 3) Page 2
