He looked me over and pursed his lips before focusing on Indie. “He just needed a minute.”
“How long ago did he need this minute?” I asked.
He twirled a Sharpie through his fingers. “And you are?”
Keys snatched the marker from him. “She’s a suit. Can’t you tell?”
He hooked his thumbs into his belt loops. “So, suit—what are you doing here? And why do you give a shit where Hunter is?”
I tipped my head back to meet his gaze. Show no weakness. “Because it’s my job.”
His eyes flicked to Indie. “That true?”
“Mr. Lewis has hired Ms. McManus—”
“Kennedy,” I said. There was no way I was going to get in close to this group by being Ms. McManus. Sometimes that worked—depending on the client. Some needed that business side, some needed to know I was on their side. I went with instinct here.
“All right, Kennedy is here to capitalize on the press we’re getting because of Hunter.”
Keys rolled her eyes. “It used to be fun to bust his balls about the magazine, but now he just snarls.”
That was good to know. Unfortunate, but good to know. “He may hate the attention, but you guys want to use the spotlight for the album. That’s what matters. Any way to get ahead of the rest is a good thing.”
“Tell him that,” Keys muttered.
I couldn’t tell if the jealousy thing was going to be an issue yet. Right now, they just seemed protective. That, I could work with.
“So, where is he?” Indie asked. She took off her hat and swatted Hudson with it. “Wyatt, come on.”
He sighed. “You know where he is.”
Indie’s shoulders sagged. “Great.”
“What does that mean?” I asked.
Keys grinned. “Check the kitchen.”
“The what?” The Ace Hotel was one of the largest establishments in the city. It had multiple bars, restaurants, not to mention hotel rooms.
Indie looked around and fisted her hands. “I don’t have time for this. We released more tickets this morning thanks to a few radio spots, and a last minute fan club thing. I have over two thousand fans waiting for these guys.”
“I’ll find him.” I held up a hand. “I’ve been babysitting actors and musicians for over five years. I can handle him.”
Wyatt pressed his lips together, but didn’t say a word. He just turned on his heel and went back to the couch with the stack of glossies waiting for him to sign. There were cases of actual records sitting on table, as well as a precious box of the Rolling Stone magazine.
I was tempted to snag a few more copies, but I didn’t. That box would build even more of a frenzy for fans that were salivating over getting a copy. And if Hunter had to scrawl his signature over his very flattering pair of jeans all night, he might as well get some happy faces to go with it.
I crossed the stage, down the stairs, and then back out to the theater seating. The seats were filling up. Fans were on their phones taking selfies and video. I snapped a few shots with my iPad and posted it to the Ripper Records Instagram as I walked up the aisle to the lobby.
Hammered was trending on Facebook and a bunch of hashtags were multiplying on Twitter. I checked Keys’s Instagram and saw that she was definitely killing it there. The band Instagram, however, needed work.
When I got through the lobby into the main part of the hotel, I spotted a harried man in his fifties. Had to be a manager. “Excuse me, sir.”
He turned to me, his face dotted with sweat at the temples and forehead. “Yes, what can I do for you?”
“I’m working with the band.” I flashed my lanyard. “Could you tell me where the kitchen is?”
He took out a colorful red and blue handkerchief from his pocket. I had a feeling it had been a pocket square when the day started. He blotted over his lip. “Why do you ask?”
Okay, definitely getting warmer. I stepped closer to him and lowered my voice. “Hunter likes to cook. Fancies himself a chef of sorts.” I was ad-libbing my ass off, but when the man’s brow smoothed I knew I was on the right track. I glanced at his discreet tag. “Mr. LoBrutto, I just want to make sure he gets back to where he’s supposed to be without too much fanfare. If you could just let me know where he is, I’ll take care of it for you.”
I smiled brightly, widened my eyes just a touch so I looked as sweet and non-threatening as possible. It worked because the guy practically sagged into a puddle.
“Past the bar is a back entrance into the kitchen for the restaurant. I don’t know how he got back there, but he’s…” He trailed off.
Because he was a nightmare. My last client had a penchant for stealing cars. I could deal with this one, no problem. I patted his arm. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Bless you.” He pointed to the left. “Right through there.”
I tucked my iPad into my wide, slim purse, and took off for the bar area. I stopped at the bar and smiled at the bartender that was readying for the insanity of the night. I hadn’t quite thought my plan through before leaving the manager of the hotel. I glanced back over my shoulder and he was gone.
Of course he was. I was taking care of his problem.
Two of the waitstaff were laughing as they opened the door. I watched them key in a code. When the bartender disappeared around the corner, I rushed to the door. It took two tries to get the digits right for the code, but then I was in.
Clanging pots, shouts, laughter, and the most amazing scent of garlic blasted my senses.
Many of the people who lived in Los Angeles had spent time in the food industry, but not me. I’d worked my way up by picking up orders, doing errands, and being indispensable. But I knew my limitations. Cooking was definitely one of them.
I followed the laughter to the main part of the kitchen. Subway tiles lined the hallway, and a ruthlessly clean cement floor opened up into stainless steel-encased chaos. A few people were doing food-related things. I was so out of my element. There was a lot of chopping going on, and the sharp scent of onions permeated the back of the kitchen.
Near the stove there were a bunch of men clustered around someone.
I don’t make sucker bets, but right now I’d bet fifty bucks that it was Hunter. So much for that saying that a chef rules his domain. Or in this case, it was a rock star playing at chef. And he had everyone’s attention.
My stomach growled the closer I got to them. I’d been rushing around all day and grabbing lunch had fallen by the wayside. The hiss of something hitting a hot pan made the group laugh.
“Guess that’s hot enough, huh?”
The deep voice made my toes curl. I’d heard that voice on a dozen radio shows today. I’d found my man for sure.
“That’s it. Good. Snap your wrist—perfect.” Another man’s voice was instructing.
I slowed to a stop and peered between a pair of white chef jacket-clad shoulders. Hunter was standing in front of a huge stove dancing between three different pans. A blue shirt swayed like a tail from his back pocket, leaving him in a white ribbed tank with a crimson apron around his hips. His left arm was sleeved in black ink ending in skulls and roses reaching for his neck. Rosary beads in a dark walnut color shifted under the white cotton.
Instead of a chef’s hat, he wore a slouchy knit hat that fell too far down his forehead. He looked up as a graceful arch of mushrooms flipped over in the pan. Dark fringed gray eyes zeroed in on me.
“Watch it, Jordan.”
“What?” Hunter blinked and pulled the pan off the burner. A pop of flame fired up into the sky. “Dammit.”
“I thought you had it that time.” A shorter, lanky man with blue-tipped blond hair laughed. He swung the pan’s handle away, and twisted knobs on the front of the stove. Blue tips turned toward me. “Way to distract my boy here.” He sighed. “Good thing he didn’t singe his eyebrows off.” He slapped Hunter. “Photo ops wouldn’t like that.”
“Fuck off, Tristan.”
Blue tips—Tristan—laug
hed. “How did you get back here, sweetheart?”
“I’m here for him.” I pointed to Hunter. “And I’m not your sweetheart.”
Tristan laid his hand on his chest, a smirk spreading across his too-attractive-for-his-own-good face. “Apologies.”
Charm. A lot of it. God save me from guys that thought a pat on the head and a sweet nickname would save the day. Usually it was because they were too lazy to remember a name. My last client had used that trick. Oh, he mixed it up with baby, girl, and darlin’, but they all meant the same thing.
You’re not worth remembering.
Wow. I was definitely riding the bitch train today. I pasted my professional smile on my face. No time for that line of thought.
Hunter lifted the bottom of his apron and wiped his hands. “Don’t mind Eves. It’s the red hair. It stuns him stupid. You should see how he reacts to Wyatt.”
No, I wasn’t going to laugh. Even if that was at least a semi-original comeback.
Hunter absently pushed at his beanie. “Do I know you?” He frowned. “Did I miss an interview?”
“No. I’m your handler, Mr. Jordan.”
His eyebrows shot up, and a dimple dented his left cheek. “Well, that’s a new one.”
CHAPTER THREE
* * *
Hunter
I wasn’t sure I liked the sound of “handler” but I was willing to hear the lady out. Because there was no doubt this woman was a lady. She was no fan—at least no fan that I’d ever met. I’d chatted up a handful of professional women over the years, but none had ever quite held themselves like her.
My band brought out the college girls, some teens, and all of the bad girls looking for a good time. Not class wrapped in pink and creamy lace with fuck-me-unconscious heels. But it was the hair that really kicked me in the nuts. Red. The kind of red that didn’t come out of a bottle. Except for the flash of deep wine colored pieces that peeked out.
That part wasn’t so suit-like at all.
And long enough to wrap around my hand—twice.
Okay, rein it in. I cleared my throat.
Tristan nudged me. “Tongue back in, Romeo.”
“Fuck off.”
He was my oldest friend in Los Angeles, but that didn’t make him any less of a dick sometimes. Unfortunately, he was a dick that owned the lock on my favorite hobby—cooking.
I’d lobbied for the Ace Hotel for our release party. When the internet had exploded because of my magazine cover, Ripper Records had bumped up the bank. Last minute pull thanks to Tristan, and I got a bonus cooking lesson with my mortification-inducing meet and greet.
Tristan was the main reason I had to go to the gym so much. The fucker taught me all about French and Italian cooking. Carbs, man. Unkind to the abs.
I looked at my watch—yeah, I still wore one. I liked the weight of it on my wrist, and had a little problem with buying them. Hey, there were worse things to be addicted to. “I’m not on for an hour.”
“You have about five hundred records and posters to attend to.”
“I already have a manager.” I folded my arms. “As pretty as you are, I don’t need someone else telling me what to do. Indie is enough.”
“Indie is hot as fuck though.”
I reached out and slapped Tristan in the back of the head. “No.”
He scrunched up his shoulders. “What the hell?”
I pointed a finger at him. “No.”
Tristan grinned at me. “What? A little Pasta Eves and a bottle of red. No one’s ever complained.”
I rolled my eyes. “She’d chew you up and spit you out like overcooked angel hair, friend.”
Tristan snorted. “Yeah she would. Man, what a way to go though.”
One thin auburn brow rose as my “handler” crossed her arms under her chest. God, don’t look, Jordan. “If you’re finished playing?”
I grabbed a bowl of delicately buttered garlic noodles and mushrooms from the sideboard. “Playing? I’m cooking.”
“From what I saw, you were burning.”
I walked to her with the bowl and handed it to her as I passed her. “You distracted me.”
She looked down at the bowl. “I’m not your pack mule. Carry your own food.”
I pulled off the apron and hung it on the hook. “Not for me.”
“I’m not hungry.” She licked her burgundy-stained lips and I could hear the roar of her belly from where I was standing.
“You’re hungry.”
She set the bowl down with a click. “We don’t have time for eating. By my estimation, you have around thirteen hundred and fifty people waiting to see you.”
Waiting for me to sign a glossy photo of my cock was more like it.
Fucking magazine.
I’d already signed a dozen of them before I’d escaped to Tristan’s kitchen. Every artist dreamed of getting their picture on the front of Rolling Stone—hell, you didn’t even have to be a musician anymore. It was like a flashing neon sign that you’d made it in the fame game if you were on there.
Too bad my neon included an unfortunate bunching of my jeans and outline of my cock. No one gave two shits about the charity I’d started, or the animals I helped. And they sure as shit didn’t give a crap about our new album.
Just the “Manaconda” highlighted on that cover.
My shoulders bunched up with angry knots as I pulled on my lightweight plaid shirt. The lights were going to be murder for the meet and greet, and I was going to be a sweaty mess even before I hit the stage. All the stress I’d cooked away was back.
I snagged the bowl on my way out. “I’ll see you tonight, Tris.”
“Not if I snag Indie first.”
“Asshole,” I shouted over my shoulder.
“Love you too, man!”
I shook my head and twirled pasta on my fork. A good carb load and I’d be set for a few hours. Even if the hot redhead didn’t want any of it. “So, what’s your name?” I asked over my shoulder.
I was so used to people from the staff in hotels making excuses to meet me that it didn’t faze me anymore. At least this one wasn’t fawning all over me. I hated that. Didn’t know what to do with it. In my early twenties, my flirt game had been sound. Now I was just tired.
Me and Tristan had raged through Los Angeles nightclubs five nights a week when I was in town. These days, I craved a night alone. It had been happening even before the magazine insanity. Now I just wanted everyone to go away.
“Kennedy McManus.” Her voice was low and smooth like bourbon—like her amber eyes.
I opened the door and raised my arm for her to go under and through. Her eyes flicked to my bowl of noodles again, before she sailed through. Kennedy was a stubborn one.
The lobby was alive with people. Some were checking in, some were for Tristan’s restaurant, but a lot were for Hammered’s release party. Radio stations, music publications, and anyone else who’d procured a press pass filled the space.
“Shit.”
She peered over her shoulder. “Should have thought of that before you disappeared.”
“Kenny, you’re a ball-buster.”
“Kennedy,” she corrected.
I snagged the back of her jacket and hauled her back a step. “Not that way.”
She swatted my hand away. “Oh, and which way would you choose?”
“One that doesn’t include a camera or video,” I answered. I palmed my bowl in one hand, and her wrist in the other.
“Mr. Jordan—”
“Hunter,” I corrected.
Her heels clicked loudly on the marble behind the bar. I just knew someone was going to turn around. Suddenly her clomping softened. I peeked over my shoulder and she’d somehow gone on tiptoe. I wasn’t aware an arch could be that high. The flex of her calf made my throat dry.
Damn, what was it about women and heels?
She tipped her head at me and her eyes widened in the universal what-the-fuck look. I grinned at her and twisted my fingers to link with hers.
“This way,” I murmured.
This was an old hotel with tons of different passageways. Once upon a time, they had been used for smuggling in booze. Now they were perfect for the more famous clientele to get around without being seen.
I backed into a doorway that looked like a pantry. Instead the shelves opened back into a corridor.
“Wow,” she gasped.
“Pretty cool, huh?”
“So that’s how you disappeared.”
I shrugged. “This is one of my favorite hotels.”
“You can let go of my hand now.”
I looked down at her. “Easier.” I kept moving down the narrow space and hung a left. Rope lights lined the floor and an overhead rail so we could see where we were going.
“Do not get us lost, Mr. Jordan.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll be at that precious meet and greet.” My fork clinked against the side of my bowl as I snaked us through the winding space. This was one of the fastest ways into the theater’s backstage. The only problem was that we had to dart across the main lobby of the theater to get to the next space.
When they’d remodeled the theater, they’d opened up and cut off some of the secret tunnels. I got to the doorway and paused. Kennedy was still rushing behind me and bumped into my back.
“Sorry,” she whispered and stepped back.
Too bad. The quick scent of orange blossoms overpowered even the garlic of my dish. It was a pretty scent, not thick and cloying like some women.
She laid a hand on my lower back and crowded in on me. “Why are we stopping?”
I popped the hinge on the door slowly. I winced. Man, I hope no one heard that click. I peeked out. Yeah, there was no worries there. There was about four hundred people mobbing the merchandise table. “Fuck.”
“What?” She wiggled between me and the wall until she was under my arm.
I swallowed a groan when her hip brushed along my zipper.
“Well, crap.”
The soft waves of her hair around her face brushed my neck. She looked up at me and realized just how close we were. She tried to back up, but there was nowhere to go. I was a big guy, and the corridor had been created for men of the twenties, not my six-three body and shoulders.
Rock Star Romance Ultimate Volume 2 Page 63