Viper (NSB Book 3)

by Alyson Santos

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You know what I’m saying. What is it that you want in exchange for keeping this quiet?”

  “I can’t believe you’re asking me that.”

  Her coy hum grinds on my nerves.

  “You know how I feel about you. What can I do to convince you that you can trust me? That I just want to help?” Her tone triggers every warning flare in my head. The way her gaze pierces deep.

  “I do trust you,” I lie because right now—crisis mode.

  “Hmm... Good.” Her mouth plays with the skin stretching over my abs. Down, down, until she’s on her knees. “I’ll make this better. Promise,” she says, grinning up at me.

  My response is totally forgotten.

  ∞∞∞

  “I’ll never get tired of looking at you,” Miranda says, running her fingers over the lines of my chest, my stomach. Usually I welcome a woman’s appreciation of my body. I’ve worked damn hard on it, but this woman has presented me with a lot of firsts in the last hour. She moves lower, and I catch her wrist. Enough.

  “So you’re not going to say anything?” Shit, I sound desperate.

  “Of course not. Not until you want me to.” She pushes up and straddles me on the bed. It’s funny that I found her aggression hot a day ago. Now, I have to keep myself from shoving her off.

  “How about this?” she continues, rocking against me. “I’ll take a look at my contacts and put together an action plan for us.”

  Us? “I’m not a client.”

  “No, you’re more than that.”

  Shit. “Miranda, really. You don’t have to do anything. The best course is to pretend you don’t know and let my people deal with it.”

  “But I do know.” It’s said with a leveled tone that drains the blood from my face.

  “Okay, but—”

  She stills. “I do know, Wes,” she repeats. Her kiss is gentle at first, then hard enough to slam her point home.

  ∞∞∞

  People use the excuse of being drunk too often. I’ve never been much for excuses and have no intention of starting now. You fuck up, and you own it. Although this one is hard to swallow.

  I watch the reflection of kitchen lights dance in my coffee after Miranda leaves. You’d think they’d move in a steady pattern, but they seem to follow their own course against the current of the dark liquid.

  Miranda owns me. Fucking owns me.

  I don’t know what to do with that sentence. I messed up on so many levels with this one I can’t even speculate on the repercussions. I don’t know her well enough to recognize what she wants, but I’m a freaking goldmine for someone with no limits. I’ve been exploited and hurt enough to know you don’t get close to people. You don’t show weakness. And you never, ever, give them power over you.

  I’m not a detail person, not a planner. I’ve never worried about the weather, the cost of toothpaste, or traffic patterns. So it’s strange that my first thought when I see white flakes falling outside my window is that I should have known it was going to snow. I should have known the barometric pressure would drop and moisture would descend from the sky in a blanket of frozen mist.

  I should have known if I gave up everything for Holland Drake, one day I’d have nothing. I especially should have known that no matter how much we hurt each other I would sell my soul to protect her.

  4: NAME DROP

  A week later, I’m still not sure what Miranda wants. Sure, there’s the obvious, but it’s not like I mind the sex anyway. Our time together is only a fraction more intimate than what I would have given her without the threat of implosion hanging over my head. There’s no talk of commitment, no probing for Alton Media trade secrets, no demands for celebrity perks, just a few phone calls, texts, and the occasional uninvited buzz at my door. One of those times was only lunch she brought from the deli by her office.

  It’s not until she insists I escort her to her company holiday party that the darkness begins to settle in me again.

  “You know this is a terrible idea.” I’m hoping the hundredth time I mutter it will cement it in.

  “It’s fine. Everyone knows you’re not associated with your father’s firm. They’re dying to meet you.” So many things wrong with those thoughts, and my fist tightens on the doorframe of my closet. She pauses behind my rigid stance at the entrance. “You can wear jeans, but at least do a button-down.”

  She misses my glare when she returns to dabbing color on her eyes.

  “You really don’t have another date to this thing?”

  “Why would I want to go with anyone else?”

  I swear I’ve singed the back of the closet with my stare. “We’re not together, Miranda.”

  “I know.”

  I turn my irritation on her again, but she’s too busy applying shiny crap to her lips.

  “I just don’t want any hard feelings.”

  “Of course not. What do you think?”

  She presents the final masterpiece, and I do a polite scan.

  “Looks good.”

  “That’s it? These shoes are exclusive Garnette’s.”

  “They’re black heels, I don’t know.”

  I turn back to my shirts and regret the hesitation when greedy hands slip around my waist from behind.

  “You could go like this,” she murmurs, running cold fingers over my skin. They sink into the now-tense muscles of my chest as sequin shit scrapes against my back.

  “Doesn’t fit your button mandate.”

  I step away to grab the first shirt I see and shrug it on, those mission-critical buttons a helpful distraction from her lust. I try to ignore the gaze lingering on my tattoos as I roll the sleeves to my elbows and curse myself yet again for triggering this scenario.

  “Wow. There will be a lot of jealousy at tonight’s party.”

  Uh… “I still need a sec.”

  “Okay, but we should hurry. The car is probably here.”

  I nod and retreat to the bathroom for a long stare at the hypocrite in the mirror.

  ∞∞∞

  “This is Wes Alton.”

  I swear, if I have to hear that one more time tonight I’m going to fling my fancy cocktail glass at a wall. Funny how your last name is so important when it draws shocked awe. I half-expect “of Tracing Holland” to follow. It’s nothing I’m not used to. I’ve been “the namedrop” for a few years now. It’s the excitement in her eyes when she says it I don’t like. The situation spirals into sharp focus throughout the night, leaving me on edge as I count the seconds until we’re alone, and I can fix this.

  And I was right. It was a bad idea—crossing enemy lines to party with the rival king and his court. Duchess Miranda seems to revel in the raised eyebrows and awkward affirmation that I am, indeed, related to the Frederick Alton of Alton Media. Just as I thought, this is the celebrity status these people find most intriguing.

  “What does your father think of you dating his competition?” Small talk with the C.F.O.

  My real answer stalls on my tongue at Miranda’s deceptively calm smile. “He hasn’t weighed in yet,” I say instead. He hasn’t. He will.

  “Really? Well, I’ll be careful where I leave the books tonight.” CFO humor. Thankfully, Miranda laughs enough for the both of us.

  “I’m more into music than marketing,” I say because I’m also hilarious. Extremely hilarious by the eruption of mirth around me. “Pardon me for a moment.”

  I beeline for the exit of the Grande Ballroom and turn left instead of right. There’s too much risk of an encounter in the washrooms, so I find a service exit to the closed patio instead. No one in their right mind would spend a Toronto winter party outside. Then again, I have faith the fire raging through my blood will keep me thawed. Fucking…

  I slam my boot into a wrought iron chair. The sting of contact shoots up my shin then sinks back to a dull throb. Finally, a sensation besides hatred. Disgust. Fury. I kick it again to make sure the pain lingers.

&nb
sp; I lock my fingers on my head and release a billow of air over the decorative barrier separating the patio from the pool. This place isn’t just a current trial, it’s a haunted relic from the catalogue of memories that’s been consuming me lately. Memories of her. The good times which make everything now so much worse.

  It was warmer then, the night Holland and I played a wedding reception on this patio. Hot, even. I remember the beads of sweat slipping down her neck. It was hard enough gripping the guitar pick with my own slick fingers, let alone when my bandmate was the picture of temptation in tight ripped jeans and an oversized tee because we sure as hell weren’t going to be a wedding band. She made me wear jeans and a t-shirt also, not that I minded. If not for my mother’s interference, I wouldn’t have owned anything else.

  We played an eight-song set. I remember because it was our first real gig as Tracing Holland. At least, real in the sense that we earned enough to cover our costs for once. Even a little extra to put toward the in-ear system we wanted. The extra details are also seared in my brain by the fact that Holland and I found a vacant conference room to release some of that restrained lust after we wrapped. Damn, now that is the memory I want lodged in my head when I think of this hotel. Not fucking accountant humor.

  “Wes?”

  My hands drop from their perch on my head at the interruption. Miranda, of course. “You ready to go?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay. My place tonight?” Her hands feel warm for once as they grip my frozen fingers.

  “We need to talk.”

  “Perfect. I just got a Cabernet Sauvignon you’re going to love.”

  “Miranda—”

  “I’ll meet you at the car. I have to say goodbye to a few people.” A way too intimate peck on the cheek and she’s gone.

  ∞∞∞

  “Miranda, this has to stop.”

  We’re inching through the Saturday night downtown traffic. Despite the spacious interior of the car, I’m suffocating from my latest mess.

  I wish she were an idiot, that I could blink this away with some fangirl satiation, but Miranda is an executive for a reason. I’m a musician, an unemployed one at that, and way out of my league in this negotiation. Especially since her game seems to involve pretending there isn’t one.

  “What, babe?” So casual as she reapplies lip gloss.

  “That! The ‘babe’ and the dinner-party ‘plus one.’ We aren’t together.”

  “Of course not. We’re just having fun.”

  “Yeah? Some casual fun?”

  “It was one party, hon. Relax.”

  I search her eyes, but she’s impossible to read. And clearly more interested in her makeup than locking me in the basement as a captive boyfriend. I sound insane. This thing with Holland has shot me completely off-axis.

  “Okay, yeah. Just making sure we’re on the same page,” I mutter, focusing on a bus stop outside the window. A trash receptacle. A tree. Anything besides this woman.

  “Oh! This one is so cute! Look what Jo posted from the party.” She shoves her phone at me. Three hundred likes and fifty shares? Shit.

  ∞∞∞

  Apparently, Miranda now feels entitled to inform me of her business travel plans. I clamp the phone against my shoulder as I slide on a pair of jeans.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Ah I wish you were coming with me!”

  I freeze and readjust the phone. “Um…”

  “I mean, these trips can be tedious, that’s all.”

  Sure.

  “It’s just two weeks, right?” I didn’t mean for my voice to contain my eye roll.

  “Well, yeah. I’ll be in three different locations, though.”

  She’s defensive now, but come on. Try living on a bus for three months. Thankfully, I manage to translate that to, “It’ll go quick.”

  “I’ll call you.”

  “Okay.”

  That was the wrong answer because she sighs into the phone. I know my “well, good luck” won’t win any points either, but I never asked to be on her notification list.

  My life gets no better when she hangs up. The truth is I didn’t totally hate her call. It distracted me for a full six minutes from my upcoming trial at Reisler’s Grille. A few hundred seconds of head-scratching bliss.

  I button my jeans and find myself staring into the closet for the second time this week. What is it about your life turning to shit that makes you care about things like shirts? Holland always liked green on me. It makes your eyes tropical, she’d say or some other random slice of Holland poetry. Would she be pissed if I wore green tonight? Take it as an up yours to trying for a future that doesn’t include the past? I hope so as I yank a green vintage tee from a shelf.

  Luke will be there. Of course he will. I wouldn’t leave my girlfriend alone with a guy who punched me in the face. Twice. Everyone keeps telling me he didn’t deserve it. I was out of line. Even our peacekeeping drummer, Spence, told me I screwed up.

  Our drummer. Dammit, her drummer now. A decade together leaves quite the stain on your vocabulary.

  We’re here.

  That’s a message from Holland.

  We. I’m not we anymore. I type out a response letting her know I’m on my way. A couple quick shots from my minibar, and I am.

  ∞∞∞

  Reisler’s Grille. Of course she’d pick the most non-descript spot in the six blocks surrounding my downtown condo building. It’s fitting for the meeting that has a high probability of ending in bloodshed.

  I don’t see them when I enter, maybe because the awe-struck hostess has her stars tucked into a secluded booth at the back of the restaurant. Heads turn as I weave through the maze that seems more fast-food than celebrity-ready. The patrons appear just as surprised to witness rock stars maneuvering through the red and white labyrinth.

  Holland and Luke quiet at my approach; backs straighten. We push the limits of civility with a recitation of each other’s names as a greeting. Hey, it’s politer than I anticipated. No venomous diatribes, no fists to cheek or jaw bones. We’re the picture of awkward reunion as I slide onto the bench across from them. The server comes over, and I order a drink even though they’re on seltzer and lime thanks to Luke’s struggle with addiction.

  I’m not “we” anymore, though. Did I mention I can be a dick?

  “Thanks for meeting us,” she says.

  “Sure. No problem.”

  “I’m serious, Wes. We need to solve this.”

  “Solve what, Holland?” I shoot my stare into hers. “Look, I get it. But I’m never going to apologize for protecting you.”

  “She didn’t need protection. She needed you to act like a human being,” Luke says, and I return his cold stare.

  “Guys, come on. Not now?” Holland focuses back on me. “What happened on the tour is done. We’re here to talk about what’s next.”

  “I’m not going to be your guitarist for hire. It’s our band. Our songs. It’s all or nothing.” My back creaks against torn vinyl as I cross my arms.

  “I never said I was going to cut you out of royalties.”

  Fuse. Ignited. “Fuck, Holland! You think my issue is the money?”

  “Watch it,” Luke hisses, leaning forward.

  I cut him a giant portion of my glare before returning the rest to his girlfriend.

  “After all we’ve been through, I can’t believe you’d sit here and think it’s about money for me. That band was my life, Hol. I gave up everything. You know the hell I went through. What I had to do for this. For you!”

  Her face wilts, and that eternal protectiveness knots in my chest. God, why can’t she see she’s my world?

  “I know. It’s just—”

  “It’s just she can’t trust you not to be an asshole. She can’t trust you, dude.”

  Luke again. Always helpful translating for the woman I’ve known since I was seven. She gives him a look, and he shrugs.

  “You crossed lines,” Holland says. “I have to protect my
self and Luke and make sure you won’t cross them again. Just read the contract. You’ll see that—”

  “I read it. It’s not about the damn contract. I didn’t come here to haggle over 4b and 3c. It’s what it represents, the dissolution of our relationship.”

  “It’s not dissolved…”

  “You want it in writing that we will never be on the same hotel floor or share a dressing room.”

  “That’s just standard.”

  “No it’s not. And especially not for us.”

  “Well, it needs to be now.”

  “Fine. And the new bus? You’re touring with your own bus now? Was that your idea?”

  I fire that one at Luke, who sends simmering coals right back.

  “You’re at that level and you know it,” Luke argues.

  “Yeah? Night Shifts Black is two rungs up from where we’ll ever be. Do you have your own bus?”

  Again, dick move, because I just spent three months touring with their one shared band bus.

  “We have a separate crew bus.”

  “Oh, so Holland is going to be riding with the Tracing Holland crew?”

  “Wes…”

  “No, I’m done with this.” I slide out of the booth. “I fucked up. I get it. I will face the consequences, but they’ll be the ones I choose. Not Luke. Not some Label lawyer. And not even you, Holland. Merry Christmas.”

  ∞∞∞

  I hate that I leave Holland with her face twisted in pain. It’s my pain because she still loves me even when she doesn’t. She has to because her heart is pure angel’s breath and kitten purrs. She loves, it’s who she is. She’s forgiveness. Compassion. Freaking trust, which is why I refused to just sit back and watch the tornado of Luke Craven plow her down on their Greetings Tour. Yeah, irony’s a bitch.

  I crossed lines. Fine. I did. Fuck it, what lines don’t you cross when someone you love is about to get torn to shreds? It doesn’t help my case that she supposedly ended up happy instead. That Luke apparently has shed his magnet for trouble or whatever.