“He just mentioned it in passing.”
“And now I’m flipping it back to you—in passing. What’s Jason up to?”
Cole’s jaw flexes. He’s not entirely comfortable with the dark side of the moon our partner still sometimes drifts toward. Where we all started from, and most naturally operate.
I cross my arms. “Was I sent on a fool’s errand last night? A diversion?”
“No.” He frowns. “I’m more worried about you leaving. Forming your own firm with Webb.”
“Ah, shit, man. No. Not going to happen. He’s happy with the Secret Service. You know if anything I’d just try to get him here. I’m not looking to jump anywhere. Where is this coming from?”
He shifts back on his heels and crosses his arms, mirroring my pose. Except Cole’s a beast, with arms the size of a well-fed python, so he’s definitely the more intimidating of the two of us. Which makes it all the more disconcerting when he gives me a tentative smile. “I don’t want you to think I’ve gone soft.”
I shake my head. “Never. Not in the ways that matter.” Sure, Cole fell hard for a good girl, but Hailey also lights a fire under him to do the right thing—and fuck it, I can hack for good just as well as evil. “But my conversation with Webb actually was productive…he’s back in town to join the security detail designated for Victor Best.”
Cole’s smile disappears and his face turns dark. “Damn.”
“Yeah. Looks like the Secretary for Homeland Security sees Best’s presidential campaign as having some legs.”
“The guy’s total scum.”
“Tell me about it. He’s on the witness list for the civil case against Gerome Lively.”
“Do we have a dossier on him?”
I point to my third screen. “Already updating it. Should have a complete picture of what he’s been up to by the end of the day.”
—six—
Tabitha
We hit the road a bit before noon. Next stop is Portland.
I thought last night’s show had been awesome, but the ticket numbers Grant dumps silently in front of me show a different reality.
I knew we weren’t sold out, but only seventy percent sold is…ouch. The promoter organizing this tour deliberately priced my tickets competitively, almost twenty bucks a pop less than my last tour. The attendance numbers hadn’t jumped, making the deal a terrible business decision.
And now it looks like my manager is trying to pin that on me.
Fuck him.
There’s a sticky note on top of the sales numbers, a reminder from Grant that I have a doctor’s appointment for my quarterly B-12 shot in the morning. I pull it off and crumple it up. Jackass. I put all my appointments in my phone and I never miss any of them.
I look over the numbers, but I don’t say anything. He fumes in the opposite seat for a few minutes, then gets up and goes up front where Frankie and some of the crew are watching a fight recorded from the night before.
The sounds drifting back in my direction made me think of Wilson.
I’d tried to say no. I’d tried to stop us, but there’s no stopping him.
And even though I won’t let him come and see me—it’s too hard, too much, especially while I’m on tour—he’s still where my mind goes.
Grant knows it. I don’t know if he’s pieced together the details, but it’s not like it’s any secret that Wilson doesn’t like him.
Fucking hell. This is a nightmare, and one of my own making.
I don’t like anyone at the label. Or any label for that matter. I’ve spent a decade burning bridges and flipping people off, so it’s not like I’ve got allies if I wanted to break away from Grant. He holds everything together. I do my thing on stage and in the studio. That’s the deal.
When he comes back, I’m halfway reconciled toward some kind of apology. I wouldn’t mean it, and we’d both know that, but it’s what I need to do to maintain the peace.
Except he doesn’t want to talk about numbers first.
He wants to make my head explode.
This time, he doesn’t sit across the aisle from me. He takes the seat right next to me, close enough for me to unwillingly catch a whiff of his aftershave. He’s worn the same brand for ten years. It still makes me want to vomit.
He gives me a cool smile. His eyes are hard. “Victor Best will be in Portland tomorrow. He wants to come by and take a picture with you before the show.”
Revulsion rises in my gut. Best is a part owner in the radio network that also owns the tour promoter. He famously hates the Pacific Northwest, and we hate him right back, although I suppose that doesn’t mean he can never have any business there.
Being from the Seattle area myself, I know how people talk about him. How happy they were when he bought a place in Florida and loudly proclaimed he’d never come back to the Pacific Northwest. Too bad that didn’t last.
He’s crazy. And kind of gross. I’ve met him twice before, once in Los Angeles and once in Italy. He runs in the same circles as Gerome Lively, and the mention of him immediately makes me think of Wilson.
Of the first time I met him, and everything that has happened since then.
“Sure,” I hear myself say to Grant. “How about we invite him backstage? I can…” I let my mouth twist into something that he’ll see as a dirty offer, a smile of sin. “I can entertain him a little.”
“He might have his wife with him.”
I toss my hair. “Oh, kinky.”
“Tabitha.”
“What? Are you going to pretend you don’t want me to blow him? You want me to blow everybody.”
He doesn’t say anything.
I close my eyes. “I need my rest. Go away. I’ll do your bidding and you can judge me for it, just like always.”
At first I think it’s going to work. But then I feel the heat of his body, an oppressive blanket against my side. His words come out hissing like snake. “Don’t you fuck with me, Tabitha. I know all your dirty secrets, and unless you want them plastered…everywhere, you’ll keep your fucking mouth shut. And your legs, too.”
We’ve done this before, many times. It never gets easier. I press my palms to my legs and will myself not to freak out. “I’m not—”
“Don’t lie to me. You’re…planning something.” He draws an unsteady breath. I still don’t look at him. “But you think you’re just hurting me. Ticket sales are slow for the next tour leg. You’re fucking this up for everyone.”
I know I am. I start to shake. “It’s all your fault,” I whisper. Fuck it. Fuck him. I don’t care anymore.
He laughs, close enough to my face that I feel his breath against my cheek. It feels hot and gross. Drops of spit land on my cheek as I turn away. “You’ve always got another choice, Tabitha. Ten years and you haven’t taken it.”
“Not much of a choice.”
“Only because you’re a pathetic, greedy bitch.” Hard and heavy, his words bludgeon me. Slam. You’re awful. Slam. You’re gross. Slam. You’re a slut. Slam—
A song starts in the back of my mind. Darkness pulls in around me as I disconnect from his hatred, pulling into myself. I’m scared, yeah. Fucking petrified. But I’ve learned how to survive, too.
He has no idea.
No, I don’t have a plan. Wilson’s kept me deliberately in the dark. That doesn’t mean I can’t and won’t defend myself if the opportunity presents itself.
And Victor Best in my dressing room? Maybe I can work with that. What’s the worst that can happen?
DIRTY LOVE
part two
dirty
—seven—
Wilson
eight months earlier
Los Angeles
July
I don’t like L.A.
It’s my job to sniff out insincerity, to figure out where the lies begin to stain the truth and trace the edges to the culprit. Because there’s always someone pulling the strings. There’s always a puppet master.
The problem is, in L.A., everyone�
�s a puppet master, and life is a set of staged lies.
They call it performance.
I call it fucking annoying.
My partners don’t care, which means I’m an idiot for volunteering to fly out for this interview.
There are four of us. Jason Evans and Cole Parker are ex-Navy SEALs. Tag Browning is an ex-DC cop.
I’m ex-none-of-your-fucking-business. The hacker, the black-ops insider.
Together, we’re The Horus Group, Washington’s hottest crisis management firm.
And right now, I’m waiting in a suite at the Bel Air, watching the surveillance feed I set up earlier today on my phone. Jason is pacing. We’re here to interview Tabitha Leyton, America’s favorite singer-songwriter.
Former fuck toy of Gerome Lively, if I’m not mistaken.
We’re investigating the billionaire for human trafficking. So is the FBI, but they’re not getting anywhere. It’s complicated as fuck and the further I climb into the dark underbelly of this world, the more I realize how messy it is.
In theory, we’re here to interview Tabitha so she might be a witness at a trial against Lively—a trial I’m highly doubtful will ever take place.
Practically, we’re here because I deal in information, and if I know something about this woman, there might be a time when I can use it.
And knowing anything about Tabitha Leyton is a minor miracle. She’s shrouded in mystery, and not just to the public.
She’s sex and secrets personified.
From the first time she pinged on my radar, she’s had this effect on me. Unsettling. Taunting.
Her official identity is too clean. I haven’t shared this with my partners, but I know Tabitha’s hiding something. Many somethings, probably. It’s a gut feeling, and I don’t like to admit that I sometimes operate on instinct like that.
The door swings open, but it’s not the woman we’re waiting for. Instead it’s her manager, Grant Derew. Formerly an agent, Derew found Tabitha at the age of fifteen in a small town in Washington State and propelled her to stardom. Now he manages her full-time.
I instantly hate the guy. And he introduced Tabitha to Lively, so he’s already a douchebag who’s led around by his dick and a perverted desire for jailbait.
“Gentleman, I understand you had an appointment with Tabitha. Unfortunately—“
I ignore his outstretched hand, because fuck if I’m going to touch him. I shove to my feet. “We have an appointment, and we’re going to keep it.”
I stalk past him, through the front door of the suite. I’ve got a master room key in my pocket, and I use it to open the only other door on this floor.
She’s on the other side.
My first in-person impression isn’t what I expect.
She’s both bigger and smaller than I pictured in my head. Big hair, big tits, big attitude. But the rest of her is surprisingly small, right down to the look in her eye.
She’s scared.
She doesn’t look it. Her eyes are burning at the invasion of her privacy, as they should. I’m an asshole. I work with other assholes, and we’ll stop at nothing.
I’m going to steamroll right over her and she should be afraid of me.
Then her eyes flick past me, over my shoulder, and I turn slowly.
She’s not afraid of me.
It’s him. Derew.
One asshole knows another, and I give him a hard look, flashing my badge. He doesn’t know it’s as fake as the names I’m about to give. “Agents Gough and Weston. We need the room.”
If he was smart—he’s not—he’d have done more to vet this interview than looking us up on the FBI’s public website. Hacking that shit and putting our photos there for a few days was a kindergarten exercise. I watched someone from his office click on our page, then email him the link and say we were legit.
Fucking amateurs.
And we won’t talk about how the feds didn’t even notice my temporary takeover of their financial crimes division’s website.
Jason strong-arms Derew out of the room, then we sit across from Tabitha. Oversized white leather couches, nothing like the room next door. I look around, taking it all in. Her guitar, complete with banged up case covered in the dreamer stickers of a teenage girl. Nearly a decade in the spotlight hasn’t changed her hopes and dreams.
And clearly, she hasn’t actually achieved them yet. I set my phone on the coffee table between us and lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees. I let my hair flop in front of my eyes a bit and give her an understanding look.
Women love this shit.
They have no clue that I’m dead inside, that I pummel other men to bloody pulps for sport and I’ve killed my enemies and then gone out for ice cream.
Mint chocolate chip cures all.
“Ms. Leyton,” I start.
She cuts me off. “First of all, I don’t believe you guys are feds. Second of all, there’s nothing polite about me, so call me Tabitha or baby girl or nothing at all. Got it?”
No, I don’t got it. What the fuck does she mean we don’t look like feds?
I was a fucking fed. Not the FBI. Fuck that child’s play. But I was one degree of Kevin Bacon away from the President of the United States of America for six years. I know how to wear this badge even if it wasn’t given to me by a deputy director of national intelligence.
“Tabitha.”
She gives me an arch look and I smirk. Does she think I’d call her baby girl?
My dick chubs up and she smirks right back. Fuck. I refuse to look at her painted red lips. I hold her gaze and return my expression to cold disinterest. “We don’t need to call you anything. We’re just here to find out what your financial connection is to Gerome Lively.”
“Uhhh…” Her mouth drops open and while she’s busy flicking her eyes to the right—liar, liar, pants on fire—I take a mental picture of those parted lips, that pink tongue, the hint of pearly white teeth.
My cock shoving into her mouth and her startled cry of surprise.
Fuck. Me.
I never do this. I never mix business and pleasure, because my brand of pleasure isn’t acceptable for public consumption. I force myself to think of computer code. Command prompts and dial-up connections. I drag myself back to being that skinny-assed kid who was sure he’d never get laid, so he spent too much time deep in the dark corners of the Internet learning about the wrong kind of sex.
“What did you think we were here to discuss, Ms. Leyton?”
She scowls at Jason, but she doesn’t tell him to call her baby girl. “I have no clue.”
“But you do know Mr. Lively.”
“Sure. He’s loaded. I know a lot of rich people.” She flips her hair over her shoulder—dark red hair, porcelain skin. She’s like a fucking doll. A bratty doll that needs to be spanked until she screams, which isn’t even my thing. I don’t like games. I like a soft pair of tits and a sweet ass, a wet mouth and zero back talk—and if all of the above can come in a guaranteed-to-be-anonymous and doesn’t-mind-being-railed-in-the-ass package, all the better.
Tabitha fails on at least two of the six points.
Her tits are spectacular, though.
And that mouth.
I stand up.
Her gaze follows me.
Good. I’ve got her attention. “Can you tell us about a trip you took in August, two years ago, to the Florida Keys?”
She frowns. “No?”
“No?”
“I didn’t go to Florida two years ago in August.”
Yes she did. “You sound awfully sure of that.”
“I was supposed to. I had a concert in NOLA the night before.” She gives me a faint smile, one that says ha and no, I won’t tell you more at the same time. “And then I…didn’t.”
“Where did you go instead?”
“Fargo.”
There was no trace of that. “How?”
“Private plane.”
“No flight plan was registered.”
She crosses her ar
ms. “No.”
“That’s a federal offense.”
“I wasn’t flying the plane.”
“But you were aware at the time that you were heading in the opposite direction of your cell phone, your passport, and your entire entourage?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Why was I aware? Because I’m a sentient being,” she snaps, her green eyes blazing. I can feel Jason watching me, going, what the fuck, man? I never lose my cool, and it’s gone now.
I spit out the next question. “Why did you go out of your way to make it appear like you spent a weekend with Gerome Lively, when really you went to…”
“Fargo.” She waits.
I wait longer.
Jason finally interrupts. “Ms. Leyton, have you ever met Gerome Lively?”
The tip of her tongue peeks out the corner of her mouth. Thinking. She glances up at the ceiling, then rolls her bottom lip between her teeth. “Yes,” she finally admits.
“How many times?”
“Once.”
He frowns at me. My research is rarely wrong. I have four visits, based on information I’ve cobbled together from her passport, her cell phone history, and commercial flight data. A week on a yacht in the Mediterranean, the phantom weekend to his estate in the Florida Keys, one trip to his private island in the Caribbean, and they definitely attended the same fundraiser here in L.A., hosted by a big-name movie producer.
“Tabitha,” I say quietly. Might as well cut to the chase. “Did Gerome Lively rape you?”
—eight—
Tabitha
I shouldn’t have told him to call me Tabitha. It’s way too intimate. It was supposed to knock him off his game, not give him a weapon against me.
Dirty Love (Forbidden Bodyguards #3) Page 3