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Farther from Luke. Away from his bed. Out of reach of his arms.
I didn’t know if I was landing in the middle of the dream I had spent the past seven years creating, or running from the new one I wanted.
I slid the tortoise brown sunglasses over my eyes as I disembarked from the plane. I carried my guitar and heavy leather bag with me. I hoped it made me look like an up and comer. The way I used to look when I first started playing music.
As soon as I made it to baggage claim I realized my face was too recognizable to get away with that trick. There were a few reporters who staked out the baggage area regularly.
“Lexi! Lexi!”
I shielded my face, smiling as I side-stepped the men.
There was a firm grip on my elbow and I inhaled the strong scent of Jake’s cologne. He pecked me on the cheek.
“Good to see you, babe.”
He waved off the cameras before they took a few snaps.
“Hi.” I smiled sweetly.
“We need to talk.” His fingers dug deeper into my arm.
“There’s nothing to talk about.” I think it was my nonchalant attitude that set him off more.
He practically pushed me in the back of the Escalade.
“Ouch, Jake.” I rubbed my elbow.
The driver stepped out to help with my guitar.
I glared at my manager. “What’s your problem?”
“You,” he seethed. “You can’t decide you aren’t going to fly home. You can’t turn off your phone.” He leaned in next to me. “And you can’t be seen kissing that asshole Luke Canton.”
I laughed. “You need to get laid, Jake. You are way too uptight.”
“Oh, so you got some and now you’re happy and walking on a cloud.”
I looked out the window, ignoring him. “Maybe.”
“Damn it, Lex. You did sleep with that Neanderthal, didn’t you? Look.” He waited until we pulled away from the curb to start his full tirade. I knew this was coming. “I think I have this situation contained, but it could have been catastrophic. Do you remember what happened to Whitney Rivers? Should I remind you about her story?”
“That’s crazy.” My stomach did a flip.
“Crazy? She got pregnant. A single girl pregnant, singing country music? It was professional suicide. That girl had ten number one hits. Ten. And now she has a baby. She’s a walking country song. No man. A baby on her hip. No job.”
I rolled my eyes. “She could put out another song if she wanted to.”
He huffed. “You think she could? Last I checked no label would touch her. This isn’t rock. This isn’t pop. It’s fucking country music, Lex. She is finished. You know it. I know it.”
“Well, last I checked you can’t get pregnant from kissing. And in case you’re wondering that toilet seat thing is a rumor too,” I smarted off.
“This is a joke to you? Your brand is a fucking joke?” Jake tugged on his expensive cufflinks. “I made you, Lex and I can take you down faster than you can strut your little ass on stage.”
“You wouldn’t,” I countered.
“I would and I will if you try this kind of stunt again.”
He was bluffing. There was no way he’d ruin me and lose his golden ticket. It didn’t make sense.
