by Harper Sloan
Oh, this is going to be great.
Looking over the empty row in front of me, I meet my brother's laughing eyes. Jamison hasn't gotten up from his seat yet, and judging by the way his head bends awkwardly to the side, he's not awake either. I hold my hand up, one finger over my lips, hoping Wes doesn't let the cat out of the bag. Looking around Chance's body, I catch Luke's questioning gaze and repeat my silent shushing. He rolls his eyes, unused to whatever unknown crazy that is our normal, but nods his head nevertheless.
"He's going to kill you," Chance rumbles, his voice thick with sleep.
"Maybe, but it will be so worth it."
He shakes his head while we wait for the plane to continue to clear out, the curtain that separates the first-class section from coach still closed tight. Well, that is until dumb and dumber, better known as our rent-a-cops from Brighthouse, push through. Freaking idiots.
Normally, when we aren't on a plane like this where the exit is between first class and coach, we're the first ones to rush off the plane. I prefer it like this, though. We can let everyone else go and just take our time. When traveling into LAX, we usually have a car meet us at the gate, slipping out the same door that takes employees from the bridge to the tarmac, but we were told a month ago that any time we traveled via flight, we were expected to walk through the airport into the heavily armed paparazzi. This was free PR for them, and with our newest record coming out in mere weeks, they were milking that free PR for all it was worth.
Today, I'm not even slightly bothered that I have to jump off a red-eye and straight into cameras flashing and questions being screamed at us. Nope, not today. Today, I'm going to do all of that with a shit-eating grin on my face.
"Let's go, fuckers. I'm ready to get home," Jamison grumbles, standing and rubbing his eyes.
Wes snorts, filing out of his seat and almost losing his shit when he gets a better view of Jamison. Luke grabs his bag before Chance gently nudges me forward. I follow the idiots, who are not even pretending to give a shit about the people they're supposed to be guarding, and Chance grabs my hand before we even get past the open plane door. We smile at the flight attendants, thanking them for their discreet service, before walking up the bridge and into the always-busy hustle and bustle of LAX.
Not once in the whole walk through the airport does my smirk slip. I feel almost giddy with anticipation.
"Is the car already out front?" Chance questions the guard who I think is named Dave.
"I think," he mumbles in return.
"You think, or you know? Because when it comes to my girl either standing out there waiting with the fucking reporters or getting straight in a car to take us home, that's a big fucking difference."
The man's eyes narrow at Chance's attitude. "It's not really your place to question us on our job, so why don't you let us be the ones who worry about it."
My gaze flies back to Chance's face. I'm starting to feel like I resemble someone watching a tennis match at this point. I can hear some snickers from the people around us, but because of the hot testosterone show that Chance is giving me, I can't even enjoy the fruits of my labor.
"When you have a girl like mine on your arm just waiting for you to get her home safe before giving you a morning of the best fucking you've ever had, then you can tell me it isn't my place to worry. Nothing is going to stand in the way of what's promised to me when we get there, so you can bet your fat fucking ass that it's my place to question you."
Oh. Holy. Shit.
I almost feel like yelling out check please, even though that makes no fucking sense.
There's no response when Chance stops talking--not that I thought there would be. There is nothing that man could say, not after being so thoroughly put in his place.
We continue to walk for a couple of minutes, silence stretching out among our group. The whole time I feel like I'm about to come out of my skin, until I finally can't take it any longer.
"So about that promise?" I question huskily, looking up at Chance.
He glances around us, alert. His emotionless mask is back in place, but instead of finding it annoying like I did before, now it just turns me on even more. Seeing him in action is hot.
"Chance," I whine, craving his eyes on me.
"Stop it, Wren."
"Yeah, right," I hiss passionately. "Not after that."
He bends down, not taking his eyes off the business around us nor letting his grip on my hand loosen, his words low and steady. "Don't read into my words when I'm just playing a part."
"You can't fake chemistry like ours."
"You've known me a week," he hisses.
"So? I knew you a day and felt it. Get over your bullshit, Chance. It's gonna happen."
He doesn't respond, standing to his full height.
"Mommy, Mommy! Why is dat man wearing whipsick?"
At the young child's scream, my attention on Chance, as well as my determination to win this fight right now, ends. I almost trip trying to find the little kid who spoke, but Chance's hold on my hand keeps me upright. Wes has completely lost his battle with his own hilarity. I hear him behind me barking out a deep rumbled belly laugh. Luke isn't far behind him. I look over my shoulder and see Jamison's confused gaze on the kid who's pointing to him. I snort out a laugh but turn before he can see my eyes. It would do me no good to have him figure it out before we got to the paparazzi that I know are waiting for us.
"He's going to kill you," Chance says, again reiterating what he said before we left the plane.
I look up, my already bright smile turning up a notch when his eyes drop to my mouth. "Then I guess you'd better protect me, baby."
Those hazel swirls shoot back up to my eyes, and I watch with satisfaction as a fire of awareness lights behind them, heating up from the inside to burn bright and making each different shade of blue and green in his eyes come to life. It's hypnotizing. I could get lost inside eyes like that. Well, that is until he has to break our connection before one of the men in front of us gave the warning that reporters were just ahead.
I hadn't even realized we had made it to the security checkpoint for arriving passengers to get into the baggage claim area yet. I was once again on Chance Cloud Nine, and I quickly realized I would be happy to stay on that cloud for a long fucking time to come.
"Incoming," Chance says under his breath. I look up just in time to get a flash to the retina.
"Wrenlee! Wrenlee! Over here!" Flash. Snap.
"Wrenlee, are you planning on anything special when you guys head off to Vegas?" Flash. Snap.
"Weston, how are things going with Shelly Knight?" Flash. Snap.
I turn to give Weston a smile. I warned him when he agreed to go with that vapid woman to a movie premier that it would bite him in the ass. We're mutual friends with her booking agent, so to Wes, that meant favors were harder to deny, a feeling the two of us didn't share.
"Luke, any news on that movie role you're in the running for?" Flash. Snap.
Yeah, right. We don't even get time to sleep. There is no fucking way Brighthouse is going to let him off the hook for months at a time to film.
"Wrenlee, any comment about your pregnancy?" Flash. Snap. "Our sources in New York said you had confirmed your pregnancy while checking into the airport last night." Flash. Snap.
I'm shocked that question took so long. And I would put money on that source being one of those employees who checked us in. Thank you, Jamison. The jerk.
Then there is silence. The cameras' shutters still click away and the flashes still blind us. But not a single question is being thrown at us.
Ah, the taste of revenge is oh, so satisfying. How perfect for it to come right after that last question.
"What?" Jamison asks in confusion when it becomes clear that all the focus is on him.
"Jamison, uh ... can you explain your new look?" Flash. Snap. Silence.
"What new look, man?"
I drop Chance's hand, to his displeasure, and walk between Luke and
Wes, digging into my bag until I find my mirror. "Here you go." I smile sweetly at Jamison.
"Motherfuck," he mutters, reaching out to snag the compact out of my hand.
Chance pulls my back to his front, one muscled forearm crossing over my chest to hold me close. The instant I relax into his embrace, the flashes and snaps intensify until all I can see are bursts of light. Too excited for Jamison's reaction, I don't even care that my plan to make Jamison the focus of our arrival back in LA has failed ... well, slightly.
Jamison's eyebrows shoot up, and his bright red lips part. I snicker, waiting for the next part. His hand predictably comes up to try to scrub the perfectly applied lip color from his lips. It took me forever last night to make sure I had applied it flawlessly. It was hard as hell to get all three layers of my favorite budge-proof lip color on Jamison's full lips, but I'm damn proud of the results. Also, I'm a little jealous of his Kylie Kardashian plump lips.
"What the motherfuck?" He bellows out his confusion, narrowing his eyes at me as I laugh so hard Chance has to literally hold me up. Jamison's still rubbing his lips furiously against the back of his hand, but the color doesn't move. My laughter becomes manic, and Wes and Luke join in.
The paparazzi around us continue to snap pictures, but I let this moment play out, knowing it's going to be worth more to them than any questions we would ignore.
Jamison looks up when it becomes clear he isn't getting the lip color off, and I see the acceptance settle in. His back straightens, and he squares his shoulders, handing my mirror back to me without a word.
Then.
Well, then Jamison proves to everyone why life will never be dull when he's around. He steps forward, grabs one of our rent-a-cop guards, and presses his bright red lips against the shocked ones of the man he's holding with an unyielding grasp on his shoulders. When he steps back, making a loud smacking sound, he turns that red painted smile on the cameras.
"It was my turn to wear the skirt," he tells them with a wink as he walks around the stunned guard and climbs into the SUV that had been idling at the curb, waiting for us.
This time, there isn't a single person around us who doesn't laugh. Well, except for the man who will be plastered all over every gossip news outlet in a matter of hours as the boyfriend of Loaded Replay's Jamison Clark.
Chance gives me a squeeze, and with tears of laughter in my eyes, I turn in his hold. His arm wraps around my shoulders, pulling me close, and I bend my arms with my bag hanging to the side of our bodies from the crook of my elbow. My hands press against his sides as the rest of the world around us just falls away. My laughing stops, but my smile doesn't drop.
"Remind me not to get on your bad side," he says with a deep whisper that makes me shiver in his hold. Something he doesn't miss.
"Duly noted."
His attention drops from my eyes to my mouth, and I lick my lips. He drops his head slightly, and I roll onto my toes. My eyes close half-mast for the briefest of seconds before the anticipation of his kiss fills my every desire.
"Wrenlee, is this the baby's father?"
I jolt out of the fog I was trapped in, and my eyes snap open, looking into Chance's. I do my best not to react, used to the bullshit they make up.
"When are you due?" Flash. Snap.
"Will you be getting married while you're in Vegas?" Flash. Snap.
Chance turns at that one, pulling me with him and adjusting me to curl into his side.
"Who says we aren't already?" he answers.
I gasp at the same time they go insane. The questions start coming so quickly now, I can't even understand what anyone is yelling at us. The camera flashes are never ending as Chance starts walking, all but pulling me into the open door of the SUV.
Well, my plan backfired.
The most shocking of all is I'm not even mad at the man for starting the mother lode of all rumors.
Most concerning, though, is the spark of excitement that shoots straight into my chest from Chance's words alone, settling deep and creating an opening in the floodgates of hope that I thought had sealed up a long time ago.
Wren is silent the whole time we're in the SUV. The guys talk around us, but they don't even try to engage conversation with her. Not once. I know they didn't miss that shit I pulled back at LAX. No way these guys could have missed it, not when they started screaming more questions at us and almost burning my eyes out of my head with their fucking camera flashes.
I shouldn't have said it, but after the words had left my mouth, I didn't regret them. The thought of being legally bound to a woman like Wrenlee Davenport isn't the worst image to have floating through my mind. Even though I knew there wasn't a grain of truth to be found, it didn't stop my thoughts from veering off the path of rationality and envisioning a future I have no right imagining. Thoughts that I haven't allowed myself to even come close to thinking since I felt the burning, searing ache of betrayal so painful I vowed I would never welcome anything close to a relationship again, not even in my thoughts--fake or otherwise.
I think it's because it's been so long since I've had the pleasure of entertaining such a pure thought that I can't find the care to stop picturing it. Between the nightmares I had when I left the Marines and the ones I had after my big fuck-up back home, I had only just recently started sleeping without those nighttime demons of the past visiting. If I'm honest with myself, I'm not ready to push this thought--however untrue--away if this is how oddly peaceful it makes me feel.
I hear a phone ring, pulling my mind from a darkness I don't like to think about envelope me.
"What?" Weston's sharpness has the conversation with Luke and Jamison halting and Wren turning in her seat to look in the back row at her brother.
I use the time to study her face. She doesn't look mad. Instead, she appears a little sad.
"Fuck you, Dix. I told you that you had no control over that."
I twist and hold my hand for the phone. I created this mess so I might as well handle it for him. Weston shakes his head and ignores me. Pulling my arm back, I wait to see what's said next.
"So what if she is? There isn't shit you or Brighthouse can do about it."
Wren shifts, and her movement makes the most delicate scent waft into my nose. I know she doesn't wear perfume, having scanned the bathroom back at the concert venue before I left her clothes in there, and I've been with her every second since, so whatever the aroma is all her and the most mouthwatering thing I've ever smelled.
"No. No fucking way. Wren isn't going to make a public statement denying anything." He holds his finger up, requesting silence before pulling his phone away from his ear and pressing the speaker button to fill the space with one irate voice.
"... run this shit. There will be no relationships, for any of you, but especially not her. Brighthouse still owns you, and when they say you'll stay single, you'd better fucking do it. Issue the statement and then make an appointment somewhere discreet to take care of that problem."
The fury that fills the air when Dix finishes speaking is almost tangible.
"Did you seriously just demand that my sister abort her child?"
"I did, and she will. You will not have a child fucking this up."
"Fucking this up?" Wes echoes.
"It's my job to make sure you four do what Brighthouse wants, and what they want is that baby gone, the marriage taken care of, and all traces of it disappearing. Get that motherfucker away from my band and clean up this mess, Weston. Or else."
Silence.
It doesn't even matter that the child he's demanding be 'taken care of' isn't a reality. It doesn't matter there is no marriage to end--hell, not even a relationship. None of that matters right now because this man has just made it very fucking clear that no one in charge of Loaded Replay's career even gives a fuck about them besides what their music can do for their bank accounts.
"You've got a lot of nerve," Luke bitterly says.
"No, I have all the nerve. I'm the one who is going to make s
ure that you continue to stay on top. It damn sure won't be you fuck-ups if this latest news is any indication. You're still under contract with them to finish this tour. Just because you've finished the album requirements doesn't mean you can do what you want. I've already talked to Howard, and he's going to bring this back up as an add-in with your renegotiations."
"Hey Dix," Wren says softly.
"What do you want?"
"Do me a favor, will ya?" she continues, ignoring his attitude.
"I'm not doing shit for you until you fix this problem that you've created."
She looks from the phone, meeting the eyes of all three men sitting in the back of the SUV and silently communicating her thoughts before the deep blue orbs hit my face. She gives me a smile, one that goes a long way in unraveling the tangle of unpleasantness in my gut.
"Okay, Dix. How about this then. You can let Howard know that I don't give a shit if he's the president of Brighthouse because right now, you've just screwed them out of even the chance of us re-signing. How about you let Howard know that our lawyer will be in touch. As for you, well ... you can consider yourself fired. You might be employed as our manager, but that was only because we didn't know any better when we signed and picked you up through our contract with Brighthouse--one that ended when we finished Black Lace. We have no need for you to see us through the rest of our obligations because after the tour, we're gone. Consider our relationship severed. Problem solved. Also--and hear this clearly, please--myself, Loaded Replay--our band, not your band--my husband, and our child are no longer something you need to concern yourself with. Have a nice life, asshole."
She reaches over the seat and jabs her tiny finger against her brother's phone, the silence only lasting a second before Weston's phone rings again. He ends the call before powering off his phone, looking at his sister like he can't decide if he should be proud or shocked.
"You do know that we aren't married, right?" I ask in an attempt to ease some of the tension.
She whips her head around, her red hair swishing over her shoulder. "Yeah, and you haven't knocked me up yet."
"That won't be happening," I remind her.
"Well, not the knocking me up part. We can practice for that, though."
"Uh, Wren," Jamison butts in, ending our weird-as-fuck verbal foreplay.