She blushed and averted her gaze. Being scrutinized by Zander King stirred discomfort in her. Intensity radiated from him at all times.
“What?” she said.
“You look beat. You’ve got dark circles under your eyes. Clearly, you haven’t been getting enough rest. Everything okay?” He rested his high-tech bionic arm on top of his desk. He’d lost his arm in a climbing accident several years ago. Modern medicine, cutting-edge technology, and his huge bank account had restored his ability to climb and adventure with the mind-controlled robotic arm.
“Everything’s fine. I want this party to be perfect, you know? Six-time Grammy winners deserve the best, don’t you think?” She met his gaze, flashing him what she hoped was a convincing smile. Then, the ghost of last night’s dream pinched at her mouth.
“I’m sure it’s going to be beyond perfect,” Zander said. “It’s probably going to be over the top, knowing you. And, we don’t know if Marked Love sealed the deal.”
She rolled her eyes. “Oh, please. Have you heard their latest album?”
Zander chuckled. “Have I heard it…Effie has it on an endless loop lately. I swear I even hear their songs in my dreams. I’m going to strangle Dante after the awards-show party.”
“They’re good songs to dream about. So sexy,” Mia said. While she skirted friendships with male musicians, music still rocked her world.
“What’s your favorite song? Effie likes Drive.” Zander grinned.
“My favorite is, Come Now,” Mia said. Her face felt like it rested on a furnace. Dante’s voice, coupled with sex-charged lyrics, combined with the skill of the band, had given her lots of opportunities to whip out her vibrator lately—when she was awake enough to use it, that is. Mostly, she entered her apartment, fed the cat, nibbled on some take-out, and crashed.
Nodding, he drummed his fingers on the polished wood. “You need a vacation.”
Mia’s cheeks continued to burn, remembering the last time she’d taken a vacation—five years ago—with Darion, her horrid, abusive ex. Ever since her escape from him, he’d creep into her life on tip-toes, somehow finding her the second she relaxed into a feeling of safety. He had this uncanny knack of knowing when she’d forgotten about him, thinking him no longer a threat. Then—wham! An odd piece of mail with no forwarding address and no stamp would be shoved into her mailbox, reeking of the perfume she used to wear when they lived together. A threatening text would slither into her phone. A phone call with only deep breathing coming from the caller would surprise her. She must have changed phone numbers ten times over the years.
“I’m fine. I’ll get some rest after this party is over.”
“Yes, you will.” Zander rose and stretched, before rounding the desk to stand before her. Placing his hands on her shoulders, he looked intently into her eyes and said, “Next week. Cancun. Dante’s taking everyone in the band, and we’re invited, too.”
Mia shook her head. “I don’t think so…”
“I insist. Full week vacation, with pay. There’s no excuse.” He lifted his hands from her shoulders and leaned back against the desk, folding his arms.
“Really, Zander, I don’t need a vaca…”
Zander cut her off. “It’s been decided. You’re going. I need my best assistant all next week.”
She took a deep breath and said, “Yes, boss.”
“You’ll enjoy it,” he said.
“If you say so,” she said, turning on her heel to glide away. I hate vacations. Darion made sure of that. And vacationing with guy musicians, no matter how close they are with Zander, sounds like a prison sentence.
Her and Darion’s last trip ever had been to Tahiti, on her dime. He’d criticized her from the second they stepped foot out of the house to the minute they returned. Her hair wasn’t right. She’d put on two pounds, and her swimming suit didn’t fit right. Her makeup was messy. The resort wasn’t located on the best part of the island. She’d screwed up on the plane tickets, so they’d had to sit on opposite ends of the plane.
A satisfied smile tugged at the corners of her lips as her legs propelled her toward her workstation. Actually, the plane ticket mishap was deliberate. I was so sick of Darion’s controlling ways I wanted the seven hours between Los Angeles and Tahiti to myself.
Once she sat back at her desk, she started tapping out a packing list on her tablet. There’s so much to do. I’ll need to arrange care for Max the Manx, my silly cat, pack clothes, ask the cat sitter to water the plants…
Her phone pinged with an incoming message. Absentmindedly, she reached for it, still absorbed in packing details. When she glanced at the number, the hair on her neck and scalp prickled. Oh, no. It’s Darion’s number. How did he get this number? Paranoia quickly flooded her veins. He felt me thinking about him, didn’t he? I shouldn’t have brought him to mind. Damn, damn, damn. Why did I think about him?
Her hands shook, and she dropped the phone on the floor. With fumbling fingers, she picked it up and scanned the text.
Hey, babe, you’ve been stalking me in my dreams lately.
She swallowed, unsure of whether to respond or not.
And then I was swimming in your blood. Literally bathing in it.
Shivers rippled up her spine. Is this some sort of veiled murder threat? Or, a sick joke? Quickly, she thumbed a response. Who is this, and who do you think you’re texting?
Her eyes stayed glued to the little dots indicating a reply.
Who do you think it is, Miss Meow? I think our paths are about to cross again in a whole new way, bitch.
Her mouth felt suddenly dry. Miss Meow. She hated that nickname.
He used to call her that, adding something crude like she reminded him of his old bitch cat when she was in heat. “Only that cat knew how to put out,” he’d add with a sneer. “I saw her, surrounded by boy cats, and, man, was she eager to please.”
By the time she left him, she’d been so closed down, sex with him consisted of her simply laying there and praying he would finish soon.
“How did you find me again?” she whispered. “Why the hell are you contacting me now?” Pressing her hand to her mouth, she lifted her head to stare out the window. Damn it, I don’t want to have to get a new number. Quickly, she blocked his number. Does he know where I work? Where I live? What does he know about my life now? He couldn’t know anything important…could he?
Her mind replayed the rise, fall, and escape from her relationship with Darion. They’d been best friends during their junior and senior years, playing in a band called The Boys Plus One. She was their plus one. She always got lots of accolades for her singing.
After graduation, they’d moved in together.
That’s when he changed. It had happened so gradually, she’d adapted to the abuse, like a frog in tepid water that slowly turned to boil.
She’d gone on to college, majoring in business. On weekends, they’d play at local gigs. She loved being a musician.
He worked at an auto parts store, hoping their band would sign with a fat record deal. But, his attitude became so sour the band grew disenchanted. They still played together, but it seemed like a chore rather than a passion.
Still, she came home from classes happy and inspired.
He arrived home from work cranky and bitter at having a minimum wage job.
She tried to be supportive. She carried a full load of classes, but she always managed to have a meal on the table ready for Darion when he returned.
He criticized her cooking and told her she wasn’t any good at cleaning the house.
He told her to be more adventurous in bed. When guys would look at her, he’d say she asked for the attention.
She begged him to see that he was the only one for her, swearing she didn’t go out of her way to invite attention.
He snapped at her when she touched the thermostat, telling her they couldn’t afford her “frivolous desires for heat.” Yet, at the same time, he often left windows open—in San Francisco, of all places,
which seemed to grow fog as an industry. “Wear sweaters,” he’d snarl when she complained.
Constantly cold inside her own apartment, she felt like she should purchase stock in merino wool—she was always on the hunt for a new, warmer sweater.
And then, one time, he physically assaulted her. At first, he’d snap his arm up with the threat of slapping or punching her.
She couldn’t believe he’d ever harm her—until she landed in the hospital with a battered face and a broken arm.
After that, he was contrite and swore he’d never do that again.
But, for her, once was enough.
In the three years they lived together, he wore her down until she barely recognized herself.
Her self-esteem fled.
None of her friends stuck around.
The band disintegrated.
Her world revolved around Darion—pleasing him, staying out of his way, dancing on eggshells whenever he was around. She bit her nails, constantly looked over her shoulder, and her once lustrous, glossy black hair began to fall out in clumps.
Her gynecologist had been the one to get her to leave him.
“Is this what you want, Mia? To be with a man so abusive, you end up going bald from the stress?” Dr. Mateo had told her. She’d given Mia the names of some resources, including women’s shelters, should the need arise.
After that, Mia secretly plotted to leave Darion for months. Going so far as to hide some of her wages from working at a chic downtown restaurant. She’d managed to save enough money to rent an apartment in Seattle…since they’d lived together in San Francisco, what were the chances he’d look there? Only her immediate family—her mom and dad, sister Carly, and brother Jaxon—knew of her plans.
Her heart had been a quiver-bomb of fear when she’d left. One afternoon, she sneaked out of the house with her belongings while Darion was at work. She left no forwarding address, got a new cell phone number, had made sure none of her family gave Darion any info about her whereabouts. She canceled credit cards and used cash to pay for everything. She hadn’t been able to relax for at least six months.
That’s when she started working for Zander. She met him at Pikes Place Market, where she waited tables at a fine dining bistro called One. He and a few of his sexy-hot friends came there to celebrate some rock climbing challenge Zander had won. She and Zander got to talking. And, by the time dessert had been served, she had a new, well-paying job, complete with apartments in Seattle and New York, where both of his offices were located.
But Darion appeared when she least expected it, like a black viper, lurking in the dark. Months could go by with no contact from him. It seemed as soon as she imagined herself safe, she’d get another text on her private number—she changed phone numbers like shoes. Or, another strange piece of hand-written mail would arrive. She even imagined catching glimpses of him around town.
Looking at the device in her hand, she stared at her message window, praying no more texts came through. Should I call the police? Tell Zander? I’ve never shared my past with him. Maybe I’m too paranoid. How could Darion know my whereabouts? Both apartments where she lived were extremely secure. She didn’t have any social media accounts. She stayed out of the spotlight as much as she could. But, then, Zander was a big deal with a prominent profile. As his assistant, she made sure she didn’t appear in any photos for the events he put on. Like this upcoming after the Grammy’s party. I’ll stay in the shadows for that one.
To distract herself, she scanned the party planning list and thought about the Grammy’s. Before Darion, she’d dreamed of working as a music agent. It had been a driving passion. She loved music, and she had a good head for business. I’d be great at that. But, when Darion had ripped the stuffing, heart, and soul out of her with his constant belittling, she’d set that dream aside.
She typed “How to start your own music agency” in the search window. Pausing, she added, a plus sign and then “female musicians” in the search box. She didn’t think she could handle managing guys. Scanning the results, her heart beat a little faster. But, then, reality stepped in to remind her where she currently sat—in Zander King’s high-rise office. He depended on her, paid her handsomely, and paid for her apartments. I owe him my life. It would be a total betrayal to pursue her dreams.
So, with that thought, she closed her laptop, effectively shutting down her desire to do something she loved, choosing security, safety, loyalty, and comfort, instead.
Keys
At the after-awards party, celebrating their sixth and seventh Grammy awards for Song of the Year—Come Now—and Album of the Year, Keys slouched in the back of the room, nursing a Jameson and water. His head felt thick with boredom. He imagined death to be a welcome change but figured suicide to be the coward’s way out—and he was a lot of things, but a coward wasn’t one of them. This feeling of inert dullness, like smothering pillows taped to his head, constantly plagued him. Nothing, absolutely nothing, excited him anymore.
He watched Trevor’s retreating form, sliding through a group of party-goers. Keys had sent him off to look for babes.
Before getting swallowed up by the crowd, Trevor turned and gave him a thumbs-up, flashing his coffee-colored eyes with a look of hope.
Keys returned the thumbs-up, sending him a look of wooden solidarity. He had absolutely no interest in participating in a threesome or a foursome.
Trevor had been a clingy little bitch tonight. Keys hoped his best friend would manage on his own.
He glanced around at the packed room. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to make this a great party. The room had been tastefully decorated. The food was amazing, but not amazing enough to give him a hard-on or anything—just good food. Every A-lister on the planet seemed to have turned out to celebrate the win for Marked Love. But he’d had enough, so he decided to head out early.
He sidled toward the service hallway and tromped closer to the back door. As he approached the back exit, the sounds of pots clanging, wait-staff yapping, and glassware tinkling wafted from the doorway ahead.
A petite figure backed into the hall, issuing orders to whoever stood inside. “Make sure to find Mr. Vegas and his crew first before you hand out dessert to the rest. And, you there…the champagne bearers. Make sure Mr. Vegas and his wife, Kennedy, have a filled flute in their hands before they’re handed dessert. They plan on making a toast.” Her head inclined to look at the tablet in her hands. “Okay, that’s it, everyone. Do your thing.”
Is that Zander’s assistant, Mia? Did she do all this party planning? His eyes narrowed, scrutinizing her slinky, low-cut, crimson satin dress with a slit on the side that revealed one perfect leg. He cocked his head, trying to get a peek of what lay north of that fine leg. But no, the dress teased but did not reveal. Too bad. Still, his dick twitched in his pants.
She whirled around and nearly collided with Keys. “Oh! Where are you going? The festivities have barely begun.”
“That’s my cue to leave, then,” Keys said, allowing his finest seductive smile to spread across his face. He’d met Mia a few times when she and the band hung out with Zander, and she’d always interested him. If he were honest with himself, he might have a slight crush on her. But why be honest? Better to shove anything resembling a feeling into his colon. Still… His tongue traced a path across his upper lip. Maybe she wants to get down and dirty after the party is over. He proffered his arm. “Care to join me?” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.
“Puh-lease,” she said, stepping aside to let a stream of staff march past, laden with trays of fancy desserts, champagne flutes filled with bubbly, and bottles of a four-hundred-dollar per bottle French champagne for refilling the glasses.
Keys quickly snagged two full glasses.
“Hey!” Mia said, her expression hot with indignation. “Those are for the guests and the band.” Her cheeks reddened as she realized her faux pas.
A mischievous smile replaced the seductive one. One of his eyebrows arched. “You
do remember who I am, don’t you? World-renowned keyboardist to Marked Love, yeah?”
“Of course, I remember who you are, Mr. Johnson. We’ve…” She hesitated, her mouth flattening into a thin line. “We’ve hung out at the same events.”
“Yes, we have.” He grinned. “And, come now…Mr. Johnson?” he said, smirking. “I prefer Big Daddy Johnson…because it is, you know, rather large.” He handed her one of the champagne flutes.
Her cheeks looked red enough to fry fish on. She put her palm out and pushed the champagne away. “I’m on the clock, sorry.” Swiftly, she scooted past him and hurried down the hall toward the party. “Nice getup, by the way,” she called over her shoulder.
Dressed in a leather jacket, a white dress shirt with a black leather tie, Levi’s, and combat boots, Keys drained his champagne glass. He wrinkled his nose at the taste and set the empty flute on a nearby table as he hustled after her. “Thank you. What’s underneath it is even more spectacular.”
“Not interested,” she said, waving her hand over her head.
“Allow me to help you, then. How about I be your little assistant?” He threw his arm around her delicate frame.
She shrugged his arm from her shoulders and lifted her gaze to his six-foot-three-inch frame. “You’re hardly little.”
“Now you’re getting with the program. Show and tell time is later, though. I’ll show if you don’t tell your boss.” His friend Zander would castrate him if he caught him hitting on Mia. The dude seemed overly protective of her. Or, maybe, he’s just cautious about me, as he should be. He chuckled, enjoying himself for the first time in what felt like forever.
“I don’t need an assistant,” she said, a scowl forming on her pretty face. “Especially not from you.” Her eyes looked like decadent caramel. They radiated kindness while being guarded all at the same time. “Can’t you see all the staff here?”
“The only person I have eyes for is you, sweet thing.” He snagged another flute of champagne, lifted the crystal glass to his mouth, and took a couple of sips. Then, he placed the half-filled flute on a waiter’s tray as the guy sped past. Champagne. Ugh. Give me a whiskey and water any day.
The Key to Love Page 2
