by JJ Knight
His hand grazes mine over the pile of papers between us. I’m surprised by how warm his skin is. In this honest moment, he seems more human to me.
I wouldn’t be attracted to him, even if he wasn’t gay, so it’s not awkward when our hands keep bumping into each other.
“Keep this secret, but I’m not actually banished,” he says. “My mother and I are pretending to be at war with each other, so people don’t get suspicious.”
“Suspicious of what? Are you two planning a big corporate takeover?” I chuckle at my joke.
He doesn’t answer me, but his hand trembles as he tapes up the repaired cardboard box.
“Holy shit,” I say. “You are planning a corporate takeover.”
“I shouldn’t say.”
“She wants to push out Mr. Morris? But doesn’t he own the company outright? How can you even do that?”
Nick places his hand over top of mine, on the box lid.
“I’ve told you too much,” he says.
My mind is whirring with a million thoughts.
“But why?” I ask. “Mr. Morris is so nice, and he’s a smart businessman.”
Disdain crosses Nick’s face. He spits out, “Because Carter Morris deserves nothing less than to have his life’s work taken away from him.”
“Are you joking?” I pull my hand away from his. Nick might be gay, but too much body contact is squicking me out.
He leans back and looks me over calmly. “You’re young. I guess you haven’t learned to spot all the sociopaths in your life.”
I snort. “Apparently not.” He seems to be implying something about Dylan, and I shouldn’t take the bait. I bite my tongue.
“My mother built this company,” Nick says. “I saw for myself how hard she worked. She was never around for me, because she was always on call for Carter Morris. In more ways than one.”
“They were hooking up? OMG. Gross.”
A flash of disgust goes across Nick’s usually-calm face. He’s really rattled today.
“Don’t answer that,” I say. “I won’t tell anyone about your secret corporate takeover plans, but you need to be straight with me. What does all this have to do with Dylan?”
Nick blinks several times. “Nothing.” He blinks a few more times. “We want him to sign a high value recording deal. But we could use someone else. Anyone will do. Anyone. Just a pretty face with a good voice.”
I stare at Nick’s face, watching for clues.
“And then what?” I ask.
“None of your business.”
I think for a minute, wondering if Nick will tell me more in exchange for something I know. That’s how gossip with my friends always worked. Corporate secrets are just another form of gossip, I think.
Slowly, I casually ask, “Did you know Dylan has… sort of a sponsor? Someone helping to guide him?”
“No.” Nick’s voice wavers, and his eyebrows raise dramatically. “Really?” He frowns, his forehead furrowing deeply. “What do you know about this sponsor? Are you sure it’s not just an agent?”
A bad feeling twists through my stomach.
I get to my feet and dust off my knees.
Nick is lying to me. I’m sure of it.
He probably does know more about Dylan’s sponsor, but won’t tell me. His facial reactions are totally exaggerated, like he’s overcompensating.
Part of my business degree included a course on psychology, and reading people. Most people are transparent, if you think to look.
“You can tell me anything,” Nick says. He’s still sitting cross-legged on the floor. In his black jeans, his skinny legs remind me of a twisted licorice stick.
For an instant, I feel sorry for him. Nick thinks he has such a great poker face, but he doesn’t.
No wonder he was skittish around Mr. Morris.
He’d probably spill the secret in two minutes alone with charming Mr. Morris.
No wonder Nick’s hiding down here in the basement.
My nerves are zinging with pride that I’ve figured out one piece of the puzzle. If I keep my eyes and ears open, pretty soon I’ll figure out the rest.
Best of all, I can use the information to help Dylan.
“That’s all I know,” I say coolly. It’s not much of a lie, since Dylan hasn’t told me much more. “Now, what can we both do to help Dylan get a sweet contract?”
Nick gets to his feet and brings the box to the metal shelves. He presses the button to get the machinery to slide the shelves over. The powerful motor grinds, and the shelves shift until they slam to a halt. I may have been raised around plenty of farm equipment, but the moving shelves are a little scary.
“Well?” I say, my impatience coming out in my voice. “How do we make sure Dylan gets the big money deal, and not someone else?”
“You won’t like what I have to say.” Nick turns slowly to face me.
“Tell me anyway.”
He flicks his lip piercing with his tongue, then says, “You have to break up with Dylan.”
I cross my arms, the fury returning. “Give me one good reason.”
“I’ll give you two.” Nick counts the reasons on his fingers. “One, he’s more marketable when he’s single. And two, he’s totally in love with you, and being in love has turned his work to shit.”
With my arms still crossed, I tap my fingers on my forearm. “Shut up.”
“You asked,” he says. “Listen for yourself. Get him to play you one of his new gems.”
“He’s taking me to dinner tonight.”
“Perfect. It’s only Wednesday today. Break up with him tonight. By Friday, he might have a decent song written. Then he can get signed for a million-dollar contract, and everything will work out.”
“No. I’m not breaking up with him. I’ll talk to him about the songs.”
“Let me make some calls.” He picks up the takeout coffee containers and returns to his desk. He picks up the phone and starts making calls.
I return to my seat across from him. I drink my sweet coffee and pretend do some work.
After a moment, details from what Nick told me finally sink in. Dylan’s in love with me? Nick thinks he is. Of course, Nick also thinks Dylan’s new work is shit, so I can’t really believe a word Nick says.
But I want to believe. My heart flutters. Dylan’s in love. With me. Sigh.
Nick turns his back to me and speaks in a soft tone, so I can’t hear him.
The roses Dylan had delivered yesterday sit between me and Nick. Looking at the beautiful roses makes my chest hurt. Does he love me? Dinner tonight can’t come soon enough.
When Nick finally hangs up the phone, he noisily tears a sheet of paper off a notepad. He pushes the paper toward me across the table surface.
I open the folded note warily. The dollar amount written on the paper is more money than my annual salary. I examine the decimal point carefully. This is a lot of zeros.
“I’m getting a raise?” I ask.
“Not exactly. If you break Dylan’s heart so he can write a smash hit song, you’ll get that as a bonus.”
I crumple the paper and chuck the ball at Nick’s face. He doesn’t even blink as it ricochets off his cheek.
“Dylan’s worth more than that to me,” I say.
“If you say so.” Nick blinks three times, then opens a cardboard box and starts taking out items to be archived.
Over the next few hours, we work.
He tries to be friendly, asking me about my hometown and life in general. I give only one-word answers.
He doesn’t bring up Dylan again, but something tells me he’s not letting the issue go.
I don’t care how much they offer me.
I want to be with Dylan, no matter what.
Chapter 3
I step out of the lobby of Morris Music at 5:25.
My attention is caught by a black car, squealing its tires crossing a lane. The car squeals to a stop in the taxi pick-up zone.
“The guy knows how to make an en
trance,” I mutter under my breath.
Dylan Wolf, looking like a star as always, jumps out of the driver’s side. He comes around to open my door, taking me in with his devilish brown eyes.
“You look good enough to eat,” he says. “Did you wear that all day?”
“Maybe.” I flutter my eyelashes and run my hands over the sapphire blue wrap dress I’m wearing.
He leans forward and sniffs my shoulder, which is odd, but I don’t mind. Laughing, I ask what he’s doing.
“New fabric,” he says knowingly. “Were you shopping on your lunch break?”
My mouth drops open, and I stammer out, “Uhh, no!”
He chuckles and holds my door open as I slide into the leather seat.
Damn him for being so perceptive and figuring out my secret. I did go shopping on my lunch break. My clothes from home aren’t cute enough for dates, and the new pink clothes Morris Music paid for are too pink.
He gets in the driver’s side and eases into traffic slowly. He grins over at me, as if to say, how’s my driving?
I tilt my head over and sniff the shoulder of my dress. He catches me doing this and laughs.
“The fabric doesn’t smell,” he says. “I was just messing with your head. You forgot to cut the tag off, and it’s hanging from your left elbow.”
I curse the tag and yank it off the dress, my cheeks flushing.
He changes lanes, signaling and driving safely. Now that I’m in the car, he’s being careful. He might even be going slower than everyone around us, but I’m not going to complain. The first time I was in his car, I was sure the ride would end with us getting T-boned.
He’s still grinning, like he’s proud of himself for getting me flustered about my dress being new.
“You’re such a tease,” I say. “You’ll do anything to get a reaction from people, won’t you?”
He keeps his attention on the road. “The way I see it, we all have the same number of hours in a day. Every human on this planet. There aren’t enough hours to waste on being bored.”
I let out a sharp laugh, “Hah! You wouldn’t last five minutes at my job in the archives.”
“And how long were you there today?”
“Eight horrible hours.”
“Poor baby.” He pouts his lips out, making fun of me, and reaches over to pat my leg. “I’ll put in a good word for you on Friday. I’m coming in for a meeting.”
I suck in my breath. “Is this the BIG meeting?”
“They’re acting like it’s just to hear the new songs. But Q says they’ll make the offer.”
“It’s all happening so fast.” My heart sinks as I imagine the worst happening, and them not offering him a deal.
“And then, after I sign my contract, I’ll take care of you. I’ll tell them they’re wasting one of their top resources. The smartest, cutest employee shouldn’t be in the basement. What floor have you got your eye on? Ninth floor?”
“God, no!”
Dylan doesn’t know, but the ninth floor is where Stephanie works, pimping out girls as Eye Candy.
“What’s wrong with the ninth floor?” he asks.
“The eighth floor would be perfect. That’s marketing.”
“Marketing it is.” His hand is still on my leg, slowly moving up my thigh. He pushes the sapphire blue fabric of my skirt up, so his palm is on my bare skin. His touch is making me lose my place in my thoughts.
“Don’t get too comfortable,” he says.
“What?”
Does he mean I shouldn’t enjoy his hand on my leg? Because I’m enjoying it. All afternoon, the soft fabric of my dress has been whispering around my thighs. I’ve imagined Dylan’s hands slipping under this dress about a thousand times, and now it’s happening.
“Don’t get too comfortable on the eighth floor,” he says. “Because you’ll have to take some time off.”
Still looking at the road, he leans over toward my side. He slips his fingers between my thighs and pushes further up between my legs.
My voice trembling, I say, “Time off for what? Vacation?”
“To go on tour with me. Not right away, of course, but as soon as everything’s set up. I’ll be the headline act, and you’ll be my groupie.”
I clench my legs together, stopping his fingers.
“Your groupie? Excuse me?”
Laughing, he yanks his hand away from my thighs and shakes it like I hurt him. The way he laughs makes me wish I had.
“You’ll be the only groupie,” he says. “Just one.”
“Dylan, you’re the one who keeps showing up at my window and serenading me. I think you’re the groupie in this relationship.”
He laughs again.
I don’t think he’s particularly funny at this moment, so I dig into my purse. Like the dress, the purse is a new purchase from this afternoon. I’ve never owned a purse before. I usually keep my wallet in a pocket, or in my ratty old laptop bag. But this dress needed a purse, so I bought one.
“You’ll like this restaurant we’re going to,” Dylan says.
“Cool.” I pull out my phone and scroll through messages.
“Q recommended the restaurant.”
I flip my phone over. There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask Dylan about. I don’t want to lie, but I can’t tell him how I know.
“How many times have you met Q?” I ask. “What does he look like?”
“I only met him once in person, when he discovered me. After we finished off the pitchers of cheap beer, my memory gets hazy.” He chuckles at the memory. “Oh, I remember one thing. He had really small eyes. Like a mole or something. And he wore thick glasses. He was odd, like one of those genius guys who doesn’t have social skills.”
“That’s it?” I say, keeping my tone light. “With a cool name like that, I expected him to be more like a James Bond villain.”
“That would be cool.” Dylan grins.
I prod myself to ask my question. “I keep thinking about that older couple in the matching hoodies. They were filming you when we first met. Do you think they’re working for him?”
I bite my lower lip and wait for an answer. Dylan doesn’t know that I saw the couple visit his loft.
“Turns out they are working for Q,” he says, his voice high with surprise at my question. “How’d you know? Never mind, don’t tell me. Super secret stuff.” He laughs again, like all these secrets are part of the fun. “I didn’t know they were at first, but Q sent them over to have me sign some paperwork. Nice couple.”
“What kind of paperwork?”
His voice goes cool. “The kind I’m not at liberty to discuss.”
I fidget with the phone in my hands and grumble under my breath about keeping secrets.
He responds, “Financial paperwork. Don’t ask for more. And don’t tell me you’re the suspicious type. If I happen to talk to a woman, you’re not going to get crazy, are you?”
I turn and squint my eyes at the side of his face. Why would he mention other women? I’ve got a bad feeling now, ruining my mood.
He glances over and gives me his charming smile.
As always, my icy exterior melts under his hot gaze. The man has charisma, that’s for sure. One look in his eyes is like hearing the opening notes to a favorite song. Instantly, he’s got my heart, and my body, under his spell.
“This whole Q thing is just weird,” I say.
“My life has been nothing but weird. At least it makes for good inspiration.”
I tear my eyes off his gorgeous face and return my attention to my phone screen.
The mystery of the older couple is solved. I guess.
There’s a bunch of new messages on my phone. What catches my eye is a message from a blocked number. I open the text and find a photo of Dylan.
He’s at a party or concert, by the look of all the people in the background. He’s being kissed on the cheek by a glamorous woman with cocoa skin, full lips, and miles of eyelashes.
Why would someone send
me this? The only other information is a date—last Saturday. That’s the night Dylan went to a gig, then showed up drunk at my house, with glitter on his cheek.
A horrible feeling rolls through me.
Another message comes in while I’m holding the phone.
I click the attachment.
This photo is of Dylan and the same woman. She’s sitting on his lap, holding a martini glass to Dylan’s lips. He seems to be having the time of his life.
We’re at a stop light, so I lean over to hold my screen in front of Dylan’s face.
“Excuse me, Mr. Player, but who’s this?” I ask. “Is this why you were asking me if I’m the jealous type?”
He turns to frown at me. “Where’d you get that?”
“Someone sent it to me. Stop trying to change the subject and tell me who that girl is.”
“No. Tell me who sent you that picture.”
I groan in exasperation. He’s stalling for time, and that pretty much confirms my worst thoughts.
I spit back, “I don’t know who. It came from a blocked number.”
Still driving, he looks over at me steadily. His brown eyes seem to get darker, bottomless. The temper is back.
“Jess, don’t fuck with me. What are you doing with those photos? What’s your angle?”
I shift uncomfortably in my seat and tug down the hem of my dress.
He asks me again, the same questions. His tone is accusing. As his volume rises, the words blend together. I glance to my right, thinking about opening the car door and getting out right here at the intersection. I’ve been nothing but sweet to Dylan, and he’s going to talk to me like this? He can go fuck himself.
An angry, barely coherent rant swirls around inside my head, drowning out his words.
Back when I started going to school, not all the kids were nice to me. A few picked on me, just because I was shy. Some of the boys wanted nothing more than to make girls cry. Yelling back at them didn’t do any good, so I started doing all my yelling inside my head.
It’s been a while since I did this, but the anger feels good. It feels like power. You can’t cry when you’re feeling powerful and angry.
Dylan stops asking me about the photos, but I hardly notice the silence over the yelling inside my head.
The tires squeal. He cranks the steering wheel hard and turns left across traffic. The car dodges into a dark cave, down a ramp and into below-ground level of parking. We’re going slower now, but the turns are sharp as we go down two more levels. The tires keep squealing.