“Yes, Ms. Bad,” he says. “Weren’t you listening earlier?”
I shake my head. I tend to block out conversations when the people involved get angry and start raising their voices. It’s incredibly stressful, and it makes me anxious because I often don’t know what to do about the situation, assuming I’m even capable of parsing what’s caused it in the first place. Tasha says it’s how I cope.
He makes a disgusted sound. “I should’ve called you Jezebel. That suits you better than Virgin Mary.” One hand comes up to rake back his hair, and I finally see the tattoo: That in black ink my love may still shine bright.
Oh. My. God. It was him in New York! The mysterious Batman who decked Isaac and gave me the most mind-blowing sex of my life! I’m trying to process what to make of it. I never expected to see him again. He had no clue who I was, which I figured meant he wasn’t into the art scene. Otherwise he would’ve recognized me on sight…unless he, too, is face blind. But what are the odds?
“You said you were Batman,” I say stupidly.
“Yeah, because you asked me to call you B for Bad.”
I cover my face with my hands and groan silently into my palms.
“So, four times a day okay?” Devlin’s suggestion interrupts my “oh my God, what the hell?” moment.
“No!” I say it a bit too fast. It was fantastic to let go like that once, but every day? For a whole year? “Nine times a month.” That’s a more reasonable number. Three times a week, plus one week off for my period.
“Thin. Very thin.” He taps his chin thoughtfully. “Maybe a set number isn’t the way to go. Let’s just say that we’ll do it as many times as we’re able. I’ll have my lawyer add it to our agreement.”
Chapter Thirteen
Becca
I leave the restaurant, my whole body jittery with nerves and excess energy. I can’t believe I got Devlin to go along. Or I promised to have sex with him, like he’s a real husband.
That wasn’t part of the plan. And I hate it when things derail, even if it works out okay at the end. It makes me too anxious, and I don’t need the stress.
Everything has gone off track since I arrived in Vegas. And if I married Devlin, what the hell happened to Bruce? Did he not show up because I’m too good a girl for him? Because he got Virgin Mary vibes from my photos and couldn’t bring himself to work for me?
My face scrunches at the thought.
When the elevator reaches the lobby, I step out, then pause when I spot Max pacing back and forth in front of the elevator bank. He is wearing a pair of dark, reflective sunglasses, but it’s him. His hair is spiking up, not with gel, but because he probably ran his fingers through it one too many times. He’s as tense and stiff as an eight-hundred-pound silverback gorilla spotting an intruder in his territory.
A few people around him are snapping photos, but they don’t approach. Smart. I’m sure with them being able to see his expression clearly, they know it would be a bad idea right now.
He stops abruptly. “Bean!”
“Hey, Max. Um…what are you doing?”
“We gotta talk.” He comes over and puts a hand on my elbow. “Let’s go.”
He hits a button to call for an elevator. The one I just got out of opens its doors. He pulls me inside, then hits the door close button repeatedly.
But just before the doors can shut, a woman sticks her body inside. Her long pink and purple hair is pulled into a high ponytail. “Hey,” she says, extra perkily. “You’re Max Bane, right? The guitarist? I adore Axelrod.”
He grunts his thanks.
“So… Is Devlin here, too?” She flips her hair over a shoulder, which doesn’t work so well when it’s set so high. “He’s supposed to meet me, but I think he forgot, you know?”
I take another look at her. This is the kind of woman Devlin goes for?
She’s impressive, I suppose. It takes talent to stretch such small bits of fabric enough to avoid getting arrested for indecent exposure. But what’s most impressive about her is her cleavage. It’s so deep and magnificently gigantic, I wonder if it’s fake. Akin to a guy stuffing an extra-large banana into his underwear.
If I dressed like her, would Devlin have been more amenable? It’s possible. She seems to know how to get herself a rock star. I file the thought away to test later. I might need a weapon in my arsenal if he becomes difficult to manage. Push-up bras are God’s gift to girls with average-sized breasts.
“No,” Max grunts, then gestures her out. “She and I need privacy.”
She tosses her hair again. “Oh. Sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt your good time.”