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“Great, let us know,” I said. “And find out if Devyn is available to play with us either Friday night or Saturday. I guess she works a day job.”
“She’s a studio musician at Black Kat Studios,” Sasha said.
“How have I never heard of her?” I demanded. “I would remember that name.”
“She doesn’t go by Devyn. At the studio she’s D. Monahan. That’s why it was hard to find her.”
D. Monahan.
I knew that name.
Everyone talked about him.
Him?!
“Oh, I’ve heard of him!” Tommy said. “He played bass on the theme song for ‘Temperate Heat.’ It was a huge deal.”
“She,” Sasha corrected mildly. “And yes, that’s her.”
“Someone is going to have to ask her what her preferred pronouns are,” I said after a moment.
No one responded.
“You guys suck,” Sasha said when she realized the question would fall to her.
“That’s why we pay you the big bucks,” Z said with a chuckle.
“I’m on it.” Sasha laughed and disconnected.
* * *
I got home and showered, sprawling out on my king size bed. I was tired since I’d been up drinking and fucking half the night, and I momentarily thought back to the blonde from last night. She’d been nice enough, but as always, once the sex was over, I didn’t give most women a second thought.
I’d been dating an Australian supermodel for a few months, but we both had busy careers, and she was young. Just twenty-two, and nowhere near ready to settle down. I would be turning thirty-one soon, and it felt like it might be time to think about that. The problem was finding someone to do it with. I loved women and dated a lot—more than any man should have a right to—but none of them had ever felt like forever.
Maybe I wasn’t giving any of them a chance. I hadn’t even paid attention to the blonde’s name, which was one of my shortcomings. I’d gotten used to one-night stands, so I didn’t think about much beyond that.
Cheyenne had been different, and we liked each other a great deal, but we’d agreed it was nothing more than sex and friendship. Just over a month ago, she’d taken off for Europe, so we’d decided to call it quits. There were no hard feelings, and she was still a sweet, beautiful girl, but deep down, I’d known she wasn’t it for me.
No one ever was.
I almost wondered if something was wrong with me.
I hadn’t had a serious girlfriend in years. Almost a decade, in fact. I’d had short-term relationships where I was faithful, but those had always been with the understanding that we were just having fun until we mutually decided to end it. Cheyenne had been perfect because she was gorgeous, but busy and independent, so she hadn’t needed to constantly be with me.
And the worst part was, I didn’t know if that had made me like her more or less.
I couldn’t seem to nap so I got up and wandered into my living room.
My Beverly Hills condo was only two thousand square feet, but every inch was bathed in luxury. From the marble flooring to the handmade built-ins to the grand piano by the window—my home was indicative of the life of I lived.
Rich, beautiful, and without depth.
There were only a handful of photographs, I almost never used the kitchen, and even my bedroom was somewhat bare. Almost as if this place was nothing more than a place to rest my head in between tours. The road felt more like home than my condo, and I didn’t know whose fault that was either.
My phone buzzed and I saw my agent’s name flash on the screen.
“Hey, Lorelei.”
