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Holding back a smile, I return to Georgina, lick my lips like I’ve just devoured her pussy, and brush a lock of dark hair off her shoulder. “So, hey, Georgina, when do you think we should—"
And that’s it. Reed’s seen enough.
“I need to speak with you,” he barks out, appearing out of nowhere at my shoulder like The Flash.
“Can it wait?” I say. “Georgina and I—”
“It can’t wait,” Reed snaps. “Follow me.”
Without waiting for my reply, Reed grips my sleeve and physically drags me across the room and around a corner into a short hallway, leaving Georgina with her hazel eyes wide and her mouth hanging open.
“Reed, come on, man,” I say, smiling broadly at my friends as Reed drags me toward my certain doom. “You’re cock-blocking me.”
Reed’s entire body shudders at my words, but he continues dragging me until we’re away from the party. Once safely outside of Georgina’s sightline, Reed whirls around, his dark eyes aflame, and spits out, “Do not hit on the Rock ‘n’ Roll reporter!”
I shake my arm free of Reed’s vise-like grip. It’s a tragedy Kendrick isn’t here to witness this moment, but, by God, when I recount the story to him later, I want him to be duly impressed with me. Never let it be said I don’t give Birthday Truth or Dare my all.
Leaning my shoulder against the wall, I whine, “But, Reed, she’s hot as hell.”
Reed’s jaw pulses. “She’s hands-off.”
“Who says?”
Reed pauses, his nostrils flaring and his dark eyes on fire. And against all odds, I feel a tiny pang of compassion for the bastard. I don’t know why he’s been stalking Georgina from afar tonight. What dynamic, real or imagined, has kept him from making his intentions clear to the world? Whatever the hell is going on, Reed is clearly flustered in a way I’ve never seen him before.
Reed opens and closes his mouth, searching for his response, before finally blurting—and not convincingly, I might add, “She’s here to do a job, not to get hit on.” When I raise my eyebrows, conveying my skepticism, Reed adds, “I promised her boss nobody would hit on her.”
Well, that’s ludicrous. Since when does Reed let anything or anyone get in the way of something, or someone, he wants? Could it be Reed promised Georgina’s boss he wouldn’t hit on her, for some reason? Which I suppose is possible, given her age and inexperience and his position of power and reputation as a womanizer. But even then, I can’t imagine Reed would uphold a promise like that for long, if he really wanted Georgina.
I languidly pull a box of cigarettes out of my pocket. I only smoke when I’ve been drinking. And I couldn’t be happier to have a box with me now, given how much Reed notoriously despises cigarettes. Casually, I stick an unlit cigarette between my lips and say, “I think we should let her decide if she wants to get hit on or not.”
Well, that does it. Reed can’t keep it together another minute. His dark eyes blazing, he points toward the end of the hallway, like he’s commanding a misbehaving dog into a doghouse. He shouts, “Go find the other writer! Her name is Zasu. She’s been assigned to do your interview.”
I can’t believe my ears. Reed is going to make poor Georgina, a summer intern with stars in her eyes, give up a solo interview with me—one of the hottest commodities on the planet right now—solely because, waah, waah, Reed doesn’t want to risk me seducing her?
I say, “Georgie and I have great chemistry.” I heard Fish’s date call Georgina that nickname earlier tonight, during our ping pong game, so I’m assuming it’ll piss Reed off if I use it, too. I add, “We already have the whole thing figured out.”
“You’re doing an interview with Zasu,” Reed commands vehemently. “It’s not a request.”
I remove my unlit cigarette from my lips, unable to locate my lighter. “You want Georgina for yourself, don’t you?”
Bingo. From Reed’s facial expression, it’s clear I’ve hit the nail on the head.
His voice tight, Reed grits out, “My motivations don’t matter. The only thing you need to know is the owner of your label is telling you she’s off-limits. Now, go find Zasu.”
I slip the cigarette back between my lips. “Got a light?”
“No!” Reed booms. He points again, nonverbally ordering me away, and I know I’ve reached the finish line—the point where there’s nothing more I can say or do in this passion play. I pull the unlit cigarette out of my mouth again, wink at Reed, and saunter away, but not before tossing over my shoulder, “You’re too old for her, anyway, man. She’s only twenty-one.”
Ha. That ought to sting.
When I re-enter the main room of the party, I discover my friends buckled over with laughter at my performance. I walk toward them, my arms outstretched like, “Did you expect anything less from the master?” and then, instinctively, glance toward Laila. But, damn, she’s not there. As I look around, I don’t see her anywhere. Did she storm out, too disgusted by my fuckboy display to stick around? Or, worse, did my aggressive flirting with Georgina prompt her to go into a dark corner . . . with Cash?
