by Quinn, Cari
I recognized the voice. Dex Munroe, an executive for Ripper Records, had been blowing up my phone since six that morning. His rich, cultured British accent was almost as hypnotic as Donovan Lewis’s, but had a touch of slickness that Donovan never had.
I’d instantly wanted to block his calls.
Hunter rolled his eyes at me, but his face morphed into a relaxed smile when he faced Dex. “Yeah, that’s what happened.”
I hid a smile. Way to lay it on thick.
I marched over to Dex and Hunter. “We met less than an hour ago.”
“And within thirty, you had your tongue in his mouth, hey?” Dex smiled, his teeth blindingly white. He held a hand out to me. “Dex—”
“I know who you are.” I ignored his hand and put mine on my hips. “Are you the one who put the girlfriend thing in his head?”
“No. God, no.” Dex dipped one hand into his slacks, the other holding his phone, tapping away with his thumb. He barely acknowledged me as he moved farther into the room. “Hunter having a girlfriend is the last thing I want.” He dropped his phone into his suit jacket pocket. He slapped Hunter on the back. “He’s our cash cow. Can’t have him locked down.”
“I’m no one’s cash anything,” Hunter muttered.
Dex nodded to Patrick. “Did you have those boxes brought in?”
Patrick’s nostrils flared, and one auburn brow arched. He waited a beat, then nodded.
Dex clapped, then rubbed his hands together. “I’ve written up a price sheet to add to what you already have, Indie. Twenty-five a magazine, fifty for it signed by the band. I have three cases that I procured from the printer this morning.”
“Oh hell no,” Hunter shouted.
Five
Hunter
The entire room twisted to look at me. I knew I was going to have to deal with the fans who smuggled in a magazine, but this was ridiculous. Now we were going to gouge the fans for the magazine? One that was already stupidly overpriced for what it was?
Fuck no.
Kenny squinted at me once before turning her attention to Dex—or my new special name for him, Fucking Dex. “Mr. Munroe, I’m all for capitalizing on a good thing, but I agree with Mr. Jordan about this. It’s bad enough people will be selling the magazines from today on Ebay, but to perpetuate it here? I don’t agree. It makes him seem greedy.”
My blood boiled. “That’s not me. Not us.”
Keys came up beside me. “No. We love our fans. That’s why we got albums pressed. It’s a fun thing to get for the true fans.”
“Record players are actually back in, believe it or not,” Owen quipped.
Keys wrapped her fingers around my forearm. “I know, right? Is there a better sound than the hiss and pop of a needle on vinyl?”
I smiled down at her. “No, there really isn’t.”
She patted my arm. “I get it, Hunter’s going to have to sign some of those magazines, but do we really have to be jerks about it?”
Dex shook his head. “I could charge two hundred for them easy. Fifty bucks is a bargain.”
Hunter blew out a breath. “Raffle them off. Ten bucks a ticket.”
Dex shot his cuffs, then smoothed his tie. “No way.”
“Kids’ music charity.” When Dex’s eyes gleamed, I swallowed down the distaste. He looked at it from a PR angle. That’s what he was paid for, what Kenny was paid for.
“Then you can charge more for charity,” he said.
“More will sell actually.” Kenny’s voice was smooth and clear. “Generosity and kids.”
“I disagree.” Dex took out his phone. “I can get another two cases here before the show. Do a special signing at the end—”
“No way.” I was already selling well more than a pound of flesh for the signing. Albums, yes. I loved talking music with the fans. The stories got a little uncomfortable sometimes, but I knew they always came from a good place.
Music changed people.
It had changed me, once upon a time.
Now I was a cock on a fucking magazine.
“Do it.” Indie’s voice brooked no argument.
Fuck. I tipped my head back. Fuck-fuck-fuck. I’d gotten myself into this damn mess by mentioning the charity. Good press, and good for the kids. How the hell was I supposed to say no?
“I’ll have them delivered,” Dex said.
Indie crossed to the table where the two cases had been dropped. “A thousand kids—”
“Last I counted more like eighteen hundred.” Came Wyatt’s voice from the side of the room. He was leaning against the wall, his fuck-off face in full effect. Awesome. That was going to be fun for the signing and the show. He’d had a bug up his ass since the night before.
Bats and Zach were doing an interview for a special episode of Music Life, so they wouldn’t be back until it was time to do the signing. All I wanted to do was what I’d been born to do. I could give two shits about the circus that Rolling Stone had created.
Just let me on the stage. Let me sing. Let me get this excess energy out.
My gaze drifted to Kenny. She was Kenny to me, at least. I couldn’t even figure out why. Just because I was pretty certain no one else on this planet called her that? Maybe. She was definitely more than half the reason that my skin felt too tight for my body.
The fact that she’d kissed me and then dumped me on my ass in the space of five minutes was the most interesting thing a woman had done in too many months to count. Hell, even the kiss had been different. I hadn’t fucked nearly as many women as reported, but I’d definitely kissed my share.
Exuberant fans got carried away, and I wasn’t a saint by any means. However, I was a bit more discerning with my cock. Kenny was different. She was lightning in a bottle. Hell, the tips of my fingers were still sparking from our zinger of a kiss.
The weird thing was, I’d gotten harder for her after she’d punched me. She looked as fragile as one of Tristan’s sugar flowers, but then she’d hauled off and nailed me in the shoulder. Not a glancing blow either. I’d never actually been turned on by a combative woman before. I’d even dated a MMA fighter chick when I lived in New York City for a summer. Kizzy had been a fun distraction, but she’d been a little too wild even for me.
No, this Kennedy McManus was a ball-buster hidden under classy silk.
I think I liked her even more for it.
“Sick fuck,” I muttered.
Wyatt pushed off the wall. “Excuse me?”
I rolled my eyes. “I’m talking to myself. Just fucking relax. What the hell has you so wound the fuck up?”
He crossed his arms, his biceps bulging out of the slick silk suit jackets he liked to wear. We were goddamn rock stars. If I didn’t give him six kinds of shit, he’d probably wear them behind his fucking kit.
“Nothing.”
“No, it’s something.” I crossed to him. “Spit it the fuck out.”
“You don’t want to start this, Manaconda.”
“Seriously?” I took a step closer to him, until we were toe-to-toe. We were almost the same height, him just a hair taller because I already had my shitkickers on for the show.
Wyatt gave me his blank-face. The one that didn’t let anyone in, no matter what.
I shoved him back a step. “Don’t be a pussy. Say what you gotta say.”
“Haven’t you been knocked on your ass enough today? I can guarantee you won’t get up so easy if I do it.”
“Enough.” A hand landed on my belly. I knew it was her before even looking down. Her voice was in my head already, but it was her scent that burrowed into my brain. Immediate flashbacks to our time in the tunnel, the feel of her mouth under mine, and the grip of her fingers in my hair—all of it made me suck down a groan. I didn’t look away from Wyatt. Even when her fingers twisted into my T-shirt with a bite of nails, I held steady.
Wyatt simply lifted an eyebrow and finally broke our staredown. “Not your girlfriend, huh?”
Kenny put a little more force into her grip on m
y shirt. I spread my legs for better balance. No way was she dumping me a second time. She waded right in between us, peering up at Wyatt but leaning back against me—not much, just enough that every instinct inside of me wanted to curl my arm around her and drag her behind me.
She was as fearless as Indie.
“No. I’m the PR agent for the band appointed by Donovan Lewis. My job is to get you through this release party and use the current viral push to extend the life of your album and boost ticket sales. Period.”
With tongue. That amendment wouldn’t win me any favors, so I kept my mouth shut.
“Is that what we’re calling Manaconda? A viral push?” Wyatt asked.
“Quit fucking calling me that.” I knew not to show it bugged me. Wyatt usually needled me in good humor, but it came out far bitchier this time. He needed my boot up his ass. What we really needed was to pound it out with sparring gear like we had in our early twenties.
We were supposed to be grownups now. Five albums under our belts and a decent fan following, as well as a new decade should have tempered us. But the entire band was getting itchy.
Now this magazine thing had us in Bieber-land. I didn’t want to go back to the squealing girls that were barely legal. I was more interested in a suit for the first time in my life.
And all she saw was a cock.
Fan-fucking-tastic.
Okay, so it was my cock. Six months ago that would have been enough. Hell, even three months ago I wasn’t choking on all this restlessness. I was so damn tired of not feeling anything.
Until today.
Today had been electricity and gunpowder wrapped in orange blossoms.
And I didn’t want this freaking magazine to ruin it all.
The side of her hand came in contact with my chest. She’d twisted my Henley so much that the buttons were gaping. She didn’t seem to notice. Good thing, because my dick was trying to bang its way through my damn zipper.
I always liked feisty women. They just usually tended to be wild women of the groupie variety, not bossy little redheads with my career in their hands.
“Hudson, I’m not here to—”
“Wyatt,” he corrected flatly.
And wait a minute. Why did I get the Mr. Jordan stuff and my best friend didn’t?
She cocked her head and I could practically hear the gears moving in her head. Shelving the info, processing, adjusting. It was fascinating. I should be warming up for the show, but I couldn’t wait to hear what she had to say.
“Wyatt, the magazine is a tool. The cover of Rolling Stone is still a big deal, but if they hadn’t taken that particular picture it would have just been just a little buzz. A collector’s item for fans, and maybe—emphasis on maybe—a few people would notice it at the gas station and download the album.” She tapped Wyatt’s chest with a short, wine-colored nail. “Now it’s a way to grab attention, and ride the comet’s tail into ticket sales. Into getting spots on late night television. That’s the important part. The legacy of the band, not a sensationalistic name for an appendage.”
Wyatt finally stepped back. He glanced over at Indie, then back to Kenny. He squinted down at Kenny. “Did you just call Hunter’s dick sensational?”
And just like that the tension dispersed and I tipped my head back with a roaring laugh. Wyatt joined me. Hell, even Patrick cracked a smile. Kenny twisted my shirt tighter, and a few chest hairs were casualties.
Ow, man.
I covered her hand and she seemed to finally notice how tight she was hanging on.
She pulled her hand free and spun on her heel. “How do you deal with this?” She aimed the question at Indie.
Indie shrugged. “I usually let them bloody each other’s lips.”
Wyatt threw his arm around my shoulders. “Dude. Getting to first base with the new girl? That’s an all-time record even for you.” He looked over his shoulder. When Kenny was out of earshot, he jammed his hulk-sized fist into my side. “Babe.”
I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, she’s hot.” I grinned. “Mad hot, truly.” I peeked for myself because damn, the woman was stealthy. “Cameras sucked.”
“Wait till you see the pictures, man.” He unearthed his phone and unlocked it. “I saved a few.”
“You’re all heart.”
Wyatt shrugged. “I found one or two that I can make into a poster.”
“Fucker,” I muttered.
I scanned through the pictures. Some were blurry, some were a little too crystal-clear, and still others were far more compromising than anyone would like. All of them were damning.
Dex came up and slapped my back. “You do realize who you were snogging?”
I moved away from him. “It was supposed to be private.”
“When you stick your tongue down Prince Harry’s publicity savior, people are going to notice.”
Wyatt crossed his arms. “The British Harry or One Direction?”
Dex grinned, his white teeth as blinding as the flashbulbs I’d just waded through. “Is there a difference?” He waggled his eyebrows. “Actually both in this case.”
I winced. “It’s just a magazine cover.”
“Just a cover?” Dex’s British accent went so thick and full of bass that even Indie turned to look at us. “Look, boy. I don’t think you are really grasping what this has done for your sales. People are actually buying the album, not just pirating it or listening to it on Spotify. Buying. The demand on the website for concert dates is in the thousands.”
I lifted my chin and shrugged him off. “First of all, don’t call me ‘boy’. I’m not some fresh-faced tween that is going to fall at your feet.”
“Well, then act like it.” He calmly slipped his hand in his jacket pocket, drawing out his phone. “Your job is to sell you, your wares, and the Ripper Records product. It’s not to hide in the back pretending you’re a chef, it’s not to make social media think you’re anything less than available. Kissing the smokin’ hot redhead—that’s good. Getting caught was inspired.”
“Fuck off. I didn’t do that on purpose.” I wanted to glance over Dex’s shoulder to find Kenny, to see what she was going to say, but I couldn’t let this dick think he had the upper hand.
“But you make sure that every girl in that fucking crowd has wet panties for you and the band.” He turned to Keys. “You make every girl want to be you, or in your shoes.” His gaze shot to Wyatt and Owen. “Every guy should be jealous that you can fuck anyone in the crowd tonight, male or female.”
“Enough.” Indie’s voice sliced the air. “You don’t talk to my guys like that.”
Dex’s attention drifted to his phone. He held up a finger to her.
I was going to break it off and feed it to him. Maybe knock out a tooth or three.
“Excuse me, Mr. Munroe—” Indie broke off.
He put his phone to his ear and walked away. Indie’s bluebell eyes held murder. I’d been on the other end of that gaze. The dude was fucked.
Bats and Zach came down the side stairs from the second level. “What’d we miss?”
“Manaconda made the papers again,” Keys chirped.
“Dammit.” I swiped my hand over my face.
“What? Like I’m lying?”
Bats grinned. His tightly trimmed beard emphasized his sharp jaw, giving him a distinctly sinister edge. On purpose, of course, because Bats was short for Batshit Crazy.
The only person I didn’t see was Kenny.
Six
Kennedy
I escaped into the theater. Long queues of people were set up for the meet and greet, the new album was being piped in, and people were singing along. The murmur of excitement was heady.
In my wake, people whispered and laughed. I even got a few menacing glares. I knew of this phenomenon. I’d studied fan behavior for years. This was how they reacted to the significant other. Either they wanted to talk you, or step on you.
I’d be bug juice if I wasn’t careful.
And seriously, there was nothing to
worry about. Not that I could convince them of that. My hip buzzed. I checked my phone—Lila Shawcross. I let the call go to voicemail. No way did I have an answer about what happened.
I tucked my hair around my ear and caught his scent on my skin. I made a beeline for the bathrooms. I would just freshen up and be ready for the next part of the night. A professional photographer was on hand to take the photos for the newsletters. Also, a promo download code would be given to people from the fan club, and some photos would be used for fan keepsakes.
I pushed open the door, breathing a sigh of relief. Alone at last. I closed myself in a stall and took a few cleansing breaths. There hadn’t been enough time to put the car crash of emotions away. There’d been kissing—all of the kissing. Dear diary, I want to swoon kisses, for God’s sake.
Before I could even assimilate the details there’d been cameras to document my spectacular lack of judgment, and then Dex.
I curled my fingers around the lock. I needed to do damage control, not hide in the freaking ladies’ room.
“Can you believe that girl with him?”
I froze at the voices.
“Imagine all six-feet-three of him swooping down to kiss you like that?”
“I do. Every night. And in my dream, there’s no skank.” Yet another voice.
Skank? Really?
“In your dreams, there’s no clothes,” the first woman said in a 1-900 voice.
“Damn right. And it’s my mouth wrapped around that massive cock.”
My eyebrows shot up. Wow. Truly? My cheeks heated, and my fingers fumbled on the lock. It jangled, but the women didn’t seem to notice.
“I went on the Manaconda Alert site. There’s already like ten videos,” 1-900 said.
The what? I dug out my phone and typed in “Manaconda Alert”. A Tumblr and Instagram site came up. I clicked on the Tumblr and had to physically hold back a shriek. It seemed to be a fan site dedicated to all things Hunter. In depth discussions about the size and shape of his…manaconda, as well as sightings, girlfriends, and any picture on the internet of him with a woman—ever.