Lovely Madness: A Players Rockstar Romance (Players, Book 4) Page 5

  Huh. Interesting. “So what happens when it’s done? You move on to the next one right away?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you do interviews or anything to promote the album?”

  “I usually issue a statement.”

  “Do you work with a publicist on that?”

  “Yeah. The band manager will hook me up with that.”

  “Brody Mason?”

  “That’s him.”

  “I know Brody, a little,” I told him. “I know everyone in the band, too. I should probably mention that my best friend is Ashley Player’s wife.”

  “That’s what Courteney said.”

  Right. I wondered what else his sister might have told him about me, if anything.

  “So… then the band goes on tour? And as the album producer, do you have anything else to do with the promotion of the album or the tour?”

  “There’s usually some kind of launch party for the album, maybe a listening party. There might even be a few in different cities. It varies. A producer would probably be a part of that. And then yeah, they’ll be touring. But none of that’s got anything to do with me.”

  “You don’t go to those parties, or to the shows?”

  “No.”

  “Never?”

  He tapped the fingers of his left hand a few times on the arm of his chair. I glanced at his hand. But then he gripped the chair and his fingers stopped moving. “There was a party for the album I just finished producing. An early listening party. I thought about going.”

  “But you didn’t go?”

  “It was down in L.A., and I’m here.”

  “Will the Players have a party here when their album comes out? The record company is here too, right?”

  He didn’t answer that right away. Maybe because he knew that I could ask Ash these things and get answers, so he couldn’t bullshit me.

  I wondered if he was considering bullshitting me.

  “That’s definitely Brody’s style,” he said.

  “Will you go to that party?”

  His fingers started tapping on the arm of his chair again. And this time, they didn’t stop.

  “I don’t know.”

  I glanced at his fingers. They weren’t just tapping. There was a rhythm to it. A repetitive rhythm.

  He seemed uncomfortable sitting here, in his living room. He’d seemed uncomfortable the entire time we spoke. Or maybe he was uncomfortable with me in his home. His social cues, though perhaps a little rusty, were incredibly clear. I could feel that he wanted this to be over with.

  “Would you like to have an assistant?” I asked him.

  “I’ve never had one for long, or one that worked out.”

  “Having a good one could provide you with a lot of support. Take care of the things you don’t want to do, to free you up to focus on the things you most want to spend your time on. Like music.”

  “Then I guess that could be good.”

  “If you don’t mind me saying, you don’t seem all that interested in the idea.”

  “Then why are you in my living room right now.”

  He said that like a statement, rather than a question. Like my presence here was evidence that he was at least marginally interested.

  Maybe it was. He definitely didn’t have to let me in here, or even come to the door.

  Either way, he wanted this conversation to be over with, I was pretty sure.

  It was pretty clear that he needed assistance of some kind. But I really wasn’t sure what that should entail.

  If he really spent all his time alone in this giant house, when he should’ve been going to album release parties… more than anything, he probably needed a therapist.

  Did he have a therapist?

  I tried to find out without directly asking.

  “Do you have anyone else you work with regularly?” I asked him. “A co-worker? A mentor?”

  “I like to be alone.”

  Right. And that was my clear-as-hell cue to get the fuck out.

  I wasn’t quite sure why I didn’t just get up and leave.

  He hadn’t exactly been rude or mean to me or anything, but so what?

  He wasn’t exactly ugly either, but again, so what? I’d been fooled by a handsome face before, and it was not a trend I wanted to carry forward with me into my thirties.

  Anyway, handsome on the outside had zero to do with what lay inside. I was grown-up enough to know that by now.

  Just because he was nice to look at and his sister seemed to give a damn about him, it didn’t mean I should waste my time on someone who hadn’t even earned it yet. That much, I knew for sure.

  “Well, thank you for entertaining this,” I said, trying to politely wrap things up. Maybe after I got out of here and we were no longer staring at each other, I’d be able to make sense of this and give Courteney my report. Right now, I really wasn’t sure what the fuck I was gonna tell her. “It seems to mean a lot to your sister.” Even if it means nothing to you.

  I saw the slow rise and fall of his chest as he took a deep breath. His fingers tapped their restless, repetitive rhythm on the arm of his chair.

  “My sister thinks I need… people. She doesn’t understand why I work alone.” His eyes held mine. “I prefer to be alone.”

  “Do you?”

  He studied me for a moment, and his gaze flickered down my arm. He looked at my Gimme Shelter tattoo again.

  Then his eyes met mine. “Do you like people?” he asked me. And I realized it was the only thing he’d asked me.

  “Sometimes,” I said, honestly. “Sometimes not. But I still like to be around them more than I like to be alone.”

  Chapter Three

  Cary

  Paint It Black

  I stared at Taylor, whose last name I didn’t even know. This pink-haired girl I’d just met, who sent a note into my house via my cat and took her shoes off in my yard to dip her foot in my pool.

  This girl who looked and smelled like cotton candy. This girl who was now curling her bare toes into my carpet, her toenails and fingernails painted in glittery nail polish, every one of them a different color. This girl who wore a necklace with a skull-and-crossbones pendant on it and a bandage on her arm with Mickey and Minnie Mouse kissing on it. This girl who only sometimes liked people.

  She had round eyes that alternated between way too wide open and narrowing into curves that crinkled with soft smile lines at the corners, even when she wasn’t smiling.

  She looked way too comfortable sitting in my living room.

  I was not.

  I like to be alone.

  How many times did I need to repeat it?

  “I can’t handle a lot of people in my life,” I tried again, since she seemed to be waiting for me to say something. Was that clear enough for her?

  Never seemed to be clear enough for my sister.

  “Okay,” she said, seeming to think it over, like it was complicated, when it was not. “How about one?”

  As long as it’s not you.

  I took a deep, slow breath.

  I needed her out of my house. Five minutes ago.

  But she was still sitting there, still waiting for me to say more as I tapped out a song—the song—with my fingers without even thinking about it. Sometimes I just drummed out the beat. Sometimes my fingers ghosted actual chords. It just happened that way. The music came when I was agitated. When I wanted to escape. When I needed to focus so the world didn’t turn black.

  I needed to know why she had that tattoo on her arm.

  I needed to be working in my studio right now, alone. But here I was.

  With this woman, staring at me.

  I’d gone through the motions of this meeting for my sister. I’d given it more time than it was worth, probably. I didn’t even want to let this stranger into my house, but I did. And I’d taken my time deciding.

  Out. In.

  If it wasn’t for the tattoo, I might’ve shut the door in her face. The anxiety had starte
d creeping in the moment I saw her in my backyard. The moment I saw her face. The moment her eyes met mine and she saw me.

  And she was still waiting.

  “If it was the right person,” I said, as neutrally as I could without being a total dick about it. “Maybe.”

  “Well, then… maybe we can find you the right one.”

  Not you.

  When I said nothing, she went on. “I can get to work on it with Courteney and let you know what we find.”

  “Sure. Look, I have work to do.”

  “Of course.” Her round eyes widened. They were a deep, layered turquoise like miles-deep equatorial waters. The graveyards of ancient secrets, where the wreckage of men lay, drowned.

  Bermuda Triangle eyes.

  She got to her feet, smoothing her hair to the side of her face. She wore a bunch of rings on her fingers, and long, turquoise feather earrings that matched her eyes. She slipped her pink suede purse with the long fringe onto her shoulder. It looked like it was older than she was. Which made me wonder her age. And why nothing she wore matched any other thing she wore, so that it was harder to make sense of her.

  And why she was so comfortable here, in my living room, when no one else was.

  Time to go.

  She half-smiled and turned to head to the door.

  I followed her at a distance, so I didn’t smell that cotton candy smell coming off her. The slight waves of her shoulder-length hair looked soft, like wisps of cloud, not bleach-dry. Like she spent more money on her hair color than her entire outfit. There was a tag sticking out of her bra, and it bugged me. I wanted to tuck it back in for her. I could see the pale tan lines criss-crossing her skin under the low back of her dress, where she’d worn something strappy and skimpy in the sun, and I wanted to know what it was.

  I wanted to see her in it.

  She wasn’t thin, but she wasn’t heavy. She was curvy. She probably turned the heads of guys who thought they preferred skinnier girls, who thought she wasn’t their type, who thought they hated skull jewelry and tattoos.

  And it had probably always been that way.

  At school, she was the unpopular girl. The one all the popular boys secretly beat off to.

  And backstage she’d be the one pissing off the tall, leggy models when the rock stars and the roadies all rubbernecked at her. Because she didn’t even notice. She was just there to get her T-shirt signed.

  “Thank you for meeting with me,” she said as she opened the door and stepped outside. When she realized I’d stopped, she stopped and turned to look up at me. She probably wasn’t even five-and-a-half feet, the difference between us exaggerated because I was standing on the raised threshold.

  Her shipwreck eyes met mine. She had arched, light-brown eyebrows, maybe the color of her natural hair. But her eyebrow piercing was distracting. Her tattoos were distracting. (Gimme Shelter. Why?) Her puffy lips were distracting. The jiggle of cleavage at the slight dip in the front of her dress was distracting. I didn’t want to look into her eyes but I didn’t want to look anywhere else.

  Go. Stay.

  When I said nothing, which was my way of saying we were done here, she seemed to hesitate to leave. “You’re not a ghost, are you?” She gave me a tiny smile.

  I wish. Wouldn’t that be easier.

  Shit, was I really this much of a freak?

  As she stared at me, it occurred to me that in the past five years, I’d had very few women look at me, and me at them.

  My sister. My mom, when I could stand to be around her. Rose, the old lady who cleaned my house.

  Nicolette.

  A few of my sister’s friends who came around when she was here.

  That was pretty much it.

  Five. Years.

  I forced myself to extend my hand. My wrist felt soft, like it might bend if she gripped me too hard. She looked at it, like she could tell.

  My heart was beating way too fast.

  When she slipped her hand into mine, I gave her a slight squeeze to prove to myself that I could touch someone beautiful who I wasn’t paying to allow it, and not freak out.

  “Real,” I said.

  Her eyes locked on mine again as I held her soft hand, and the hairs up the back of my neck stood up. The prickle travelled right around my scalp as her pupils dilated, like whirlpools opening up to suck me in. I pulled my hand back.

  Hers dangled in the air between us for a moment too long.

  “I’ll talk to your sister,” she said, her voice softer and huskier than before as she lowered her hand. “I can’t promise anything, since I’ve never really done this before. But I’ll do what I can to find you a great assistant.”

  “Promises don’t mean anything.”

  She adjusted the purse on her shoulder and the tattoo on her inner arm flashed. That black ink in bold, gothic letters, etched into the petal-soft skin.

  Gimme Shelter

  When she looked away, briefly, my eyes traced the round curves of her face.

  Ask her.

  Her eyes skipped back to mine again and I took a slight step back, slipping my hands into the pockets of my jeans.

  “I should probably be honest with you,” she said, “and admit that I may fail. But I will try.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  She cocked her head a little, like she was trying to make sense of that comment. “Did you ever set out to do something feeling like you’ll probably fail?”

  “Yeah. That’s pretty much where panic attacks come from.”

  The slight smile on her face snuffed out, like a dark tide had washed in.

  I had that effect on people.

  “You have panic attacks?”

  “I used to.”

  I could see her thinking. Considering if she should ask me about that. Why did I say it? What did it mean?

  Who offers up that kind of information so abruptly?

  This guy.

  “What does it feel like?” she asked softly.

  “Like you’re out of control. When it’s really bad, it feels like you’re dying.”

  We just stood there, at the threshold, staring at each other. Me inside my living room and her right outside. I didn’t step outside with her.

  I wanted to. I wouldn’t.

  Out. In.

  I was at war with myself. I felt like I was at war with her, when I wasn’t. I was still at war with the world, a world that no longer wanted to be at war with me.

  But I couldn’t stop fighting.

  Go. Stay.

  She didn’t say anything else. But she didn’t turn to leave.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “That sounds like an awful thing to go through.”

  Ask her.

  “Why do you have that tattoo on your arm?”

  She looked down at it, lifting her arm a bit to expose it again. “Uh, yeah, that wasn’t so smart, in retrospect.” She looked up at me. “Do you have any tattoos?”

  “No.”

  “Well, here’s a pro tip. If anyone ever tells you it’s okay to get a tattoo on that part of your arm, they’re lying through their ass. It hurts like a bitch.”

  “I meant, why ‘Gimme Shelter’?”

  “Oh.” She dropped her arm. “Well… I got kinda screwed over a few times recently. I won’t bore you with it.”

  Please, bore me with it.

  Please leave.

  “Uh, I guess it’s kinda my plea to the universe right now,” she went on. “For mercy, kindness. You know, shelter. And besides, it’s my favorite Rolling Stones song.”

  “I thought everyone’s favorite Rolling Stones song was ‘Paint It Black.’”

  “Not mine.”

  My fingers twitched in my pocket, trying to tap out that restless rhythm. I dug my fingers into my thigh to stop it.

  When I said nothing, she said, “So, thank you for your time… Should I call you Mr. Clarke?”

  “Cary.”

  “Okay. Cary. Have a nice day.”

  She dipped her
head as she turned to step away, but then she glanced at me one last time like she couldn’t help it.

  I watched her walk away, her dress and the purse with the long pink fringe swishing against her legs. Curves. She was all curves.

  I watched as she bent to get her shoes by the pool. Gold leather sandals that didn’t really go with anything else she was wearing. She sat on the edge of one of my lounge chairs to put them on. I was still standing in the open door, staring. She didn’t seem to realize it. Which was why I kept doing it.

  Freddy wandered out of the trees and over to her, harassing her for attention while she did up her shoes. She spent a good two minutes rubbing his chin with her fingertips as he twitched his tail in pleasure. Then he flopped down on his side on the patio at her feet. She ruffled the thick hair on his stomach for a moment, until he got frisky and started attacking her hand, gently, and she got up.

  She waved goodbye to him with her fingers, and he rolled up to sit on his butt and watch her go. He sat there for a long moment after she disappeared from view. I knew she was out of his earshot when he relaxed his ears.

  Then he turned his head, and the moment he saw me he popped to his feet and lifted his back, his tail, and drifted toward me.

  “Lemme guess,” I said. “You want food.”

  He quickened his pace, his eyes opening like saucers at his favorite word. Food. As he trotted into the house, I shut the door and headed into the kitchen. He followed at my feet. He even squeezed out a little mewl of anticipation. There was food in his bowl already, but I hadn’t given him his favorite treats in a few days.

  “You shouldn’t be so nice to pretty girls who show up at the door,” I told him, even as I poured treats into his dish and he lapped around my legs. “They’ll break your heart.” He dove into his food. “She’s not coming back,” I informed him, but he was too busy doing his favorite thing in the world to care, purring while he stuffed his face.

  I headed into the studio, and into the control room. I sat down in my rolling chair and slowly spun toward the window. The one that would look out into the front yard if I ever opened the blinds.

  I tapped one of the laptops on the table in front of me. It woke from sleep mode and I clicked the icon that opened the feed to the security cam on the front gate. It showed the gate, closed. And no sign of Taylor.