“No,” I admitted.
“Why would I want that? I mean, if you do end up an unhappy spinster, we both know I’m the one who’s gonna be stuck with you.”
“Yeah.”
“Can you please just promise me if you really want this guy, you’ll give it a chance? Give yourself a chance to decide what you want, instead of making your decisions based on what you think I feel?”
I stared at her. “You really won’t be mad at me if I hook up with him? Or… hurt?”
“No,” she said firmly. “I told you already. I’m not into him. He’s not my type. And besides, I really, really like the way you get all flustered and stupid when you say his name.”
I felt a smile tugging at my mouth.
“Like this? Ashley…”
“Yeah.” My sister smirked. “Like that.”
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Yeah.”
Maybe I finally believed her.
It was just so hard to know how Dani felt about men. Really felt.
But, yeah. I believed her.
I took another hit off her joint, then handed it back to her. Her blue eyes met mine.
“I’m still pissed at you about Jackson, though,” she said.
“I know.”
We watched a crew of girls pile into a cab and drive away.
“I should call him.”
Dani shot me a look. “Who?”
“Ashley.”
“Oh no, you don’t,” she said.
“Why not? First you want me to hook up with him, now you don’t want me to call him…”
“Nope. You are not drunk dialing Ashley Player. As your winglady, I forbid it.”
I sighed again. “Then let’s go back to my place and eat barbecue chips with ranch dip.” I practically salivated just saying it.
My sister rolled her eyes. “You and your barbecue chips with ranch dip.”
“I have black licorice,” I sang, because damn right, I knew her go-to binge food, too. She didn’t binge often, but black licorice had always been Dani’s weakness.
“Okay,” she said, with a half-smile. “I’m in. But I get to pick the movie.”
* * *
Later that night, after we’d pigged out and made it halfway through Swingers, I may have drunk dialed Ashley, just a little bit.
It wasn’t totally my fault. My sister had fallen asleep on my couch right in the middle of winglady duty.
“Change your mind?” he asked when he picked up, in that sexy, rough voice of his, husky with sleep.
I took his sleepy voice, not to mention the fact that he’d answered my call, as a great sign—a sign that he really hadn’t gone off and fucked someone else after I’d sent him away all horny and frustrated.
“No. I still wish I’d come home with you.”
He sighed. “Then come over. Jesus, I thought you were blowing me off.”
“I wasn’t,” I said. “But… I can’t. When we said good night at the bar, it came across wrong, though. I like you, Ashley. I just want to proceed with caution.”
“Why?”
“I just think while I’m working for you we should keep things professional. But, also… I wasn’t about to betray my sister for a guy. Any guy. Sorry.”
“Betray her… how?”
“I don’t know. It’s stupid. I know there’s nothing between you and her…” I heard my own voice, and it still lacked conviction.
“There isn’t,” he said. “And we can keep things professional if that’s important to you. Until you’re done here.”
Okay, that made me feel better. If he was willing to wait just a little bit longer…
“And after that,” I said, “we can definitely hang out, and—”
“Nope,” he cut in. “After that, I’m taking you out, you’re wearing something sexy and we’re staying out way past your bedtime.”
I grinned. “That sounds better. But until then… just let me finish the job, okay? I’d feel better about it if we both kept our hands to ourselves until then.”
Obviously, I’d feel best if I went over there right now and got into bed with him.
But I really did care about the professionalism thing.
It was only a few more days.
“I’ll see what I can do,” he said.
“I appreciate it.”
“You know you’re just making me horny right now…”
“Then maybe I should let you go. You can get some sleep… and maybe dream about that thing you did to me at the bar?”
He kind of growled and cleared his throat. “When did you say you’ll be done my place again?”
“Sometime next week. Few more days, I promise. I’m just waiting on a few items to come in.”
“Okay. But if they’re late, we’re going to Ikea and calling it a day.”
I laughed. “Good night, Ashley.” Damn. I did get all flustered and stupid when I said his name. “Sorry I woke you.”
“Anytime, Danica.”
And when he said my name? My heart totally fluttered.
Chapter Nineteen
Ash
Two nights later, Summer dropped by my place. I opened the door and then just stood there leaning on it, unenthusiastically letting her in.
“Home on a Saturday night?” She strut right in and tossed her purse on the counter.
“Uh-huh.” I shut the door.
“I’m gonna go ahead and assume you’re just about to get out of those sweats and get your ass to a bar, then?”
“You assume wrong.”
She looked me over suspiciously. I was wearing sweatpants and a bad attitude, and that was about it, while she was dressed for a hot DJ set: tight black leather pants that went right up to her tits, a hot-pink mesh crop top and pink wig.
Her gaze snagged on the fading hickies Danica had left on my neck the other night at the bar.
“No bar? Straight to someone’s bed, then?”
“Just spit it out,” I said. “Whatever you came here to say. I’m in too shitty a mood to deal with your coy.” I took a couple of fresh beers from the fridge, putting one on the counter for her.
“Have you been drinking all day?” she inquired.
“Yup.”
“Alone?”
“Hardly.” I popped the cap off my beer, taking a deep swig as I wandered into the living room. “Was out with Janner.”
“How’s he doing?”
“Drunk.”
Summer put her hands on her hips and surveyed my place as I dropped onto the new couch. “And what the fuck happened in here?”
“Told you. I redecorated.”
“It looks great. You have… chairs.” She opened her beer and went to sit down on one of the dining chairs, petting the upholstery like it was a live bunny. “Nice.”
“Yeah. I mean, Danica redecorated it. That girl I told you about.”
“Very nice.”
“It’s not done, though. She still has to come back to finish some stuff.”
She studied me. “You’ve got it bad, don’t you.”
“That didn’t sound like a question, so I’m not gonna bother answering.”
She smirked and sipped her beer, and I flipped her the finger. While I brooded over my beer, she pulled out her phone, and next thing I knew, Van Halen’s “Ain’t Talkin’ ’Bout Love” was playing from my speakers.
I gave her a nasty look and she just smiled.
I lay back on the couch and stared at the ceiling. Fuck, but I did have it bad.
I really liked this girl.
It was official. I had a serious fucking thing for Danica Vola.
I’d gotten her off in a bar two nights ago, and she’d kinda blown me off afterward, and I still had a thing for her.
She was taking things slow between us, taking it seriously… and I kinda loved that about her.
Too bad I was hellbent on not falling in love with her.
Or anyone else.
I just wanted to fuck
her already and get it over with. See if after that she’d be out of my system.
Or just deeper under my skin.
It was kinda driving me crazy not knowing.
“You falling in love again?” Summer asked, like she was reading my fucking mind.
“Nope,” I said. “Not doing that anymore.”
“Oh. Right.” I didn’t look at her, but I could pretty much feel her eyes roll across the room. “I forgot.”
“Why are you here again? Don’t you have a show tonight?”
“Yup. But you didn’t answer my calls—”
“Because sometimes I turn off my ringer just so I don’t have to hear George Michael.”
“Why don’t you just change my ringtone?”
“I dunno. That’s just always been your ringtone.”
“Hmm. And yet it annoys you.”
I grinned. “It does. How could I possibly change it?”
“Moving on to other business,” she said. “I feel like we’re stalling out. Are we stalling?”
“What, with the band?”
“Yes. The band. Please tell me you’ve been bromancing the hell out of Xander Rush and you two are BFFs by now.”
“Trying to. He’s acting like a fucking princess, though. I keep asking him to hang and he keeps making some excuse. I’m starting to feel desperate.”
“Are you?”
“Fuck it. We should just find another drummer.”
“I thought you wanted this dummer.”
“I do want this drummer.”
“Then let’s get him,” Summer said.
“Yeah.” I sucked back some beer and groaned. “I think if one more person tells me ‘I’ll think it over,’ I’m gonna shoot myself.”
“Don’t be dramatic. You’re just impatient, understandably. I am too. We’ve waited a long time for this.”
“For what, exactly?”
“For the band. You know… the band.”
She got up and paced over to the windows, looking out at the view across the water, the lights of North Vancouver glittering on the mountainside.
And I wondered what Danica was doing tonight. If she could see that view from her place.
It was Saturday night, though. She probably wasn’t even home.
Maybe she was hanging out with some other guy…
Maybe that douchy ex-boyfriend of hers.
“Do you think maybe we’re going about this wrong?” Summer said. I almost forgot she was standing there. “We’ve been putting off writing because we want to know who’s in the band and have everyone contribute to the music. But maybe we need to focus on the music first, write a few songs, and things will start to flow.”
“Maybe.”
She turned to me. “You know, maybe it’ll just come to us as we go. Come together.” She hooked an eyebrow at me. “Like you and your girl.”
“Right. Because that’s going so well.”
“Isn’t it?”
“I dunno,” I mumbled. “Sort of.”
Summer stared at me for a moment, then wandered into the music nook in the corner. Surrounded by windows, it had become my favorite place to play guitar.
“What’s this?” she asked.
“My new music nook.”
She looked over at me. “She made this for you?”
“Yeah.”
I wasn’t sure what to make of the look she gave me, so I ignored it.
“Ain’t Talkin’ ’Bout Love” had ended, and she fiddled with her phone. The Chili Peppers came on. “Blood Sugar Sex Magik.”
“Gotta hand it to you, DJ Summer. You definitely know how to put your finger on someone’s pulse through music.”
“I do.”
She turned to look out the windows again, sipping her beer.
Then she turned back to me with that look she got when she had some grand idea that I was either gonna love or hate.
“I’ve got an idea.”
“You don’t say.”
“Make me a playlist,” she said. “A playlist of songs you want me to hear, because… if you were on your deathbed, these would be the songs, like the songs that define what you’re about, musically.”
“Why?”
“And they can’t be your own songs,” she said, totally ignoring my question as she hashed out her idea. “They have to be other artists’ songs.”
“Okay. Why?”
“Let’s make it exactly twenty songs. It’ll be about an hour-and-a-half of music or so. I’ll make a playlist for you, too. That’s our homework for each other.”
“Uh-huh. Why?”
“Because it’ll help us to see where each of us is coming from musically and where we want to go. Not just inspiration or imitation, but like if your heart was music, in twenty songs, show me what that sounds like. What that feels like.”
“My heart?” I sipped my beer, thinking that over. Summer was the playlist queen. I could see why this idea would spark her creativity.
“Yes. Like I want the beat of your pulse… your soul, your blood and guts and bones, in twenty songs.”
“I dunno. It’s a pretty messed-up place in there.”
“Great,” she said. “Then let it be that. Whatever it is, I wanna hear it. In twenty songs. Soon. We’ll call it your vortex playlist.”
“Alright.”
“Awesome.” She sat down again, seeming pleased with her idea.
“We can do that,” I said. “Sounds like a good exercise. But what about the band? I need the vibe of the other members to create with. I’ve never been great writing alone. And no offense, but I don’t want to write the songs just with you. The whole point of this was to put together a supergroup. That means everyone brings what they’ve got to the table. Everyone brings their own fucked-up musical heart,” I told her, using her metaphor, “and we build this thing together. As equal players.”
“Yes.” She stood up so fast she slopped her beer on my hardwood floor. “Players. That’s what we’ll call it.”
“Huh?”
“The band, baby.” She fixed her blue eyes, blazing with passion, on me. “The Players.”
I shook my head, dismissing the idea outright. “Too generic.”
“So what? Uh, have you ever heard a classic little song called ‘The Weight’? ‘Up On Cripple Creek’? ‘The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down’?”
“Obviously.”
“Yeah, they’re by a band called—wait for it—the Band. Doesn’t get more generic than that. Worked out for them just fine. We make Players our word, we infuse it with meaning. And hello, it’s a play on our lead singer’s name.”
“I get that. But it’s not my band.”
“No. It’s the Players.”
“Maybe.”
Summer sighed. “Are you saying you’ll think it over? May I quote you? If one more person tells me ‘I’ll think it over,’ I’m gonna—”
“We’re not naming this band until it’s a band, Summer. Equal players, remember?”
She huffed. “Fine.”
I sighed and rubbed my hand over my face. Fuck, was I in a shit mood. Honestly, I was bothered by our progress with putting the band together, too. She wasn’t the only one worried that we were stalling out.
“Why don’t you come to the show tonight?” she asked me, reading my angst. “You could invite your girl to come.”
“First of all, she’s not my girl. So you can stop calling her that. And second of all, no.”
“You’re not coming?”
“Not tonight.”
Just the thought of being in a hot, crowded club while Summer’s sexy music throbbed through the room and Danica rubbed up against me, probably in some slinky little dress like the one she wore last time I saw her in a club—and made her come—made my dick fucking ache.
I was staying right here tonight, on my new couch, in my bad mood and sweatpants. Alone.
Summer sighed. “Suit yourself. But don’t dwell in this funk too long, alright?”
I grunt
ed a noncommittal response to that. “How come no one’s jumping right on board with us?” I asked her. “When are they gonna start coming to us? They should be coming to us, fucking begging to be in our band.”
“Ashley, we’re basically asking people to change the course of their lives. It’s a big deal. Plus, no one knows about us yet, really, and how serious we are and how brilliant this is gonna be.” She paced over and stood over me, hands on her hips again. “Maybe that’s what we need…”
“What?”
“Some PR. Some buzz.”
“Buzz about what? We have no band yet.”
“Wrong,” she said. “Here’s what we have. We have Ashley Fucking Player, we have me, we have big plans for world music chart domination—”
“We do?”
“And if we can get the right people in our corner to spin all that the right way for us, they will be coming to us. We could hold auditions.”
“Fuck auditions.”
“Why? Even Dirty held auditions when they were looking to replace Seth.”
“I don’t know. Maybe, okay? I can take it up with management, see what they think.”
“Yeah. About that.” Summer dropped onto the arm of the couch, by my feet. “I’m gonna tell you something, as your longtime friend, now your bandmate, and as a person who truly cares about you. Your management company doesn’t give a rat’s ass about you, Ashley Player.”
“Harsh.”
“Harsh, maybe, but true. I’ve listened to you complain about how they favor their other artists over you, for years. Tell me you’re totally happy with your working relationship with them, and I’ll back off about it, right now.”
I said nothing.
“Exactly.”
“So, what?” I said. “What do you want us to do, work with Yancy?”
Yancy was a manager and booking agent out of L.A. that Summer had been working with for a few years. He was alright, but he wasn’t what we needed. We needed local management, someone who could be way more involved with us on a daily basis, and someone experienced with the rock world. And Summer was right. My management company wasn’t the best; I hadn’t always had the greatest relationship with them over the years. But they were better than Yancy.
Hot Mess: A Players Rockstar Romance (Players #1) Page 25