by Tara Leigh
Every cell in my body wanted to collide with hers, and I knew she felt the same.
It was chemistry.
I sauntered down the hall, politely smiling at every head that swiveled my way. Confidence and cockiness were fine, but the days of the rude rock star were over. To have a long career, it was important to be professional and courteous to everyone, all the time. An idol of mine once told me that the most important lesson he’d learned after fifty years in the business was that “killing ’em with kindness never did no harm.” Everyone remembers an asshole—and not in a good way.
After getting in my car, I headed to Blue Cocoon, my go-to option for stocking my closet. Tours were crazy and chaotic, and everyone wanted a piece of me. No matter how many jeans and tees, sunglasses and—don’t even get me started on underwear—I took on tour, by the last show, the remains of my wardrobe could fit into a small carry-on, with room to spare.
Jude, the man responsible for getting me on more Best Dressed lists than I’d ever known existed, was waiting for me just inside the door of the shop I forced myself into every few months, escorting me quickly into a back room that felt like an enormous closet. Gnashing my teeth, I tried on everything Jude handed me, standing still while a tailor pinned and tucked and chalked with grim precision. I’d come a long way since bounding onstage in dirty, ill-fitting jeans and loose T-shirts emblazoned with other bands’ logos.
After two hours, Jude finally walked me to the front door. “Everything will be ready in a few days. Should I bring them over?”
I nodded. “Yeah, like always.” Jude would let himself in, arrange the clothes in my closet, and an assistant would pack them based on climate requirements. I could be in Michigan one week and Florida the next. “And I’m sending someone over, a girl named Delaney Fraser. She’ll be coming on tour with me. Make sure she’s taken care of.” All my girlfriends came to Jude, too.
He nodded. Never once had Jude so much as batted an eye at the revolving door of women that entered and exited my life. “Of course.”
An elegant mannequin stood by the door, wearing a red dress. I had avoided looking at it on my way in, but my eyes were drawn to it now. The deep rich color sent my pulse racing.
Repelling me.
Tempting me.
“Mr. Hawthorne, are you all right?”
I unlocked my jaw. “Make sure to include that dress.”
Jude’s head swiveled. “Which one, sir?”
“That one.” I pointed.
Knowing my aversion to the shade, he hesitated. “I’m sorry, but it only comes in the red. I can find something similar in another color—”
Squashing memories of another red fabric, one that hid bloodstains so well I hadn’t realized the extent of the injuries until it was too late, I overrode Jude’s commentary. Maybe it was because of the couple in the street the other night. Maybe it was because Delaney admitted that she’d seen our interaction. Maybe it was because of Delaney, period. “That one. In red.” It had been more than a decade. It was time.
Delaney
Travis regarded me soberly, his thick brows drawing together in a fierce line. “I don’t joke about business.”
“Business…This isn’t business!” I threw the offensive document across the lacquered mahogany conference table. “What you’re asking me to sign can’t be legal. It’s—it’s…” I sputtered. “It’s practically prostitution.”
He reared back, clearly offended. “Absolutely not. It says so right here in Clause Seven. ‘Any sexual contact between Delaney Fraser and the Client is beyond the scope of this contract and entirely at their discretion.’”
A humorless chuckle bubbled up from my throat. “Are these the kinds of problems you solve? Ironing out the details of your clients’ sex lives?”
Ignoring my questions, Travis calmly picked up the contract, flipped a page, and began reading. “‘Delaney Fraser will act as the Client’s girlfriend, responding agreeably to public displays of affection such as hugging, kissing, necking, and using commonly accepted terms of endearments to convey her intimate relationship with the Client.’” He looked up. “This is unacceptable to you?”
“That one’s fine,” Delaney snapped. “It’s all the—”
“‘Delaney Fraser will consent to being interviewed and photographed in her role as the Client’s girlfriend. Her comments and actions will reflect a loving, contented, and monogamous relationship with the Client.’” He stopped. “This is problematic?”
I rolled my eyes and sighed. “No.”
“‘Delaney Fraser will carefully monitor any attempt by the Client to engage in excessive alcohol consumption or illegal substances, up to and including limiting opportunities for such behavior. She will immediately report any such incidents, and all parties involved, to a member of the Client’s management team.’” Travis looked up. “You may use your best judgment, but I expect you will reach out to me first. However, should the situation warrant it, you may speak with anyone on our security team.”
“You expect me to spy on Shane?”
His scowl deepened. “I’m asking you to help keep my client alive. If that’s not a worthy aim, then I guess we really are done here.”
I sighed, feeling petty and spiteful. “That’s not what I meant.”
Travis ran his palm over his shaved head and looked back down. “‘Delaney Fraser will be styled by a member of the Client’s team for all public events, details of such to be specified by a public relations contact person.’”
Okay, being styled sounded intriguing. Travis glanced up at me and I waved him on.
“Let me skip ahead, then. ‘Delaney Fraser and the Client will undergo thorough STD medical testing, the results of which will be made available to both parties.’”
That one. “Why do I need to take a blood test if I don’t have to do much more than smile for the cameras?” I snapped, daring him to provide an acceptable answer.
Travis dropped the contract on the table and leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers and peering over them as if I were a remedial algebra student in an advanced calculus class. “Shane’s a musician, not an actor. Neither are you. And I’m not blind. I saw the chemistry between you two; hopefully everyone will. You’re going to be together for the next six months. In case you do want to engage in some extracurricular activities, at least both of you will be clean.”
I swallowed. The word “clean” had never sounded so dirty. “If I’m not expected to have sex with him, then why am I required to be on birth control?”
His voice dripped with condescension. “Delaney, you’re going to spend almost every night watching Shane Hawthorne put on a show that makes every woman in the audience, and more than a few of the men, wish for just five minutes alone with him, preferably naked. Maybe you’re the outlier, the one woman on the planet who doesn’t harbor a secret hope of seducing him and having his baby. But Shane’s hired me to look out for his best interests. Birth control is nonnegotiable.”
I had a sudden vision of a pint-sized Shane, all long limbs, shaggy hair, and amber eyes shining with curiosity. I’d never babysat much in high school, never felt particularly drawn to kids. But Shane Hawthorne’s mini-me…Even I couldn’t deny the twinge in my ovaries. I dragged my attention back to Travis. There was a caustic, albeit resigned, edge to my voice when I said, “So, you’re paying me to be Shane’s fawning, STD-free, infertile girlfriend?”
Travis bristled. “You’re being paid to act like his girlfriend. In public. What you do in private is entirely up to you and Shane.”
“And he’s read this? He knows I’m an employee, not some long-term, well-paid escort?”
“Of course,” he enthused. “Although, I’m not going to lie. In order for the press to buy Shane being in a committed relationship, a certain amount of intimacy is essential. In the past, this has led to…more,” he finished lamely.
My cheeks burning, I crossed my arms in front of my chest. “And after the tour is over, what happens
then?”
Travis hesitated before answering, telling me everything I needed to know. Shane Hawthorne didn’t need me. He needed a life-sized Barbie doll. One he could throw away as soon as it outlived its usefulness.
Ten minutes ago, I’d practically crawled into Shane’s lap. The connection between us was powerful, and too potent to ignore. Now Travis was putting an expiration date on it. “No.”
“No, what?”
“No, I’m not signing this ridiculous contract. No, I’m not going on tour with Shane Hawthorne. No, I won’t be his fake girlfriend. I’ve heard enough.” I catapulted out of my chair, heading for the door.
Travis beat me to it, blocking my escape. “You didn’t read the last page.”
“I don’t need to.”
He ripped it off anyway, handing it to me with a flourish. I looked down. “What the—” It was a prisoner transfer request form.
“Your father’s incarcerated in upstate New York, right? Maximum security. Hard time.” He pointed to the top of the sheet. “You spend the next six months on tour with Shane and I’ll have him moved to a minimum-security facility in Westchester. Still prison, but it’s a country club compared to where he is now.”
I felt like I’d been sucker punched. I hadn’t managed to do a single thing for my father in three years. All the air left my lungs in a rush, and I grabbed for the edge of the table to steady myself. “You can do that?” I wheezed. “You can have my father transferred?”
Travis tipped his smooth head forward in a confident nod. “I manage some of the biggest acts in the business. I’m the difference between throwing a fundraiser at the local VFW and a private concert demanding thousands per ticket. Politicians fucking love me.”
The page in my hand trembled. “I don’t understand. What do politics have to do—” My mouth snapped shut as the dots finally came together.
But Travis took pleasure in spelling it out anyway. “Exactly. Wardens are appointed by governors, who always seem to have another campaign to fund.”
“And you’re paying me, too?” I couldn’t afford to be shy. I had to be sure.
“Of course.” Travis sniffed, straightening his tie. “This is a job, Delaney. I expect you to conduct yourself professionally, and to earn it.”
“What if we break up before the tour is over?”
“Break up? That’s why you’re signing this contact—so that your relationship won’t be subject to the unpredictable whims of emotion.”
“I get that. But what if—”
He interrupted. “What if you walk away early anyway?”
I gave a shaky nod.
Travis picked up the sheaf of papers from the table. “That unfortunate circumstance is detailed in Clause Nineteen. And you’ll notice that those funds will be deposited into your bank account weekly.”
I read the paragraph giving a detailed formula to calculate my earnings if I quit, then looked back up at Travis. “I would make less than I do now, waitressing.”
“Exactly. Therefore you have every incentive to stay. However, should we choose to terminate your contract, your compensation will be as described in Clause Twenty.”
Turning the page, I saw that he was telling the truth. Double what I currently earned, but nowhere near what I had been promised if I made it through the entire tour.
“And if you read through Clause Twenty-Seven, you will note that rebuffing physical contact of any kind, when you are in private, is not an acceptable reason for termination.”
Black-and-white proof that I wasn’t selling my body along with my soul.
With that, the last of my excuses were swept aside. Finally, something I could do for my father. Swallowing the golf-ball-sized lump in my throat, I slumped back down into the nearest chair. “Where do I sign?”
Chapter Six
Shane
Two days after walking out on Delaney, I again claimed the empty stretch of curb in front of the water hydrant outside her apartment. The sight of her waiting for me on the sidewalk sent a wave of relief crashing into me, so hard I could feel my lungs rattling around in my chest. The entire way here I’d almost expected to discover she’d disappeared without a trace.
The vise that had compressed my chest for the past forty-eight hours finally eased as I unfolded myself from the low seat of my Ferrari, rounded the car, and tossed her suitcase into the minuscule trunk.
It felt suspiciously like the calm before the storm, the moment tinged with guilt. What was I about to drag this sweet girl into?
Delaney backed up against the passenger-side door, shoving her hands into her pockets and leaning that cute ass of hers against the window. “I just want to know one thing.”
Closing the trunk, I studied her warily from behind mirrored aviators. I’d never met a woman willing to settle for just one anything. “Okay.”
“Why me?”
It wasn’t the question I’d been bracing for—a repeat of the one she’d asked me in Travis’s office about my interaction with the couple from the other night—but it was hardly a softball. I quirked an eyebrow. “Why not you?”
“I asked the question first.”
I shrugged. “I asked second.” Could play this game all damn day.
Delaney tilted her face to the sun, eyelids fluttering shut, lips moving as if she was counting to ten, or praying for patience. By the time her eyes snapped back on me, I was barely an inch away. “You can have anyone you want. I just don’t understand, why do you want me?”
“Do you like ice cream?”
“What?” Her flash of exasperation was palpable.
Rocking back on my heels, I tamped down the grin threatening to swallow my face. “I said, do you like ice cream?”
Delaney’s sigh was weighted with irritation. “Of course.”
“Me too. It’s cold, but it melts in my mouth. It’s creamy and sweet.” I dipped my head, murmuring low, unhurried words against Delaney’s ear, my hands gently slipping up her arms. “I love ice cream. It’s delicious.” Wrapping my fingers around her shoulders, I pulled her off the car and into the well of my chest. Delaney’s curves pressed into me, her scent—vanilla and honey—giving me a buzz. “Just like you.”
Delaney shivered, taking her hands out of her pockets and laying them flat on my chest. Needing to kiss her more than anything else in the world, I swallowed Delaney’s small whimper of resistance and licked at her lower lip, her tongue slipping out to tangle with mine. She tasted minty and sweet, almost exactly like mint chocolate chip ice cream. My favorite.
Her hands balled my shirt within her tiny fists, nipples sharpening into firm peaks and pushing against my chest. With a pained groan, I dragged my mouth away from hers and pulled Delaney toward the building’s door. “Let’s go up to your place.”
Delaney resisted. “No,” she whispered, the mournful tone to her voice licking at my core.
I pulled away, needing a glimpse of the story behind that single syllable. Delaney’s eyes were bright jewels caged behind inky black lashes, swirling with want. But her jaw was set, those pretty pink lips pressed into a firm line. I raked a hand through my hair, scanning the sidewalk. If we stayed out here much longer, we’d be surrounded by fans clamoring for autographs and selfies. And all I wanted was Delaney. Reaching behind her, I grabbed the door handle and jerked my chin toward the open door, cursing the hour drive to my house. Fucking Malibu. “Get in.”
She nibbled at her lip, making no move to follow my direction. “I read the contract before I signed it.”
I swallowed an impatient sigh. “Good.”
“Sex is not one of my job requirements.”
It took a minute for her words to make it all the way to my brain, but when they did, they sent a husky chuckle rumbling from my throat. I bent low, my lips less than an inch from the delicate shell of Delaney’s ear. “No. But it could be one of the perks.”
Delaney
Sliding into Shane’s sleek sports car, one that probably cost more than all four years o
f college tuition, I tried to make sense of my body’s knee-jerk reaction to Shane. He started the ignition, his mouth a taut slash below his designer shades. The vibrations from the powerful engine amplified the effect, and in the confined space, the scent of expensive leather and Shane’s overwhelming maleness permeated every breath.
It was an unsettling start to my new job.
Technically, I’d begun working for Shane a couple days ago, although I hadn’t seen or heard from him since the afternoon in Travis’s office, not that I’d had a free moment. After signing the contract, Travis announced that Piper would be the “public relations contact person” specified within its loathsome pages. We spent six hours at an upscale boutique together, with me trying on shoes and clothes and accessories while Piper stood by my side, taking pictures with her iPhone as she ticked off various events and anticipated appearances. By the end of the day, I almost felt sorry for the girls that had been in her high school clique. Piper Hastings was relentless.
The following morning she dragged me to several Beverly Hills salons. The hair on my head had been cut and highlighted, the hair everywhere else either waxed into submission or removed entirely. That afternoon, I had a manicure, pedicure, and deep cleansing facial. And that night, Piper spent hours teaching me how to pose for the paparazzi without actually looking posed, how to deal with the fans that followed Shane’s every move, and reviewing a binder of pictures of everyone that had been hired for the tour, so I would know who belonged backstage and who to keep an eye on. What I really needed was a massage, but apparently Piper couldn’t squeeze that into the schedule.
Although the Nothing but Trouble tour wasn’t opening for a few days, Travis insisted I move in with Shane early to give us time to work on our facade. He assured me I would have my own bedroom though.
What I hadn’t tossed into the dumpster in the alley behind my building, I stowed in a small rental storage unit. I was walking into Shane’s life with just one suitcase, although I probably didn’t even need that much, given the full wardrobe Piper had bought for me on Rodeo Drive.