by Lauren Rowe
Plus, I’ve missed out on some other good stuff, too. For instance, being the one to show Georgina around backstage and introduce her to everyone. I very much wished to do that, not only to be helpful to Georgina, but to communicate to every fucker within a mile radius, especially a certain drummer for RCR, that Georgina is mine. Not to be touched. Not to be flirted with. Off-fucking-limits. Mine, mine, mine.
Plus, of course, I very much wanted to be able to pull Georgina aside, after initially letting her twist in the wind for a bit, to clear the air about the other night. After some reflection this past week, I’ve come to realize I might have overreacted a bit when I found out about her stepsister’s musical aspirations. But I also think Georgina fucked up, too. Royally. And I’m interested to see if, after a week of her own reflecting, Georgina is ready to own up to her part in the way things blew up between us. Is she going to hold tight to her prior indignation with white knuckles, or admit she flew off the handle like a fucking lunatic and apologize to me, as she should? Frankly, I’m dying to know.
I’m going to fuck her, either way, of course, whether she doubles down on her “fuck you’s” or has the good sense to start kissing my ass, now that she realizes it’s in her best interests. But I’d be lying if I didn’t admit I’m hoping to witness another round of fiery sass from feisty Georgina, just for the pure entertainment of it. Oh, and also because watching her fly off the handle makes me so fucking hard, it physically hurts.
“There’s a VIP entrance at the back,” I say to my driver as we approach the Rose Bowl’s parking lot. And, five minutes later, he’s pulling up to the restricted-access loading zone in the back. Sure enough, I spot Owen standing curbside, awaiting me as instructed. At the moment, he’s staring at his phone while smoking a cigarette. Being punctual and reliable and humble and patient. You know, being Owen. “Right here,” I say to the driver, while simultaneously shooting off a text to Owen: Look up. I’m here.
When Owen looks up, it’s just in time to see me barreling out of the parked car and marching with urgency toward a large metal door.
“Tip the driver and get my luggage delivered to my house, would you?”
“Aye, aye, Captain.”
“Where’s Georgina?”
“Greenroom B. I left her in the care of a PA, talking to the entire band.”
“All four of them?”
He nods. “Plus, Leonard and his daughter and a gaggle of her friends.”
I breathe a sigh of relief. Caleb couldn’t possibly make too much progress with Georgina in a crowd like that. “Perfect.”
Leaving Owen behind to figure out my luggage and the driver’s tip, I breeze past a security guard posted at the VIP door—who, lucky for him, lets me pass without stopping me for my ID—and then, once I’m inside the stadium, begin marching like a madman through familiar hallways toward a back elevator.
Georgina.
Goddammit. Now that I’m this close to her, I’m feeling consumed by a physical craving to kiss her again. Once I finally fuck her, I’m positive this mini-obsession that’s been building inside me all week will quickly fade. But until then, it’s here, baby. In full force. Like a raging boner that won’t go away until it at least gets a hand job.
Nearing the greenroom, I hear female laughter, and my heart seizes.
Georgina.
I stop outside the doorway to catch my breath. Rake my fingers through my hair. Drag my palm over my stubble. And, finally, enter the room like I own the place. But, shit, I don’t see Georgina anywhere. Fuck!
“Reed!” my attorney, Leonard, calls to me. And I’m instantly trapped. Fuck, fuck, fuck!
Still glancing around for Georgina, I greet Leonard, and then his euphoric teenage daughter, and her equally excited friends. I say quick hellos to the guys of Red Card Riot, and clench my jaw when I realize only three of the four are here: Dean, Emmitt, and Clay. Caleb is nowhere to be found.
On any other day, I’d be thrilled to find Caleb Baumgarten—the drummer the world knows as “C-Bomb”—absent from a room I’m standing in, thanks to a longstanding beef between us. But this one time, Caleb being MIA, when Georgina is also nowhere to be found, is evoking near-panic inside me.
“Where’s Caleb?” I bark at Dean, the lead singer and guitarist.
“Whoa, chill, man,” Dean says, laughing. “We’ve got plenty of time before showtime.”
“Where is he?”
“He left a while ago with some newbie reporter for Rock ‘n’ Roll.” Dean flashes me a knowing look. “It’s her first day on the job, so Caleb gallantly offered to take her for a little pre-show ‘tour’ of the backstage area.”
Motherfucker. I knew Caleb would be all over Georgina like white on rice, sooner rather than later. But this fast? It’s a fucking record, even for him.
I say my quick goodbyes to everyone, bark at a shocked production assistant to take extra-good care of Leonard and his daughter’s party, and then I’m gone, out the door and racing down the cement hallway.
I poke my head through a series of doors, all while brushing off repeated requests for my attention. “Not now,” I bark at whoever. “Ask Owen about that.”
Finally, I hear it. The sound of Georgina’s laughter. It’s muffled. Coming from a distant dressing room. But it’s most definitely her.
I pick up my pace. Burst through a door. And there they are. Georgina and Caleb. Sitting mere inches from each other, face to face. Georgina’s on a couch, looking star-struck and flushed. Caleb looks like a bearded shark at feeding time, his jacked, tattooed body draped over an armchair, his green eyes on fire.
When I enter, the pair jolts in surprise. Georgina, God bless her, lurches back at my intrusion, her body conceding it’s mine, even if her brain doesn’t know it yet.
Caleb, on the other hand, smiles like a sniper and leans toward Georgina when he sees me, his ripped body staking its claim.
My gaze moves from Caleb’s bearded smile to Georgina’s panicked eyes. And when our gazes mingle, when Georgina’s hazel eyes meet mine, I feel the same explosion of chemistry, fire, and attraction I felt between us in that lecture hall—and then again, even more so, at the bar. And, yet again, when we walked outside Bernie’s Place, and I pinned her against the building and pushed my raging boner against her and kissed the living hell out of her, overwhelmed by the nuclear bomb exploding inside me—the powerful yearning I felt to claim, conquer, own, desecrate.
Georgina’s chest heaves at the sight of me. And, instantly, I know the same forest fire raging inside me at the sight of her is burning out of control inside her, as well.
“Time to go,” I bark at Caleb.
But Caleb only scoffs. “There’s plenty of time before we hit. The opening band hasn’t even—”
“You’re missing an important VIP meet and greet.”
Caleb waves his tattooed knuckles. “This is way more important than that. Georgie isn’t a groupie, man. She’s a writer for Rock ‘n’ Roll, assigned to do an interview of the band, and of me in particular. She’s joining the tour this whole week, starting tonight, so we can hang out and she can do a really cool in-depth interview of me.”
No.
Fuck no.
There’s so much “fuck no” about everything Caleb just said, I can barely keep myself from hurtling my body across the room like a missile, wrapping my hands around his tattooed neck, and squeezing the life out of him. Did Owen approve everything Caleb just said? If so, he’s fucking fired. For real, this time.
“Hi, Mr. Rivers,” Georgina says, rising from the couch, her hand extended. “I’m Georgina Ricci from Rock ‘n’ Roll.” She proudly holds up the press pass around her neck. “CeeCee told you about me, I hope? I’ll be working exclusively on the River Records special issue. I’m really, really excited about it, Mr. Rivers.”
Her eyes are pleading with me. Begging me not to throw her out, along with Caleb. And it suddenly occurs to me she has no idea how I fit into this new job opportunity of hers. Did I have
a hand in her getting this assignment—or was it given to her against my will? Obviously, Georgina’s wondering where we stand after the other night. Am I going to help her during this summer internship... or fucking torture her?
“I’m excited you’re here, Georgina,” I say warmly, attempting to put her at ease. I shake her hand and my flesh tingles at her touch. “CeeCee has said some great things about you. I’m excited about the special issue, and glad you’re working on it.”
Her shoulders soften, her expression conveying, Well, that went a whole lot better than I feared it would.
I peel my eyes off Georgina to glare at C-Bomb. “Time to go, Caleb. Those VIPs were promised a photo op with the full band. Everyone’s waiting on you.”
He languidly pulls out a box of cigarettes. “They’ll survive. I’m gonna chill here with Georgie until showtime. We need to chat a bit about ideas for my interview.” He winks at Georgina. “It’s gonna be sick.”
I take a deep breath. “You’re contractually obligated to show up for ‘designated VIP meet and greets,’ Caleb. And I’m hereby designating this one as a contractual obligation.”
Caleb lights his cigarette and takes a long drag off it, his green eyes shooting daggers at me. But when it’s clear I’m not going to budge, and that this could get a tad bit embarrassing for him in front of Georgina—because, come on, we both know I own his fucking ass at the end of the day—Caleb slowly rises from his chair and stretches his hulking frame. “Duty calls.” He smiles wistfully at Georgina. “See you later.”
“Have a great show,” Georgina says. “Don’t worry. We’ll have plenty of time to talk this week.”
“I’m throwing a party in my hotel suite after the show. Why don’t you come and see how the band blows off steam after a show? Spoiler alert: there’s alcohol involved.”
She chuckles. “I’d love to. Thank you. Spoiler alert: I like alcohol. I bartended in college.”
“Hey, yet another thing we have in common! You know how to make drinks, and I know how to drink ’em.”
“Hey.”
He beams a huge smile at Georgina that makes me want to lurch over to him, take his stupid Mohawk in my fist, and slam his smug face, repeatedly, into the floor until it’s a bloody pulp. But, somehow, I force myself to stand still, not moving a muscle. Not even breathing.
Caleb says, “I’ll tell my PA to get your phone number during the show, so I can text you the info for the party. Are you staying at the Ritz, with all of us?”
Georgina blushes. “Oh, gosh, no. I’m booked at budget hotels this week. But never more than five miles from where you guys are staying, so it’ll be easy for us to connect.”
“Fuck that, dude. I’ll book you a room at the Ritz tonight, on me, so you can party with us and only have to stumble a short way to your bed afterwards.”
A puff of disdain escapes me involuntarily, and Caleb smiles, letting me know he’s heard it, and is thoroughly enjoying having this exchange with Georgina in front of me.
“Wow... that’s certainly not necessary... ” Georgina says about the offered hotel room.
“I insist,” Caleb says, ever the gallant fucking gentleman.
“Wow. Thank you. Okay.”
“Caleb,” I say sharply, a hair’s breadth away from committing an extremely bloody form of murder. “It’s time for you to go.”
Caleb smirks, winks at Georgina, takes another long drag off his cigarette and finally saunters out the door, but not before turning at the doorframe and shooting me a quick, nonverbal “fuck you, bitch.” Which, of course, I return in kind. Fucking punk-ass little bitch prick.
When Caleb is gone, I march to the door and close it behind him, breathing deeply to banish my homicidal thoughts. Finally, I turn to face Georgina—the woman who’s relentlessly invaded my thoughts and dreams and masturbation fantasies this entire week. Damn, she looks even hotter than last week. As ripe as a peach.
Georgina fidgets under my intense, silent gaze, looking like she doesn’t know if I want her to stay or go. If I want to kiss her or spank her or tell her to get the fuck out or to hop onto my cock. And so, I decide it’s time to make things crystal clear to her. Right fucking now.
“Sit down, Georgie,” I say sternly, my jaw clenched. “We need to have ourselves a little chat.”
Chapter 21
Reed
As I cross the room toward Georgina, muted music from a distant part of the stadium begins wafting through the walls of the small room—the sound of the opening band, kicking off their short set.
I unbutton my suit jacket and take the armchair across from Georgina. The one formerly occupied by Caleb. I place my ankle on my knee. And exhale. “Congratulations,” I say calmly.
“On what?” Her gorgeous features are etched with anxiety. Obviously, she’s wondering where things stand between us, given her fiery, early-morning exit from the front of my house a week ago.
“On the new job,” I say. “And your graduation. I presume you graduated last week, as planned?”
She nods. “I’m officially a UCLA alum. Go, Bruins. I’m actually the first college grad in my family. My dad couldn’t stop crying.” She presses her lips together, like she’s forcibly keeping herself from rambling further.
I can’t help but smile at her adorableness. “That’s awesome,” I say. “I’m sure your parents are insanely proud of you.”
Something flickers across her pretty face that makes me question my words. Have I just unwittingly highlighted the age gap between us—come off like a friend of her father’s? Or could it be her parents aren’t proud of her, for some reason? I can’t imagine that’s the case, but I suppose it’s possible they wanted her to study something other than journalism?
When I don’t speak for a long moment, but instead opt to stare her down and revel in her obvious anxiety, Georgina puts her hands into her lap, like she doesn’t know what to do with them. She bites her lower lip. Fidgets. And then, “How was New York?”
“Busy, productive, fun, exhausting, and highly lucrative.”
“Oh. That sounds good.”
“It was. Very good.”
I fall silent again, enjoying the way my silence turns her breathing shallow. The way it brings a flush to her cheeks and cleavage. Yeah, I’m being a bastard. Making her sweat, simply to amuse myself. Well, and also to punish her a tiny bit for the way she double-flipped me off. For fuck’s sake, Georgina was the one with a music demo in her pocket. Not me. She was the one with a hidden agenda. And yet, she had the audacity to flip me off and screech away in an Uber, leaving me standing there, after I’d stooped to begging her to come inside? When was the last time I begged anyone for anything? And yet, Georgina made me do it, just that fucking fast. Well, never again. That’s for fucking sure.
“So you wanted to have a little chat... ?” she prompts, her voice tight.
I pick at a piece of lint on my suit jacket. “Yes.” I pause again, for dramatic effect. “This plan for you to join RCR on tour this coming week?”
She nods.
“It’s the first I’m hearing about it, and I don’t approve. You’ll have to find something else to do this week. Tagging along on RCR’s tour is off.”
“What?” she blurts. For a moment, she gapes like a fish on a line, before shouting, “You can’t do that, Reed!”
“I just did.”
“CeeCee cleared the whole thing with Owen! Owen helped arrange it!”
“And Owen works for me. Well, he used to. If he arranged that shit show of an idea, then he’s fired.”
She turns pale.
“I’m joking. Owen is bulletproof. Ask anyone.”
“Reed, you can’t call everything off. CeeCee is excited about the idea, and so am I. And so is the band. Just now, when I was talking to all four of them about it in the greenroom, they said—”
“I don’t give a flying fuck what the band said. The plan wasn’t cleared through me. And I don’t like it. I think it’s an unoriginal, tired idea
that’s already been done a thousand times. Ever seen Almost Famous?”
She’s flabbergasted. “Well, granted, we might not be inventing the wheel here, but who cares? Readers will eat it up. What fan wouldn’t want to tag along with RCR on tour, through me? It’s every music lover’s fantasy. A once-in-a-lifetime chance to peek behind the—”
“Stop trying to sell me. It’s dead. Move on.”
She consciously shuts her gaping mouth. “But... Reed, I’ve got hotel rooms booked for the entire week!”
Oh, Georgina. I resist the urge to chuckle at her indignation. Her naiveté. As if the tragedy of a few unused hotel rooms would stop the world spinning on its axis. If I’d forgotten Georgina is only twenty-one, I was just now reminded of it. “Hotel room reservations are almost always refundable,” I say calmly to my little kitten, trying not to smile at her lack of real-world experience. “And if not, then I’ll reimburse Rock ‘n’ Roll for any expense, seeing as how the rooms were booked after coordination with Owen. Who, to be clear, will be out of a job after this, I promise you that.”
Again, she looks pained.
“Kidding again. Get used to it. It’s a running joke.”
Georgina rubs her face, distraught. And, for a moment, I feel kind of sorry for the poor little thing. She looks like a possum caught in an iron trap. Like a little lamb being carted off to slaughter. But, to my surprise, after a few deep breaths, she visibly gathers her strength and straps on her warrior’s armor. Suddenly, the simpering twenty-one-year-old vanishes, supplanted by the same fierce superhero I witnessed in front of my house the other night.
Georgina’s eyes are sharp now. Her nostrils flaring. After one more deep breath, she puffs out her spectacular chest and lets me have it. “I won’t let you do this,” she says, her eyes ablaze. “CeeCee made it very clear to me she’s my boss, not you. She also said you explicitly agreed we’re not churning out propaganda for River Records here—we’re independent journalists. You’ve expressly agreed CeeCee’s got full editorial control, and CeeCee, my boss, has decided I’m touring with RCR this entire week.”