His lips twitch with a smile. “More than all right.”
What’s that supposed to mean? I study his expression, and I can see his mouth open and shut as if he wants to say something but backs down before he does.
Fuck it.
“Okay. You’re driving me nuts. What’s going on? You’ve been trying to tell me something since this morning, but you keep postponing it. What is it?”
He blinks as he rolls off of me. His cum spills between my thighs. “Nothing… It’s just the boys.”
“What about them?”
That nervous smile crosses his face again. “They keep saying I hang with my girlfriend way too long, like you’re taking over me and eventually will stir some trouble in the band.”
I gape at him for a second, and then I burst into laughter. WTF? That’s the big thing that’s been troubling him?
“Why are you laughing?” he asks.
“’Cause that’s so stupid. I’m not even your girlfriend. It doesn’t make any sense.”
His Adam’s apple bobs. “Yes… Yeah. That’s what I…told them.”
“Is that why you invited me to that party tomorrow? To reassure them that I’m no Yoko? I really don’t mind clarifying things, telling them that we’re not together like that.”
“Uh… No. That’s not why I asked you to come with, and I definitely don’t want you to tell them any of that.” He nods and then shakes his head, his smile gone. “I mean I already did. Don’t worry.”
“Cool. So what time is the party?”
“Eight. I’ll send you a car to pick you up,” he answers distantly.
“No need. Just tell me the name of that hotel, and I’ll grab an Uber.”
“It’s the AKA Beverly Hills, but I’ve already arranged for your ride.”
My heart thrashes. That’s where Mike lives.
Fuck.
6. MAGGIE
The whole ride in the limo I convince myself that tonight is gonna be okay. I’ll stay till Viktor finishes playing, and then I’ll go. I won’t be long, and there’s no way I’ll run into Mike inside or outside the hotel’s club.
The chauffeur pulls over and opens the door for me. I adjust my outfit as I climb out of the limo. A gothic skirt and a black tank top with ‘Vodka is my Valentine’ printed on it. Perfect for this Fuck V-Day rock party.
Or so I’ve thought.
From the second I’ve entered the hotel, everything is draped in red. Red carpets, red balloons, red hearts of all sizes. It’s like a pipe of everything Valentine’s has burst inside.
I seek the nightclub where I belong, hoping to see some black or any other color to balance this shit. But I reach the entrance, and the red vomit is still all over the place. Even the hostess holding the guest list is wearing red.
What the fuck?
“Your name?” she asks.
I scowl, sentimental tunes streaming from inside the club. “Maggie Dawson.”
She nods as she checks her list. Then she points to one of the guards. “Take Ms. Dawson backstage, please.” She grins at me and hands me a rose from the stand in front of her. “Happy Valentine’s Day. Mr. Volkov is waiting for you. Enjoy your night.”
I stare at the rose for a few moments, my head spinning, my scowl deep. What the fucking fuck?
