Dane just grinned.
Emily said, “I think you look great.”
“Thanks, Emily.”
“No, serious, man. Why the fuck did you cut all your hair off? You had epic locks.”
“I needed change, dude.”
Sam grinned. “It’s kinda like an early mid-life crisis.”
“Is that why you did it?”
“Nah. I was sick of taking care of it. Short hair’s easy. You shower, run a comb through it, a little product, you’re done. No blow drying, no detangling. I wanted to simplify my life.”
Clay arched an eyebrow. “Don’t even get me started with that bullshit. How is it simpler that you live halfway across the state while the rest of us are still around Denver?”
At that point, Sam burst out laughing. “That’s not melodramatic. I’m two hours away, hardly halfway across the state.”
Brian said, “But in his heart, you’re far away.” Putting a hand on his chest while furrowing his brow in the cheesiest fashion he could muster, he said, “It was symbolic and that’s what hurts, Devil.”
After the waiter seated them around a table near a wall decorated with a wagon wheel and they all settled in with menus, Dane said, “It looks good, dude. I get cutting it, but what’s with the blond streaks?”
“It looks fine,” Emily said. “The girls will love it.”
Clay visibly rankled. “Should I cut my hair and get it streaked, too?”
“No. I love your long hair—and, besides, you don’t all have to have long hair. You and Dane are keeping the metal faith.”
Everyone laughed then until Clay said, “Or are you getting ready to chop your hair off, too, Silver?”
Dane grinned. “No fuckin’ way. But calling me that makes me think maybe I could dye my hair black and get silver streaks in it.”
“Bad ass like Blackie Lawless in the day?”
“Hadn’t thought of it that way, but yeah. Why not?”
Brian was a little relieved that the attention had shifted from giving him major shit—which he had not expected—to a more general conversation. Back when they’d been a struggling indie band playing tiny venues around the Denver area slowly growing their fan base, he’d intentionally held day jobs where his employers didn’t give a shit about his appearance, where the long hair, tats, and piercings didn’t matter. And at the beginning, he’d been completely anti-establishment.
He still was, actually—but being a walking symbol didn’t matter as much as his need for…something. What that was, he didn’t know yet.
“I forgive you, man.”
Brian grinned at Clay. “You’ll thank me later. Now the fans won’t notice me as much in public, so you’ll get more attention.”
Feigning hurt feelings, Clay’s expression turned to one of sadness—but the twinkle in his eyes gave away that he was simply playing along. “You think I’m an attention whore?”
Emily kissed him on the cheek. “We know you are.”
Everyone around the table agreed and burst into another gale of laughter when the waiter stopped by the table ready to take their order. And, as they focused on the menus, trying to scramble to decide what they wanted, Brian noticed the cool air on his neck, a sensation he hadn’t felt in years, as a sense of calm washed over him.
He was ready for whatever was coming.
More than that, he was ready for change.
Chapter Four
Would it be any easier if she were a supermodel? Right now, Sophia Buckley was pretty much a nobody, a tiny fish in a huge ocean, and that meant she couldn’t use her celebrity for much. Sure, she was getting lots more work nowadays thanks to that viral Instagram post, but it’d take longer to get noticed by the public at large—if that would even happen.
Phone calls weren’t working, but she was good online. At first, she considered DMing one of their various profiles on Facebook or Instagram but figured they had someone, maybe even a company, working their social media for them. She could try Brian Zimmer’s personal profile, but after what she’d done to him, she felt like her apology should be in person. Saying sorry in writing somehow seemed insincere.
She knew, because she’d been trying it for several days, and it just wasn’t working.
In today’s search, though, she found what she thought she might be looking for—the booking agent for Last Five Seconds.
After dialing the number for Platte Entertainment, she waited patiently until a woman’s voice filled her ear. Sophie asked, “You represent the band Last Five Seconds?”
“One moment, please.” After a bit, she said, “Yes. What can I help you with?”
“I was wondering if there would be a way I could contact the band to set up a meeting. I’m a fashion model in New York—”
The woman cut her off. “You’re going to want to talk with their manager about something like that.”
Dammit. Another dead end. As she let out an inaudible sigh, she got ready to thank the woman for her time anyway—but then she spoke.
“Would you like his contact information?”
“The manager? Oh, yes, that would be great.”
“One moment, please.” Sophie clicked the top of the pen, ready to write down whatever information the woman on the other end was willing to give her. “Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
“Their manager is Mark Fraser.” Then she gave Sophie his cell number.
His cell number—without vetting her or anything, without even asking her name. What if she’d been just some creepy stalker? Or a vengeful ex? It seemed so…overly trusting.
But what did she know?
As soon as she hung up with the woman, she dialed the manager’s phone number. Hesitation would be her only enemy, so she was going to deny it any hold. After all, she’d made it through lots worse—her first underwear shoot, for example.
“This is Mark.”
“You’re the manager for Last Five Seconds?”
“Yeah. What can I do for you?”
Sophie stood up from the kitchen table and walked through the tiny living room to look out the window at the city below. Just moving around helped quell any nervousness she felt. “My name is Sophia Buckley, and I’m a fashion model working in Manhattan. I met the band a few weeks ago when they were in East Rutherford for a meet and greet. I, uh…” Remember the script, Sophie. “I met Mr. Zimmer. Did he tell you about that?”
“Mr. Zimmer. That’s rich. And, no, he doesn’t tell me about every chick he meets.”
“Oh, okay. Well, I wasn’t sure, because I insulted him—and, because of that, I wanted to personally apologize to him.”
After a few seconds of silence, the man asked, “You said you’re a model?”
“Yes.”
“A fashion model?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“You got a recognizable face?”
“I’m, um—”
The man muttered a few words Sophie couldn’t make out at first. “I like this idea, you having lunch with the band in downtown New York City. We’re gonna be back up that way in a couple of weeks. How’s that sound? Lunch with the band—and then you can make your little apology to Mr. Zimmer whenever you like.”
The guy was a bit of an ass—but he wasn’t telling her no. Letting a little air out of her lungs, she walked back to the table to take more notes. “Thanks so much, Mr. Fraser. I really appreciate your help.”
“Don’t thank me. Just buy me lunch.”
Considering she had a shoot early next week for a bridal magazine making bank, it was a done deal. “You got it.”
But now she had to work on an apology that sounded as sincere as it needed to be—and then she could be done with this chapter in her life.
* * *
“What the fuck is this anyway?” Clay asked as they got out of the limo on Broadway.
“It’s kind of nice. How often do we get to be transported like this?”
“Clay’s right,” Brian said. “The tour bus is bad enough. P
eople fucking know we’re in there. A limo screams fame and draws every fucking body around.”
Ah, but as they exited the limo, he realized that, perhaps, he and Clay had overestimated the attention. Hardly anyone looked their way as the six of them got out of the limo.
And it was so weird. Mark, their manager, hardly ever did stuff with them, much less eating. The guy was usually too busy making sure everything went according to schedule. But, he supposed, the man deserved a little downtime, too.
“Guys, I need a minute,” Sam said, swiping his phone and putting it up to his ear. “I’m here, baby.”
Aw…too pukey. Had he ever sounded so sappy when he and Kyle had been together? Jesus Christ almighty, he hoped not. How a woman’s body could turn a man into a wimpy mess, he’d never know—and he prayed it wouldn’t happen to him.
Then again, Clay and Em didn’t seem to be too sappy. Maybe it was just because Sam and Grace had finally tied the knot. Or maybe it was because Grace was so much younger. But that didn’t make sense. Emily and Clay had a small age gap, too.
Fuck, he was overanalyzing.
“So what’s the occasion, Mark? What are we doing here?” Even as he asked, Brian’s stomach rumbled at the delicious aromas wafting out of the Italian café.
“We’re meeting a model who went to your show when we were in Jersey last month.”
At Mark’s words, Brian’s ears perked up. The one incident he’d wanted to forget, with the cocktease model he’d actually looked up later but hadn’t told a soul about, had happened in New Jersey.
This couldn’t be a coincidence.
While Dane held the door and everyone but Sam made their way inside, Mark continued. “Apparently, she said some rude shit to you guys and I tried to assure her it was all good, but she wanted to personally apologize. You guys gotta eat anyway and it’s—”
“What’s her name, Mark?”
A perky hostess with her hair in a high ponytail nearly assaulted them with her smile. “Name?”
“Fraser.”
The young woman looked at a clipboard, sliding her finger down a list. Meanwhile, Brian moved closer to their manager and lowered his voice. “What’s the model’s name?”
“This way, please.”
Goddammit. The universe was out to get him, obviously, but he already knew in his gut. Shit like this only happened when things weren’t going his way. It had to be her.
What was her name again?
“Sophia something.”
Brian’s mind began to race as he tried to find a legitimate excuse to turn tail and run now—miles away from their hotel and the venue, hungry as hell. His feet moved faster than his brain, though, and he turned to exit—but Sam was right there behind them, not reading his expression at all.
“I’m here, man. Let’s eat.” Wrapping an arm around Brian’s shoulders, he kept them following the line to a table near a huge plate glass window looking out over the street bustling with both foot and car traffic.
And sure as shit it was her.
While the clown inside Brian relished the idea of making a scene, saying something about what had happened, like asking if she’d washed the taste of his cock out of her mouth in the meantime, the rest of him was shrinking. Not much in life terrified Brian, but this woman got to him in a way that few people did.
But she obviously hadn’t said anything to Mark. And the guys didn’t know.
What was the worst that could happen? If the guys found out she’d left him high and dry after bringing him to the brink—they’d side with him, not her.
So as much as he wondered what the fuck this woman was thinking, she could bring her damnedest. He would not be rattled.
And, perhaps, he needed to communicate that much to her.
She stood as they approached the table and Mark said, “Guys, this is—”
“Sophia Buckley, student of law turned fashion model.” Perhaps that was only half right—if she hadn’t told the truth about the law student part.
When Sophie cocked a thin penciled eyebrow, Brian felt his cock twitch ever so slightly.
What the fuck?
* * *
Holy crap! It worked! Here in the flesh was the entire band, joined by another woman who looked like she could also be a model and a chubby older guy with thinning hair who had to be their manager. “Mr. Fraser?”
“Call me Mike, remember?”
Sophie hoped her smile looked kind and genuine, but there was no way to know for certain. She had more control over her tone of voice. “Thank you all so much for coming. I’ll admit that inviting you out to lunch wasn’t just for a meal. I have an ulterior motive. I was hoping to apologize to Brian for insulting him when you guys were in Jersey a couple of months ago at your meet-and-greet.”
As they all sat down, Clay said, “Wait a second. You were the model he was hanging with that night?”
Nodding, she added, “Yes, that was me.”
“And you insulted my man?” Clay burst out laughing, completely ignoring the menu in his hand.
“I did.”
“What the hell did you do?”
Ah…so Brian hadn’t said a word about it to his friends—not that she’d blame him. Even she was hesitant to admit to anyone exactly what she’d done. And, anymore, she wasn’t entirely sure that he’d deserved it.
So she simply said, “I’d rather not talk about it. After all, I wanted to say I was sorry, not remind him of what I did.”
“No, no, no. You can’t set it up like that without refusing to knock it down.”
Hmm. So apparently all rock stars let their fame go to their heads. “I am refusing…sir.”
“Ouch.” To Emily, he said, “Do I look old enough to be a sir?”
“Let it go, Clay,” Sam, the voice of reason, said over the top of the menu he held. “We obviously got good seats at a pretty nice place, so figure out what the hell you’re gonna eat before our waiter gets back.”
Emily kissed Clay on the cheek—and Sophie turned her attention to Brian. Damn…it was hard trying to be nice and actually give a shit about someone she hardly knew, especially someone she’d hoped to never see again. But it was something she had to do, especially after going to this kind of trouble. “So, Brian, after lunch, if I could just have a couple minutes of your time, I’d like to apologize.”
She couldn’t read his eyes and halfway expected him to shoot himself in the foot, demanding that she beg for forgiveness right here in front of his friends. Instead, he nodded and then glanced back at his menu.
Unfortunately, she couldn’t tell from his eyes if he was still ridiculously angry…or something else.
And she dared not think of what that something else might be.
Chapter Five
Throughout the meal, Brian kept his jaw shut—except for eating the panini which, in all honesty, was probably the best sandwich he’d ever eaten.
As much as he wanted to believe this beautiful model, he just couldn’t. If she really wanted to apologize, he’d accept it like a man, but he had a hard time buying it. After all, he’d had a lot of time to analyze what had happened. What kind of woman, vaguely insulted by some words some stranger she’d never met said, would go to all the trouble she had? She’d done some research to find dates when the band was going to be in concert, paid a boatload of money for tickets to the show and party, made sure to get his attention, seduce him, and then actually even put his cock in her mouth. And did it really well, too, taking him to the brink.
All to simply make a point?
He almost felt like he should be apologizing to her.
It turned out she was quite the charmer. Somehow, she made everyone at the table comfortable, all by asking questions and acting interested.
What the hell was her angle? Brian suspected it was just another move in her game.
At the end of the meal when the check was brought to the table, both she and Mike put down a card. Brian, sitting next to their manager, leaned over and asked quie
tly, “I thought she was buying lunch.”
“For me. I still have to pay for you guys.”
What the fuck? Not that it mattered, really. After all, it wasn’t like they wouldn’t have spent money on a meal. It was the principle.
Once everything was paid for and they all stood to go, Brian felt a bit of relief. Maybe this whole thing was her way of making good and she’d changed her mind about personally apologizing. He decided he’d be happy to call it good, because none of this felt right. But as they all turned to go, Sophie touched his arm and said, “Do you mind sticking around for just a moment?”
Great. It was going to happen. He was starting to feel a little pissed at Mike for not telling him earlier so he could have chosen to opt out. Instead, he’d have to take her apology like a man—but he didn’t have to actually accept it. He just had to make it through this moment.
“Yeah, sure.”
As she drew in a deep breath and held out a hand, silently asking him to sit down again, he assessed her. She sure as shit acted sorry—but something in his gut told him she wasn’t. When she sat next to him, he eyed her, trying to keep as much space between them as possible, but it was pretty hard. Worst, he could smell the fragrance she wore—something that smelled like vanilla and citrus—and suddenly he pictured her in bed, riding him. Not on her knees like she’d been in his hotel room but instead in complete control, bringing them both to ecstasy.
What the fuck was wrong with his brain?
What would be better was him bending her over a table, much like this one, driving into her from behind. This woman could use a good revenge fuck.
Hell, no.
The way she folded her hands together on the tabletop made him imagine she would have wrapped his hands in hers had he placed them within arm’s reach, but his were close to his body. As much as he would have liked to fold his arms across his chest, it would have displayed an aggressive posture and now, more than ever, he wanted to get away, get this whole thing over with. Now that he was thinking about fucking this woman, he needed to get the hell out of here as soon as possible.
“Thank you. I just want a couple of minutes. I wanted to tell you how sorry I am for that little stunt I pulled when we met.”
Slow Burn (Feverish #4) Page 4