The Right Man

by Mankin, Michelle

  “Yeah. All right. I get it.”

  I closed my fingers into tight fists, wishing they were gripping the leather-wrapped steering wheel of my Porsche instead.

  “They get an hour.” I could do sixty more minutes for him and for my bandmates who worked as hard as I did. But that was it. I was as sick of myself and the arrogant rock-star act as everyone else was. “After that, I’m gone.”

  “Everyone out.” Brad barked the order to the media reps who had followed us into the dressing room. “Rush needs a shower.” He cast his authoritative gaze around the throng within the claustrophobic ten-by-fourteen-foot space.

  As usual, when he spoke, people listened. It was an innate ability he’d been honing since I met him in grade school and he convinced our headmaster that after-school suspensions were inhumane.

  “Interviews will run according to the order on the sign-up sheet,” Brad said, and the already rapidly emptying room cleared out even faster. Everyone hoped to be first in line.

  When only my entourage remained, he addressed our small crew. “Thanks for all your hard work tonight. I’ll meet you in the green room. For now, I need you to give us some privacy.”

  They filed out, and as soon as the door shut behind them and we were alone, Brad narrowed his gaze on me.

  “Been on tour for nine months without a fuckin’ break,” I said quickly, recognizing the impending lecture gleaming in his eyes. “I gotta go off the grid before I go completely insane, man.”

  “I hear you.”

  He studied me a long beat. Whatever he saw turned his light blue eyes storm-cloud dark.

  “I’ve got your back. You know I do. But you aren’t the only one who’s dead tired. If you go underground this time, I need you to stay underground, all right? I’ve been at the center of this whirlwind with you, and I’d like a breather from the chaos too. So, no aspiring actresses during the break. No models. And no more Rock Fuck Club chicks.”

  “You expect me to be celibate?” I raised my brows.

  “As a priest.”

  “After the stunts we pulled in Catholic school, I don’t think they’d allow either of us to become men of the cloth.”

  “Real wine swapped out for grape juice.” His flattened lips twitched.

  “Frogs and garden snakes in the sisters’ lockers.” I grinned. “They were prophylactic measures. Our stunts served a purpose.”

  “Kept those rulers off our knuckles after that, didn’t they?”

  I nodded, missing those days when we’d not only had each other’s backs, but also confided everything to each other. Simpler days. Simpler lives.

  Brad’s expression turned serious again. “So, you headed to your condo in Santa Monica?”

  “Yeah, after I drive around a bit. Clear my head.”

  “You mean go to a bar, pick up a chick, and get laid again.”

  “Probably.”

  “Your standards are appallingly low.” He shook his head. “I’m going back home. I’ll be reachable on my personal number if you need me.”

  “Bree giving you another chance?” I asked. He’d been practically domesticated by her.

  Shit, I’d given up on that gig after my one and only failed attempt. Why settle for one woman when I could have however many I wanted each night?

  “I hope she does.” Brad’s brow creased, and suddenly, he seemed less like the confident business manager and more like my geeky grade-school friend. He knew my issues as well as I knew his. The past year had been tough on both of us. But this girl mattered to him.

  Giving me a serious look, he said, “Make this break count, Rush. I plan to. Get your head together. We’ve got from now through New Year’s off, then we’re back out on the road.”

  • • •

  Stuck at a stoplight an hour later, I impatiently drummed my fingers on the steering wheel. The street sign seemed to mock me, probably because I’d seen it before. At least three times.

  How the fuck did I end up circling back to the same corner on Wilshire?

  I glared at my navigation display. Unreliable piece of shit. This wasn’t anywhere near the hotel where my next hookup was waiting.

  I zoomed in on the map. Maybe I could take Hollywood Boulevard around and then just cut back in at . . . Fuck. That route for whatever reason was all red. A parking-lot standstill. And I didn’t know this part of town well enough to come up with an alternative.

  My phone rang. The display switched off the map to reveal it was my mother calling.

  My heart stuttered. Our communication was irregular, especially sparse since the funeral. Her phoning at this time of night led me to immediately anticipate a crisis.

  “Hey, Mom,” I said. “Is everything okay?”

  “No, not really.”

  “Are you sick?” My voice lowered to a strained rasp. An out-of-the-blue phone call similar to this one had broken the bad news about my father. A massive heart attack. Gone within a matter of hours, before I could even say good-bye.

  Had I come to terms with it? Had she?

  Hardly.

  “No, Rush.” Mom’s voice sounded a little strange, as if I’d caught her off guard. “I just had my yearly routine checkup.”

  “Okay. Good.” Shaky, I steered the Porsche to a nearby curb. Since I was using the Bluetooth connection, I hadn’t taken my hands off the wheel, but it was too distracting to drive while talking to her. “So, what’s up?”

  A quick glance out the windows confirmed I wasn’t in the best part of town. Porn shop. A couple of skeezy-looking bars. A by-the-hour motel. I clicked the locks.

  “I’m lonely. Sad. I rarely hear from you anymore. You’re my boy, and I miss you.”

  Her voice hitched, and my stomach bottomed out as if it had been dropped from a height.

  “Mom, I’m sorry. It’s just been crazy busy . . .” I pulled in a breath, not knowing what the fuck to say. Even before the rift between us, I hadn’t been any good at the emotional stuff. It wasn’t the way I’d been raised.

  Life had been rough growing up in the heartland. Dad had been a farmer and rancher, the family livelihood largely dependent on the Indiana weather. Our lives revolved around pragmatism and planning.

  There wasn’t any thought of getting in touch with our feelings, no understanding for a son who preferred to express his creativity through music. And certainly no neutral ground for reconciliation after I left them and chased after my unlikely dreams.

  And now the man who had modeled the values of strength and silent stoicism was gone. Far beyond my reach. The chance for us to explore those feelings was taken with him.

  “It’s my first Christmas without your father,” she said, and the reminder stole my breath. “The house is too quiet. Like a tomb with your brother and Brenda away on their honeymoon.”

  Randy had never moved away from home. The ever-dutiful son, he’d taken over the management of the farm after Dad died. But with my brother out of town, it wasn’t surprising that Mom had reached out to me in a low moment.

  I didn’t much like the idea of her being all alone in the big empty farmhouse, miles away from the nearest neighbor. Worry and guilt wrapped a tight band around my chest. I hadn’t been out to visit her in months, not since the funeral.

  “I was going through my old photo albums after the Johnsons stopped by to check on me,” she said. “Do you remember the year Thunder climbed up the Christmas tree?”

  “Yeah, Mom,” I said, fighting back a smile. I’d forgotten about that cat. “He was just a kitten. He was so small, he looked like one of the ornaments.”

  “Yes, that was before he got fat and mean.”

  “He slept in my room at night. But he used to bring you mice whenever he caught ’em. He left them on the front doorstep so you couldn’t miss them. I think he wanted your approval.”

  The cat. Me. I got the ironic parallel, but did she? Would she ever see value in the choices I made?

  “Yes, I think you’re right. He also used to lie in wait to pou
nce on anyone who walked by. Those claws of his were sharp.” She sighed, her breath heavy with remembrance. “You were so attached to him. You got attached to all the animals, wanted to name them all. It’s hard to send them to the slaughterhouse when you think of them as pets. I guess your father and I should’ve seen the writing on the wall.”

  Was she trying to say she understood why I left? Why I went my own way? Maybe even that she was sorry? Or was I just wishfully reading between the lines?

  “Why are you really calling, Mom?” I said, putting it out there. “I haven’t heard from you in months. I don’t understand. You’re going to have to tell me straight out what you need from me.”

  She sighed, and the line fell silent for a moment. “Just that I don’t want there to be long stretches without us talking to each other anymore. That’s all.”

  Chapter 4

  * * *

  Jewel

  “You look hot.” My roommate clattered toward me at a precarious pace in her skyscraper heels.

  “Thanks, Cam.” I stamped a hand to my hip and posed for her as the bus door closed behind me, and she stopped and twirled to show me her backless dress. Her long black hair swished the exposed skin above her ass. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

  “Digging the cartoon-character-slash-schoolgirl vibe.” Her dark red lipstick framed an approving smile.

  “Thought it might sell well with the older guys on this side of town.”

  “Sick bastards acting out their underage-girl fantasies. You’re probably right.” She unwrapped a piece of gum, split it, popped half in her mouth, and offered me the other.

  “Appreciate it,” I said as I took it.

  “You’re late.” She narrowed her olive-green eyes at me. “You stop to take a client on the way over?”

  “Nah.” I shook my head. “Just another run-in with Wanda.”

  “Bitch.”

  “Yeah.” I agreed readily, my empty stomach twisting. “You made your half of the rent yet?”

  “Nope.” She shook her head. Glossy ebony hair spilled over her delicate shoulders.

  “But I thought you had most of it saved already.”

  “Had most of it.” She slowly blinked her pretty eyes at me.

  “What do you mean, had?” My stomach didn’t just twist, it knotted.

  “I gave it to Lori.”

  “Oh no.” I squeezed my eyes closed for a second, but there was no shutting out the shitty reality.

  “I had to.” My roomie donned a pleading expression. “She was sick. She had the shakes and was puking her guts out.”

  “She’s a heroin addict, Cam, and needs to go to rehab. She’ll just use that money for another fix.”

  Bright pink neon lights advertising a triple-X show blasted my gaze. A reminder, not that I needed one, that the harsh world we lived in couldn’t be remedied with kindness.

  “You don’t have your part either?” she asked.

  I shook my head.

  “We’re fucked.” Frowning, she touched my arm. “I’m sorry, Jewel.”

  “It’s okay.” Kindness might not change much, but I couldn’t blame Cam for it.

  I covered her fingers with mine. Even through the worn cotton of my jacket, I could tell her skin was freezing cold.

  “Two softies is what we are.” I gave her a warm smile. “I probably would’ve done the same thing. What are the odds we’d end up rooming together, huh?”

  “You regret moving in with me?” Her crimson lips trembled uncertainly.

  “No. And anyway, it was your apartment to begin with. Lucky for me, you took me in. I had no job. Barely any money after my boyfriend screwed me over. You took a chance on me. Rescued me.” I squeezed her hand and frowned. “You’re freezing.”

  I removed her fingers, unzipped my jacket, and shrugged out of it. Goose bumps erupted on my exposed flesh, and there was a lot of it, more than Cam revealed in her slinky slip. A guy in a passing car let out a piercing whistle and gave me a leering look, and then he was gone.

  “Put this on,” I said.

  “I’m okay. It’s seventy degrees outside. I’m hardly freezing.”

  “It’s damp. There’s a chill in the air. Take it.” I shook the jacket at her. “I was just going to tie it around my waist, but it messes with my look.”

  “All right.” She frowned at me, but put it on.

  “You make any money tonight?”

  I held my breath for her answer as we moved into our usual position by the streetlight closest to the curb. Best to flaunt our attributes in the light while we could. The longer we kept on making our living like this, the sooner we would wind up falling back into the shadows to hide the toll it took on us.

  “Fifty bucks.”

  “That’s something. Good for you.”

  “One blow job.” Her brow creased. “That’s hardly rent.”

  “It’s a start.” I bit down on my plump, often-abused bottom lip. “Maybe we can convince Wanda to let us pay what we owe in installments.”

  “Maybe,” she said, but we both knew there was zero chance. No excuses. No exceptions. Wanda was a total hard-ass.

  “Hey.” Cam lifted her chin to point at a sleek sports car idling at the curb. “Would you look at that.”

  “What?” I swiveled to glance in the same direction.

  “It’s a Porsche 911 GT2 RS.”

  “I know what kind of car it is.”

  She raised a disbelieving brow.

  “Okay. No, I didn’t. You’re the car expert, Camaro Montepulciano.”

  “Not an expert. Not like my dad.”

  “Yeah,” I said softly. “But you have nearly every make, model, and spec memorized like he does.”

  A love for all things automotive was his one and only legacy to her. After she’d lost her job as a cashier in the auto parts store and her father discovered what she’d taken up as a second career, he completely shut her out. Yet she religiously read Car and Driver magazine every morning as though it were a devotional, just on the off chance that he might one day change his mind and welcome her back.

  “Special silver-metallic finish,” she said almost reverently as she drank in the sight of the expensive car. “Rear-wheel drive. Six cylinders. Three-point-eight-liter twin-turbo engine. Seven hundred horsepower. That baby can do zero to sixty in two point seven seconds.”

  “Sounds super sexy.” I snorted, not as impressed by cars. “So, go get him.”

  “Nah.” She shook her head. “You look way hotter than I do.”

  “Not true, but all right. I’ll go over and take a shot, if you’re sure. Though I better move fast, since I’ve probably only got two-point-something seconds to snag him if he stomps on the gas.” I straightened my shoulders.

  She shook her head at me as I took my first step. “Work your approach faster, roomie. He just put his blinker on. He’s gonna get away. And that’s $293,000 worth of sports car, before options.”

  In other words, if I played it right, I might make rent.

  I picked up the pace, jogging inelegantly to the vehicle, and bent over to tap on the passenger window.

  When the driver slowly turned his head, my heart that was hammering from my dash to the curb slammed to a complete halt as his gaze hit mine. I’d never seen eyes like his before, so gray, the shiny platinum finish of his Porsche seemed tawdry in comparison.

  A long moment passed as I took in his features. Tousled brown hair a little long in the front, strong jaw, chiseled lips, straight nose. He looked me over in return.

  “Hey, handsome,” I said when he lowered the window.

  I feigned confidence, though anyone who really knew me would have noticed that my voice was pitched a higher octave than usual. The potential for rejection with the initial approach always made me nervous. This one more than most. He was way too cute to be trolling the streets for a paid fuck.

  “Want a date for the night?”

  “You even legal, little girl?” he asked, his sable brows arching hig
her above his heart-stopping eyes.

  Okay, maybe I had taken the schoolgirl thing a bit too far.

  “Twenty-one last March.”

  Most guys didn’t care about legalities. Was he a cop? I dismissed the idea immediately. Not likely. Not in a $300,000 car. Just cautious, probably. Another factor that made me wonder why he was cruising for sex.

  I batted my eyelashes at him. “You wanna see my driver’s license, honey?”

  The guy gave me a bored look. “No, not really. Just wanted to acknowledge your tap on my window.” Lifting a hand, he made a shooing motion. “You can step away from the car now. I’m not interested. Just pulled over to have a conversation on my phone. I mean, do I look like I need to pay a fucking prostitute to have sex with me?”

  His rejection stung, making my temper flare.

  I glared at him, spitting out my response without thinking. “With manners like that, you couldn’t possibly pay me enough to put up with you.”

  “Get your filthy little hands off my car, Harley Quinn.” His gray eyes flashed fiery silver.

  I planted my fists on my hips. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  Those eyes of his were second-place silver to my defiant gold. I wasn’t an exotic half-Italian beauty like Cam, but his dismissal triggered my attitude. Attitude I couldn’t afford, but I let it rip anyway.

  “Get your statusy piece-of-shit car off my corner. I was here first.” Holding my head high, I flicked a pigtail over my shoulder. My bracelets jingled my irritation as I strolled away.

  Take that, rich guy.

  He didn’t immediately leave, and I didn’t turn to see what he was doing, even though I could feel his gaze on me. Swaying my hips provocatively, I moved to the car that had pulled in front of his Porsche.

  Locks suddenly popped behind me. “Hey, Harley! Wait up.”

  I spun around and froze.

  He stood next to his vehicle, the streetlight bathing his sculpted form. The breadth of his wide shoulders split open the lapels of his black leather jacket. He wore no shirt beneath it to hide the view of his chiseled pecs and abs. His smooth, golden-tanned skin glistened in the light as he casually propped his elbow on the roof of his car. Narrow hips and long legs in low-slung jeans completed the compelling portrait.