by Susan Ward
His calm in the face of my welling panic is wholly humiliating. “I don’t think so. You’re here because for whatever reason you can’t let yourself be with him. Oh, you love him, but you’ve run from him all the same or you’d be there with him still. It’s also why you fight this intense physical attraction between us and won’t fuck me. Some quaint lower class notion of morality. Keeping yourself for some guy who didn’t care enough not to let you go.”
I don’t know what to do with this or how to manage Alan.
“Fuck you,” I hiss. “I want you out of here. Now.”
“I don’t do bullshit, Linda. I may not always be kind, but I always tell the truth.”
“You are confusing being truthful with being mean. God, you are a fucked-up kid. That’s all you are.” I stare at him, shimmering with rage. “What happened to you, Alfie Wells? Did Mommy fuck with your mind in between the beatings and now you go out of your way to prove to every woman on the earth what an asshole you can be because she made you hate us all?”
Oh shit, why did I blurt that out? The change in his face, the way he stares at me is terrifying. Dammit, I’ve just cost myself my job. Never repeat this. Never repeat he is Alan Wells, aka Alfie Wells. I can’t even count the number of times the execs said that before they gave me the reports on Alan.
His brows slowly hitch upward as his eyes widen. “My, you are a vicious little girl, aren’t you? You fight like a gutter cat.” His black eyes lock on mine. “Did Daddy not love you? Is that why you’re a bitch and a tease to men? Is that why you ran from a man you love? Daddy didn’t love you so no man can?”
My hand suddenly is burning and in horror I realize I’ve slapped him, so hard that my own palm feels like it’s already swelling. The large red print on his cheek fills my vision. Damn. Damn. Damn. He’s got a television interview in an hour. I’ve fucked up again in record time.
I spring from the table and start to take my clothes from my suitcase. “I want you out of here. I want you out of here now.”
My body is shaking so badly I can’t move. I breathe in. I breathe out. Fuck, I’ve just screwed up my entire life. Sandy is going to fire me if I don’t fix this quickly.
I stare at my hands, choking down my pride, unable to look at Alan. “I apologize for what I said. I would appreciate it if you didn’t let Sandy Harris know about this.” I look at him, wide-eyed and pleading. “I really do need this job. That wasn’t bullshit, Manny. I’m broke.”
Those penetrating, mesmerizing eyes are stripped of expression. “I would never tell Sandy Harris about this.” His voice is breathy and his gaze wanders over me in a leisurely way that is tender and oddly comforting. “I’m a lot of things, Linda, but spiteful I am not. I would never take from you a job you need.”
I exhale a ragged breath I didn’t even realize I was holding. “Thank you.”
He crosses the room, hovering over me, watching my unchecked relief while I squirm. “You can say anything you want to me, Linda. I’d rather you always speak what you believe to be truth to me than lie. The only thing I can’t stomach is a liar.”
I am too weak to remain crouched before my bag, and my legs give way and I sink to sit on the floor. “You should put some ice on your cheek.”
A small smile teases the corners of his mouth. “Don’t worry about it. It’s not the first time I’ve been slapped. It won’t even show in half an hour.”
I decide to make a feeble attempt at a jest. “Oh, you’ve experienced this before? You mean all women don’t find you irresistibly charming?”
Alan laughs and settles on my bed, reclining on a hip. “Regrettably not.”
I drag my gaze away from him because the way he’s arranged his long-limbed body is unforgivably suggestive and appealing. Fuck, why does he have to be so beautiful, so sexually tempting in every breath, even when he’s been an asshole and I am pissed at him?
I start rummaging in my bag for my shoes. I doubt it’s even a conscious act; it’s just him. I dig deeper through my clothes for a belt.
He is silent, deliberately so, and I can feel him watching me. My hands start to tremble. I suddenly feel painfully awkward and too aware in my flesh of him.
A knock on the door saves me from this extremely unpleasant moment.
“Do you mind getting that? I’m not dressed yet.”
Alan lights yet another cigarette. “It’s probably room service come to collect the carts. Who cares if you’re in your bathrobe?”
He makes no move to spare me. I make a face at him, jump to my feet, cross the room and open the door.
Len tugs on the tie at my waist. “Luscious Linda, you’re not dressed yet. Long night or are you trying to tease me again?”
I glare at him in a fuck-off kind of way as the band brushes by me through the door. They get halfway into the room and freeze in unison. Oh shit, this is all I need. Their expressions say everything. Me in my robe. Alan on my bed. The breakfast remains. They think he’s won the moronic bet I’m sure they made about which one of them would bag me first.
I slam the door.
“Give me five minutes. I need to dress,” I say calmly, and rush toward the bathroom. Inside I sink down on the counter and drop my face into my hands. Damn. I can hear them laughing. My circumstance just dropped one level lower than intolerable. I don’t want anyone to think I’m a piece of ass for Alan.
“If you fuck with Linda, you are fucking with me now,” I hear Alan’s voice float through the door. “So you wankers back off and leave her alone.”
Four
The minutes drag at the television studio even though everything around me is moving at breakneck speed, and the guys never settle down long enough to finish the segment.
I never knew so much went into taping a thirty minute interview. I thought they’d plop down in their chairs, be asked some questions, hopefully return amusing and charming—semi-coherent, would be nice as well—answers, and we’d be done in an hour.
But no, there was a long stint in makeup, made extra-long to cover the handprint on Alan’s cheek, and a never-ending series of start, stop, roll tape, antics, aggravations, cut, touch up makeup, start, and stop that’s taken us half a day.
“Len Rowan, can you tell me what your musical influences are?” I hear the interviewer ask through the headphones on my ears.
Shit, why did the interviewer ask Len a question? And why can’t he just answer it without acting like a fool? Fuck, this is for American TV. The big banana. Suck it up for thirty minutes and try to act like normal human beings.
Thank God this isn’t going out live and it’s being taped, and hopefully Arnie can get the station to leave on the cutting room floor the less flattering moments caught by the cameraman.
Third hideous surprise of the day was Arnie Arnowitz, the manager, making an appearance. What a fucking waste of space that man is. He sucks as a manager. He is never on the road with the guys. Never checks in on them. For all I know he doesn’t even talk to them, though that’s probably best because he sucks as a human being.
How could Alan make such a stupid decision when everything Alan does is with such exceptional expertise? I definitely need to talk to him about that one. They should have run from Arnie on day one.
I glance over at him sitting in the chair beside me and shudder. He’s eating a freaking scone, dripping crumbs down the front of his shirt and over his pants, and he looks like a pig at a trough. He acts like one, too. He’s not slick Willy, he’s sewer Willy.
Crap, why is he part of the tight circle Alan has assembled around himself? Two months has taught me one thing. There is nothing random in Alan Manzone’s life. Everything plays out as if perfectly scripted and choreographed. If Arnie is here Alan has a reason for it. Though for the life of me I can’t figure out what it is.
I lean forward in my director-style chair and fix my eyes on the monitor. How is it possible that Alan looks even more gorgeous on screen? Perfect is perfection. That should be it. Done. No new level to attain
, but the camera loves his face and somehow he transcends perfection into something even beyond description.
I lean back so I can look at the guys on the set. If we were playing which one doesn’t belong it would definitely be Alan. I’ve never met anyone with a greater sense of self-awareness, of how to use their body, the presentation they could create, how to utilize the space around them and how to master it well. No wonder the cameraman adores him and Alan is getting more screen time than the rest of the band put together.
Well, that’s probably a good thing. The only one visually appealing is Alan. Len is being his perfect, moronic, clowning self. Jimmy comes across just plain scary. And Kenny, he is a boorish gutter thug at present.
I lean in again to watch the monitor, feel a jolt through my body, and jerk back from the screen as black eyes meet mine directly. Fudge, how did he do that? Know exactly how to look into the camera to directly hit my eyes, and damn, if his gaze is not flickering with amusement and those shimmers he has that makes everything inside me start to flutter. It’s almost like he knows he caught me, eyes locked on eyes through the television monitor.
I shift my body in the chair to look at him on the set, and he adjusts his posture in an elegant, subtle flow of movement so that briefly his eyes lock on me again.
Aha, so the camera trick wasn’t an accident. How the fuck did he do that? A barely contained smile is teasing the edges of his lips. Fucker.
The action on the set changes and the crew starts unclipping microphones from the guys. Alan rises and the female reporter rushes to stand a touch too close to him. Ah, another victim. Spend five minutes with him and it seems every silly female on the British Isles becomes possessed by Alan fever.
She tosses her head, fingers in hair, laughing. Jeez, she couldn’t be more fake in her flirtatiousness if she tried. He touches her cheek lightly with an index finger, the gesture so similar to how he touched my face this morning that my body has the insulting audacity to feel it.
Crap.
Well, Alan definitely has plans tonight, and it is not my problem to keep a watch over him for the next four days. I’m out of here. Finally. No need to stay and witness this.
I spring from my chair and start gathering my things.
“Since they’re done, I’m assuming I can cut out,” I say to Arnie.
Arnie looks at me, startled. “Sure, Linda. I wasn’t expecting you to even be here.”
My brows hitch upward. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me that when this started? I could have been on my way back to London hours ago.”
Something in his eyes makes my stomach turn. “I thought you wanted to be here. You seemed enamored by the process.” He says that in a way that leaves little doubt what he means by enamored.
I internally contain a shudder and pull on my coat. “Tell the guys I’ll see them next hop.”
I quickly head toward the door and out onto the sidewalk. I search the street, looking for Phil and the car. Shit, not here. Somehow in two months in the UK I’ve managed not to have to take any form of public transportation. But today it will be cab then train to the city.
Do they call it a train? No, something else. Not subway. How am I supposed to find it if I don’t recall what they call it? Why is everything called something different? What is it they call the bathroom?
I make a face as I step out to the curb, rapidly on alert for a vacant cab. I’ve never taken any form of public transportation. No one does in Southern California. If boarding a train is half as confusing here as trying to get the attention of a cabbie, then I’m a goner. And I still haven’t quite figured out the money thing.
I vigorously shake my arm. Nothing.
“You will never get a taxi the way you’re doing it,” says a low voice from behind me.
Fuck. Alan.
I turn to face him “If you were normal, you’d be getting a car for me.”
A small laugh. “I thought California girls preferred to do things for themselves.”
My cheeks flush. Somehow his tone changes just enough to make that a very naughty innuendo. And how the hell did Alan know I was from California?
I give him a pointed stare. “If you are willing to get me a cab I am willing to accept.”
His laughter comes deeper from within his chest. “Come on. I’ll take you where you’re going.”
His hand closes around mine in a move I didn’t see and I have no choice but to tag along unless I want to make a scene here on the sidewalk. I’m filled with trepidation as we walk toward the waiting black car. The last thing a sane girl should want is to be trapped in a car with Alan Manzone.
The driver hops out and runs around quickly to open the door.
“Hello, Colin,” Alan says. “Have you been waiting long?”
“No, sir.”
I don’t know which surprises me more: politeness from Alan; that the fancy chauffeur-driven car is his; or that I’m actually going to accept a lift from him.
“You’ve collected Miss Cray’s bags from the hotel?” Alan asks.
“What the fuck do you mean my bags? How dare you take my things from my room?” I blurt out too loudly.
My outburst causes Colin’s eyes to bulge, but Alan ignores me.
“Do you have them?” he repeats to the driver.
“Everything is as you requested, sir.”
My trepidation moves into a full-blown internally contained panic attack. What is going on here? Before I can say anything else, Alan gestures with his arm for me to climb in. Jeez, he’s a strange guy. Why am I doing what he’s asking me to do?
I drop heavily onto the plush leather seat and scoot over. He gives me an amused stare before he climbs in next to me. The door slams shut.
I slide my body over as far from him as I can get.
“Do you mind telling me what’s going on?”
Alan rakes his messy black waves back from his face and then strikes a lighter, bringing it to the cigarette held in his lips.
“You needed a ride. I’m giving you a ride. What’s the big deal?”
My eyes widen. “The big deal is you took my bags from the hotel without asking me. How dare you assume I’d agree to go anywhere with you?”
He gives me a look that makes my face burn. “You’re in the car, aren’t you?”
The color moves from my cheeks down my neck. I clamp shut my mouth and decide to ignore him. I am in the car. There isn’t a thing I can do about that now. And it would not be wise, not wise at all, to let Alan see how much he rattles me and pulls my chain.
Fuck, what is it about this guy that knocks me off my feet at every turn? It’s more than how good-looking Alan is. It’s him. The never-ending tidal wave of all things Alan.
I tilt my face so I can take in details of him without looking at him directly. He definitely looks rock star chic in every second he breathes. Leather pants, open shirt, tousled black waves and all. Playing the part of a star and he isn’t even a star yet.
I examine the beautifully appointed interior of the limo. The plush leather seats. The car phone. The pricy booze and crystal glasses. The guy definitely lives rock star chic, even though the band hasn’t earned enough to buy subway tokens.
Peculiar. Even knowing the private details of his life doesn’t make him less confusing.
I can feel the pressure of the car moving forward with greater speed, and I look through the darkly tinted window. We’re out of the clogged center of the city now. Jeez, where the hell are we going? Wouldn’t the train station be in the center of the city?
Oh fuck! I forgot to tell him where I wanted to be dropped.
A new worry crashes through the mix of my unsettled emotions. Why would Alan grab my junk from the hotel without asking me and practically force me into the car with him? And where the hell is he taking me?
I surreptitiously shift my gaze back to him. He’s casually arranged on his side of the car, looking tame and still smoking. The interior is so quiet I can hear his breath inhaling and exhaling,
and I warn myself to hold steady, not to look at him directly, at least until I can fully take hold of my nerves, so I can ask him what’s going on here without sounding pathetically worried while doing it.
I stare out the window. “Where are you taking me?”
“Ah, she speaks,” is all he says in a husky voice. “I was wondering how long you were going to sit there in angry silence.”
I turn on my seat to face him. “Any reasonable person would be pissed at you. You practically shoved me into the car. And I repeat, where are you taking me?”
Those black eyes lock on me, shimmering and amused. I begin to burn.
“We have four days off. I thought you might enjoy a few days in the country. I think it’s time we get to know each other better.”
My eyes fly wide, unsure I just heard him correctly. “What! I don’t want to go anywhere with you. I don’t want to get to know you better. I don’t even want to work with you.”
“Probably not, but you’re going to,” he whispers, running a thumb along my cheek. I feel a jolt shoot down, all through my body. “And we need to correct a misunderstanding. You don’t work with me. You work for me. And I don’t like people near me that I don’t know well.” He turns my chin until I’m looking straight at him. “And I intend to get to know you very well.”
OK, this is a little frightening and, paradoxically, most definitely unwantedly, a little bit of a turn-on. And damn, if he doesn’t know it.
I pull in a sharp breath. “You’re out of your mind. I work for Sandy Harris.”
“No, you work for me, Linda Cray from Reseda.”
My heart stills. “How do you know where I’m from?”
His black eyes grow richly amused. “Your mother’s name is Doris. She works for Sunrise West Records in Los Angeles. Your father, Brian Cray, is a drummer, a studio musician of some demand. He abandoned you before you were born. You attended the University of Southern California on full scholarship. You received a degree in English Literature.” He turns my chin until I’m looking straight at him. “And you’ve been having an affair with Jackson Parker for nearly a year.”