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“She’s a crazy bitch!” he gasps.
I release his shirt and wrap my hand around his throat. “You wanna repeat that?”
He gasps and scratches at my hand.
“I saw you try to cop a feel, motherfucker,” I snarl right in his face. “Pretty sure your assistant got it on film.”
“It was an accident! I didn’t mean any harm. Everyone knows we joke around here!”
I squeeze his neck a little harder. The edgy, off-color jokes were bad enough. But that’s the show’s gimmick. I don’t like it or respect it, but it’s business. “She agreed to sit through forty-five minutes of your shitty attempts at humor—not a grope from your fat little sausage fingers.”
“I…I…” he gasps.
“What?” I release him and he falls to the floor, choking and coughing. “You got more excuses?”
“Call security!” he says to Junior.
“No need. We’re leaving.” I squat next to Scotty and lean in close. “If you even think of using whatever power you think you have to trash talk her or fuck with her career in any way, I’ll be back.” I stand and stare down at him, adjusting my cut and running my hands through my hair. “My next warning won’t be as friendly, Scotty.”Chapter Fifty-TwoShelby
The three of us are silent on the way to the parking garage. I’m too stunned to speak. Jigsaw’s jittery, like he’s eager to get the hell away from us. And Rooster’s jaw is so tight I’m afraid he’s gonna crack a tooth or ten.
Jigsaw slaps Rooster’s hand. “Meet you at the arena.” He nods to me. “Later.”
“Thanks for coming.” I’m still embarrassed that he watched that jerk grope me. But it was awfully nice of Jigsaw to get up so early to help Rooster protect me and watch that hot mess.
“Anytime, Shelby.”
When we’re alone in the truck, I rest my cheek against the window. The cool glass soothes my overheated face. “What a disaster.”
“The whole interview was a joke from the jump.” Rooster’s snorting mad and picking up steam. “What was Greg thinking? You shouldn’t have to lower yourself to answering bullshit questions and sleazy innuendos from disrespectful dicks.”
“It comes with the territory.”
“That’s fucking bullshit.”
“Rooster, it’s my job. You can’t—”
“You need to understand something.” He pauses until I meet his eyes. “No matter how much I hated it, I wouldn’t butt into the business end of your career and complicate things for you.” He stares down at his fists. “But once that fucker touched you, he made it personal. And I will not tolerate anyone putting their hands on you. End of story.”
I’ve tolerated with that kind of behavior my whole life, waiting tables, tending bar, and singing. Hell, just existing. It hadn’t occurred to me until more recently that men aren’t entitled to grab a handful of my ass whenever they feel the urge. “Thank you.”
“You nailed him in the groin pretty good, Shelby. Turns out, you didn’t need me.” He shakes his head. “Real fuckin’ proud of you.”
“Must be years of built-up rage from putting up with that crap. I wasn’t even thinking. My body reacted without my brain’s permission.” I glance at the building. “Guess that’ll be the last airplay I get on mainstream radio.”
Finally, he cracks a hint of a smile. “Nah, I warned him I’d be back if he tried fucking with you in any way.”
“You did?”
“Fucking right I did.” He starts the truck without looking at me.
My phone buzzes and I groan. Greg’s probably calling to scold me.
It’s just a text though.
Greg: Interview sounded great. Are you on your way here now?
“Guess your threat stuck. Greg doesn’t seem to know anything went wrong.”
“Good.” His tone suggests he really doesn’t give a hoot about Greg’s opinion. “Look up a place to grab breakfast.”
“What are you in the mood for?”
He slides his gaze my way. “Whatever you’re comfortable eating on a concert day.”
That’s a short list. I scroll through a bunch of places and finally choose a diner only a few miles from the arena.
He’s quiet, so I continue fiddling with my phone, looking up the Scotty and Junior show to see if they’ve posted anything about my appearance yet.
Ugh. Someone had the nerve to upload a picture taken about two seconds before Scotty tweaked my nipple. His fat fingers straining toward my boob and a slimy smirk on his face. There’s no way anyone can claim that was an accident.
I take a screenshot of the photo just in case it “disappears” later and anyone tries to sue me or Rooster.
“What are you looking at?” he asks.
“Oh, they posted a photo. Right before he tried to honk my boob.”
“Son of a bitch.”
“No, it’s fine. I saved it. Just in case.”
He glances over with a half-smile. “Smart girl. Forward it to me, please.”
I send it to his phone, smiling when I hear the distinctive chirp. “Do I have my own personal ringtone on your phone?”
