“Speaking of sharp objects, one more pervy comment and you’ll need to watch yourself while you’re sleeping tonight,” I tossed back.
I was actually smiling for what felt like the first time in days.
That was until my heart suddenly took off at a sprint, all my senses tilting to the right the second the door separating the sleeping quarters and the main area slid open.
Royce slowly stepped in, his jacket discarded and the sleeves of his white dress shirt rolled up those sinewy, muscled arms, the man radiating power and greed and everything that dropped my stomach right to my toes.
One second of him and I could barely breathe.
I tried to keep my head lowered.
Appear as if I were buried in seriously important business. You know, like drawing a stick figure of a decapitated Rhys I had planned to deliver on the wings of a paper plane.
But not looking was impossible.
This faking thing was getting old.
Four days had passed since the incident at the hotel.
Four days since I’d told the band that I was in. That I would sign as soon as the show was over.
Royce had kept his promise—I wasn’t sure what he’d told Fitzgerald to smooth things over, but we were slated to play. Our manager had the contract—the contract that was scheduled to be signed after the show.
“Yo, Royce, my man,” Rhys hollered. “What the hell have you been up to for the last hour? Tell me someone explained to you that you gotta hold the code browns for the next stop. Tour bus etiquette, brother. Bus can’t take it.”
A smile actually ridged Royce’s plush mouth as he slipped by.
My heart fluttered.
“No need to worry. Had a call I had to take.”
“Ah, I see . . . some more of that secret, covert shit you seem so keen about.” Rhys was all easy smiles.
Leif kicked Rhys under the table. “Dude, why always such an asshole?”
Rhys hiked his shoulders as if he didn’t have a clue what Leif was talking about.
Royce slipped down onto the leather coach chair that was swiveled around to face the table and couch. It might as well have been a throne with the way the man owned it.
Possessed it.
The same way he had possessed me.
Infiltrated every thought and dream. Made me feel brave and confident and beautiful when I stood on that stage night after night, singing my heart out and wondering if a piece of me was actually doing it for him.
He rocked forward and rested his tattooed forearms on his knees, flashing the pawns stamped on his knuckles, as if they were being ruled by the intricate king inked on the back of his hand.
The resolve I was trying to cling to went fuzzy.
“Talking to my mom, actually,” he said in his low voice.
My chest fisted. It was the first time I’d heard him mention her.
I could feel it—the unbearable shift of energy that shivered through the dense air.
Bitterness and unease and regrets.
My ribs constricted around my heart, stalling out the flow of blood. I had to bite down on my lip to keep myself from looking up, drawn that direction.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Leif nudge at Rhys with the toe of his shoe again. “See, asshole. Think before you speak.”
I was pretty sure that was Leif’s mantra. Motto. The way he lived his life.
Royce shook his head.
I didn’t see it. I felt it.
Crap. Now I was sensing his every movement. I was so screwed.
“It’s fine.” A rough chuckle left him. I almost drowned in it. “Might have a few mommy issues. Nothing new. No need to tiptoe around it.”
Richard cleared his throat to break up the tension. “You want to deal in, Reilly? Asshole here is about to steal the shirt right off my back. Don’t want to be the only sucker getting swindled. Tell me you’ve got some cash to throw down.”
I knew some words had been said between them.
Hell, no one could miss the outright animosity that had been ricocheting between them for the last four days.
Surely Richard wasn’t happy that Royce had kicked everyone out.
Taken charge.
Clearly lettin’ on that things had been brewing between us, standing firm at my side when I’d needed him in a way I hadn’t anticipated.
And still, I needed him just as bad. Was aching for him to touch me. For him to whisper his comfort into my spirit.
But how could I ask him to stand in the flames for me?
Cory Douglas was a rich man. A famous man loved by millions of fans that he’d blinded with the bling of his smile and the dimple in his cheek.
The devil’s dimple.
He was the kind of guy who dripped slime and scum and sleaze but always got away with it.
“Ah, he’ll have plenty of dough as soon as we finally sign, yeah?” Rhys issued it like a cheer, grinning in Royce’s direction as if they were the best of friends. “Bet there’s a big ol’ bonus when we sign on that dotted line, isn’t there, Reilly? No wonder you don’t mind climbing this bus night after night, slummin’ it with the entertainment.”