by L. V. Lewis
“I’ve been to each of these cities multiple times,” Sky muses. “But I was a minor, and my schedule was totally at the mercy of my overbearing mother.”
Shocked, I ask, “So, she kept you under lock and key at your hotels?”
She frowns. “No, not quite—I could go out with my security detail, which wasn’t good because it alerted the paparazzi that I was in the vicinity. You saw how I looked yesterday, right? Well, I looked nothing like “Skylar the Pop Star” without makeup, did I?”
I have to agree. “Nope, it’s like two totally different people.”
She nods. “So you agree that the girl you saw yesterday doesn’t look like the real me? Which one is more attractive?” Her tone is a mixture of miffed and probing but the look on her face is one of calm control.
Oh shit! I bet that was one of those trick female questions, which I’m pretty sure I just totally fucked up. I need to redo my answer quickly or I could be out of a job before we even leave US soil.
I grin. “Definitely, the “Girl-Next-Door” Sky. But, truthfully, you are beautiful either way, because you’re a beautiful person inside and out.” It is true. Sky is both kind and thoughtful toward everyone. I don’t know how she is in the studio, but thus far, she hasn’t come across like a diva. She smiles, and for the first time I notice she has deep-set dimples.
She twirls a piece of her hair and smiles. “Hmm… said like a true Renaissance man.”
I laugh. “That’s a stretch. I love music, though, I’ll give you that. I’m just a jack of many trades, and a master of only one.”
“Then you’re one hell of a genius.”
I shrug and look away. “I don’t know about that.”
She reaches out and touches my arm. “You don’t have to. But I must warn you… I’m going to find out what makes you tick if it’s the last thing I do, Brody Kent.”
On one level I find it flattering that Sky has the makings of a crush on me—she is my type, sweet and petite—with just a tiny bit of sass. But her interest also scares the hell out of me on another level, because she has the wherewithal to throw money behind her curiosity, which could blow my fucking cover wide open.
TWO
SKYLAR
DAY FIVE
“He’s only been my P.A. a week, Alyssa.”
I’ve spent the last twenty minutes on the phone trying to explain to my best friend, and sister in the music business, why I haven’t jumped Brody Kent’s bones as I plod away on the elliptical in my home gym.
I made the mistake this past Monday of sending her a picture of him on my cell. As a result, she’s been calling me every day to see if I’ve put any moves on him. I swear to God, sometimes I hate how socially incompetent I am with the opposite sex.
I’m both traditional in the extreme and frozen by inaction unless a guy makes the first move. I think my awkwardness stems from my Catholic school upbringing. During my younger years, my tutor was a nun who relentlessly coached me on 1960s etiquette. And, as a result of her programming, I’ve had a hard time breaking that mold. My sexy alter ego on stage is an illusion that I have trouble perpetuating in the flesh one on one.
I should thank Alyssa really, because when I told her about how hard it was to find a suitable replacement for Amber; she recommended I’m Your Man, Inc. She had used them in some capacity before and I trust her judgment so I decided to chance it. I didn’t tell my mother about the “non-contracted services,” Alyssa swears they provide but what Elaine Samuelson doesn’t know certainly won’t hurt her.
My last relationship with country singer Connor Weatherby, ended as badly as it could six months ago. When I say it ended badly, I mean it ended baaaaadly. TMZ obtained rather telling video footage of Connor entertaining two groupies in a pool, which was unfortunate for him. I believe the terms: “ménage a trois” and “tandem underwater blow jobs” had been used. My humiliation was very public —as was our breakup—but his cheating ways turned out to be a real blessing for my career. My only regret, however, is that I cashed in my V-card with the bastard.
Then again, I did make him wait two years. Too bad his sexual skills turned out to be a bust—literally. He had not been worth the wait. I haven’t had another lover since—a regrettable situation I am desperately trying to remedy now.
I’m going on tour in a matter of days and my smoking hot P.A. hasn’t made a single move on me. WTF? I’ve flirted all week like a hooker having a fire sale, and, despite the bad boy vibe he has going on, he’s been the perfect gentleman, which by-the-way sucks, because I’m way overdue for a rebound hookup. I desperately want to show limp dick Connor that I’ve moved on. I want him to see that I’m not as devastated by his dumb ass actions as he’d care to think. Then there’s the matter of my neglected libido. I selected I.Y.M. because I need a man.
“My I.Y.M. guy took me to the AMAs, and then he treated me to a private party—after the after party, if you know what I mean…” Alyssa’s voice trails off.
I brace myself—I have a pretty good idea what she’s going to say next.
“To be honest, Sky, in all of my dealings with them, I’ve learned to make my expectations crystal clear—upfront. Did you ask for the deluxe package like I told you?”
I roll my eyes and adjust my ear buds so I can hear her better. “Is that even a real thing, Alyssa? You know Amber made the appointment… I couldn’t very well state my interest in their non-contracted services with my mother in the room now could I. She’s got Spidey-sense or something so she would’ve picked up on it pronto. She wasn’t too impressed with Brody when she met him, so if she had known that he sometimes doubles as a super sexy, high-priced escort, she would’ve blown a freaking gasket.”
Alyssa takes a deep breath out of frustration. “When is your mom going to accept that you’re an adult with needs?”
“Oh, I don’t know—maybe when she’s six feet under—and maybe not even then to be honest. I can just see her now reaching up from her grave for me with her cold, bony hands every time I try to get my freak on.”
Alyssa burst into laughter. “Yep, I can see it too! The undead cock-blocker.” She howls. “Since Sunday is your birthday, you need to serve Brody up some of your birthday cake.”
I stop what I’m doing. “O.M.G., so that’s we’re calling it now?”
She giggles. “It’s known by many names like… nookie, afternoon delight, making whoopee…”
I can’t stop smiling; Alyssa has that effect on me. “Okay, okay, I’m well aware of the terms, Girlfriend.”
I abruptly stop speaking as the primary topic of our conversation enters the room carrying his ever-present iPad. Alyssa goes on with several other terms, but she might as well be talking to herself. Brody spots me on the elliptical, and his electric blue eyes light up. His eyes are so vivid and beautiful; it looks like they have been stolen from a CGI video game. If he stares at me with the slightest bit of interest, I swear to God, I’ll have an orgasm right here on this exercise machine.
“Umm… Gotta go, Alyssa,” I say absentmindedly, anxious to get off the phone so I can engage in my new favorite pastime—looking into Brody’s eyes. “Duty calls.”
She laughs again. “Don’t you mean booty calls?”
“Shut up,” I sneer.
“Later.” She ends the call.
I pull my earbuds out and let the cords dangle over my shoulders. When I look up, I find Brody staring at me.
“Hey, what’s up?” I’m trying desperately not to look as if I’ve been talking about him…or fantasizing about him all week.
He blinks several times, as if he’s been daydreaming himself. “I’ve got the first pictures of the tour stage props.” He thrusts the iPad in front of my face, and I get a whiff of his aromatic cologne. The citrus and spicy combo emanating from his skin is enough to make me salivate—Pavlovian style. I take short shallow breaths instead of the long one I really need to prevent myself from looking desperate…or dumb.
I return to my elliptical scree
n and start the cool-down, pedaling slower and slower every few seconds or so. Then I take a look at Brody’s iPad. My set designer pulled out all the stops. The stage looks like a surreal version of Candyland with a more mature theme and visuals. It’s not risqué, but strikes a balance between pre-adult and Madonna-esque entertainment. Something for all my fans. I love it.
“Perfect.” I hand the tablet back to him. “You’re riding with me to sound check, right?”
“Okay.” He smiles, and turns off his iPad. “Meet you out front at 3:30?”
“Cool.” I stop the elliptical and hop off. I spot my waiting towel on the warming rack against the wall and go to retrieve it.
Brody turns to leave.
He’s already near the door. After my call with Alyssa, I’m more motivated than ever to make a move. I throw off my badge of traditionalism and shout to him, “Brody! Do you have plans…Later, I mean?”
He stops and turns back toward me. “Later as in after work?”
I nod, my cheeks heating up, but I refuse to be embarrassed for attempting to hit on this hot guy.
A deep wrinkle appears between his eyes, and he seems perplexed by my question. But after a few seconds, he starts walking toward me—a definite sign of interest.
I’m already on the ledge emotionally, so I figure why not just jump? “Would you like to come back for dinner… with me?”
He cants his head slightly to the side and folds his arms over the iPad. He appears to be relaxed but his biceps are flexing as if they’re winking at me. He licks his sexy lips, quickly flashing the pink tip of his tongue. “So, is this supposed to be a working dinner?”
I look to the side. Looking at him is making me wet. “Would you be disappointed if I said, No?”
He laughs. “Not in the least.” His electric blue eyes smolder wickedly, and my girly parts come alive.
Nope, I don’t think Brody Kent will be at all reluctant to taste my birthday cake.
Brody arrives and I answer the door myself. Having sent all of my staff home—except Malik, who resides on the property in one of two guesthouses, and Della, the cook, because I have no discernible cooking skills. I prefer it this way—fewer witnesses who’ll tell my mother what I’m up to.
Just so you know, I’m not egotistical enough to play my own music as the backdrop for my attempted seduction. So I put on a mixture of contemporary ballads—to set the mood, of course. I’m already there, but this is just in case Brody needs a little help.
When I answer the door, I notice his glorious hair is down tonight, and I’m not sure which one I like better—the messy man-bun or the blond tendrils that shroud his broad shoulders.
The light blue linen shirt paired with darker blue linen trousers accentuate his eyes, making them appear to be an unreal shade of blue, causing me to swallow a couple of times before I can speak.
“Hey…You,” I say lamely. I roll my eyes. I’m such a dork sometimes.
“Hi.” He gives me the most genuine smile—something he should do more often. His gaze then lands on my body, and his eyes sweep over my form, but he doesn’t blatantly ogle me—something most men do when they see me. Tonight I’m wearing a black soft-knit jumpsuit that plunges in the front and back, sans bra. I’m impressed that even with my sexy outfit he’s still respectful. Yeah, that’s nice, but I’m in no mood to play nice. I need to do something to change the mood ASAP!
He hands me the bottle of wine. “My neighbor is a sommelier at a fancy restaurant in Beverly Hills. He says this is really good.”
I walk up to him, dying to be as close as possible to his warmth. “Oh, so you’ve never tasted it?”
He shakes his head. “No… I don’t drink much.”
I move in closer to him and place my hand on his chest. “Really? How is it that a former musician just shy of thirty doesn’t drink much?” He stares at me and I motion for him to follow me to the dining room, where the table is already set.
He bites his lip. “I try not to ingest anything that makes me… lose control,” he murmurs. “I make terrible choices when that happens…”
I decide to play coy with him. “Oh, so what are you, a recovering alcoholic or something?”
“Or something is about right,” he answers cryptically.
I silently berate myself for asking such a pointed, personal question right out of the gate. I’m not sure if I want to pry into that subject further. Yet. We all have limitations—things we have to be cautious about. Mine is chocolate truffles. I can’t eat only one to save my life. In fact, I’ve binged and purged more times than I’m willing to admit on chocolate, all for the sake of keeping this svelte size four figure that photographs and videos well. Do I want to admit this to Brody? Nope, not tonight.
I gesture toward the table, and we both take a seat.
Della enters the room with a steaming tray of food before we are able to continue our way too intense conversation.
“Dinner is served, Ms. Skylar,” she says with aplomb. She knows she’s one hell of a cook so she should be confident. She arranges the various serving dishes before us. “If there isn’t anything else, bon appétit, and I’ll see you two tomorrow.”
“Thanks, Della,” I say.
“Thanks, Mrs. Armstrong,” Brody says.
“My mother-in-law would probably answer to that name, if she was still alive, God rest her soul.” She laughs at her own attempt at an often-used joke. “I’m just Della, Baby.”
“Okay, Della,” Brody says with a grin. “I’ll remember that.”
She leaves as discreetly as always through the kitchen door that opens into the cavernous garage.
Sometimes I wonder why I bought such a big-ass house. My accountant calls it an investment. He says that many of my expenditures for its upkeep are tax write-offs, but it’s going to be one damn lonely place tonight if my seduction routine with Brody backfires.
Since Connor’s abrupt departure from my life, I’ve been bereft of male companionship. Malik doesn’t count because he views me like a surrogate niece who pays him to keep her safe. My male band and dance team members are either married, have significant others, or are gay. And I work so much that I rarely have time to meet people the way most women do in their twenties.
We dig into Della’s delicious summer salad, rack of lamb, new potatoes, and grilled asparagus. But my nerves start to make my stomach feel like lead. I am just too anxious to digest anything.
Brody indulges in Della’s cooking like a man who hasn’t had a home-cooked meal in ages. While he chows down, I keep the conversation flowing—as best I can.
I take a sip of my water and dive right in. “So, do you like your job?”
He looks up at me, a dribble of salad dressing escaping from his delectable mouth. When he licks his lip to capture it, I’m jealous that I didn’t get a chance to remove it for him.
He dabs his lips with the napkin. “Yes, Ma’am.”
I wait for him to expound more, but he returns to attacking the lamb and potatoes. He’s not paying attention so I reluctantly give him a chance to put a dent in his food. I pick nervously at my own. Adele, my favorite balladeer, says, “Hello” to her lost love—the only sound in the room.
I begin to fidget in the silence, so I ask, “Is the food okay?”
He takes a sip of his water, and says between bites, “Yes, thank you.”
Eyeing the bottle of wine Brody brought to the table, I sigh.
“Would you like for me to open it?” he asks.
I’m perplexed. “Is it going to be too much of a temptation for you? I mean, I wouldn’t want to cause your downward spiral into copious imbibing, leading to obvious debauchery, and the consequential aftermath of shame.” Damn, I’m nervous. When I’m nervous I tend to have ridiculous explosions of word vomit. Sometimes they’re nonsensical. While at other times, they make perfect song lyrics… that is if I had decided to become a country music star, which I did not.
Brody laughs and wipes his mouth with his napkin again. “
What did you just say?”
Mortified, I cover my face with both hands, careful not to smear the little bit of makeup I’m wearing. I’m flubbing this in more ways than one.
I remove my hands, and Brody is there invading my personal space, his face just inches from mine. I suck in a deep breath, and my heart starts beating like a trapped woodpecker in my chest. He grabs both of my hands, places his soft, warm lips against my flushed cheek.
“You really are adorable.” He smiles and moves away.
I pout. “That wasn’t the adjective I was looking for...”
Brody begins to rummage through a drawer on the sideboard and finds a corkscrew. “I’m going to open this wine for you,” he says. “And after just one glass, I expect you’ll find an adjective to describe the specific mood you were going for.”
The cork comes out with a resounding pop, and he pours me a glass of the dark red liquid. “For the record, I’m always up for copious debauchery served up with a little bit of shame.”
I press my thighs together, licking my lips to ensure I’m not drooling. Brody Kent has serious game. “I’ll pass on the imbibing, though.” He smiles in that delicious way he does, and it doesn’t take long before my panties are soaked.
Brody helps me load the dishwasher so Della doesn’t have to come back to a dirty kitchen in the morning. I have no earthly idea how to progress from dinner to a more adult dessert, so I’m hoping against hope that he’ll initiate something. I’m ready. Damn it! Why do I have to be such a drama queen?
We adjourn to the living room, and begin sharing random tidbits about ourselves. I can’t believe Brody’s had so many excruciatingly painful life experiences. Is it any wonder he turned his back on the career he once loved dearly for one that leaves so much to be desired? Should I Google him? He’s been so reluctant to discuss anything remotely related to his time in the rock band and performing that I’ve steered clear of those types of questions. Ironically, he seems pretty content to answer non-band-related ones.