Didn’t it?
Two
“All right, we’ll talk next week,” Damon said, showing Austin Cole and his mom—who’d been wary and full of questions about the contract they offered—to the door of the suite. “And if you or your attorney have any questions I can address in the meantime, please give me a call.”
Brenna watched him shut the double doors, leaving the two of them alone again. She’d stayed mostly quiet through the meeting, during which they’d had lunch delivered. She’d listened to the way Damon answered the woman so thoroughly, always respecting her inquiries, even when they got repetitive and confusing. Brenna herself had only chimed in to let Austin know how much she loved his music and how much she wanted him on board at Blue Night.
Turned out, though, that only three days ago Austin had been approached by a scout from one of the majors—who was offering more money, of course.
“The upside,” Damon told Brenna now, crossing the tiled foyer, “is that we got to meet with them first.” The other label’s A&R rep had simply invited them to L.A. next week, rather than talking business here where Austin lived. “We got the opportunity to show Austin how much we want him, we got to let him know how much we’re going to respect his music and that he’s going to get the personal touch with us.”
“And the downside?” Brenna asked, still sitting at the table.
Damon sighed. “We just don’t have as much money as they do.”
“Then what hope do we have? Why would he go with us?”
“For the reasons I just said. He likes us, I could tell. And he’s a bright kid—I got the idea he’s done his homework on the business and that he understands the perks of going with a smaller label. He knows he’ll just be a little fish in a big pond with the other guy, but that if he goes with us, he’ll have all our attention.
“And it’s actually very smart of him and his mom not to rush into anything, to talk to a lawyer, to find out what both sides are offering before making a decision. Frankly, our job is to try to rush people into signing before somebody else discovers them, just like we did with Blush, but when a performer is wise enough not to leap on the first contract shoved under his nose, I have to respect that and work with him on it.”
Brenna had never thought about that—that despite asking lots of questions about their contract, the girls in Blush had signed without seeking any legal counsel, asking friends or family, anything. And it had been Damon’s goal—and was now hers—to make artists do that. It suddenly struck her as another part of this job she might not excel at—trying to push someone into doing something that might not be in his or her best interest.
“What’s wrong?” Damon asked. Her feelings must have shown on her face—something she really needed to work on if she was going to be a good A&R rep.
“Nothing,” she lied. She found it so easy to be honest with Damon when they were talking about sex or most other things—but the last few days, she’d found discussing her new job…less easy. The truth was—the more she learned about it, the more she began to wonder if she’d really be any good at it.
“Listen,” he said, “if we get Austin—and I plan to get Austin, even if I have to get down on my hands and knees and beg the kid—I want you to take him.”
“Huh?” She tilted her head.
“I want him to be your first official artist.”
She felt her jaw drop in shock. “You’re kidding.”
Yet he misread her reaction as worry. “Don’t panic, babe—I’ll be there every step of the way to guide you. And I think the kid’ll be big, and not too temperamental. He’ll give you a nice head start in the biz—he’ll be an act to hang your hat on, get your name out there.”
Brenna let out a huge breath. Was he really offering her this? “Damon, you don’t have to do that. I mean, it’s hardly fair. You’re the one who spent the time talking with him and his mom today, not me. You’re the one he likes—and surely the one he wants to work with. And…” She sighed, letting her voice soften as she ran out of steam, her eyes dropping to the table’s wood grain. “I really haven’t done anything to earn a gift like that.”
In response, Damon sat down in the chair next to her, turned her toward him, and took her hands in his. “Brenna, I have a lot of faith in you to make it in this business. But it’s not easy to get people to trust you with something as big as a music career, and it can be tough to get that first successful act. Start out with a promising one already under your belt and that’s half the battle. So I want to do this for you, okay? I’m not taking no for an answer.”
Brenna could barely breathe around the lump in her throat. It had gotten pretty easy to forget about the terrible truth she was keeping from Damon when they were flirting or kissing, eating dinner or listening to music, hitting clubs or having sex. But now, in this moment, she couldn’t forget. In fact, it was all she could think about.
She’d never been so stunned or touched—or so horribly guilt ridden—in her life.
“So that’s the way it is. We sign him, he’s yours. Okay?”
She still couldn’t answer. So instead she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him—with all the love in her heart and all the admiration in her soul. She kissed him until he pulled her over onto his lap, his hands on her ass as she straddled him in the wide chair.
Finally the kisses ended, and they simply sat there, silent, Damon leaning his forehead against hers in that sweet way she loved. And a slow, proprietary grin unfurled across his face as he said, “Now that’s the kind of answer I like.”
Three
There was little Brenna could do to fix this. She couldn’t refuse to take Austin, and she couldn’t tell Damon the truth without losing her own job. And not just the A&R dream job—she’d surely lose even her administrative job, too, if she came clean. Hell, Jenkins might even have hired someone to take her place already. And as a recently divorced woman, she needed her job. To live. To pay rent. To eat. It was non-negotiable.
So she had no choice but to keep going with this insane charade for the next couple of days. And in the meantime, she could at least give Damon the things he wanted from her—heat, passion, sex. She could be his dirty girl.
And since Damon seemed so full of sexual surprises for her, she decided to give him a surprise, too. One he would never expect.
So as she stood naked before the wide vanity mirror in her room, ready to shower and change for another night of scouting—and fucking—she bit her lip and reached for her shaving cream.
But instead of smoothing the fluffy white foam over her legs, she instead spread it over the flesh between her thighs and reached for a pink disposable razor.
She’d never even thought about shaving away her pubic hair until last night, after seeing Jenelle’s denuded pussy. She’d thought she’d immersed herself in bold, unabashed sexuality this week—but seeing Jenelle’s cunt, so smooth and ready, had inspired her to be bolder still. Revealing her own to him, like this, seemed like the last little vestige of old Brenna that she could let go of—or shave off, as it were.
Four
That evening, they took a cab to Fremont Street, the “old Las Vegas,” home to the few remaining casinos that had started the town. In recent years, the city had revived the area, turning the old new again by erecting an enormous arched ceiling over several city blocks, which also served as a screen. The street was cordoned off, allowing patrons to roam without traffic worries, and every night after dark, a light show seemed to flash across the night sky.
Fremont Street had also become the perfect venue for street performers—attracting mimes and artists and magicians, as well as musicians. Damon explained on the ride over that he always checked out Fremont Street when he came to Vegas. “Usually nothing noteworthy,” he concluded, “but I found Graham Maxwell here, so I don’t want to risk missing somebody great.” Graham Maxwell was a jazz pianist whose CDs had been respectable earners for Blue Night for the last ten years.
Brenna had dressed
down compared to last night, wearing white capri pants with a fuchsia halter top. Normally, she would have finagled a strapless bra under this particular piece of apparel, but the week’s experiences had truly altered her way of looking at things—at least for as long as she was in Vegas—so she hadn’t bothered and didn’t mind if her nipples showed through a little. As usual, she felt a whole different kind of sexy being on Damon’s arm—as if just being with a guy so hot gave her license to be racy.
They arrived early to have dinner in a steakhouse Damon knew, and afterward hit the street. After passing a truly amazing airbrush artist at work and a juggler on stilts, they reached a bandstand at one end of the street where a slightly overweight guy played a piano and sang hits by Billy Joel and Elton John. The crowd seemed entertained, but Damon and Brenna quickly decided there was nothing uniquely appealing about him.
Traversing back up the thoroughfare, they found a guy playing guitar, singing soft rock standards in a stark, gravelly voice that turned gentle at just the right times. Slowly, a crowd amassed and passersby dropped bills in his open guitar case. Between songs, he pointed out his wife and baby, who stood nearby watching. He looked like an aging hippie—in his forties, dull blond hair pulled back into a ponytail, and maybe even like a cradle robber, since his young wife couldn’t have been a day over twenty-two. But when he dedicated his version of “I Love You,” by the Climax Blues Band, to her, Brenna’s heart melted.
“I like him,” she said to Damon when the song ended.
“You like him because you think he’s sensitive and romantic.”
She turned to him, smiling, surprised. “And what makes you think I value those things?”
He grinned in return. “Maybe I’m wrong—maybe you don’t. But I have a feeling that girl I used to see in the Blue Night office values them.”
She blinked, still curious. “And why do you think that? Just because I once told you I liked my sex private and that I was a little more subdued when I was married?”
He shrugged. “Just a hunch.”
“Haven’t we gotten past the prim and proper thing now? I mean, if I value romance so much, how is it possible for me to have a wild, crazy affair with you all week and not even blink about the fact that we’ll be going back to business as usual in a couple of days?”
His smile faded, just slightly—and she was almost sorry she’d said it, reminding them both that this would soon end. After all, what if he’d been planning to alter that decision somehow, to keep seeing her when they got back to L.A.?
“You want to know what I really think?” he finally asked.
She swallowed but knew her smile had disappeared, too. “Sure.”
“I think I happened to come into your life at a time when you were hurting over your divorce. I’ve never been married, or divorced, but I know plenty of people who have, and I know divorce can really change a person, change what they want and how they view life. And even if you’re wilder now, and more adventurous, I think deep down you’ll always be a woman who swoons a little when a guy like that”—he pointed to the guitar player—“dedicates a sweet song to his wife.”
Brenna barely knew what to say. Because she thought he was probably right. She had no intention of going back to her old “prim” Brenna ways when this was over, but…yeah, she’d probably always appreciate a sweet, loving man. God knew she’d appreciated Damon giving her control of Austin’s career today, that it had touched her…probably too deeply. And even if she didn’t want to resume being prim, she also couldn’t quite imagine herself falling into bed with anyone else as easily as she had with him. “I guess…you have me pegged, Andros.”
“Don’t look so bummed about it,” he said, his voice lightening. “It’s not a crime.”
As usual, when they discussed stuff like this, she was honest. “Maybe I don’t want to feel that way. Maybe I just want to be a dirty girl and nothing more.”
He peered down into her eyes, all amusement leaving his face. “But then you wouldn’t be you, Brenna. And for your information, I like the whole package. I like the dirty girl. But I also like how sweet you are, how real. Hell, I like that I can have an intelligent conversation with you. It’s not always that way with women I know.”
Oh. So he was saying he liked her just the way she was. Or just the new way she was. And she wasn’t sure how to respond to that, but I love you came to mind. And since that was definitely a bad idea, she instead took his hand in hers, then simply leaned up to kiss him.
“Thing is,” he said then, “we’re still not recording this guy.”
Brenna scrunched her nose in disappointment. “But they look…”
“Like they need the money, I know,” he said. “Only we’re in the music business, not the charity business, babe. That’s something you can’t be soft on, okay?”
He was right, of course, so she nodded. “Except…he’s good. Really good. Don’t you think? And he even has a nice stage presence.”
“But he hasn’t played one original song.”
“Doesn’t mean he doesn’t have them.”
Damon grinned, probably at how argumentative she’d suddenly gotten. “Tell you what. When he takes a break, you can introduce yourself. Give him my card but write your name on the back. Tell him to send you a CD of original stuff if he has it. How’s that?”
She smiled. “That sounds perfect.”
And it did.
As the guy quit playing, saying he’d be back in a few minutes, Brenna took a deep breath and approached him, leaving Damon on the perimeter of the crowd. When she told him she was from Blue Night, his crinkled-at-the-edges eyes lit up, and he flashed a smile showing he needed some dental work. After expressing her interest, she requested he send her a CD of any original music, and he thanked her, shaking her hand so hard it nearly fell off—at which point she glanced up to see Damon smiling at her.
“Nice work,” he said, sliding an arm around her shoulders as they turned to go.
“That was actually fun.”
“See? I told you—this is the best job in the world when you can make someone’s day—or, in some cases, life.”
“So what’s next tonight?”
“Well,” he said teasingly as he glanced around them at the blend of artisans and tourists, “we could get your caricature done. Or we could taunt one of the mimes. Or we could…proceed to your surprise.”
Going coy and confident at the very suggestion, she said, “This surprise—it’s sexual in nature, right?”
He nodded. “Of course.”
“Then give it to me, baby.”
Five
They caught a cab back to the Strip, on the way talking more about the business—and dear God, there was so much to learn that, at moments, Brenna wondered if she would ever take it all in.
Of course, they also flirted and made out a little. Enough that by the time neon-lit casinos towered on both sides of the car, she was thinking a lot more about doing naughty things with Damon than about music. Each time he kissed her, the sensations seemed to dissolve through her, making her breasts tingle and her pussy swell. The clingy fabric of her halter top rubbed against her hardened nipples with every move she made, adding to their sensitivity.
So, again, she didn’t quite notice where the cab turned off the boulevard—in fact, she was so busy twining her tongue around her lover’s that it caught her off guard when the taxi stopped beneath another of the large, neon-lit awnings that fronted all the big resorts. As Damon paid the driver, then led her into one more busy, ornate lobby buzzing with people, she wondered if they were visiting another stylishly risqué club like Rendezvous. But she didn’t bother asking, because she knew he would only cast her a chiding look and remind her it was a surprise.
They approached the concierge desk, where a handsome man in a dark suit looked up—then pushed to his feet. “Mr. Andros, welcome back.” He reached out to shake Damon’s hand, and as usual, Brenna stood amazed at how many people knew him—and clearly revered hi
m.
Damon smiled easily. “Thanks, Richard.”
Richard’s gaze flicked quickly toward Brenna, then back to Damon. “Can I trust you’d like to visit our special club this evening?”
When Damon nodded, Richard smiled, then left the desk. “Right this way,” he said, guiding them across a whirring, clanging casino floor, until they reached a back corner of the room and a rather nondescript door marked PRIVATE, which Brenna would have assumed was a supply closet or maintenance room—until Richard inserted a key in the door’s lock. “Enjoy your evening,” he said, showing them inside, then letting the door fall shut behind them.
Brenna found herself in a space about the size of a large closet, yet it was decorated in lavish Las Vegas decor—plush red carpet and wallpaper of tan and gold—and before them stood a shiny gold elevator door. Damon pushed the only button, an up arrow, and Brenna said, “Um, I know this is a surprise, but…why is this place behind a locked door?”
“It’s a very private club,” he said, his expression giving away nothing.
Beginning to get a little nervous, she swallowed. “Private how?”
Just then, the elevator door opened. Inside, the walls were mirrored from top to bottom, and each corner sported thick gilt molding from ceiling to floor. They stepped in, Damon’s hand at the small of her back. “Not many people know about it,” he replied, “and when we reach the top, we’ll be asked to sign a statement saying we won’t reveal anything about the club—its location, what we see, who we see—to anyone.”
“Um, why?” Her skin prickled. “There’s nothing illegal going on, is there?”
Damon ran his palms reassuringly up and down the tops of her arms. “Relax, babe. This is just a place where people come to indulge in activities they’d rather keep private, that’s all.”
“Oh.” Not that he’d really answered her questions or assuaged her curiosities.
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