Dirty Lyrics

by Lana Sky

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “Please.”

  The genuine plea caught me off guard, and I found myself nodding. I’d never been able to resist politeness when it was directed at me. It was such a rare occurrence these days that it almost warranted being marked down on my calendar: the day a man offered me a ride home without a wink at my cleavage and an inquiry as to how much I charge for an hour.

  “All right,” I said, trying my hardest to act nonchalant. “But don’t think this means that you get to try to change my mind.”

  I don’t know why I was so afraid that he would—or wouldn’t. On a given day, I had multiple requests for representation. The thought of Jason Daniels breaking down my resistance shouldn’t have filled me with such a strange, fluttery sense of anticipation.

  I shouldn’t have been so curious as to the real reason behind his desire to hire me. Or why his eyes never traveled lower than my chin. Or why I didn’t care until right then just how thin and skimpy my dress was.

  “I promise,” Jason swore as he stood back, clearing a path to the door. “I won’t bring up anything without your explicit permission, Ms. Newman.” He winked again, and my breath hitched in my throat. “Scout’s honor.”

  Jason kept his promise.

  We managed to skirt the hordes of fans salivating for his autograph and escape into a section of the garage that had been cordoned off from the public lot. During the trip through the maze of corridors that composed the inner-workings of the Blue Bell, Jason hadn’t mentioned his proposal once.

  In fact…

  He barely spoke to me, apart from the occasional polite direction.

  “Watch your step, Ms. Newman,” he warned before ushering me deeper into the garage. I tried not to jump as his hand fell over my lower back to keep me steady.

  “T-Thanks.”

  The garage was enormous—our voices echoed off the cement walls—but it still felt enclosed.

  “My truck’s just over here.”

  He led me past a few parked vans to the distant corner of the garage without ever taking his hand from my back.

  Call it female intuition, but I knew, as soon as I laid eyes on it, that the blue Chevy Silverado with mud splattered across the rim was his. Not some flashy sports car meant only for show—but a vehicle he used. Lived in. Jason Daniels would be ingrained within the upholstery, the same way that the scent of cinnamon lattes was ingrained in Perry’s Volvo.

  “Watch your head,” he spoke while reaching around me to open the driver’s side door. As I’d suspected, a burst of that tantalizing scent hit me full in the face—though I was beginning to think that it wasn’t cologne at all.

  Maybe it was just his natural smell.

  “Won’t anyone miss you?” I stammered, more intimidated by the prospect of climbing into his truck than I cared to admit.

  “Dixie will manage everything,” he replied so confidently that I suspected Dixie had greatly underestimated her own skill. “And since there’s no business to discuss, I shouldn’t be long.”

  Unable to think of a reply, I simply climbed onto the passenger-side seat. I hated the fact that Jason had to keep hold of one of my arms, while I yanked down the back of my skirt and prayed to God that he wasn’t flashed by accident. We were already in agreement that I wouldn’t take him on as a client; therefore, Operation Sexy Abby Lust-Grenade was in the abort phase.

  Instead, I struggled to get a hold of myself as Jason circled the truck and climbed into the driver’s seat. The interior of the cab was clean—with gray upholstery and a guitar-shaped air freshener dangling from the rearview mirror—but it did little to cut through the masculine musk that wafted from his direction as he closed the driver’s side door.

  Dear God. I had to swallow and attempt to breathe through my nose just to keep my head clear of crazy, irrational impulses, such as leaning over to sniff the man more thoroughly.

  Nope…nope. Bad, Abby.

  “So, where to, Ms. Newman?”

  I recited my address, and he put the truck in drive and pulled out onto the street.

  He must have had a CD playing, because a song suddenly blared through the speakers—the soothing notes of classical music.

  “Mozart?” I blurted in shock.

  His quiet chuckle made a spark of heat shoot through my body. “Were you expecting something else?”

  I shrugged and glanced out of the window just to avoid his gaze.

  “I wouldn’t have pegged you as the classical type,” I said finally.

  “Honestly, neither would I.” He laughed again, and I glanced over to find that his playful navy eyes were on me. “I like a fair share of everything. I’m a bit of a ‘jack of all trades.’”

  “Oh, really?” I sat back against the headrest and found myself reaching up to twirl a piece of my hair around my finger. It was a bad habit. “What else do you like?”

  He rattled off a list that included a few more classical mentors, some I had never heard of. However, one name did catch my attention.

  “Elvis?”

  My gaze strayed to the driver’s seat just as Jason grinned, cutting a devastating profile. “I have his whole catalogue. I never feel like my day has started right without a little bit of ‘the King.’”

  He fished a CD from a haphazard stack in the center console and switched it out with the one already in the CD player. Seconds later, the deep voice of Elvis, crooning the opening lyrics to “Always on My Mind,” filled the silence.

  “My dad’s a big Elvis fan,” I admitted, before common sense could hold me back. “I think my first words were the lyrics to ‘Jailhouse Rock.’”

  “Oh, really?”

  We laughed for a moment—mine strained and nervous, while his sounded hearty and carefree. A split-second later, a rumble of thunder broke the tension, and a few drops of rain speckled the truck’s windshield.

  “This turn?” Jason asked, and I nodded. I was prepared to lead him step-by-step, but he navigated the rest of the way in silence as if he knew the city fairly well, which was surprising, considering that it was only one stop on his cross-country tour.

  When he finally pulled up before my high-rise apartment building, I couldn’t scramble out of my seatbelt fast enough. I reached for the door handle, gripping it so tightly, my knuckles turned white.

  “Thanks for the ride—”

  “Wait.”

  I don’t know why I froze at the sound of his voice. We were done; our business meeting concluded—and rather anticlimactically, I might add. I should have left, blown a kiss, and gotten my ass home.

  Instead…I breathed in his scent. I stayed, applying just enough pressure to the handle so that all I would have to do was push.

  “I’ve let you say your piece,” Jason continued softly as if he’d expected the hesitation all along. His tone had lost that casual honey, and the sudden seriousness was as bracing as ice-cold water. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to say mine.”

  I sucked in a deep breath and held it, weighing my options. Stay? Go?

  “All right.” In the end, I took my hand off the door and settled both in my lap. “Why do you want to hire me?”

  Without responding right away, Jason switched off the truck’s engine, silencing Elvis mid-song. For a long time, he stared dead ahead through the windshield, watching the rain come down with a vengeance.

  “I need you, Ms. Newman,” he said finally.

  Need…

  The heat in his tone was sweltering. I choked. “C-Call me A-Abby.”

  It seemed to be the only damn thing I could say.

  “Ms. Newman,” he corrected gruffly. Then, he turned and every single muscle in my body went limp as his gaze sought out my own. “I need you.”

  Chapter 3

  I need you.

  Jason was still talking, completely oblivious to the fact that my entire brain had melted after hearing those three little words.

  I need you.

  No lover in my entire life had ever
uttered them with the same intensity. Deep inside I could feel a part of me clench in response and flames erupted over my skin.

  “I don’t believe Dixie can handle something like this,” he continued. “And I want…I need to do this right.”

  “W-What?” I stammered, feeling as though he was light years ahead of me.

  “I need your help,” Jason said so slowly that every word dripped with honeyed twang. “With my upcoming album. It’s different from Heartland. It needs the right touch.”

  I blinked as my brain sluggishly registered his words.

  Help. Album. Touch.

  Then it clicked; he meant needing my help as pertaining to his career.

  I had to suck in air through my nose and release it slowly, well aware of the fact that Jason watched me as the seconds ticked by.

  “Are you all right?”

  God, Abby, get a grip. I nodded and struggled to regain control of my voice.

  “You want my help promoting an album?” I nearly cried with relief that I sounded somewhat steady to my own ears.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “B-But…why me?”

  “You’re a publicist.”

  “Oh.”

  Sometimes I forgot what my job title technically entailed: publicizing a product, person, or company.

  “I’m usually more on the ‘damage control’ end of things,” I said hoarsely. My heart was still pounding like mad, and I couldn’t figure out why. Maybe it was the way his damn scent filled my body with every frantic breath.

  Within seconds, I was full to bursting with Jason Daniels.

  In desperation, I rolled down the window, grateful that his truck had a manual lever. Icy rain basted my skin, but I greedily inhaled the fresh air and desperately tried to regain my bearings.

  “You’re good at what you do,” Jason added softly.

  For some reason, I wanted to snort at that. Oh, was I now?

  “I’m usually at the back end of some rock star cleaning up his naughty, little messes.”

  A pang of guilt shot through me. Did I have to sound like such a bitch? But when I glanced over at him, Jason didn’t seem the least bit upset by the rudeness.

  His eyes were this haunting shade of blue in the darkness. Piercing. Glowing.

  I had to look away and found myself eyeing the twenty-four-hour bistro across the street instead. Its flashing neon sign was missing two letters so it read, Johnny’s B ST O.

  “And why would you want me anyway?” I finally asked without looking at him. “I’m no expert on country music.”

  “A Bachelor’s Degree in Music Theory. A year-long internship at Holly Black Records. One of the top-rated publicists at the METRO Management Agency. I have to disagree with you there, Ms. Newman. I think you’re perfectly qualified.”

  It took a good minute before I realized that the impressive list of credentials belonged to me.

  “You…you researched me?”

  “Yes,” Jason said, sounding unashamed by that fact. “I’m a man who knows what he wants, Ms. Newman, and I want only the best for this album.”

  “For the love of God, my name is Abby.”

  I tore a hand through my hair, hating myself for the nerves twisting through my belly. I kept eyeing the door like a cornered animal searching for an escape—and, damn it, Abby Newman never ran from anything.

  Until now…

  Only the fact that my heels were killing me kept me from sprinting out of the truck.

  I knew it…and something told me that he knew it, too.

  “Abigail, I’m sorry,” Jason corrected, still sounding so calm it drove me crazy. “If you maintain that you aren’t interested, then I guess I’ll just have to accept that—”

  “What makes this album so different?” I demanded, sneaking another peek at him from the corner of my eye. “Less heart, more dirt?”

  “Something like that,” he admitted on a chuckle and surprised me by flashing a warm smile.

  Despite the cool air drifting in from my open window, my blood boiled beneath paper-thin skin. It seemed like the tiniest spark might just make me combust.

  “It’s…different,” he said, only now the smile was gone, and his voice had lost that sweet honey. “These songs mean more to me.”

  I was intrigued, despite myself. What kind of album would Jason Daniels find so special that he would want it sullied by my reputation?

  “How?” I pressed. “Try to describe it.”

  “It’s…raw,” he said carefully. “Full of old songs. Personal.”

  I shifted, even more intrigued. What naughty secrets did Mr. Perfect have to hide?

  “Why now?”

  The corner of his mouth lifted in a playful smirk, instantly lightening the mood again. “Why not? I like to believe that there’s no better time than the present.”

  “Oh, don’t get philosophical,” I grumbled. “If they’re just ‘old songs,’ then there has to be a reason for releasing them now.” When he didn’t respond, I found myself offering a compromise, “Send a copy of the CD to my office, and I’ll see if it’s something I could be interested in.”

  “No.” Jason surprised me by shaking his head. “I can’t do that. Given my feelings over this album, I’ll need your one-hundred percent commitment before you hear a single word.”

  I raised an eyebrow.

  “I’m not a big fan of ultimatums.”

  “Neither am I,” Jason replied. “Think of it more as a…boundary line.”

  I chewed thoughtfully on my lower lip.

  “Not even a hint?”

  For the briefest of moments, I forgot all about his effect on me and shifted to face him, all while twirling a wayward piece of hair around my finger. I was Abby Newman once again, confident and in control.

  “Something to pique my interest?”

  While maintaining eye contact, I reached over and gingerly rested my fingers on his forearm.

  It was a trick I usually employed to goad the most obnoxious clients into doing whatever I wanted. A little smile. A little flash of cleavage. A little touch.

  Oh boy, did that plan backfire this time.

  Strength oozed from Jason’s very core. I could feel the flex and coil of muscle ripple beneath his skin, and I had to withdraw my hand nearly as quickly as I’d touched him.

  “I could have the proposal document sent to your office first thing Monday morning,” he offered, unperturbed by my disjointed reaction. “You could just read them over and see if you’d like to take me on after all.”

  Take him on.

  “Have them sent tomorrow,” I said, breathless once again. “I-I work on Saturdays.”

  If he found that strange, he didn’t mention it.

  “Tomorrow it is. Thank you for hearing me out, Ms. Newman.”

  “S-sure.”

  I took that as my cue to bolt and wrenched open the door while scrambling off the seat with as much dignity as I could muster. I was convinced that Jason, with his Southern charm, would rush out and walk me to the door—topping off tonight’s humiliation—but he never did. I could hear him drive off, just as I slipped through the main doors of my building.

  An obnoxious sound snapped me from a dizzying nightmare.

  Ping!

  I had been drowning in an ocean the exact same shade of blue as a certain pair of indigo eyes, only to wind up in my bed, blinking at the ceiling.

  It was still dark. My alarm wasn’t going off.

  What the hell?

  I rolled over, convinced that Perry’s television must have woken me up—he couldn’t sleep without it blaring, 24/7—and I prepared to bang on the wall that adjoined our rooms. Just as I curled a fist, I heard it: two additional musical pings. My brain struggled to place the true culprit. My cell phone?

  The alarm clock on my nightstand proclaimed it to be exactly 4:35 in the morning. Wonderful. I knew of only one bastard who’d be so sadistic as to message me at such an ungodly hour.

  “Someone better be dea
d, Bret,” I hissed while fumbling along my nightstand for my phone. My eyes watered in response to the harsh light of the screen as the device awoke from sleep mode—but, rather than a missive from my asshole of a boss, this text message was from a contact that I was positive I hadn’t entered into my phone myself.

  “Jason D. (you’ll thank me later, bitch)” was the name of the sender. The message itself was rather simple.

  It was nice meeting you tonight, Ms. Newman.

  Oh, dear God.

  I bolted upright, heart in my throat.

  “Damn it, Perry!”

  Somehow, he had managed to sneak Jason fucking Daniels’ number into my cell. Only now did I wonder if he had left the theater because of a real crisis, or if it was just part of some devious scheme to hook me up with country boy. I groaned and considered marching over to my cousin’s room and dragging him from beneath his sheepskin duvet. In the end, I settled for typing out a hasty message I could barely comprehend.

  How many times do I have to tell you to call me Abby?

  The reply was instantaneous, and I could picture its sender sitting somewhere, phone in hand, just waiting for my response.

  My apologies, Abigail.

  I furrowed my brow, hating the formal use of my full name even more—though I had to admit that I was intrigued by his insistence on using it. Before I could come up with a reply, another message lit up the screen.

  Pardon me for contacting you at such a late hour, but you left something in my truck earlier. I thought you might want it back.

  Huh? I couldn’t imagine what I might have left behind important enough to warrant a four a.m. emergency text. My purse was on my dresser. I had used my keys to get in. My phone was obviously in my hands.

  Frowning, I managed to type:

  Whatever it is, have it sent to my office in the morning.

  I settled back against my pillows with a yawn, ready to toss my phone aside when another message flashed across the screen.

  It can’t wait.

  And then…

  I’m outside.

  It took my exhausted brain a split-second to process the words: Jason Daniels was apparently outside of my apartment building.