Dirty Lyrics

by Lana Sky

“After seeing Mr. Sexy Eyes for myself, I’m not too sure about this.” He snuck a final peek at the television screen, which displayed the gorgeous eyes in question. “If his life is anything like the fluff in that video, then you in that dress might make him combust.”

  I flashed a wicked grin and headed into the hallway, leaving him to catch up. “That’s the idea.”

  Chapter 2

  The Blue Bell Hall was the largest theater downtown, second only to the open-air concert grounds on the outskirts of the city. I had been there once or twice in the past, back when I’d still dated guys who planned romantic dates to the ballet or a concerto.

  The venue was a relatively modern brick building in the shape of an oval. From what I could recall, the interior was casually elegant and I was pretty sure that—dressed the way I was—I wouldn’t even be allowed in.

  Hope of that outcome had me unconsciously yanking my skirt even higher. After all, Bret couldn’t blame me for skipping out on the meeting if I’d been kicked out of the venue, now could he?

  By the time Perry and I arrived, there was already a throng of fans, at least ten people deep, waiting to get inside. Amazingly, the line stretched all the way down the block and curved around the corner.

  Stereotypical young girls in sassy cowboy boots and men in faded jeans made up the bulk of the crowd—though I was surprised to find a decent mixture of other people mingling within the bunch as well. Several wore tailored suits and business-casual sweaters.

  “He’s pretty popular,” Perry remarked in awe as we walked up from the parking lot. Sometimes, it was hard for him to fathom that other types of music actually existed beyond his own personal niche of techno pop.

  I didn’t respond.

  The theater’s entrance was situated on the opposite side of the building from the street, forcing the attendees to traipse through an elegant mini-garden—complete with benches and sweet flowerbeds of the namesake bluebells—all illuminated by dreamy footlights.

  The auditorium itself was a large half-circle, with the red-velvet seats facing the stage—not that I had much time to take in the scenery, as Perry hauled me through the thick of the crowd. Much to his delight, our tickets included a fast pass that allowed us unfettered access inside before everyone else.

  Sadly, the bouncer working the door took one look at my I.D. and allowed me inside after crossing my name off a list.

  “Your seats are in the first row, Ms. Newman,” he said, without so much as a raised eyebrow at my ensemble.

  Great.

  It didn’t help that said seats were what the rock-star groupie in me would deem “sweat territory”: dead center and with a mouthwatering view of the stage, right within a panties-throw reach. Any one of the screaming women outside would have given her soul to sit here, and I would have gladly taken her up on that offer.

  All I could think was that Jason Daniels would have a perfect view of my cleavage, but I wouldn’t even be close enough to properly gauge his reaction and use it to my advantage. Already, my plan seemed to be backfiring.

  Damn.

  With nothing left to do but wait, I settled in next to Perry and tried to tell myself that I wasn’t intimidated by the man whose sheer star power had drawn so many people on a Friday night.

  I’d dated stars who’d sold out stadiums in mere minutes. This was nothing.

  Right?

  “I’m excited,” Perry gushed from beside me, sounding just as shocked by the fact as I was.

  I shrugged rather than replied and just focused on the stage.

  Already the auditorium was beginning to fill. Within minutes, the burgundy curtains would withdraw, and Jason would appear, live and in person.

  That’s not nerves, is it? I wondered as a strange sensation bubbled below my belly button. Whatever it was, I ignored it and settled my hands on my lap while attempting to visualize exactly how I expected this meeting to go down. Jason would see me in person, realize that we weren’t compatible in the slightest, and walk away.

  I would be in the clear with Bret and free to lie in wait for the next rock star to drunkenly crash his Porsche into a telephone pole.

  What could go wrong?

  A lot, apparently…because the moment the curtains finally withdrew and Jason Daniels appeared on stage, I forgot all about why I shouldn’t want him as a client. I forgot a lot of things, actually.

  Like the fact that I was currently here under duress.

  Or that he wasn’t my type.

  Or…

  Something.

  When that man walked on stage, I forgot how to breathe. He looked effortless in nothing more than jeans and a black tee shirt that accentuated his muscular frame. Without even seeming to try, he oozed the kind of grace that would have enabled him to wear a toga and still look sexy.

  “How y’all doing tonight?” he asked the crowd—to a deafening response—before launching into his current hit, “Light of My Eyes.” Rather than gallivant around the stage, like most performers I’d seen live, he merely sat on a stool with nothing more than his guitar and just…played.

  Even without the benefits of voice-enhancing technology, his voice was as rich and smooth as honey. A simple chorus of three women added light background to his vocals, but the show mainly consisted of him and his voice.

  No pyrotechnics. No half-naked background dancers. No gimmicks or tricks or eye-catching sparkles.

  Just him. And it worked.

  He glowed in a halo of spotlight and somehow seemed to sing to everyone. Not just to the women, but also the men. His rich baritone struck parts of me that I never knew could be stirred without the aid of a battery-operated machine.

  When he launched into an acoustic rendition of “White Picket Fences,” I felt Perry stiffen beside me, and I knew exactly what he was thinking: this was so much better than watching him on television.

  Without a screen of glass hampering the stare of those blue eyes, the emotion in every single word reverberated to the farthest reaches of the theater, strong and earnest and real. During his entire hour-long set, I could honestly say that I had no clue if the man even looked at me once, but I still felt as if every word and strum of his guitar was meant for me and only me.

  Which was just plain stupid.

  I was in a daze when he ended his final song to a standing ovation. A grinning Perry yanked me to my feet, but I hardly even heard the roar of applause and the raucous begging for an encore. Because right then…I was sure that Jason Daniels had looked me dead in the eye.

  He had held my gaze for merely a second, eyes glowing beneath the stage lights, and winked.

  “That was amazing,” Perry gushed from beside me, fanning himself with a promotional flyer while I struggled to get a grip. Jason had already turned away to address the rest of the crowd, but I still found it difficult just to suck air into my lungs. “Damn. Remind me to pick up his CD.”

  “I have it,” I said absently. When Jason Daniels had first approached me months ago, seeking representation, I’d gone out and bought his CD. For research, of course.

  Perry glanced at me in a way that demanded an explanation, but before I could speak, a woman approached us, grinning through a layer of pink lipstick almost as thick as mine was.

  “Hi there! Are you Ms. Abigail Newman?”

  “Abby,” I corrected, sticking out my hand.

  “So nice to meet you!” She enthusiastically returned the handshake, and I took the opportunity to inspect her from head to toe.

  She was pretty in an innocent way, with a charming grin and flashing green eyes. Red hair set off her alabaster skin and, unlike me, she wore a simple, modestly cut green dress. A quirky pair of guitar-shaped earrings dangled from her ears and kept her from seeming too serious.

  “I’m Dixie,” she announced in a cherry, southern drawl. “I’m Jason’s manager, and let me just say that he can’t wait to meet you.”

  “Oh, really?” Perry glanced back at me and winked, but I shrugged him off.

 
; To him, this was a fun night out. To me? This was just business.

  I fixed Dixie with a raised eyebrow and an expression that I hoped seemed more inquisitive than rude. “His manager?”

  I couldn’t remember the name of the person who had repeatedly contacted me about Jason, and she didn’t look like the cutthroat business type capable of spearheading a musician’s career. In fact, I had to glance down at the clipboard tucked in the crook of her elbow, just to make sure she wasn’t trying to sell me cookies.

  “Okay, you caught me,” Dixie admitted and flashed another award-winning smile. “I’m actually more like Jason’s…friend. Our families go way back, and I don’t really manage much of anything. He just wanted me to grab you before you could sneak away. He’s in his dressing room. I’ll take you back.”

  So Jason wanted to make sure I couldn’t “sneak away,” now did he?

  “Uh-oh,” Perry muttered under his breath. “I know that look.”

  He was probably referring to how I stood with my chin jutting into the air and chest thrust out like a deadly weapon.

  Ignoring him, I faced Dixie. “Lead the way.”

  Grinning, she headed through the thinning crowd and down a hallway near the side of the stage. There, a bouncer allowed us through a doorway that opened up onto a narrow corridor. Backstage, crew members darted to and fro, clearing equipment—but one figure was noticeably absent from the chaos.

  “In here,” Dixie called as she skipped to a closed door near the end of the hall.

  A handwritten sign read Jason Daniels in magic marker—a big change from the sparkling golden stars I was used to seeing on most musicians’ dressing room doors.

  “He’s inside,” Dixie added, pulling open the door. “I’ll leave you guys to your business.”

  I took a step over the threshold, expecting Perry to follow after me, but he hung back, muttering something about taking a phone call.

  The dirty liar.

  “All right.”

  I tried to tell myself that I had no problems with facing Jason Daniels alone.

  Tossing my hair over one shoulder, I headed inside and glanced around the spacious room like a boxer sizing up a ring. The walls were white, but a pair of dark blue couches added a splash of color. A vase of roses sat on the glass coffee table, and along the wall was a vanity. In the mirror, I could clearly see my own reflection.

  Sexy.

  Confident.

  About two inches from earning a citation for public indecency.

  Jason Daniels wouldn’t know what hit him. In fact, I would be highly surprised if he didn’t have me escorted out. Which would have been a good thing…right?

  The man himself wasn’t in sight, so I perched on the end of one of the couches and mentally went over my rejection speech.

  Sorry, Mr. Daniels, but I’m currently not seeking new clients at this time.

  You may be hot, but I have standards.

  Albeit, low standards, but standards nonetheless.

  And you’re just too clean for me. Honestly, I don’t even know what you’d expect me to do since your image is already perfectly perfect…

  My nostrils twitched, distracting me from the thought. I sniffed, registering the scent of the most delicious cologne I’d ever smelled in my entire life.

  Musk.

  Heat.

  A hint of sweat.

  It was masculine, male, and one-hundred percent primal. Immediately, my gaze went to the vanity, scanning its surface for a bottle or a brand name so that I could sneak out and buy some for myself—under the pretense of purchasing it for Perry, of course.

  It was only when I glanced over at the mirror that I finally saw him near the door.

  How in the hell had he opened it without me noticing?

  Because there was a hell of a lot to notice.

  Standing at nearly six-feet tall, Jason Daniels occupied the entire doorway. His mouth displayed a charmingly crooked grin, and he held his guitar casually tucked under one arm. Without introducing himself right away, he gingerly settled the instrument against the wall and then faced me with both arms crossed.

  “Well hello, Ms. Newman.” His voice reverberated throughout the room, and I found myself sucking in a breath.

  The man seemed to sing even when he wasn’t doing so. I suddenly recalled something I’d read in one of his interviews about him having serenaded his mother in diapers. Maybe that hadn’t been a fabricated anecdote to appeal to his mostly female audience.

  I scrambled to my feet, aware of just how dangerously short my dress was when paired with the fact that I was currently going commando. Ignoring that realization, I met his gaze fearlessly and stuck out my hand.

  “Hello, Mr. Daniels,” I said, channeling the curt tone Bret used when he wanted to give the illusion of being polite while he all but shoved someone from his office door. “I know you’re busy, so I‘ll make this quick. I really don’t think that we’d be a good fit, so I regretfully have to decline your offer—”

  “Can I get you something to drink, Ms. Newman?” In two steps, he crossed over to where I stood and took my hand, giving it a firm shake. The moment the flesh of my palm met his, I had to suppress an involuntary gasp.

  Living amongst pampered prima donnas, like Perry, or men so rich they barely handled their own instruments, I had never felt a hand so calloused in my life. So…worn. I could tell instantly that Jason Daniels lived a life that extended to more than just being on tour and signing autographs.

  I didn’t know the first damn thing about yard work, but I could easily picture him toiling away on some picturesque farm, doing whatever it was that farming men did.

  And he probably looked sexy as hell doing it, a traitorous part of me purred before I could silence it.

  “Ms. Newman?”

  “Call me Abby,” I corrected, blinking as I finally examined those delicious blue eyes up close.

  Damn.

  Jason smiled and, if anything, the expression illuminated his handsomeness even more. There was a dark line of stubble along his chin, and I couldn’t ignore a part of me that quivered. I’d always loved the rough feel of unshaved skin…

  “Can I get you something to drink?” He spoke slowly, and it was only then that I realized I still held his hand.

  “N-No.” I jerked back, wobbling in my heels.

  What the hell?

  This wasn’t me. I rarely got nervous around anyone who didn’t have his or her name in the Rock N’ Roll Hall of Fame.

  I tried to write off the brief moment of instability by doubling down. A piece of hair had fallen across my face, and I used it to my full advantage by adopting an expression that I had mastered to get out of speeding tickets. That sultry, vulnerable “arrest me, Mr. Officer” look that I knew could have any man drooling and stumbling over his words.

  “I’m not thirsty,” I purred, feeling a little more in control as Jason’s eyes widened ever so slightly. “In fact, I have another meeting soon, so let’s cut to the chase; I can’t take you on as a client. I actually don’t see why you even need me. Clearly you are adored—” A point effectively proven by the throngs of fans currently filling the theater. “—so, thank you for the concert. It was lovely, but I just can’t represent you.”

  Jason opened his mouth, but before he could reply, Perry appeared in the doorway behind him.

  Uh-oh.

  His cheeks were flushed, and he was biting his lower lip, something that he only did when either stressed or pissed—or both.

  “What happened?”

  “Some penny-pinching florist is threatening to derail my sweet sixteen,” he hissed, barely managing to keep his tone level. The obvious sign of restraint was so very un-Perry, and I could tell that he was seconds from losing his cool. “This is a stage-five emergency, Abs. I have to go to the venue and straighten this out. None of those good-for-nothing assistants can handle it. Call a cab, and we’ll meet up at home, okay?”

  He blew me a kiss, turned on his heel, and
stalked off before I could get a word in edgewise.

  “Well,” I croaked, staring at the empty doorway. “That was my cousin, Perry.”

  I couldn’t even muster the strength to be upset. Perry was almost as anal about his work as I was—type-A personalities must run in our bloodline—but, without him and his Volvo, I was left to find my own way home.

  As well as fight several hundred concert-goers for transportation.

  “You’ll never catch a cab tonight,” Jason remarked as if reading my mind. “And, you could try a bus, but I don’t think you’d want to stand on a corner for very long dressed like…that.”

  “Huh?” Something in his expression kept me from taking offense. His drawl had thickened like dark honey on “like that,” and I didn’t miss the way his eyes raked my body from head to toe…

  And then narrowed.

  “Please, allow me to give you a ride.”

  “Do you think a limo ride might impress me?” I snapped before I could stop myself. I wasn’t normally so rude, but something in me bristled at him.

  Mr. Perfect Eyes and Down-Home Charm.

  I felt like he was judging me. Every glance. Every word. Somehow it was all a pot-shot at me, despite the fact that his voice held the cadence of a perfect gentleman.

  “No, but a ride in my truck might keep you out of the rain.”

  Damn. I had forgotten that the weather station had called for a storm tonight.

  Just. My. Luck.

  A million sensible reasons why I should take him up on his offer berated me before I could squash them down with some good, old-fashioned pride.

  My apartment was on the other side of town.

  My dress was silk.

  My heels were high enough to hang a clothesline from, and walking across the city in them wasn’t appealing in the slightest.

  I swallowed hard. “I’m fine—”

  “Really?” I hated how that baritone managed to sound both playful and stern at the same time. If he had kids, they would never be able to resist him. He was authoritative and charming all at once—a deadly combination. “We’re due for a nasty storm. I couldn’t, in good conscience, let you go home alone.”

  Good conscience? Who did he think he was? Rhett Butler?