Текст книги "Tryst"
Автор книги: S. L. Jennings
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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 21 страниц)
Emerging from the crowd first is a tall, shirtless man, twirling a pair of drumsticks between long, thin fingers. Striker Voss, Ransom’s drummer. He’s lean, almost lanky, yet hard ripples of muscle lie just under his taut, tanned skin. His hair is cut short, leaving just dark peach fuzz over his scalp. But what he lacks in hair, he more than makes up for in tattoos and piercings. His eyebrow, nose, septum, lip, ears, and even nipples are all adorned with silver rings or barbells, and every inch of his chest and arms is covered in ink. And that’s just the parts of him that I can see as he stalks past me to the stage.
Right behind him is Cash Colby, lead guitarist and bona fide manwhore. The only thing more infamous than Ransom Reed’s bad boy persona is Cash’s penchant for young, hot bimbos with low self-esteem and daddy issues. And looking at him, I can see why. Think a taller, edgier, hotfuck version of Justin Bieber, minus the douchiness. He’s got the sandy blond hair that’s long enough to fall in his eyes, just begging to be flipped back while he fingers the strings of his Fender with the sensuality of a skilled lover. Rumor has it, those fingers have expertly played with a few of America’s sweethearts, soiling their (manufactured) good girl images.
Following Cash is Gunner Davies, rhythm guitarist and the more mysterious of the bunch. He isn’t adorned with dozens of tattoos or piercings. His clothing is black and nondescript, as well as his hair. He’s not in the press every week, if at all. Come to think of it, I can’t think of a single woman he’s dated or even a story that’s remotely touched on his private life. However, the second he passes me, I feel the temperature drop in the atmosphere, and a sense of danger snakes through me, causing me to physically shrink back a foot and divert my eyes to the tips of my Jimmy Choos. That kid’s got menace in his veins. I can smell it.
The very second I force myself to look up, badassery renewed, I know that he’s emerged. Every cell in my body tingles with expectation and the very breath in my lungs catches on a gasp. No music video, no magazine spread—shit—not even the dozens of pics I’ve Googled could have done Ransom Reed justice. He’s taller than I expected, and he has the lean body of a rock star who can command a stage. And he struts with all the confidence and swagger of a man who knows he’s a big fucking deal—in and out of the bedroom. Dressed in ripped, worn jeans that look as if they were made for him, a V-neck white tee and black leather jacket adorned with silver zippers, he’s the epitome of rock godliness. He runs a hand through his dark brown hair that he wears haphazardly slicked back. Still, a rogue lock of hair falls over his forehead, just short enough to stay out of his eyes, yet long enough to allure the fuck out of me. I swear, that move must’ve been rehearsed. Caleb is beside him, walking double time to keep up with Ransom’s long, leisurely strides. The closer he gets, the less I breathe. And now that he’s so close—close enough that I could reach out and touch this beautiful urban legend of a man—I don’t think I’ll ever take another breath.
I find the courage to look up into his face as he approaches, and I completely lose the ability to process intelligent thought. His features are severe and angular, from the intensity of his dark, slanted eyes to the gold hoop threaded through his slender nose. The only word to describe his lips is sensual. And his tanned, golden skin speaks of foreign roots—maybe South American.
He’s exotic and enticing and terrifying as hell. And everything that my husband isn’t.
Just as the thought seizes me with a jolt of guilt, Ransom Reed is right in front of me, making his way to the stage where nearly twenty thousand fans are screaming his name. He turns to look directly at me, a smirk on those lips that were designed for kissing a woman’s most intimate parts, and he winks. Then all I can do is watch him disappear from sight as I try to remember how to inhale oxygen again.
“Taller than he looks on TV, huh?”
The sound of Tucker’s voice nearly makes me choke on the electrified air. Seeing me flounder for words, he offers me an ice-cold bottle of water, which I gladly accept and drain in thirty seconds flat.
“Yeah, he is,” I shout over the raucous screams and cheers of adoring fans. The band is hyping up the crowd, thanking them for coming to the last stop on the Hostage tour, which incidentally is being filmed for HBO.
“Your face is red. You all right, Bunny?” he shouts back.
I turn in the direction of the stage, my eyes trained on the lithe movements of Ransom Reed. The band goes into their opening number, a fast paced, sexy song about a man’s yearning for a woman that he shouldn’t have. Although Ransom sings to the crowd, I can hear him as if he were right beside me, whispering those lyrics in my ear. Singing in that raspy tone for an audience of one.
“Yeah, I’m fine. Just fine,” I finally remember to answer.
I know that after tonight, I’ll never be just fine again.
Chapter Three
Somewhere between me losing my composure and Caleb escorting us to Ransom Reed’s dressing room, there was a concert. I know it was amazing—evidently Ransom brought the house down with their best show yet—but I couldn’t tell you what songs they performed or how many bras were thrown at their feet. Honestly, I can’t even remember my own name.
What happened out on that stage was no concert. It was no simple, rehearsed performance. Every note was a raspy moan on the back of his throat. Every lyric was a threat of pain, violence, and pleasure so deep and fulfilling, it should be illegal. And every movement of his hips was a jolt of adrenaline straight into my core.
Yet, even with concentrated sex racing through his veins, his songs were about so much more than the physical. I felt pain in his words. Loneliness, heartbreak, joy, fear. I listened to his life story and lived within the sultry timbre of his voice.
Ransom Reed is no singer. He’s a magician. And his greatest trick of all is hypnotizing the masses with the tip of his golden tongue.
I anxiously pace the floor, awaiting his arrival. I can feel Tucker’s eyes on me—he’s never seen me this nervous to meet a potential client before. Even Caleb couldn’t stop giving me the side eye at my jittery behavior.
“Just relax, babe. He’d be a fool not to hire you,” Tuck assures me, using that soothing shrink voice reserved for his patients.
“That’s not what I’m worried about,” I confess. He raises an inquisitive brow but doesn’t press for more. He doesn’t want to hear that I’m worried that Ransom will hire me.
“You know you don’t need to do this,” he says, leaving his spot on the leather couch and coming to stand before me. He gently grasps my shoulders to halt my incessant pacing and levels his eyes with mine. “You don’t need him. Hell, with the client list you already have, you’re already too busy. Taking on another client, especially a musician, will only ensure that we never see each other.”
I know he’s right, but I don’t have the nerve to tell him so. Tucker is always right—he’s always the voice of reason. And being married to someone who is always right makes you realize just how wrong you always are.
The dressing room door opens, unleashing a barrage of voices battling to be heard. Although Tucker’s body is blocking my view, I can clearly hear what sounds to be an entertainment reporter, asking for Ransom’s thoughts on the end of the Hostage tour.
“The whole experience has been absolutely incredible,” he answers, the smoothness of his speech completely contrasting the almost rugged rawness of his singing voice. “And to end it here in New York City is the icing on the cake.”
“What about the rumors of you leaving the band? Any truth to that?”
I clearly hear Ransom huff out a half chuckle. “None at all. They’re just that—rumors. My bandmates are my family. We are absolutely devoted to each other and our music.”
Good answer. Maybe Ransom isn’t a lost cause after all.
“So the story about you and Cash Colby getting into a physical fight are untrue? And that you have supposedly slept with Striker’s wife? Rumor has it, you’re the biological father of her unborn child. How do you feel about becoming a daddy?”
An audible gasp escapes the lips of half a dozen groupies that have been hanging on to their rock god’s every word. I peer around Tucker just in time to see Ransom visibly freeze mid-step. He slowly turns back to the reporter behind him—the guy who’s itching for an ass kicking. And the way Ransom’s fists close at his sides and his angled jaw tightens, he’s just the one to scratch that itch.
“That’s enough questions for now. Please direct any further questions to my assistant sometime next week,” I find myself saying without fully thinking it through. I can’t fully justify my outburst, but I know the look on Ransom’s face was just a prelude for trouble. And the publicist in me couldn’t sit idly by and witness the press-provoked shit-storm.
Of course, every eye draws to me, wondering where the hell I came from and who the hell I am. Back straight, I step around Tucker and approach the group at the door. Yet, for all my confidence, I can’t find the nerve to look up at Ransom as I come to stand between him and the reporter.
“And you are?” the reporter asks. I recognize him—someone from VH1. He’s short, plain, and about as nondescript as you can get. But one tweet about how Ransom Reed violently accosted the press after the biggest show of his life, and he could successfully destroy the rocker’s already questionable image.
“Heidi DuCane.” I extend my hand and he takes it, just as recognition sets in.
“Ah, Ms. DuCane. I wasn’t aware that you repped the band. While I have you here, do you mind if I ask you about one of your other clients?”
I roll my eyes. These press assholes are fucking, life-sucking vampires. As soon as they smell blood, their fangs come out. And I don’t have to guess which client he’s talking about. Ever since the news broke about Justice and his relationship with Park princess, Ally—formerly Allison Elliot-Carr—my phone has been ringing nonstop, every vulture in town just dying to know the scoop on the two of them, and Oasis. My answer is always the same: “We refuse comment at this time” aka “Fuck off!”
And that’s exactly what I’d like to say to this little weasel of a reporter right now.
“I do mind actually. This is Ransom’s night. Let’s keep it about them and their music. The operative word being music. That is what the VH1 brand is based on, correct?” I reply, not even bothering to mask the annoyance in my voice. I don’t know why, but I feel the need to protect Ransom. And considering that I’ve never even met him, let alone don’t represent him, I have no right to feel that way about him.
Caleb and his shiny suit step up and, with a little more diplomacy, ushers the reporter out of the room, along with the crowd of awaiting groupies. A simultaneous, disappointed Awwww resounds from the other side of the door.
Without the distraction of the reporter, I’m forced to look up at Ransom, realizing that we are much closer than I’m comfortable with. Still, I stay planted where I stand, refusing to be intimidated. He must’ve gotten the same memo because he stares back at me, intensity simmering behind those dangerously dark eyes that seem to study me with rapt attention.
“Publicist, huh?” he says, his lips moving into a sly smile. “I wasn’t aware I had hired one.”
“Ransom, we talked about this,” Caleb speaks up, moving to inspect the spread of gourmet cheese, fruit, and premium alcohol. He picks up a bottle of champagne and proceeds to pop it open. “After Ingrid quit with your last social media snafu, I told you that you’d need to hire a replacement ASAP.”
That social media snafu being a very detailed, up-close-and-personal dick pic taken by some random hookup while Ransom was asleep. Ingrid Carlsbad, a pretty solid publicist and rival, was able to get it removed just hours after it made its big debut (pun intended), but the damage was already done. So she took the coward’s way out and quit, rather than appear incompetent by her peers.
“I know that, Caleb,” Ransom retorts. “I just don’t recall hiring this one.”
With that, he tears his eyes away from mine and walks to the back of the dressing room. Not in an act of retreat. It’s as if he’s dismissed me, yet I’m too goddamn dumb to realize it.
“Heidi DuCane is the best in the business. You need someone who is willing to protect your image, and at the same time, make sure Ransom stays trending. If you couldn’t tell from how she just handled that reporter, Heidi is who you want.”
Ransom pulls a beer from the fridge and pops it open, taking a long gulp. When he pulls the bottle from his lips, he spies Tucker quietly standing just feet away. Ransom frowns slightly, blinking his heavily lashed eyes rapidly before bending down to retrieve another beer. Then without a word, he offers it to Tucker, who accepts with a thankful nod. After that . . . nothing. Ransom doesn’t even glance in my direction.
Head high and shoulders pressed back, I go to stand beside my husband, the only person in this room who doesn’t have an interested stake in Ransom’s career. Yet, he’s the only one that seems to be gaining his attention. If I didn’t have built-in gaydar, I would totally be giving Ransom the side eye.
“Mr. Reed, you need a publicist—yes—but you also need someone who knows her shit and is willing to go to bat for you.” I take a step toward him and meet his gaze, which seems more . . . bored . . . than anything right now. Still, I soldier on. “I am that someone. I know this business like the back of my hand. I’ve made some incredible connections within the music industry and the press. And I protect my clients like my life depends on it. You won’t find a better publicist than me, I can guarantee you that. But I’m not here to beg for your partnership. I don’t need to. You know as well as I do that you need me.”
Ransom studies me for a long beat while he takes another sip of his beer. Even when he tips the bottle up, displaying his smooth, tanned throat, he keeps his eyes on me. When he’s swallowed his fill, he turns to Caleb, who is frantically texting while helping himself to Ransom’s rather expensive champagne.
“Where’d you find this one, Caleb?” he says, completely ignoring my whole spiel.
“I told you I’d bring you the best and I delivered,” Caleb answers without looking up from his phone. “Heidi is who you want. Trust me. Have I ever steered you wrong?”
“Today?” Ransom laughs, the sound husky and deep. It causes the tight knot of irritation to unfurl in my gut. He looks back at me, regarding me with a look that I can only describe as contemplative, as if he’s analyzing everything about me. Self-consciousness snakes up my spine but I deny the urge to look down at the ground. His gaze quickly sweeps to Tucker for just a second, and then back to me. “Bring her to the suite,” he says to Caleb, his eyes still studying me intensely.
“You got it,” Caleb replies, stowing his phone in his suit jacket. “Ok, you’ve got the fan meet-and-greet and a briefing with the guys. We need to get moving.”
Without another word, Ransom strides to the door. Before his hand touches the knob, he looks back at me and smirks. “Nice to meet you . . . Heidi.” Then he launches himself into the fandemonium.
“Hang out here for a bit, if you can,” Caleb says, quickly following his client. “Drink the champagne—Ransom demands it, but doesn’t like the stuff. I think he only requests it for me. And help yourself to anything here. I’ll be back as soon as I can to escort you to the after party.”
I screw my face in annoyance. I’m not used to taking orders from anyone, especially Caleb. He notices my scowl and shoots me a knowing smile, his dick growing an inch, no doubt. “You’re in, Heidi. He likes you. He just likes fucking with people.” And he heads into the hallway, ducking and dodging worshipping band sluts in ripped Ransom tees and short skirts.
“That was . . . interesting,” Tucker says, as we both stare after the closed dressing room door. We can clearly hear the sheer fuckery on the other side, but we stand completely frozen in shock, as if we’re in the wake of a tornado. That tornado being Ransom Reed.
“Interesting? That guy’s a dick! He should be lucky I’m even entertaining the idea of representing him.” I go straight to the champagne with every intention of draining the entire bottle. This whole situation has got me wound so tight, I don’t even bother with a glass. I just take it straight to the head.
“Relax, babe. You heard Caleb—he likes you. You know these entertainer types are all about dramatic effect,” Tucker reasons. “Besides, he’d have to be a fool not to hire you.”
Tucker finishes off his beer in a few hearty swigs and chucks the bottle in the nearby trashcan. Then he comes up behind me, sliding his hands up my bare arms before resting them on my shoulders. When he begins to knead, I feel the tension slowly ease out of me.
“Just listen to what he has to say,” he coos, bringing his lips to graze the shell of my ear. I lean back into his touch, until my backside hits his groin. “And if you don’t like what you hear, we will at least get a nice night out together.”
“And free booze,” I add, taking another drink from the champagne bottle.
As always, Tucker is right. After several more swigs of bubbly, I’m feeling relaxed and optimistic about my next interaction with Ransom Reed. I mean, so what, he’s ridiculously sexy and so drop-dead gorgeous that it makes my eyes hurt. Even if he’s been cursed with the dreaded asshole gene, he’ll be pretty to look at. And let’s face it—I’m used to dealing with assholes. Hello, Justice Drake, anyone? And I’m two parts asshole myself.
When Caleb reenters a good while later, both Tucker and I are pleasantly tipsy, having raided the dressing room’s mini fridge. We’re noshing on a cheese and fruit platter when he tells us it’s time to head to the after party.
“Where’s it at?” I ask him as he leads us outside where his ride awaits.
“The Royal. Penthouse.”
The Royal? That’s a modest choice, considering that most entertainers would surely choose the swankier offerings, like The Plaza or Ritz-Carlton. But, then again, the papzz would expect that.
“Which penthouse?” The Royal has three of them, all boasting a nightclub sorta vibe.
“All of them,” Caleb answers, pulling out his phone to reply to a text.
We ride the short distance in companionable silence until we reach our desired location, which, honestly, isn’t much to look at from the outside. Caleb leads us to the elevators, stopping briefly to greet a few industry folks. We take the ride to the top where the party is already in full swing.
What the preshow festivities lacked in booze and boobs, the after party more than makes up for it. We step into the largest suite, which is crammed with wall-to-wall partygoers who look as if they’ve been at it for at least an hour. Everyone is beyond toasty, the music is loud and the lights are dim. I can barely make out anyone familiar, although I suspect the largest packs of girls have band members smuggled between them.
“Where’s Ransom?” I shout at Caleb over the music.
“He’s here somewhere. Grab a drink, have some fun. He’ll turn up somewhere.”
I turn to my husband, who looks just as out of his comfort zone as I am. Don’t get me wrong—I haven’t always been this square. But penthouse parties haven’t been my thing since my twenties.
“Come on,” he says, grasping my hand and leading me through the crowded room. We stop at what appears to be a bar. It’s littered with various bottles of alcohol, champagne, wine, and beer. He finds a clean flute and pours me a glass of bubbly before snagging himself a beer.
“When in Rome,” he says, smiling in a toast. That smile is a picture of beauty. And unfortunately, I don’t see it half as much as I used to. I take a sip of my drink and grin right back at him.
Ok, maybe one night of fun won’t hurt. What’s the worst that could happen?
