Anyone But You

by Jerica MacMillan

  In no hurry, his eyes wander their way up to mine, and I hold back my huff when he spends an inordinate amount of time examining my chest. He’s aiming for a reaction, and I’m not going to give him the satisfaction.

  I have an older brother. This isn’t my first experience with a guy trying to get some kind of reaction out of me. Not that Mason is anything like Will. For one thing, Will would never leer at my boobs. Ew. No, his favorite thing was to jump out from around corners and try to get me to scream. After I trained myself to just say, “Oh hi, Will,” like he didn’t just almost make me pee my pants, he eventually got tired of my non-reaction and gave up.

  Life was much more peaceful after that.

  So I’m hoping the same course of action will work with Mason.

  With Will it took at least a month of not reacting to his daily pranks before he learned that he couldn’t get more than a bored hello out of me. I’m assuming it’ll take at least that long with Mason.

  “Are you my babysitter now?” he asks at last.

  My eyebrows pull together. I can’t help it. “Isn’t this a normal thing for your assistant to do? Come get you when it’s time to go?”

  One of his eyebrows arches. “And have you collected everyone else already?”

  “Yes,” I confirm. “They’ve all headed down to the cars already.”

  Crossing his arms, he props open the door with his shoulder. “So you’ve saved the best for last.”

  I tamp down on the sigh that wants to escape, reminding myself that he’s just trying to provoke me. Giving in will only make it worse “If that’s what gets you out the door, then yes. That’s exactly what I did. Are you ready to go now?” Unfortunately, a little of my irritation leaks into my voice. I can’t help it. Less than a week into this job, and he’s already driving me crazy.

  With a grunt, he lets the door shut in my face. Stunned, my mouth hanging open, I stare at the beige slab, not sure if I should knock again or just barge in.

  Before I can decide, the door opens, and Mason’s there, a leather jacket clutched in one hand and a thin black case thing in his other hand that I’ve learned is his drumstick bag. He lets the door close behind him and gestures down the hall with his head. “Let’s go,” he says and strides away without waiting for me.

  I jog a couple of steps to catch up, walking as fast as I can to keep up with his long-legged gate.

  Where’s the fire?

  Earlier I felt like I was dragging a toddler along behind me, trying to cajole him into walking to the elevator, then from the elevator to the waiting car.

  But this evening, if he were walking any faster, he’d be running.

  Is this just another way of messing with me?

  Probably.

  Sigh.

  If I have to put up with a month or more of this behavior before he decides to act like an adult, this job is going to be harder than I thought.

  Chapter Seven

  Mason

  I beat Viola to the elevator, but I don’t try to get on without her. I’m not that much of an asshole.

  Also Dave, the security guy, wouldn’t go down without her anyway. Not with her only a few steps behind me. He waits till she steps up next to me, gives her a smile and says, “How are you, Viola?” as he hits the call button.

  I scowl when she gives him a sunny smile, the lush pink lips that I’ve had the pleasure of tasting only to be denied repeat access to them pulling wide. “I’m great, Dave. How about you? Ready to fend off the crazies tonight?”

  He chuckles, and I wonder if she enjoys the sound of his low baritone. His shaved head. His oversized muscles. He’d probably talk to her about his meal plan and shoulder day and how important leg day is for a well-rounded physique.

  Or maybe that’s just my trainer, and I’m projecting my misplaced jealousy onto our security guy who’s only ever been polite to me.

  But I hate the way she seems to sway toward him, gives him all her attention, pretends like I’m not even here.

  I clear my throat. “So, you guys are friends?”

  Dave gives me a funny look. “I’m friendly with all the tour members. And Viola seems lovely, but I can’t say we know each other as more than acquaintances.”

  Viola doesn’t even turn her head to look at me as Dave answers, instead she reaches out and squeezes his arm. Like she’s just looking for an excuse to feel the bicep that bulges beneath his suit jacket. You’d think that we pay these guys enough that they could afford suits that fit over their muscles.

  “I’m sure we’ll get to know each other well enough with all the time we spend together,” Viola says, her voice warm and affectionate, like they’re sharing some kind of inside joke.

  Dave cuts his eyes to me, and like the smart man he obviously is, gives Viola’s hand a little pat and shifts away from her. She lets her hand drop, seeming unaffected by his subtle rebuff.

  The elevator finally arrives, closing me in a small space with Viola and Dave. Dave positions himself in the corner and stares at the buttons, while Viola stands in the center between the two of us. The tension is so thick, it’s hard to breathe in here, but I seem to be the only one affected.

  Damn this chick and her ability to get under my skin without even trying.

  I clear my throat. “Vanessa, I’ll need you to book me a private room at a club for after the show tonight.”

  Dave coughs, hacking loudly as Viola stands in the middle of the elevator, humming to herself and watching the numbers changing on the display as we go down to the basement where the cars are waiting for us. Completely ignoring my request.

  “Vanessa,” I snap.

  She slowly turns her head, blinking at me. “Oh, I’m sorry, are you talking to me?”

  “Do I look like I’m talking to anyone else?”

  She gives an exaggerated shrug, her face bland. “I’m not sure. You were speaking to a Vanessa. I thought maybe you were on your phone.”

  “My phone’s in my fucking pocket.”

  “Bluetooth technology is amazing, isn’t it?” She spreads her fingers, wiggling them a little like she’s almost but not quite doing jazz hands, her eyes wide.

  Dave coughs harder. We both ignore him.

  “Am I wearing a fucking bluetooth headset?” I growl.

  She makes a big show of examining my ears. “I suppose not. But I wasn’t looking at you the entire time in the elevator. You could’ve put one in without me seeing to call this Vanessa person you were speaking to. But clearly you’re not on the phone. So who is Vanessa?”

  The elevator slides to a halt and the doors open, but we’re all frozen inside, Viola and I locked in a staring contest. But I’ll be damned if I break first and call her by her name.

  “You. I’m talking to you. You need to find me a private room for after the show.”

  “And where would you like me to do that?”

  The elevator buzzes in protest as Dave holds the door open button, waiting for us to get off. Still, neither of us move.

  “How should I know? I’m not from here. That’s your job.”

  She hums. “Is it? I don’t remember that being included in the job description.”

  “You’re our assistant. Your job is to do whatever we tell you to. I’m telling you to book me a party room at a club for tonight. I’m sure you won’t have too much trouble if you put your mind to it.”

  Without waiting for a response, I stalk off the elevator and head for the waiting car, where Marcus is watching the entire exchange with a frown on his face. But I’m not interested in Marcus’s take on the situation. Or anyone’s for that matter.

  Scuttling footsteps on the concrete let me know that Viola’s catching up, once again several steps behind.

  A smug smile climbs my face as I get in the car. It stays in place the whole way to the arena. Viola keeps her face in her tablet, frantically tapping away, hard at work to get me what I want.

  As it should be.

  Chapter Eight

  Viola
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  “Your job is to do whatever we tell you to,” I mutter to myself in a snotty voice in a terrible imitation of Mason as I follow the guys into the bowels of the arena, trying to figure out how the hell I’m going to make this happen.

  Once they’re all safely ensconced in their dressing rooms with adequate water and food, I head to the greenroom so I’m at least out of the way of the backstage crew finishing up for tonight.

  It’s not all that private either, though, because the opening act, Golden Enigma, shares a dressing room, so they tend to congregate in the greenroom before they go on stage. They’re about my age, maybe a little younger, three girls. They’re loud and boisterous, excited about the opportunity to open for a big-name band like Cataclysm. And they’re definitely enjoying the rock star lifestyle that Mason’s promoting. They were all in the pictures circulating of Mason’s greenroom party last night.

  But I guess there won’t be a repeat performance tonight. Not in the greenroom, at least. Not if I can get my job done. Dropping my bag in the corner, I pull out my phone and call the hotel concierge, plugging my other ear so I can focus.

  Part of me wonders what Marcus will think of Mason’s plan to have a private room at a club. At least he won’t be leaving the greenroom a mess again, but I kinda got the impression that Marcus wants Mason to rein in the partying altogether, at least when they’re on the road. Mason doesn’t seem to care much, though. I’m actually a little bit surprised he’s giving in this much and moving his party offsite.

  “Equinox Hotel, how may I direct your call?” a polite voice says in my ear, distracting me from my thoughts.

  “Yes, may I speak to the concierge please?”

  “One moment.” There’s silence as I wait to be connected, then a few rings before another efficient female voice answers me. “This is Brenda, I’m happy to help you today.”

  “Yes, I’d like a list of clubs with private rooms available for reservations.”

  “Certainly, ma’am. Are you staying with us? I can email a list to the address we have on file if you like.”

  “Yes, that would be amazing.” I give her my name and room number, happy to have a place to start.

  Minutes later, my phone alerts with a new email. That’s a new thing for me. I’ve always just checked my emails on my own schedule, but now that I’m the PA for Cataclysm, I get new time-sensitive emails every day. So I turned on the push settings and notifications, which means my phone is beeping and vibrating almost constantly. But I’m too afraid of missing something to turn it off again.

  And in times like this, it’s really handy.

  I open the email app and skip the latest round of Google alerts, zeroing in on the email from the concierge.

  There’s a list of over a hundred clubs, categorized by type.

  I didn’t even stop to think about what kind of club he’d want to go to. Dance? A more relaxed bar atmosphere?

  Gulp.

  A strip club?

  I supposed I could ask him, but I’m so tired of that smirk, the way he looks at me like he knows some dirty secret about me, and I’m annoyed about having to find him a party spot. Blaire assured me that these guys didn’t do the whole sex, drugs, and rock ’n’ roll thing. Marcus confirmed that during the video interview.

  And now here I am arranging a party spot for Mason, where I’m sure he’ll engage in both of the first two after doing the rock ’n’ roll thing on stage in a little bit.

  Sighing, I pick a club at random. It takes me another thirty minutes and three more clubs on the list before I’ve got him a spot for tonight. Dropping his name and insinuating that the whole band might come is what finally clinches it.

  Apparently last-minute reservations aren’t a thing around here. Unless you’re a celebrity.

  I probably just bumped some poor schmuck’s birthday party or bachelor party or something. And I feel like a jerk about it, but I have other things to do and don’t have time to call all hundred-plus places on the list.

  One thing done, I pick up my bag and rush off to gather the guys. They have a meet and greet in two minutes. It took longer than I expected to secure the venue, and now I have to get my ass in gear so they don’t fall behind schedule.

  An annoying buzzing sound brings me to the surface of sleep.

  What’s going on?

  Blinking and rubbing my eyes, I look around in confusion.

  My phone’s all lit up, vibrating on the nightstand. I have no idea what time it is, but it’s still dark outside, and I didn’t get to bed till one, which means I haven’t been asleep very long at all. I have an overwhelming urge to grab my phone and toss it out the window, charging cable and all. Someone else can have it. Free phone. Just be aware it never ever shuts up.

  I slap a hand on the table, fumbling for it, because it’s buzzing and buzzing and buzzing, meaning I’m getting a phone call. When I look at the screen, Mason’s name is showing, and I scowl. That’s why it’s vibrating, even though I put it on Do Not Disturb before collapsing into bed, completely exhausted. He’s on the tiny list of people who can ring through.

  Though if he’s going to call me in the wee hours of the morning for anything less than death or dismemberment—his own or one of the other band members—I might have to rethink his place on that list.

  While I’m still musing about the possibility of him dying—and the possibility of me killing him and getting away with it for waking me up at two thirty in the morning—the phone stops ringing.

  Before I can decide if I’m more annoyed now for being awake but not having to answer the phone, it starts ringing again.

  With a heavy sigh, I slide my thumb across the screen to answer it. “What do you want, Mason?”

  “Now, now,” he chides, the words bumping into each other. “Is that any way to talk to your boss?”

  Rubbing my eyes, I sit up. I have a feeling I won’t be getting back to sleep any time soon. “I’m pretty sure Marcus is actually in charge. Not you.”

  He scoffs. “Maybe so, but we all share you. We shared Blaire, and we share you. Not in all the same ways, but …” He trails off, and I wait for him to finish the sentence.

  He never does, though. Loud music plays in the background, the thumping bass carrying through the phone, punctuated by indistinct voices.

  “What do you want, Mason?” I repeat.

  “Hmm. That’s a loaded question, don’t you think?”

  I drop my face in my hand. He’s drunk. I’m exhausted. Under different circumstances, I might find this somewhat entertaining. But I’m still annoyed at his high-handed orders earlier, and him waking me up doesn’t endear him to me any further.

  “No, Mason,” I tell him, not bothering to stifle my sigh, “it’s really not. You called me at two thirty in the morning. Ostensibly for a reason. I would just like to know what that reason is.”

  “You didn’t schedule a car for me.” His voice comes out sounding like a petulant toddler. If a toddler were drunk, anyway.

  Sighing again, I slump over even more, my bed calling to me. Lay down, Viola, it says. Hang up on the man-child and go back to sleeeeeep.

  Okay, maybe that’s not my bed. Maybe it’s just what I want to do. Instead, I grumble, “And you can’t call the car service why exactly?”

  “I don’t have their number.”

  “You don’t … Oh for fuck’s sake.” I rip the phone away from my ear, change the input to speaker, and pull up my list of contacts for our stay here. Then I rattle off the number for the car service.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa.” I think he’s supposed to be saying that quickly, but instead it sounds more like the guy singing “What’s New Pussycat,” which is a terrible, terrible song, and now it’s going to be stuck in my head. Great. “It’s cute you think I even understood the phone number you just gave me, much less might remember it long enough to dial it after we get off the phone.” He pauses, then lowers his voice to what I think is supposed to be a conspiratorial whisper, but he’s still pract
ically talking at full volume. “Maybe you didn’t notice. I’m a little drunk. And it’s kinda loud here.”

  “Of course. What was I thinking?” I wasn’t. I’m way too damn tired to think. And I’m getting sweary because I’m tired and everyone around me cusses like sailors and it’s already changing my speech patterns. At least in my head.

  “I dunno,” he responds to my rhetorical question. “What were you thinking?”

  “I’m assuming that you’re ready to come back to the hotel, since you’re calling?”

  “Yessss,” he confirms. “Got it in one.”

  I open my mouth to correct him, because according to my phone, this conversation has already lasted over five minutes. Which is five minutes longer than it needed to. Which means I didn’t get it in one. It took me over five fucking minutes to figure out why my drunk drummer is calling me.

  “Alright. I’ll have someone come pick you up.”

  “You come too.” These words are sharper and more lucid than anything else he’s said.

  But still, I’m in shock. “What?”

  “Get in the car that’s coming to pick me up. I need you to come get me.”

  “Why?” The question is out before I can think better of asking. He’s already told me that my job is to do whatever he tells me to do. The other guys too, though I doubt any of them would call me up in the middle of the night to pick them up when they’re drunk. Or for any reason. Other than maybe one of the little kids waking up sick and needing someone to get medicine in the middle of the night … but I’ve seen their fully stocked kid luggage.

  These parents are on top of things, and they’re prepared for almost every eventuality. Short of an emergency room visit, I doubt they’d need me to run errands for them at three in the morning.

  “Because,” is the only answer I get. And the only answer I’m going to get, because I hang up on him. Arguing with him doesn’t go well for me even when he’s sober. I have a feeling that trying to argue when he’s drunk won’t get me anywhere.