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What would it take to make those unforgiving eyes warm with approval? Was it even possible?
Maybe honesty would. I could give him that, even if he turned out to be in cahoots with Taylor. What difference did it make if I told someone how I really felt? No one paid me any mind. Maybe if I told someone I could nudge the elephant off my chest so I could breathe again.
“My price was approval,” I said quietly.
I hadn’t changed one bit. Here I was standing on a dark street corner, trying to please some man I didn’t know by telling him something real. That was my nature. People pleaser. Approval seeker.
Pop princess, go home and slip into your ivory tower. That’s where you belong.
“Isn’t everybody’s?” His dry response teased a smile out of me. “Look, I like chatting with you and all, but we need to call this in. Even if this car is yours, you need to do an accident report. You might need to be looked at by a medical professional.”
I laughed at that one. “Because I’m talking all crazy?”
“You said it, not me.”
“I did.” I sighed. “Yeah. We can call the cops. Might as well keep it all above board.” I brightened. “Maybe this will end up in the papers?”
I probably shouldn’t want that, on account of the whole diva-in-danger headline that was sure to accompany the article. Plus, it was a shitty thing to do, to borrow a car and mess it up, even in a minor, repairable way.
But maybe just maybe someone would look at me a little differently. Perhaps they’d wonder if something more lurked beneath my perfect hair and plastic smile.
Or maybe they’d just up my life insurance policy.
“You want this in the paper?” His brow furrowed. “Why?”
“Well, I’m of two minds.”
He crossed his arms. “No kidding.”
Swallowing hard, I strode toward the Porsche. Why was I baring myself to this stranger? Kissing him was one thing. Even going home with him—
Wait. No, I could not do that. A, he hadn’t asked. B, he was showing no inclination to ask. C, if he wasn’t my manager’s hired muscle, he had to be in the security field. Something cop-related. He had eyes like the bodyguards I dealt with day in and day out.
Then there was the medal.
Unless he was just a dangerous man, as he’d warned. Some of them probably had suspicious eyes and unusual jewelry too. Not that I had a lot of experience with dangerous types, but that seemed reasonable.
“Where are you going?”
“Just getting my stuff.” I waved a hand over my shoulder. “Call who you need to. I’m ready to face the music.” I tugged open the door of the Porsche and grabbed my guitar case out of the passenger seat.
So much for running away from my life. I couldn’t even manage to do it without taking the tools of my trade. This battered case covered in a million band stamps and patches and random stickers I’d been collecting since I was a teen represented so much more than an instrument to me. It stood for the heart and soul of my music. Even if I didn’t get many opportunities to play my own songs, that didn’t mean I intended to give up. I’d just keep pushing.
One day I’d break through. And in the meantime, I’d collect experiences for the jar in my mind that would give me fodder to create better songs.
I couldn’t create without living.
Turning back, I startled at his proximity. He moved as silently and stealthily as a cat.
“Literally,” he said, staring down at the guitar case I held between us like a shield. I’d been entertaining less than innocent thoughts in his direction, but now that he was in the dominant position, looming over me, trapping me between his arms braced on the top of the car and the door, suddenly going home alone didn’t seem so bad.
This was not the sort of man I was used to.
“W-what?” God, I hoped the question only sounded like a squeak in my head.
He indicated my case with the dip of his chin. His very strong, masculine chin, dark with five o’clock shadow. “You said face the music, then you whipped out a guitar.”
“Oh, yeah.” Blindly, I glanced down at the case and wondered how my boneless fingers didn’t drop it to the ground. “I’m a singer.”
