He glances over his shoulder and spins the stick, letting the curtain fall back in place. “It’s your uncle.”
I wince at the reminder of him being a family member. Thinking of him that way makes my skin itch, like I need a searing hot shower. Not to mention, I thought I was done seeing him back in Chicago.
“Can we not call him that?” I ask, rubbing my hands down my arms.
The guys exchange a look, a clear question in their gazes wondering why. “What should I call him?” Keaton asks. Acceptance. Simple as that.
“Dickless,” I answer. Before I can say anything else, another knock comes. Somehow this one sounds sharper, more impatient. I wipe at my cheeks again and wave my hands back and forth, trying to dry the tears. It won’t do anything for the swelling or blotchy redness I’m sure is there.
“Let him in,” I rasp. Nash moves over on the couch so we aren’t touching, and a moment later, Blake hands me a bottle of water. I smile at him gratefully; I hadn’t even realized he stood up. My first sip hits the back of my throat as the door swings open, revealing Dickless and my useless manager Alyssa. Of course it would be double the annoyance coming in when I’m in an emotional state.
The man behind Lexington Productions saunters in like he owns the damn world. His head held high and his gaze judgmental, like he’s above everything they land on. His nose pinches like he’s disgusted to even be here, which doesn’t track with The Storm—she’s a fucking beauty and smells like eucalyptus and lemon. I’d believe it if he looked like that going into Thunderstruck. That heap no longer resembles the bus I used to ride.
“Uncle,” I address him, my nails biting into the seat cushion next to me at having to use the honorific. “Please, take a seat.” I gesture to the other side of the L-shaped couch, ignoring Alyssa’s presence completely.
They both take a seat, my manager so close to the asshole that she might as well sit on his lap. She’s been chasing him for years, trying to get a ring on her finger no matter the cost, even going so far as to ignore the time he spends behind closed doors with minors. She’s as disgusting as him for allowing it to happen.
“Angel,” he starts, making my insides feel like they’re getting raked over by shards of glass. “Have you found your lead guitarist?”
Emotions threaten to bubble to the surface once more, the topic raw against my nerves. As I breathe in to answer him, I’m hit with the sweet smell of coffee. I barely glance to the side, searching for the source, when a mug appears before me. Keaton. That amazing, perfect man.
I reach out for the steaming cup of liquid happiness and take a deep sniff. I’m convinced a good cuppa can cure almost anything. “Oh, I’ll take a cup as well,” I hear Dickless say.
“All out,” Keaton grunts.
As if I’d ever run out of coffee, I scoff in my head.
Knowing him, he doesn’t even want to spare the two words for the man. Hearing that, I take a loud slurp of my coffee and quickly lick the rim like I’m saving a stray drip. The rule is if you lick it, you don’t have to share, right? And I get the added benefit of rubbing it in that I have coffee and he can’t. Total win-win.
Dickless scowls, giving me an extra boost of pleasure. I take another sip to hide the smile behind my mug, my heart warming at the care Keaton wasn’t afraid to show for me in front of others. Even if it is completely platonic in nature.
Knowing I can’t postpone answering him forever, I finally give him the information he came for. “No, I haven’t.”
He sucks in a deep breath, making his frown even more exaggerated with disappointment. It’s a look I’ve received more times than I can count. One that’s faker than Alyssa’s tits. I only wish I realized before I let him manipulate me with it when I first started out. Now it does nothing to me. I know he’ll do whatever he wants, I’m the only one who can let him fuck with my head anymore.
Sometimes that’s easier said than done, though.
“I thought after your last stint in rehab you would’ve come back with more ambition to take things seriously. Driving away one of your band members isn’t how you prove to me that you’re worthy of the label’s name backing you.”
His words cut into my tender heart, a burning pain ripping through me. Of course he’d assume it had something to do with me. Sometimes I think he actually believes the rumors he’s created about me.
Nash stiffens next to me, and I hand him my coffee to stop him from doing or saying something that he can’t take back. I need him, and if he mouths off to the asshole, then there’s nothing I can do to save him from the slap back coming his way. Not with my name in tatters the way it is.
“I can’t control the actions of others,” I tell him, unsure of what else I can say. My stomach turns with the sudden memory of what he said to me a few days ago—that I need to have a replacement for Tristan if we didn’t find him. My focus has been devoted to finding him, I couldn’t imagine failing, so why would I waste precious time finding someone to take his place?
As expected, the next thing Dickless asks is, “So, who is the replacement you found?”
My palms are sweating, and it takes everything in me not to wipe them on my jeans. “I–” my voice cracks. No matter how much I mentally prep myself, I can’t keep my fear of him from sneaking in when I’m not looking. “I haven’t found one.”
“Raina.” He says my name in that disappointed daddy voice that makes my skin crawl. “Did you even try?”
“She never tries,” Alyssa can’t help but cut in. “She makes me do every little thing for her.”
That motherfucking liar. She does jack shit, and she knows it. So does he, but that’s besides the point. Not to mention helping find a replacement would fall under something she should help me with. The woman deserves to be smacked in the face with a wet fish.
You know what, on that topic, she should’ve been helping with the search for Tristan. He’s part of the band they stuck me with, and it’s bad press for the label if it got out that he’s missing.
Ugh, I just hate her so much.
