“Nope, but I bet he noticed you.” I arch an eyebrow at her loud outfit.
“You think so?” she asks, fingering an invisible spot on her thigh.
“I think they can see you from the space station.”
She laughs. “Perfect!”
“I need to make a call,” I say, and she hops off my desk and gives me a smile.
“You’re calling her?”
I stare at her. How does she know? I didn’t tell her a damn thing.
As if she’s reading my mind, she gives a little bow. “Wow. She must be something special to have you all hot and bothered like this.”
There’s no good response to that, so I keep quiet.
She slips out the door, a pleased look on her face. “Hurry up and bang the woman so you can get your head back in the game!” And she’s gone, the door closing with a soft click behind her as I shake my head.
Damn, I’d love to.
Picking up the phone, I stare at the number Sabine had given me. In mind’s eye, I see her sparkling green eyes and lust slams me in the gut. Nobody, and I mean nobody, talks to me the way she had. She’d called me the fucking devil himself. Nobody else would dare insult me like that.
Not that I was insulted. Surprised, yes. Insulted, no.
It’s kind of refreshing not to be treated like royalty. She spoke her damn mind and owned it. That’s a rare—and admirable—trait.
I dial her number and wait. It rings. And rings. And rings. And someone finally picks up.
“Hello?” The voice is masculine. Too old to be a lover of hers, unless she’s got a thing for men in their sixties.
“I must have the wrong number.”
“Women,” the old man snorts. “Better luck next time, buddy.”
We hang up and I stare at the phone. She gave me the wrong number. I shoot a text to Judy and a second later she pops her head in.
“How did it go, boss?”
“She gave me a wrong number.”
Judy whistles. “She gave you the old slip … and not of the tongue. You got you a winner on your hands.”
“I need you to track her down.”
I see her eyes light up with glee. Bouncing up and down, she claps her hands and gives an excited squeal. “I love this part!”
And she’s damn good at it. If she ever left here, she could open her own private eye business and do incredibly well. That’s why I pay her more than double the salary she’d asked for; she may be my buddy’s girlfriend’s best friend or whatever, but she’s fucking great and I want her to stay on with SXz. She’s an asset to the team and to me.
“Whatcha got?” she asks, producing a mini notepad and pen from the big pocket on her stomach.
“Her name is Sabine Baptiste—”
Judy’s mouth drops open. She stares at me for a full minute before managing to speak. “The Sabine Baptiste?” The words are a squeak. Her pen is hovering over the paper as she stares at me in stunned silence, waiting for my answer.
I nod.
“I want to meet her! Oh, my gosh, I freakin’ love Just Love!” She’s gushing, and I’d stop her, but I share her sentiments. Just Love is the title track of her second album. Her first was all jazz and was highly regarded by the jazz world. With Just Love, she went pop and it’s a crossover hit. The song may well go platinum and a star, a pop star, might be in the making.
Judy starts singing Just Love. She’s got a pretty voice, but it lacks the raw emotion and power of Sabine’s deep and resonant pipes. Even the recorded version somehow misses some of the magic of her voice live.
“Judy—”
“Right. Sorry. I’m a fangirl.” She jots down the name and I notice even her pen ink is bright yellow.
“How can you even read that?” I ask.
“You knew my handwriting sucked when you hired me.” She gives me a grin, and I shake my head.
“No, that ink color is horrendous.”
“It’s called biohazard yellow. Isn’t it great?” She’s staring at it, enjoying it way too much.
“By definition, anything with the word biohazard in the name isn’t great.”
She grins and proceeds to write me a note on the stack of post-its I keep on my desk for jotting down ideas. Peeling it off, she sticks it to the back of my monitor where I can’t see it and hurries out the door. With a shake of my head, I try to get back to work. Unsuccessfully.
A half hour later, I’m staring at Sabine’s actual number.
“Call her!” Judy says.
When I’m alone again, I dial the number. On the second ring, Sabine’s rich voice answers.
“Bonjour.”
She sounds off, but I can’t quite place why.
“Should we pick up where we left off?” I ask, leaning back in my chair.
Silence.
“How? How are you calling me?” She sounds like she’s half asleep.
“You think a wrong number can stop me?”
Silence. Then thick, rich laughter fills my ear. “I guess not. I bet you’re not used to rejection.”
“And I bet you’re used to people giving up on you.”
I hear her sharp inhale on the other end.
And I dive right in. “Look, I don’t play games. I asked for your number because I wanted to keep going with our little conversation.” Might as well just fucking put it all out there. I don’t have time to bullshit. The computer monitor on my desk flares to life, asking for my password. Like it’s trying to remind me I’m supposed to be working. All it does is make clear to me that this woman has been derailing every productive thought I’ve had all day.
“You asked for my number because you want to go to bed with me,” she says.
A tight grin tugs the corners of my lips. She doesn’t pull punches. Damn. I fucking love that.
But she’s wrong. “I don’t need to chase women or hunt them down. Not who I am.”
“Charming,” she says flatly.
“I told you I don’t play games. That means I’m not going to hide the ugly shit behind pretty lies.” My time is valuable. I’d rather not waste it pretending to be something—or someone—I’m not. I stare around my office, remembering where I am, reminding myself who I am.
“I like that.” She sounds more upbeat, more awake for a second. “Everyone lies to me.” Sudden sadness fills her voice.
“I won’t.”
“The liars say that too, you know.” She gives a short, sad laugh.
“I haven’t lied to you yet. I don’t plan to start.” It’s sad this woman has no one she trusts. I’m a lucky man with Judy, my brother and my other business partners, family. I’ve got people I can turn to. She doesn’t sound like she does.
“I’m sorry I gave you a wrong number,” she says. “I’ve got a habit of screwing things up.”
“Well, you’ll have to try harder moving forward.”
Her laughter fills my ear, and I can’t help but smile at the way she lets loose and really laughs. I want this woman more than ever and I’ve got her right where I want her. I think.
Chapter 4
Sabine
Still excited by the conversation with Hayden, I decide it’s time to talk with my manager, Bassirou Masson. After hearing Hayden’s numbers, something just isn’t right.
I slip out of my room in the two-bedroom suite Bassirou had booked us at the Drake Hotel in San Francisco. He got me the gig at the Monterey Jazz Festival and a headlining performance at the Fillmore, the iconic venue that has hosted legends like Aretha Franklin and Santana. These are bigtime opportunities for me and I’m grateful. Still, you can take the kid off the streets, but you can’t take the street out of the kid. Where’s my money? I think in songs and Rihanna’s Bitch Better Have My Money flashes across mind like a billboard.
My phone’s in my back pocket, in case Hayden calls back or texts like he said he would. I find my manager in the shared space in front of the TV, several bottles of vodka before him and a loaded bong ready to go.
“Can I see the accounts and paperwork?” I ask, feeling that same knot of discomfort low in my gut as his eyes narrow and he leans back on the couch.
“Since when do you care about the numbers?” he asks. There’s a falsely playful note to his voice.
Since someone told me I made a hell of a lot more than you told me. “I’m just curious,” I say, trying not to get defensive and angry. That always makes him mad.
He pats the couch beside him, but I shake my head, shoving my hands in my back pockets. I see his eyes dart to my hips, then they take their time, trailing over my full curves slowly before meeting my eyes again. The heat behind his stare turns my stomach.
He shoves a cup toward me. “Drink. It’ll calm you down.”
I’m torn. On the one hand, it will calm me down and make this whole confrontation easier. Because I’m not leaving without seeing those accounts and statements. That’s my money, damn it.
But I also don’t want to. As much as I welcome the warmth of numbness, I feel like I need to be on my toes for this talk.
But if I don’t, things will get worse. I take the cup he offers, wincing at the sting as the vodka overwhelms my senses. I swallow every drop, knowing he’ll check. The alcohol hits me like a truck and I feel dizzy, realizing I haven’t eaten today.
I hand him the cup, and he peeks in before setting it down on the table, seeming satisfied with my show.
Numbness sweeps through me, and I breathe a sigh of relief as the first wave of nausea passes. “Okay. Can I see now?” I ask. That fucking drink went down badly. Holding the back of my hand on my mouth, I push back the bile creeping up my throat.
Bassirou is on his feet in a second. I want to back up a step as he reaches out and drags his knuckles down my cheek. It takes all my willpower not to jerk back away from his unwelcome touch. His brown eyes jump back and forth between mine.
“We’re one and the same, mon trésor.” His hand skims down my neck to grip my shoulder, and I feel the urge to pull away stronger than ever. “My treasure,” he repeats in English this time, “we come from the same hell.”
He’s right. We’re both from the Goutte D’Or neighborhood in Paris. Goutte D’Or isn’t where they take the tourists. They call it Little Africa, and it fits. Not even the French think we’re French. Both Bassirou’s parents were immigrants from Senegal. My mother is also from Senegal, but my father is a green-eyed Frenchman. Or so I’m told. I wouldn’t know. My father was never around when I was growing up. Sometimes I wonder if I traded one worthless drunk for another, but that’s stupid. I’ve never even met my father and Bassirou is more big brother than anything else.
Bassirou has a bad habit of making a lot of promises. I get it, though. When you grow up on the streets of Goutte D’Or, you’ve got to work the hustle any which way. I ran in those same streets as a kid, and that’s how I met him. My friends and I started singing on the street corner, hustling for nickels and dimes. He heard me on one of those street corners. We thought he was so cool. He’s about 10 or 15 years older than I am, but I don’t even know his age. On the streets, you keep that shit to yourself. Less people know, the less they can use against you. When I met him, he looked like my ticket out of the streets. It turns out I was his. The fact is that he’s kept most of those promises. He had me signed to a record deal by 18 and my first album out by 19. Now, I’m 22 and in America, singing pop songs. Hell, Just Love was his idea. I hadn’t wanted to step away from jazz, but I trusted him. And it’s paying off. I should give him more credit because I wouldn’t be living the life if not for him. It’s just that things are getting weird between us.
He leans in and presses a damp kiss to my cheek. The stench of liquor, weed, and body odor roll off him like noxious fumes, and I turn my head to the side like I can avoid his stink and not offend him. “You can’t trust them. They aren’t like us. They didn’t come from where we came from. But I’ll always protect you,” he says softly before pulling me into a tight hug.
I want to push him away, but he’s right. I can’t trust other people. Everyone is out for themselves. I’ve been hurt before more times than I can count. And it all started when I was too small to do anything about it. Sometimes I still feel too small to do anything about it.
“Your heart is beating hard,” Bassirou says. “Let’s get you a little something to calm you down.” He backs off, touching my face again. This time his thumb trails over my lower lip and I fight not to jerk back. Every brain cell is screaming at me to run, but I’m rooted to the ground. He’d follow if I left, and I don’t want him in my room. I’ve already taken to locking my door at night. Not that he’s ever done anything, I just can’t shake the feeling…
He’s been touching me more and more. At first, I thought it had been supportive, sweet even, so I brushed aside that little voice that told me it wasn’t right. But as the days go by, his attention becomes more and more icky. This guy is like an older brother to me. I’ve never seen him as anything else.
“Don’t touch me.” The words pop out and I want to squeeze my eyes closed. I’ve poked the bear. Why did I poke the bear?
“Excusez moi?” Fury bleeds into his voice.
It’s too late to back down now. “Please don’t touch me. I’ve told you I don’t like it.”
“Who pulled you off the street, Sabine?” he asks, grabbing my face to peer into my eyes. His eyes slash back and forth across mine as he continues. “Who sacrificed everything to get you here? Who has given everything to make you a singer?”
“You, Bassirou,” I say. But that doesn’t mean he owns me. I’m my own damn woman. Still, the guilt I feel eats at me.
“I’m sorry,” he says, letting go of my face. “I’m just so uptight with all the stress of this upcoming show. We’re like a family, you and me.”
I nod. I just want to drop it, get high and forget it ever happened.
“Forgive me, mon coeur,” He murmurs, peering into my eyes. Whispering soft, supportive words in a mix of French and English, he pulls me close to his chest and holds me.
His fingers slide through my hair, stroking my scalp and I shiver. I want to shove him away, want to tell him that just because he did these things for me doesn’t mean I’m his. But I worry that if I do that, all of this, my whole life will come crashing down. He’s told me a million times I wouldn’t be here without him and he’s right. Plus, no one understands me like he does. Right?
My phone trills and he slides it out of my back pocket without even letting me go. “Who is HS?” he asks, his voice suddenly tight and angry.
I close my eyes, silently cursing that I’d put any contact info at all. I should have called the contact something harmless. Security or something. I didn’t prepare for this. I don’t have a lie lined up.
Think on your feet, girl! You grew up on those mean streets! You can talk your way out of anything.
“Someone from the jazz festival. Said he knew my dad from back in the day.” Better to pretend I’m searching for someone I don’t give a damn about than tell him the truth.
He lets me go and I try to grab my phone. But he holds it up out of reach and swipes a finger across the screen to unlock my phone. “Pin?” he demands, not even looking at me.
I shake my head anyway. I’m not giving him my passcode. If he reads those texts this shitty situation will get so much worse.
“Now, Sabine.” He roars the words, and I wince.
Chapter 5
Hayden
Talking to her only took the edge off things. I need to see her. I’m not sure what it is about her, but I feel pulled in. So, I’d had Judy track her down for me. And Judy had, giving me a look that I didn’t—and don’t—want to think about.
I don’t get hung up on women.
Which is what I keep telling myself as I walk toward my Ferrari Testarossa. The conversation had held her usual humor.
“Find her for me?”
“Sure thing, boss,” she’d said, on it before all the words were out of my mouth. Ten
minutes later, she’d turned the monitor toward me. I’d stopped pacing in front of her desk and stared at the screen.
“She’s booked for an intimate set at the Fillmore. I got you a front row seat and Google says it’ll take precisely 45 minutes to get there. Go get ‘em, champ.” Her wide grin brightened the room more than today’s outfit; this time in a vivid purple-pink. She’d jotted down the info in matching ink.
“Where do you buy pens?” I asked.
“Why, you looking for some color?” she asked, popping her gum and staring at the pen in question.
“No, I want to never shop there.”
She was quick to throw something at me, but I’d ducked out the door in a hurry.
I drive through the heavy traffic with Sabine in mind. On the car stereo is Sabine full blast. An hour later, I’m threading my way through the place. Instantly recognized, I’m hurried backstage after tipping an underpaid staff member. From backstage, I watch Sabine perform through closed-circuit television, lost in the rich whiskey of her voice.
The song comes to an end and I wish I could have gotten here in time to hear the whole performance. I sit, sipping water I’d been handed by another staff member and I wait. When she finally comes in, she’s giggling happily. She’s quick to close the door behind her and breathes a sigh of relief as if she’s glad to finally be alone.
“Beautiful,” I say, taking in her fitted jeans hugging her full figure and the flowing top.
She spins around a stunned expression on her face. It’s quickly replaced by a smile. “What are you doing here?” she asks, her breathless voice and beautiful accent stirring a primal hunger in me. That need triples as I study the plunging neckline of her shirt and the generous cleavage on mouthwatering display.
“Waiting for you,” I say.
“Did we have something to talk about?” she asks, her smile widening.
I stand up and begin to move toward her. Her eyes follow me as I stop before her with only a few inches between us. She’s close enough to reach out and touch. She’s so close I can smell the fruity scent of her shampoo and taste the heat of her. The stage lights are so hot she’s covered in a sheen of sweat that triggers a need for her I can’t deny.
Hardwired: A Billionaire and Virgin Romance (Tech Titans Book 2) Page 2