Blue Shoes 2 (New Adult Erotic Romance)

by Knight, JJ

  BLUE SHOES

  Volume 2

  JJ KNIGHT

  www.jjknight.com

  Copyright © 2014 by JJ Knight

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews, fan-made graphics, and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  JJ Knight

  www.jjknight.com

  Chapter One

  My phone keeps buzzing with incoming alerts and messages.

  I’m on the tile floor of my hotel bathroom, and I can’t see the screen of my phone because my eyes are blurred with tears.

  I blink hard and hold up the phone.

  Something breaks inside me, and my feelings shift toward numbness.

  How much worse can it get? Dylan’s cheating on me. I’ve seen a video of him kissing a blonde at a show, and now a nude photo he’s sent someone.

  When I moved to Los Angeles a year ago, I was a naive country girl, but I’m not that Jess anymore. I’m a music executive. I make my own choices, and I can deal with this.

  I blink the rest of the tears away, grab some tissues, and blow my nose. I can deal with this.

  I hold up my phone and face the screen with gritted teeth.

  There’s a new alert: Wolf Fancies Drive-Through.

  I open the message, expecting to see more photos of Dylan naked, or the woman he’s having an affair with.

  Instead, I see a picture of him at a McDonald’s drive-through. I zoom in on the image. It’s taken from inside the restaurant, probably with a staff member’s phone, and there’s a girl in the passenger seat. It’s not just any girl. It’s me.

  I let out a laugh of relief. The news article says he was at this McDonald’s last night, but I know it’s a lie. The photo doesn’t show the girl’s face, but I can easily see the bright white bandages on my elbow. The picture was taken the Saturday of my wedding gown disaster.

  “Stupid,” I say to the phone.

  The sound of my voice echoing in the hotel bathroom surprises me. Suddenly, I feel ridiculous. Here I am, bawling on the bathroom floor over something I saw on the internet. I should know better. They’re always twisting things.

  The other photo is probably a fake, too.

  I pull myself up off the floor of the bathroom and take a few minutes to wash my face and brush my teeth. Now I feel better.

  I leave the bathroom and take a more dignified seat on the sofa in my room. The curtains are drawn, and the room is dark, because I’d been planning to go straight to sleep. I lean over and flick on some lamps.

  My body is tense as I take a deep breath and go through the alert messages on my phone. I’m going to take a better look at the nude selfie of Dylan, now that I’m not hysterical.

  I would… but I can’t find it.

  The message and the blog post are just gone. Not here.

  I go through a week’s worth of messages, then open up all my messaging apps. Nothing. No photo.

  I put the phone in my lap and look around my hotel room, with its plush cream carpet and luxurious dark furniture. Am I losing my mind?

  It doesn’t matter. If I know one thing about the internet, it’s that nothing ever goes away. I grab my laptop, because it’s faster to use than my phone, and do a search for naked selfie pictures of Dylan. As I type in the search keywords, I get a sick feeling in my stomach. I shouldn’t be doing this. I should phone him and just ask.

  But he’ll think I’m being crazy and overreacting.

  If I start accusing him of sending photos to girls, and I’m not there to calm him down, I don’t know what will happen.

  No, I’ll deal with this on my own.

  * * *

  An hour passes, and I still haven’t found the picture anywhere, or any mention of it. I’m really questioning my sanity.

  Maybe the picture was up somewhere, but they took it down right away. Maybe the lawyers from Morris Music have been doing their jobs. It doesn’t seem possible they’d scrub every trace of the photo off the internet so quickly, but it’s a better explanation than the alternative, which is that I’ve lost my mind.

  I close down some of the windows, but take one last look at the video of Dylan and the blonde.

  Unfortunately, this video is real, and it’s still online.

  The video makes me sick to my stomach, but I tell myself not to worry. Dylan’s just playing it up for the fans. His publicist probably made him do it. Dylan loves me. He told me so, and everyone else keeps telling me, too.

  I’ll try phoning him in an hour, after I’ve calmed down. Everything will be fine.

  I get ready to close my laptop, but go back to the recent news story about Dylan. This one went live just before the one about me and Dylan at the McDonald’s drive-through, and I’m sure it’s just as fake. The headline says, Wolf Hunts Beauties While Wife-To-Be Is Away.

  I almost laugh at how stupid the headline is. The people who fall for these fake articles must be so gullible.

  This one says three women were seen going into Dylan’s house after his show. There are no photos with this one, just an “eye witness” account from a neighbor.

  Hah! The closest neighbors are Amanda and Riley.

  I scan the article. Apparently, the women were seen getting out of a fancy car and walking up to the house with bottles of wine. According to the source, they were scantily dressed and looked drunk.

  I close the laptop and sigh, alone in my hotel room.

  Dylan and three girls? This is probably old, just like the drive-through picture. It could even be from the night of Riley’s birthday party. Dylan missed most of the fun, but showed up just in time to drag the three of us home. Bottles of wine? Yeah, that sounds about right. And it’s not unusual for everyone to meet up at our house after a night out, because we always have more food than the girls.

  I lean over and open the mini-fridge underneath the credenza. The freshest-looking thing is orange juice. I gasp at how disgusting it tastes and nearly spit it out on the carpet. The mini-fridge supply must be old and rancid.

  A second later, I laugh at myself. I just brushed my teeth after being sick, so the toothpaste made the juice taste funny.

  I look down at the orange juice bottle in my hand.

  Everything clicks in my head.

  Things are not always what they seem to be.

  Can I trust anything I see or read? Maybe Dylan did take home three women who weren’t me and my friends. Or maybe an elderly neighbor got her dates confused.

  Maybe he took a nude selfie, or maybe he didn’t. He could have taken it to send me as a joke and then sent it to someone else by accident. Or maybe I was hysterical and imagining things. The photo’s gone now, so maybe I should forget I saw it.

  As for the skank who was kissing him at Avalon Hollywood… Maybe she was an actress, and he was shooting footage for a music video. He’s had to kiss girls for videos before. I would think he’d warn me about that sort of thing, but maybe he didn’t think it was a big deal.

  Or maybe he just kissed her because he’s nice. I take another drink of the orange juice, which tastes better with every sip. Dylan is nice to his fans. Too nice.

  I hate that I’m so far away and don’t know what’s going o
n.

  There’s a knock on my door.

  It sounds like Dylan’s knock.

  My heart soars. He’s here already, surprising me.

  I run to the door and fling it open.

  Chapter Two

  My boss, Chet Morris, is standing outside my hotel room, looking worried. His brown hair is messy and his green eyes are wide.

  “Jess, I didn’t want to say anything, but the walls between the room are thin. Are you sick?”

  Emotion chokes up in my throat. I can’t tell him I was freaking out over lies and garbage on the internet.

  “I’m okay.” I wave Chet in. He looks at my face and my puffy pink cheeks, then looks away quickly, his gaze sweeping the room. I look down at my gray T-shirt and yoga pants. I self-consciously tie the drawstring on the pants. I’m wearing the clothes I was going to sleep in, because I wasn’t expecting company.

  He opens the doors to the balcony, wanders out to check the view, then comes back in and peers into a rolling basket I have parked in the corner.

  “Hey, is this a laundry basket?” he asks.

  “What does it look like?” I tease. “Yes, it’s a laundry basket. You don’t have one in your room? The housekeeper takes it every two days and everything comes back clean and folded.”

  “No way. They make me bring my stuff down.” He grimaces. “I don’t like riding the elevator with an armful of boxer shorts and T-shirts.”

  I shake my head. I can’t believe I’m in Italy, talking to my boss about his laundry. While wearing my pajamas.

  “Then drop your dirty laundry off in my room,” I snap at him. “Don’t complain about stuff. If you have a problem, fix it.”

  He gives me an apologetic look, his emerald green eyes muted. “You’re right, Jess. This is exactly why I have great employees.”

  I shrug and say softly, “Don’t sweat it.”

  He looks around, sees something else that surprises him, and lets out an excited cry.

  “No way! You have a mini-fridge?” He goes right for it and starts ransacking the thing.

  “Help yourself. Morris Music is paying for it.”

  “Grape soda! I haven’t had grape soda since I was ten and barfed it up through my nose.”

  “Nice.” I take a seat in the chair across from the hotel room’s couch.

  “Speaking of barfing, you’ve got to tell me what’s going on.” He sits on the couch and points at my stomach. “Bun in the oven? Shotgun wedding? Are you gonna name the little guy Chet, after your favorite boss?”

  The idea is so ridiculous, I have to laugh.

  Chet goes quiet, drinking his grape soda and waiting for me to talk. The bottle is an Italian brand we don’t have in America. The grape scent is strong enough that I can smell it from across the coffee table.

  He casually adds, “If the baby’s a girl, you don’t have to call her Chet, of course.”

  “I’m not pregnant, I swear.”

  “Are you sick? We should take you to a doctor. I’ll call someone right now. I can’t afford to have the brains of the European operation getting sick on me.” He pulls out his phone and starts looking for a number.

  “Wait, Chet. It’s not… physical.”

  He puts away his phone and waits.

  The words start coming, and it gets easier when I stop holding everything inside. He’s a good listener. I tell him everything, and how I’m worried Dylan won’t come to Rome. I open the laptop again and show him some pages. He looks shocked, then angry, then confused.

  “I swear there was a nude selfie, but it’s gone,” I tell him. “Did the Morris lawyers have something taken down?”

  He frowns. “Not that I’m aware of, but we have entire departments that don’t report every little thing directly to me.”

  I snort. “Every little thing. Sure.”

  “I didn’t mean it like that,” he says. “Your life is not a little thing. You deserve the best, Jess.” His emerald eyes are so bright, they’re almost glowing.

  I quickly tear my eyes away from Chet’s. He’s my boss, and my friend. I want to throw myself into his arms, just to be held by someone and told everything will be okay, but something about his look tells me that would be the worst thing to do right now.

  He takes the laptop from my lap and transfers it to his. He leans back and squints at the screen while the video plays. “Dylan is actually kissing one of his fans at a show?”

  I feel a pain in my chest. Hearing Chet say those words makes it concrete.

  I answer, “My eyes tell me yes, but my heart tells me no.”

  “She kisses him, and he hesitates. Maybe he just got confused. Sometimes guys get confused for a few seconds, Jess. We’re only human.”

  I smile. “I guess so.”

  He sets the laptop on the coffee table and sits up straight. “If your heart tells you this is garbage, just more lies to sell advertising, then listen to your heart.” He pats his chest and looks earnest. “For real. Listen to your heart.”

  “I’m trying.”

  He leans back, looking relaxed. “I’m not worried. We’re on the inside track, in the industry. You and I both know how little truth is in most of these garbage stories.”

  I bite my lower lip and nod. He’s right. Sometimes it’s our publicity department that’s putting out the lies, doing damage control. It’s never a coincidence that someone’s playing for a fundraiser the week after they wrap an expensive car around a tree.

  “We need to get out of this hotel,” Chet says. “Rome is amazing. Let’s make the most of it.”

  “I don’t know. If Dylan comes, he’s going to show me Rome.”

  “Don’t worry,” Chet says, chuckling. “I promise we won’t see everything tonight. We’ll leave some for Dylan to show you.” He stands. “That’s what you’re wearing? You look casual, but I guess it’s fine.”

  I look at Chet like he’s lost his mind. “It’s late. I’m not just casual. These are my pajamas.”

  “It’s not that late. Right about now is when Italians start to party. Come on, Jess. Neither of us really know what’s going on with Dylan. But I do know that you can’t sit in this hotel room and worry about it. You need this. Trust me.”

  I can hear music drifting up from the street below the balcony. He’s right. I’ve been here nearly two weeks, and I’ve stayed in my room every night, waiting for Dylan.

  I walk over to the closet where I’ve hung my clothes. “Fine, but I’m not going out in pajamas.”

  My boss lets out a chuckle. “Get yourself ready. I’m going to call Sabrina. That’s the one who’s an Italian version of you. In other words, the only one at Deluca who has half a clue.”

  “You like her?”

  Chet frowns at his phone, then flicks his eyes up to meet mine. “Sure. She’s great. But I’m technically her boss. We could never have a relationship. It’s improper.”

  “But you and I are like best friends, practically.”

  “Yeah, but that’s different.” He grins. “You’re not even a girl to me. You’re like a bratty little brother who wears a skirt sometimes.”

  My jaw drops.

  Chet crosses the room to the door, phone in hand. He shoots me a devious grin. He’s proud of himself for teasing me.

  “Put on a skirt and meet me in the lobby,” he says. “Sabrina is going to text me an address. She’s at the club now with a bunch of friends, and we’re VIPs.”

  He leaves, closing the door behind him. Alone, I sort through the clothes I’ve brought, searching for the perfect thing.

  I’m not interested in Chet seeing me as sexy, but I want him to at least admit I’m a girl.

  I pull out a form-fitting red mini-dress. I’m not really a pink girl, but I will wear red sometimes. I was saving this for when Dylan arrived, but there’s no point letting it go to waste in the closet. I match it up with a pair of heels. The shoes are way sexier than anything I’d normally wear, but they’re such good quality that they aren’t too difficult to walk in.


  After a few minutes for hair and makeup, I’m ready to go.

  When I hit the lobby and walk across the tiled floor in my heels, Chet lets out a low wolf whistle.

  “Your little brother cleans up nice,” I tell him.

  He scrunches his face. “Let’s call you my little sister.” He offers me his elbow.

  Chapter Three

  Chet gets us a taxi. Along the way, he makes small talk with the driver, using the Italian he’s learned. It seems like most people here in the service industries speak English anyway, but it’s good to show that we’re trying to fit in.

  I learn that taxi driver in Italian is tassista. Our tassista tonight is a young man with black hair that’s carefully gelled into spikes. He weaves around the other cars and shouts, honks the horn, and gestures like a mad man. Whenever there’s a gap, he speeds up, only to slam on his brakes again.

  Compared to this guy, Dylan drives like an old lady.

  Thinking about Dylan gives me a stab of pain in my gut.

  No, I’m not going to think about him tonight, or where his lips might be. I’m going to enjoy myself, no matter what.

  He pulls the car over in front of a place called Shari Vari. Our tassista tells us it’s the best nightclub in Rome. Chet has been messaging with Sabrina, and has more details. She and her friends are here because the Italian distributor has a regular table reserved. Many of their local artists show up here, which creates more buzz for the club.

  “I see how that works,” I say, nodding. “It’s totally a friends-with-benefits thing, between Deluca Distribuzione and the club.”

  Chet’s eyes go wide at my creative comparison. “Friends-with-benefits? It’s just business, Jess. Not everything is filthy and dirty, the way you make it sound.”

  “Says my filthy boss, who’s looking for the perfect singer, who has to be female and single.”

  He points to the door of the club. “Enough talking already. Let’s dance.”