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I take a deep, calming breath. It’s fine. I’ll simply tell Georgina my mother isn’t available for a visit this time. I’ll say she’s got a friend staying with her. Or that she’s out of town, visiting a friend in Paris. Or Toronto. And on our next visit to New York, I’ll make excuses that time, too. And then, again and again. And if Georgina starts asking me why she still hasn’t met my mother, down the line, I’ll deal with it then. Who knows? Maybe I’ll feel ready at some point to tell Georgina the truth. Maybe one day I’ll tell her about all the tragedies that have left my mother irrevocably broken. The tragedies sitting like an elephant on my chest every day of my life. But today isn’t that day.
Everyone around me chuckles, drawing me out of my thoughts—and I realize Georgina is in the midst of a raucous interview of RCR. I watch her for a moment, marveling at her confidence and charisma. At how obviously she’s charmed each and every one of them. Not just C-Bomb.
After a moment, my eyes drift to that PA, the one who walked in on Georgina and me. She’s sitting in a far corner, watching the interview. And when her eyes happen to land on mine, she flashes me a pitiful look that practically screams, I swear I didn’t tell anyone what I saw! before quickly looking away, her face flushed.
I resist the urge to smile at her misery—because, man, it’s highly amusing to me—and, instead, shift my eyes to Dean. My golden goose. The face and voice and brilliant mind that launched my empire. He’s a fucking genius, that man. And a great guy, too. Can’t say the same thing about his best friend. Speaking of which... my eyes snap back to C-Bomb to find him glaring at me.
Fuck you, I shoot him nonverbally, with a little lift of my chin.
He returns the glare and the gesture. And then does something that makes my blood simmer. He looks at Georgina lasciviously, and then back at me, and flashes me a look that plainly says, Looks like we both missed out on that one, eh? He winks, like he’s taking great pleasure in knowing I won’t get to tap that ass, any more than he will.
And that’s it. My blood flash-boils. I look away, forcing myself not to shoot him a smug look that will telegraph I’ve already tapped that ass, motherfucker... and it was the best ass I’ve ever had.
Goddammit. Clearly, my scare tactics with that little PA worked too well, because there’s no doubt in my mind she didn’t tell C-Bomb, or anyone else, what she saw going down in that dressing room. Or, rather, who she saw going down. When C-Bomb heard I’d nixed Georgina’s plans to attend his party and tag along on tour, he must have figured I did that because I wanted Georgina for myself... but not because I’d already successfully gotten her. And that pisses me off to no end. Sitting here now, I want Caleb to know I’ve fucked Georgina. I want him to know I’m fucking her every night of my life. In fact, I want every fuckboy on my label to know it. Even the nice guys, too. I want the whole world to know Georgina is mine. In fact, I want to take out a full-page ad in Rock ‘n’ Roll to broadcast the truth: I love Georgina Ricci... and, miraculously, she loves me, too, motherfuckers!
There’s more laughter that draws my attention. I look at Georgina. She’s having a great old time with the band. And, suddenly, I feel like a man possessed. Obsessed with the idea of C-Bomb, and the other band members, knowing I’m the “boyfriend” Georgina just mentioned.
“Awesome, guys,” Georgina says. She rises from her seat. “That’s all I need.”
The guys thank Georgina. Dean wishes her a great time in New York and a happy birthday. The other guys follow suit, with Clay specifically telling her to have fun with her “boyfriend.” Georgina wishes the band a great show. And in the middle of all that, Owen arrives with a small group of VIPs who’ve come to meet the band.
I shake hands with the VIPs and introduce them to the guys, and then to Georgina—but only as a reporter for Rock ‘n’ Roll. Not as my girlfriend. Because that’s what Georgina has specifically said she wants, whenever we’re interacting with my artists. But this time, unlike all times before, not getting to call Georgina my girlfriend is driving me batshit crazy. I want—no, I need—the world to know she’s mine.
As the VIPs take their selfies with the band, I pull Georgina aside. “I need to talk to you about something.”
She looks concerned. “Are you okay?”
I glance at C-Bomb, and force myself, through sheer force of will, not to kiss Georgie, right here and now, so he can see me do it. “No, actually, I’m not. Come on, Miss Ricci. Follow me.”
