I’ll have to remind Seth and Aiden to give the hotel security a heads-up. Being in one place for any length of time is going to give him more space and opportunity to get close. In the past he has been relentless. Showing up at the airport or hotel. Last tour he actually followed the tour bus for days until his old Chevy broke down. He’s always been creepy and weird. I stand off to the side to watch the big men in matching gold sport coats cart him off the premises. I don’t breathe a sigh of relief until they’ve completely disappeared from sight.
Shake it off, girl. Stalkers like that are par for the course.
I toss a glance over my shoulder just to make sure Seth and Aiden are close. “Miss James… over here.” A photographer calls to me as I walk the gold carpet. I stop once again with my hand on my hip, head tilted to the side, and my lips in a slight pout. Cameras repeatedly flash as I move toward the door. Every so often I stop and pose because if I play nice, they stay respectful.
Adam seems to pop up out of nowhere. His natural gait just as recognizable as his face. True to form, he’s wearing jeans with holes in the knees and a Van Halen T-shirt layered under a plaid button-down shirt. He calls the reporters by name and asks about their kids and spouses as he makes his way to me as if he doesn’t have a care in the world. I know different, but I’ve always admired his ability to show only the things he wants people to see. When he reaches me, he slips an arm around my waist. He presses his cheek tight to mine, and we both smile big as the paparazzi move in closer.
We’ve been playing the are we or aren’t we a couple game with the media for as long as I can remember. It started as his way to protect me when I was too weak to do it myself and as my way to keep people out of his personal life. As time went on and we read all the outlandish articles the magazines printed, we taunted them with casual touches that could mean more and subtle kisses that might lead to something else.
His hand slips under the fall of my hair, and his nose brushes up my cheek. “Let’s do this. You ready?” He says directly into my ear.
I nod, and he laces our fingers as we walk with purpose into the lounge. The event is the pre-media shindig that will welcome us as headliners at The Hotel. After years of struggling to get recognition, I don’t take it for granted that they want us here or that they believe that people are willing to pay on a consistent bases to sustain a residency over the next year.
The doors close behind us, and the shift in energy is jarring. The paparazzi are always manic. It’s like every minute is a battle to keep and maintain boundaries. However, the lounge has a smooth 1920s vibe with low light and jazz playing in the background. It’s clear that most of the people in the room are here for business versus pleasure. Most are wearing dark suits and sensible shoes. Half of them look like they are still on the clock, watching the seconds tick by until they can leave. The other half are all about my age and happy for the free drinks and food.
Adam pulls my hand, making me stop short. “Did D tell you he wasn’t coming tonight?” He quickly scans the room, frowning when he doesn’t spot Dan.
“No, but he’ll be here. You ever known him to pass up free food or free booze?”
“Not once, but you know he doesn’t take anything seriously. We’re already short one because Miles and Kat had the baby scare.”
“Take a breath. He’ll be here. In the meantime, work this room with me so we can get out of here and finally hit up In-N-Out.”
“That right there is why I love you.” He smacks a kiss on my cheek.
“My need to satisfy your craving for cow?” I arch an eyebrow.
“Do not under estimate the power of beef. It has the power to bring a man to his knees.”
“Are you speaking from experience or…”
Adam rolls his eyes with a shake of his head and abruptly changes the subject. “You good by yourself in here? The young’uns seem to be chomping at the bit.” Sure enough, some of the younger employees are organizing themselves into a line, glancing our way.
“I’ll be okay. They’re not a mob.”
“Who’s not a mob?” Dan slings a lanky arm around each of us. “The group of ladies standing over—” I turn to face him and almost bite a hole in my cheek to stop a burst of laughter. Dan’s wearing gray shorts that stop right above his knee, a vest completely buttoned over a white shirt, a neon pink skinny tie, and a fitted gray sport coat.
“I see you dressed for the occasion,” Adam quips. Laughter replacing the worried frown from a moment ago.
“Sin-a-sticks isn’t the only one who cleans up well.” He steps forward and spins on his heels. Popping the collar of his jacket as he completes the tight revolution.
“Indeed. I’m sure you’ll be beating them off in that outfit.” I flick a piece of nonexistent lint from his shoulder.
“I can pull the ladies in with my tighty-whities, a layer of funk, and day-old scruff. This dapper ensemble is strictly for the cameras.”
“That’s right, big guy. Keep telling yourself that.” Adam ducks from under Dan’s arm.
“I’ll take the left.”
“You”—he points at Dan—“take the right and Sin hit the middle.”
“One hour?” I say.
He nods and walks off, winking at me over his shoulder as Dan does a bad imitation moonwalk in the opposite direction.
Aaron, the entertainment director, walks up to me with a big smile plastered on his face. From our very first meeting, his energy and excitement to book us has been unmistakable.
“Ms. James, we’re beyond happy that Sin City has arrived and to have you all here for the next year. Did you get situated okay?”
“It’s Sinclair or Sin, please. No one calls me Ms. James but my lawyer.” I smile. “And I did, thank you. The villa is stunning.”
He looks at me with big appreciative eyes as a warm flush moves up his neck to stain his cheeks.
When I arrived earlier today, I was escorted through a maze of identical hallways which eventually led to a private entrance of a luxury boutique hotel tucked within the larger resort. I’ve heard of hotels within hotels, but I’ve never actually stayed in one. The rooms or villas, in this case, are invitation only, reserved for high rollers. I’m not talking about the Michael Jordans of the world. I’m talking the sheiks of Dubai who don’t think twice about leaving hundreds of thousands of dollars on the table as a tip. That kind of money is still no more than a drop in the bucket to them.
The Château is made of twenty-nine oversized individual Parisian themed villas that resemble extravagant private homes. All settled in and around a huge mansion in the exact replica of an actual eighteenth-century mansion near Paris. At least that’s what the butler said when he gave me the grand tour, which started with my three-bedroom villa and ended with the menuless restaurant, salon, media room, study, exercise room, and massage room.
“Villa?” he repeats. A confused frown crinkling the skin at the corners of his eyes. I lean in closer, dropping my voice even though all the people here probably already know about The Château.
“I’m in one of the three-bedroom villas at The Château.”
“I didn’t…” Aaron shakes his head a couple of times.
“I’m so sorry, Ms. Ja… Sinclair,” he immediately corrects. “There must have been some mistake. We don’t normally house entertainers… not that we don’t value your contribution. It’s just that area is reserved for guests that require a degree of…” His voice drops off in frustrated huff.
I was actually surprised The Hotel would give me what equates to a house for my stay, but when I arrived my instruments had been set up in the living room and my bags delivered to the door. I just assumed that because the other members of the band were staying in personal homes, off property and they only had to house one person they upgraded the accommodations. I guess I was wrong.
“No worries. It’s all good. I thought it was”—beautiful, gorgeous, exactly where I’d want to stay if I had to be in this dust bowl of a city—“a littl
e extravagant. Let’s get through the next couple of hours, and then I’ll move into the correct space.”
Aaron visibly sags with relief. After years of staying in places where I had to use the cotton from my tampons to keep roaches from crawling up my nose or in my ears, I have a deep, heartfelt appreciation for swanky, over-the-top hotel rooms. When we first started out, we stayed in places where we had to fight the rats for space. I could have never dreamed of staying in some place like The Château, but I’m sure any of the suites at The Hotel are way better than some of the places I’ve been and adequate enough to give my team time to rent something else.
Smoothing a hand over his bowtie Aaron offers me his arm. “If you’ll follow me, Ms. James,” he says.
“Sin,” I correct him, tucking my hand into the crook of his elbow.
“Oh. R-i-i-ight. Y-y-y-yes. A-a-ah. Sin,” he stutters. “If you’ll follow me, Sin, I’ll introduce you to…” He scans the room. “The CEO, Connor Rappaport, is right over there.”
My eyes follow his to a man wearing a quintessential black suit. I can’t put my finger on it, but there is something vaguely familiar about the dark-rimmed glasses covering light-colored eyes, the perfectly quaffed hair, and his give-no-shits attitude. Standing in the middle of the Stepford executives, he exudes power, confidence, and wealth.
Where in the hell do I know this guy? It’s right there in the front of my brain, dangling just out of reach. Our eyes meet, and his follow my movements as I approach.
“Mr. Rappaport, I would like to introduce you to—”
“No introduction necessary.” He holds out his hand. “Ms. James.”
“She doesn’t like to be called that, she prefers…” Connor’s gaze shifts from mine to Aaron’s. He tilts his head to the side, studying Aaron with the same intensity that he just examined me. His presence completely dominating the other man. A flush once again stains Aaron’s fair skin, and I fight the urge to chuckle. I guess I’m not the only person affected by the whole dominating CEO thing.
“Is that right?” His warm hand closes over mine as his eyes move up and down my body.
“If not Ms. James, what do you prefer to be called?”
“Feel free to call me Sinclair or Sin.”
“Sinclair it is. On behalf of everyone, let me welcome you to The Hotel. If you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask. Aaron and the entire entertainment department are at your disposal, and if that doesn’t work”—he pulls out a gold business card, holding it between his index and middle fingers—“call me, anytime.”
I pull the card from his fingers. He holds my gaze for another long beat when I hear Aaron’s voice in the background making another awkward introduction. I break contact with Mr. Rappaport. My face immediately falls into default mode: light smile, friendly, minimal teeth, no gums, head tilted slightly to the side, and eyes open.
My hand is already reaching for the person in front of me before it registers that I know him. Not with the vague familiarity that comes with casual acquaintance but with stunning, vibrant, clarity. I’d know this man anywhere.
Ten Years Ago
Sinclair
I’m lost. Most of the people ambling around campus are lost too, although there is a significant difference between them and me. It’s freshman orientation and I’m here alone. No parents to help with luggage. No friends to nervously chat up.
It’s not that the campus is huge or anything, but when I should’ve been packing and looking at campus maps, I was playing my guitar for tips on one of the bridges that connect casinos on either side of Las Vegas Boulevard.
Sweat trickles down the center of my back as I make my way across the quad, struggling with two guitar cases and an overstuffed duffle bag. I probably should’ve tried to figure out where my dorm room is located before trapesing across campus. Now, as a result of my poor planning I might pass out from heat exhaustion before I find my place.
I walk for a couple more minutes before I drop everything to the ground and shake my arms to relieve the numbness that set in from carrying the weight of all my measly possessions. Painful little pricks travel across my shoulders and down to my hands in a rush of relief as sensation returns.
This isn’t rocket science. I’m supposed to be headed for the six-story white building, right? I blow out a frustrated breath and squint up at the sun as I grab the bottom of my T-shirt and flap the edge a couple of times to generate some airflow in the stifling heat. A quick look around tells me every building in the general vicinity is six stories and white.
This can’t be as hard as I’m making it.
Once again, I pick up both cases and my duffle and start to walk toward the closest building. My newfound determination only lasts long enough for me to go haul my shit into the wrong dorm and get booted back outside by the nice R.A. who was kind enough to offer a map.
Irritated, I sit on one of the stone benches that line the courtyard in the center of the buildings.
“Shit!” I jump up immediately because it burns my ass. I think I hear my skin sizzle through my threadbare jeans. I know better than to touch anything that absorbs heat, especially during the summer in the middle of the day. Fuck this day. I am seriously over it and being lost and hot.
I bend over to pick up the map that fell when I flayed the skin off my behind, and before I can offer a warning, a guy tries to sit on the same bench. He jumps up just as I did, swatting at the back of his jeans like something bit him. I straighten to stand to my full height and my forehead smacks into his.
“Really? This is seriously happening?” I mumble at the same time he says, “Yeah, that hurt.”
I try to back away from him when my feet tangle in the strap of the duffle bag. I yank my foot free but end up falling for my effort. I go down, hard. I hear an audible intake of breath in front of me, and I look up.
The instant our gazes meet, my body tingles with recognition, which is laughable. The person in front of me has private school and well-to-do written all over him. If I’m reading his head to toe designer clothes and retro Jordan tennis shoes right. I can guarantee where ever he’s from, it’s nowhere near my neighborhood.
But good God, he’s pretty. His rich bronze skin glows in the sunlight and being this close, I can see the individual threads of blue, green, and brown that make up his hazel eyes and the dark brown freckles that dot bridge of his nose. When those full lips split into a smile, my breath catches in my throat and my stomach tightens. The feeling is visceral in a way that teases my insides and makes me want to put pen to paper and wax poetically.
His stare is unwavering, only broken by slow blinks. I watch his body extend toward mine in slow motion as he offers a hand to help me. His palm slides across my palm as long fingers curl around my hand, simultaneously pulling me up from the ground. I hit the wall of his chest and catch the subtle fragrance of fabric softener, soap, and something that is uniquely him. I open my mouth to once again to offer an apology, but when his arm tightens around my waist locking us together from hip to knee, the words evaporate off my tongue.
I lean my weight against his arm forcing it to drop from my back. I don’t know if we’re that in tune or if he is reading my body language or something, but he takes a small step away from me and gives me some much-needed space.
I just need a little breathing room, and then I’ll be able to think straight again.
Then I make the mistake of letting my eyes travel down his tall frame, across the defined muscles of his chest and the thick thighs encased in fitted jeans.
Nope, space not working. I still have the urge to claim him for my own.
He studies my body with unconcealed fascination, matching me, look for look. In his eyes, I see a reflection of my own filthy thoughts. The desire to discover someone new, to touch and kiss, and taste and grind. I want to know if he’s capable of everything that look is promising, and I want to dare him to do it. I rub my free hand against my thigh and casually try to pull my other one out of his grasp, but his fi
ngers squeeze mine, stopping the retreat.
“Jacob Johnson,” he says. The deep timber of voice sends goosebumps skittering across the back of my neck and down the length of my arms.
“S-Sin,” I stammer.
He yanks his head back in shock. “Sin? As in the cardinal vices? Really?”
If I hadn’t been so flustered, I would have given him my full name and totally avoided the name conversation all together. Now I’m annoyed and admittedly insulted by the derision in his tone. He’s not the first person to comment on my name, and I can pretty much guarantee that he won’t be the last. I love my name even if I was named after a character in a 90s sitcom.
I don’t have a lot of memories of my mom. I can’t remember her smile or the way she styled her hair. But I remember lying on her chest while she hummed me to sleep. She had a beautiful voice too. And I have my name. Odd to some but to me, it’s everything, and fuck him very much for making fun of it.
“Sinclair,” I say, yanking my hand out of his, “James.” There’s an ache to my voice I wince at hearing. I don’t like to think about my family or the lack of one as it were. And I hate that his stupid question can make me feel less than.
“I didn’t mean any offense. I’ve just never heard—” He stops short to clear his throat. “It suits you. It’s… beautiful.” His gaze bores into mine, all sincere emotion and sharp curiosity, and I like it. Really like it. It’s as if he can see straight into the heart of me, and it leaves me feeling exposed right in the middle of the quad.
He is hitting buttons I didn’t even know I had. I cross my arms over my chest because I need a barrier, anything, between my body and his.
“It was nice talking to you, Jacob, but I really need to go.” I turn to walk away, grabbing the handle of one guitar case, but he reaches for the other one before I can get it.
“Don’t go yet.”
Exquisitely Broken (A Sin City Tale Book 1) Page 3
