by Hazel Jacobs
Slate ducks his head to speak into her ear. “Shakespearian drama.”
“Your girlfriends look bored,” she whispers back.
The girls don’t look bored, really. But they were clearly thinking that this evening would be going in a different direction by now. They’re lounging on the couch together watching the band with mild interest. One of them reaches over and takes a piece of cold fried chicken from the bucket.
“So… hey!” Slate says, suddenly realizing something. “You said you’re the personal assistant. So you’re taking the job?”
Mikayla’s eyes flicker to Logan, who’s avoiding her gaze. He’s crossed his arms over his chest and seems to be chewing on his tongue. She had wanted to make a sly remark about her virtue, but seeing the lead singer looking so distressed about hitting on a potential employee makes her rethink that. She doesn’t want to make him any more uncomfortable.
Besides, she thinks, if they’re going to be working together then she needs to make sure that they get off to a good start.
“I am if it’s still available,” she says, speaking to Slate. “I looked over the contract from the last PA… her duties don’t look like anything that I can’t handle.”
“Fucking awesome!” Slate replies. Then he high-fives Dash with so much enthusiasm that he nearly knocks the guy over. “Sorry dude! Okay… intros…”
“I think I’ve met—”
“Proper, non-awkward intros!” Slate interrupts, speaking over her. He slides a hand down her back to rest just over the top of her jeans. She raises an eyebrow at him, and he wiggles his eyebrows back at her, making her snort. She gets the feeling that communicating with Slate will consist mainly of eyebrows and snorts. “First… the lead singer, Logan Todd.” He pushes Mikayla forward a step.
Playing along, she raises her hand to shake Logan’s. “Nice to meet you.”
Logan purses his lips and takes her hand. Before she can even register his touch, he’s snatched his hand away again and stuffed it under his armpit. “Likewise.”
All three of the other band members shake their heads in disgust.
“That was so transparent,” Slate says.
“I’m embarrassed for you,” Dash adds.
Without warning, Logan launches himself at Dash, knocking him to the ground. The two men quickly devolve into a loud, swearing mess on the floor. Both of the girls Slate brought into the green room watch them with mild interest. One of them moves the bucket of chicken along the table so that it won’t get knocked off.
“Does this happen often?” Mikayla asks as Logan wraps his arms around Dash’s head and tries to shove his face into the carpet.
“Almost daily,” Slate replies. “That’s Dash Todd, by the way,” he adds, pointing at the red-faced lead guitarist. “He’s Logan’s baby brother.”
“I’m awesome!” Dash shouts from the floor.
“You sure are,” Slate agrees. Then he takes Mikayla by the shoulders and turns her around so that her back is to the wrestling men. “They’ll be at it for a while. This is Tommy.” He gestures at the bass player, who gives Mikayla a small finger wave. “He’s pretty much the best bass player in America.”
“That’s the biggest lie you’ve ever told,” Tommy tells him, but a pleased flush covers his cheeks.
“Bitch, that’s not even the biggest lie I’ve told tonight,” Slate says. “Speaking of which…” and then he looks at the two girls on the couch, “…I’m going to find a semi-private corner. Tommy, entertain our guest and make sure the Todds don’t scare her off?”
And before she knew what was happening, Slate had whisked the two girls out of the room, and she was sitting on the couch with a beer in her hand. Tommy had hospitably pressed it into her hand, and she doesn’t have the heart to tell him that she’s not drinking tonight. He’s got a soft face and full lips that seem permanently quirked downward in an almost frown. He seems pleased with her company, as he sat down next to her on the couch and turned his whole body to face her.
“So how long have you guys been playing together?” Mikayla asks, rolling the beer bottle in her fingers and ignoring the still-swearing bundle of limbs on the ground beside the couch. From what she can tell, Logan is winning—brute strength apparently trumps youth and enthusiasm.
“Since high school,” Tommy replies. His pleasantly calm voice makes her smile. “And yes, before you ask, I am the same age as Logan and Slate. People always think that I’m younger.”
She certainly had. “Well, you all sound great together. I don’t know much about music, but I like your stuff.”
“Thank you! That’s so nice to hear,” Tommy says. He seems genuinely pleased with the praise. “You’ll probably learn more about music if you’re going to be traveling with us.”
“I suppose,” Mikayla replies.
The swearing and grunting stops. Logan jumps up onto his feet, his hair a mess and his shirt in disarray. She looks from his heaving chest to his flushed cheeks and wants to smack herself.
“Okay… next set in twenty,” he says, before turning on his heels without another word and leaving the green room.
Dash sits up on the floor and glares at his retreating form. He shouts, “Don’t you dare light up a joint before our next set,” but Logan is already gone. So he pushes himself off of the floor and drops down onto the couch next to Mikayla. “Hi,” he says.
“Hi,” she replies.
“You gonna drink that?” he asks, pointing at her beer.
She hands it to him, and he downs half the bottle in one gulp. Tommy reaches over the side of the couch and grabs his bass, settling it in his lap and absently plucking at the strings. It should be uncomfortable sitting on the lumpy couch, being squeezed between a sweating man on one side and with the neck of Tommy’s bass resting across her stomach on the other. But for some reason, Mikayla relaxes into the cushions. She lets Tommy’s music wash over her.
“That’s nice,” she says.
Tommy smiles softly. “Thank you.”
Dash finishes the beer and belches, completely ruining the mood. “Tommy writes most of our songs,” he says.
She turns her head to look at Tommy properly. “Really?”
“We all pitch in,” Tommy replies, the tops of his cheekbones going pink as he avoids her eyes and focuses on the strings beneath his fingers.
“We shout encouragement while Tommy makes magic happen,” Dash corrects him. “I’ll throw in a sick riff and Logan might change some of the lyrics but… like, ninety-eight percent of the songs are Tommy’s masterplan.”
“No kidding?” Mikayla asks. “That first song? The one you opened with? Was that you?”
Tommy nods, his lips curling into a thin smile. “I wrote that for Logan,” he says. “Stray Ink, that’s what it’s called.”
“Is it on iTunes? I’d love to download it,” Mikayla tells him. And not, she adds in her mind, because it will remind her of Logan’s dancing every time she hears it.
“Don’t bother… I’ll send you the files,” Dash says.
They fall into a pleasant, comfortable silence with Tommy still plucking at his bass while Dash pulls the label off of the beer bottle and tears it up into thin strips. She wonders what her mother will say when she tells her that she took a job as a band’s personal assistant. That she’s using her degree in event management to shepherd musicians. She’d been on the fence about this job, but now that she’s met the band, she thinks that she could happily work with them. And not just because of the pay.
Logan might be kind of—confusing, and Slate is a—hound, but he seems to have a good heart, and she couldn’t imagine going back on her word and disappointing him. Tommy is a sweetheart and Dash is adorable in the way that only little brothers can manage. At least, that’s what she assumes. Mikayla is an only child, so her experience with younger brothers is limited.
“By the way,” she says. “I’ve never been a personal assistant before. I’ve also never been on tour. And I wasn’t exaggerating
when I said I don’t know much about music. I can’t think of anyone less qualified for this job.”
Tommy watches her with his warm brown eyes over his guitar. “I’m sure you’ll be fine. Slate wouldn’t have offered you the job if he didn’t think you could do it.”
“Really? Because when we met he caught me talking to myself and thought I was a groupie.”
Dash snorts. “Yeah, but lots of people think you’re a groupie.”
She shoves him in the shoulder, and he tosses his beer label shreds at her, showering her in a storm of white mess. She yelps and tries to brush it all off. Tommy pauses his playing to pluck a couple of pieces out of her hair.
“I don’t know why Slate thinks I’ll be good at this.”
“He’s pretty good at reading people,” Tommy says evenly. “And you know we’ll be here to help you, right?”
Mikayla wants to wrap Tommy up in a blanket and take him home with her. “Thanks,” she says.
“We’re all kind of new at this,” Dash says. “We only got the contract about a year ago… this is our first big tour. We can figure it all out together.”
As least she wouldn’t be alone in her ignorance. She leans back on the couch and thinks about all the things that could go wrong with an inexperienced assistant, and a group of young men. One of whom can’t look her in the eye, while another is almost certainly having a threesome while she, Dash and Tommy are sitting in the green room exchanging pleasantries.
Tommy strums his bass, humming a melody along with the chords, and the music makes Mikayla want to lean over and rest her head on his shoulder. He seems to be making it up as he goes along. Dash nods slowly in an unheard rhythm.
Her mind wanders to how she would imagine Logan dancing and singing to the song, and she quickly shoves those thoughts aside.
She works with him now.
He is off limits.
So many things could go wrong. She’s trained in events, not administration. But maybe if she keeps a tight hold on the schedule and plans carefully, she might be able to make the tour go smoothly for them.
Dash leans his head against the couch and looks at Mikayla out of the corner of his eye. “Are you sure you’re not a groupie? Or is Logan just not pretty enough?”
She shoves him so hard he falls off the couch.
Slate arranged for Mikayla to be moved from Bass Note’s general typing pool to Black Lilith’s personal staff. Trixie had looked shocked and horrified when she’d heard that Mikayla had been picked up by the band, and spent the next few days glaring at Mikayla over the top of her Mac. Mikayla had a couple of projects still to finalize for Bass Note, but by the next Saturday she was setting up a meeting room on the top floor of the building, waiting for the band.
She catches her reflection in the tinted windows and takes a quick look to make sure that her hair and makeup are still fresh. She’d taken special care with her outfit that day—she was getting tired of people mistaking her for a groupie. Her trousers are neatly pressed, her blue blouse is clean and ironed, and she has a long silver chain around her neck. Her hair is tied back in a loose, messy bun. Professional, but not a tight-ass. At least, that’s what she hopes she looks like. Knowing her luck, the band will probably think she’s cosplaying as a nun or something.
She flicks a speck of mascara off of her cheek and sits down at the meeting table, opening her laptop and bringing up a spreadsheet and a list of her questions. She had signed the contract and met the band—but she doesn’t even know when they’re going on tour, any of the dates, or how they’re going to get around. She hadn’t been given access to any of the last assistant’s notes. It’s not the sort of situation she would have chosen to be in.
Plus, the band is late.
Mikayla had already decided to treat this tour like one big event because events is a language she speaks. And she may not know much about music and concerts, but she knows how to pull off events. She’d interned with one of the biggest events management firms in California when she was in college—she could do this. Instead of wrangling caterers and talent, she would be wrangling musicians and their screaming fans. Instead of writing press releases for business magazines, she would be writing emails to music journalists. Same skills; different context. At least that’s what she’s been telling herself ever since she signed the contract and emailed it back to Bass Note, along with her letter of resignation from her job working under Trixie.
She doesn’t know who is more grateful that she has quit—her or Trixie.
It’s fifteen minutes after the meeting’s scheduled beginning when the door opens and Mikayla looks up from her laptop. Logan is standing in the doorway, wearing a short-sleeved black T-shirt and tight jeans with chains decorating the hips. His tattoo shines in the fluorescent light and when she looks up he freezes, eyes darting as though he’s looking for a way out.
“Afternoon,” Mikayla says. “Just so I’m clear… is lateness a thing for you guys?”
“Usually,” Logan replies. “Sorry… I already texted Tommy. He’ll get everyone here in a little while.”
His voice is husky and rough, and she has to take a moment to repeat the words he’d said in her mind because she’d been too focused on the way his voice had run through her, to make sense of what he was saying. He enters the room cautiously, taking a seat at the opposite end of the table. Mikayla can smell a heady, wooden cologne coming off of him in waves.
She chews on her tongue and tries not to let herself look annoyed, but she knows that she’s usually an open book when it comes to things like that. Her mother likes to tell her that she wears her heart on her sleeve. But really, if they knew that they were going to be late, why wouldn’t they just tell her so that she could schedule a later time? It isn’t a difficult concept!
Logan has his arms leaning on the table and is staring at his fingernails. Mikayla can see dark purple smudges under his soft brown eyes, which have a lingering pinkness and tells her that they were bloodshot at some point in the last twenty-four hours. He looks exhausted.
“Late night?” she asks.
He shrugs. “I don’t know, I haven’t gone to sleep yet,” he replies. He rolls his shoulder and runs a hand through his dark hair, messing it up slightly and making him look even more like he’d just rolled out of bed. She resolutely refuses to imagine what it would be like to wake up in bed next to him.
“Lots of groupies?” she asks instead, and she instantly regrets the question because she sounds so damn jealous even to her own ears. She crosses her legs and leans back to try and look more nonchalant, but the damage is already done.
Logan finally raises his eyes to look at her. There’s amusement in his gaze and something else that she can’t identify. “And if there was?” he asks slyly.
She shrugs. “Just remember to cover up,” she says.
“That’s the sort of line you should be throwing Tommy,” Logan replies. “He’s too much of a gentleman to carry condoms in his back pocket. Slate carries extra for him.”
“Sure, he carries extra for Tommy,” she says with a snort. She makes a mental note to put a couple in her purse when they go on tour.
Logan grins at her. It isn’t anything like the predatory looks he’d given her when they met in the green room—he seems genuinely amused. It makes him look younger and brighter. It makes Mikayla’s heart thud just a little bit louder.
“Yeah, Slate likes making new friends.”
Mikayla hums in agreement. She realizes that she’s grinning as well. That they’re looking at each other over the table, sharing smiles, and that she feels comfortable with Logan for the first time since he’d walked into the green room with that glint in his eye.
“Is he late with them, too?”
Logan’s shoulders shake while he silently laughs. “I think he’s usually early… don’t know how else he could get through them all.”
Mikayla is about to retort before she realizes how inappropriate it is to be talking about her employers’ sex li
ves. Even if it does make Logan smile at her. She can’t be choosing her behaviors based on whether or not Logan will smile at her. Considering how they’d met, she didn’t want him to get even more of a wrong impression of her professionalism.
Smothering the smile on her face, she turns back to her computer and pretends to type something. “Just as long as they don’t get in the way of the show,” she says.
“Do you have a problem with groupies?” Logan asks, giving her a look as though he’s trying to read her thoughts. “Because you seemed really insulted when I mistook you for one.”
Mikayla frowns. “Of course, I don’t have a problem with them.” She really doesn’t have a problem with groupies or any woman who enjoys sex and goes for what she wants. She just wants to be seen as a professional because that’s what she is. “As long as they’re legal, and it’s all consensual,” she says. She gives him a hard look. “It is all consensual, right?”
There’s a beat, and then Logan reels back like he’s been slapped. “What the hell does that mean?”
“You hear horror stories—”
“Well, that’s not us!”
“Okay,” Mikayla says, holding her hands up to shush him. “Sorry, sorry…” she pauses, but he doesn’t answer or accept her apology. “Besides, the fact that you mistook me for a groupie is more of a reflection of you than it is on me.”
Logan raises an eloquent eyebrow. “Pardon?”
“If you honestly think that every woman who makes eye contact with you wants to fuck you, then that’s your problem… not mine.”
As soon as she says it, she knows that she’s gone too far. He sputters at her like he had at the concert when Dash had noticed that he was hitting on her, only now Logan looks furious and not embarrassed. He looks like he wants to say something, but he’s sputtering too hard to form words. Then he shakes his head and huffs out a breath, dropping his gaze back down to the table.
The atmosphere in the room has soured, probably beyond repair, and Mikayla feels guilty for being the one to ruin their good mood.
Eventually, Logan reaches into the back pocket of his jeans and pulls out a folded sheet of paper. He leans over the table and hands it to her. “The dates for the tour,” he says.