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“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?”
