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“I got a clean bill of health last week. Insurance won’t cover me on the road without it. As for groupies, I had my fill the first year on tour.”
“What is that like? Having women throwing themselves at you constantly?”
I sat in the chair next to hers and hung my legs over the arm. I thought about that first year, when every woman claimed to love me but in reality what they loved was the moment. Talk about notches on belts; I can’t even think about how many times I became a cross off on a bucket list. “It’s not real. These women think they love you, and they’ll tell you they do, but what they love is the idea of you.”
She looked at me thoughtfully. “Most men would love that. You don’t?”
Her fucking eyes spoke to me. When she talked to me, it was as if she was really interested in what I had to say. Could be she was getting paid to pay attention to the details, but something told me Gia was a person with integrity. Early on, I had an assistant that did nothing. At that time I liked craft beers, but each time I entered the bus all she had was some commercial crap. Toby, my bass player, hooked me up after the third city.
“Too much of anything is just too much.”
“And I thought groupies were your thing.”
“What gave you that impression?”
She sat up and smiled. She lowered her voice and repeated what I’d told her at the gate. “Sure baby, come on in, and we’ll get better acquainted.”
“Will you ever forget that?”
She laughed. “Not likely.”
Chapter Five
Gia
How could I forget the way he looked at me with those eyes? The way he smiled when I blushed? I’d never forget those things. Something told me I’d never forget Abel Kincaid. He’s not who I thought he’d be. Sure he has that cocky swagger but it seems to come out when he’s trying to hide his vulnerability.
I looked around the bus. I’d checked it out thoroughly early this morning. I made sure things were in order before he got here.
“Your mail is sorted and in the top drawer.” I pointed to the end table between us.
“Anything I should be aware of?”
I lowered my legs and leaned over to open the drawer. Inside were three piles. I pulled them out and handed him the junk first.
“Best I can tell is this is junk.” Our fingers touched when he reached for the largest of the stacks. Heat coursed through me. If Abel Kincaid thought I’d be safer in his bus, he was sadly mistaken. I was likely to succumb to heart failure each time he graced me with a look. Any look would do it.
He flipped through ads from magazines to cigars. “Looks like you figured right. These are trash unless of course you’re interested in anything from The Love Shop.” He slid the adult store ad from the pile and handed it to me. On the front cover was an ad for a dildo and a pair of a assless chaps. “I think I’m good but thanks for your consideration.”
“No problem. I want to make sure you're a satisfied employee.” He tossed the mail on top of the table between us.
I squirmed in my seat, which didn’t go unnoticed. I had a feeling Abel noticed everything. I grabbed the second pile. There were only five envelopes inside.
“These are obligations I thought you’d want to get on top of.” My eyes shot up to his when I spoke. My choice of words could have been better. I wasn’t choosing them on purpose, but everything seemed to take on heated, sexual innuendo with Abel. “One is about your guitar strap. Three are from various vendors asking about special requests.” I pulled the last one from the pile and held it into the air. “This one is from the florist asking if you wanted the same flowers delivered this year.” I knew they were flowers for his dead girlfriend. That was the whole purpose for me being here. The anniversary of her death was approaching soon and his team didn’t want him going off the rails while he was on the road. “I’m really sorry for your loss by the way.”
He looked down at the letter and shook his head. “You ever listen to her music?”
I shook my head. “I can’t say that I have. Until I got hired for this position, I hadn’t listened to yours, either. I remedied that last night. You’re quite talented.” I wanted to crawl into the crack between the chair frame and cushion. Of course he was talented. He was an award winning singer and songwriter.
“She was really special.” He sat and looked forward. His profile showed a face used to hiding emotion but I saw the slight tension in his jaw. Maybe talking about his loss would help.
“What was your favorite song of hers?”
He picked up the remote control and turned on the television. Then he pulled his phone from his pocket and loaded up a Deb Tyler song called “You Get Me”.
“She wrote this song for me. It’s my favorite because she did get me and yet … she left.”
What was I supposed to say to that? I leaned over the arm of my chair and set my hand on top of his. He looked at me with curiosity. “I know you don’t want me here, but I am here and I want you to know that anything you say to me stays with me. So … if you want to talk to someone I’m available.”
