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If you believe that, you’ll believe anything.
I zone back into their conversation when Knox says, “Anything you need to make this transition easier, let me know.Nothingis off limits.” Unease grips me when Knox places his hand high on my thigh and squeezes it. “Except her. She’s untouchable.”
Before I can work out what he’s playing at, the reason for his show of masculinity is unearthed when he removes his hand from my body to pull a contract out of his soft leather briefcase.
Knox makes all his employees sign a contract with a non-fraternization policy, and although he said it wasn’t a requirement for artists—it’s more to protect them than hinder their creativity—I happily signed it.
Knox’s looks give any woman’s eyes the workout of their life, but there are some lines I won’t cross.
Messing around with the man in charge of my career is the first item on that list.
I almost warn Laken not to sign anything without having a lawyer look at it, but I can’t get any words past the shock clogged in my throat when I notice he’s once again shooting daggers at me.
If he wants to make out I’m the villain, I may as well portray one.
“Don’t forget to mention that company perks are only to be utilized duringworkinghours.” I wait for Laken’s eyes to align with mine before I lower my eyes to the complimentary condoms supplied by the stretch limousine company. The brand and use-by date match the condoms we diminished last night.
I can tell the moment their familiarity smacks into him. His jaw stiffens before his throat works through a hard swallow. “It won’t be an issue,” he murmurs after swallowing enough times to wet his throat with spit. “I won’t have any need for company perks…” I would have preferred if he ended his statement there. Regretfully, I’ve never been overly lucky. “Not duringworkinghours, anyway.”
“Attaboy!” Knox says with a laugh. “I have no issues with you sowing your oats while we’re on tour. I’d just rather you do it with the girls seeking free tickets instead of the ones I’m paying out the eye to bring the tour together.” My back molars are already gnawed to stubs over him demoralizing the people we need to make my album a success, but I feel sick to the stomach when I can’t take his final comment any other way. “If you want to pay for it, you may as well hire aprofessional.”
I shoot my eyes up from my balled hands when Laken asks a short time later, “Have all employees signed this?” I assume Knox nods when a rustle flicks up the loose bangs framing my face, and am proven right when Laken continues his interrogation. “Including you two?”
When Knox’s humored laugh doubles the heat of the glare Laken is hitting me with, my anger surges too fast for me to continue playing nice. “Why does it bother you if we’ve signed or not? It isn’t like either of us are going to sleep with you.” I thrust my hand between Knox and myself as I say the word “us” before locking eyes with Laken to ensure he can’t miss my unvoiced words.
I won’t make that mistake twice.
I thank my lucky stars for the driver’s impressive skills when our arrival at the private airstrip allows me to exit the vehicle with a dramatic flair. I clamber out of my seat as if my ass is on fire before hotfooting it in the direction of a private jet idling on the runway.
It is on loan from Rise Up, a somewhat “good luck” omen from the men who didn’t have two dimes to rub together before music gave them more than fame.
Since I am leaving Ravenshoe—a star-spotting haunt now as famous as LA—I’m screamed a range of questions during my brisk walk to the stairs leading to the jet. They aren’t from fans wanting a piece of their favorite band. They’re from members of the paparazzi desperate for an exclusive scoop on the group of friends who put Ravenshoe on the map.
“Is it true Noah and Emily’s marriage is on the rocks?”
“Will you be back in time for Nick and Jenni’s wedding? If sources close to the family are correct, it will be sometime within the next three months.”
Wrong.Nick and Jenni are already married. As are Kylie and Slater, Rise Up’s drummer. They just kept it a secret from everyone of no importance to them.
“Can you confirm or deny if Emily is expecting again?”
“Do you want to apologize to Kylie about the mishap that occurred last night?”
That question stops me in my tracks.
After cranking my neck to the middle-aged man livestreaming his “interview,” I ask, “What am I meant to be apologizing about?”
His reply stabs me in the chest. “When you went home with her fiancé.”
“I didn’t go home with anyone last night.”Dirty, filthy sex with a stranger on a rooftop? Different story.
“That isn’t whatTMZis reporting,” says a second pap with half a head of pink hair. “A reliable source informed them that you were seen leaving…”—she checks her notepad—“Mavericks at eleven p.m. on the back of Slater’s bike.” After scrolling on her phone for ten seconds, she spins the screen to face me. “See?”
“That isn’t me.”
I wore a Jenni Holt dress last night. The auburn-haired beauty on the back of Slater’s bike is wearing cutoff jeans and a white singlet top oddly similar to the shirt Kylie, Slater’s wife, had on last night.
“Kylie is mainly brunette, but her hair would understandably look more auburn if it was illuminated by dozens of cameras flashing.”
