My bodyguard caught up and opened the back door of the SUV, and I slid inside.
Andy, my overzealous terrier sitting in the passenger’s seat, glanced up with wide eyes. He switched off the screen of the mobile he held.
Clive started the motor.
“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” I growled while keeping my stare locked on the shit-stained walls of the station. What had I been thinking? Women jumped at the chance to snuggle with Viktor Farrow, so why in God’s name had I set my sights on such a pain-in-the-ass little devil?
“I listened to the interview.” Andy darted a quick glance over his shoulder.
Clive put the vehicle in Reverse, backed out, then steered the Escalade onto the long, deserted highway leading the few miles back to Mesa Palms and the private home the recording studio provided.
“Yeah, you two sounded, um…” Licking his lips, Andy briefly glanced into the sideview mirror then cut his stare straight ahead.
“We sounded what, Andy? Spit it out.” I retrieved my mobile from a pocket and Googled Angela Morales and K-ROC. Hmm, well, well. According to her social media sites, she was married but single now as far as I can tell. Wait, why in the hell was I interested in her love life? I sideswiped the screen and stuffed the device into my pocket, my irritation reaching a critical level.
“It’s just, it sounded like you were having fun trading insults.”
I watched the ancient Saguaros, tall and erect standing guard over the desert, fly past the window. The setting sun painted glorious fire across the sky, the streaks shooting against a few high clouds, creating a living portrait of the world in flames. Closer to the horizon, deep purples contrasted with the blazing rays. Though harsh, the desert carried a breathtaking beauty amid the desolation. For some reason, its outer loveliness and inner toughness reminded me of Angela.
I gritted my teeth. Stop thinking about that woman, Viktor. It was as plain as the nose on my face she found me disgusting, nothing more than rubbish on the bottom of her shoe.
But what if she didn’t? What if she saw you as more than the broken rock star she thinks you are? I frowned in annoyance at the voice in my head. Why would I care? Because you felt something back there—something more than the solitude or helplessness that usually eats at your soul.
Andy kept glancing at me, as if waiting for me to say something. I shoved the voice away, unwilling to deal with my emotions for the moment.
“If you call being told in front of the station’s three listeners that I’m a coke-addled, rehab-hopping, past-my-prime rock star, then yeah, Andy, I guess I did have fun.” I gave him the finger, closed my eyes, and pressed the back of my head into the seat. “Nice fucking job arranging that interview. If my career wasn’t already headed down the loo, it will be after that little enlightening piece of publicity.”
I really need to fire the little prick and find a new PA.
Chapter 9
Angela Morales
I tromped into the small living room of my second-story apartment and locked the door behind me, letting out a long sigh.
Marky, my five-year-old orange tabby cat, wound his body around my legs and meowed.
“Okay, okay.” Bending to him, I stroked his sleek form. He purred and gave another forlorn cry. “I’ll get your stinky wet kitty food.”
At the mention of kitty food, he darted into the kitchen, stood over his bowl, and cried once more.
At least I can always count on my little buddy to keep me grounded. After the disastrous interview with Farrow, I needed this healthy dose of reality. Why had I been entertaining the idea he was attractive? Uh, because he is, even with that overinflated ego. Yeah, but then he’d practically accused me of being an ice queen, as if he’d expected me to burst into flames the moment he turned his attention to me.
“No thanks, creep. I’ve dealt with men like you before.” Pulling the tab, I peeled the lid from Marky’s coveted dinner, and his meows reached an ear-splitting crescendo. I dumped the disgusting food into his bowl, and he shoved his face into the meal, his purr loud enough to rumble through the tiny kitchen.
Tossing the empty can into the trash, I topped off his water and headed to the cozy bathroom. Turning the faucet, I poured lavender bubble-bath liquid into the steaming tub.
There’s nothing better than a hot bubble bath to ease away the stress of a shitty day.
After stripping, I slid into the silky water and let out a small moan of pleasure. Several minutes ticked by as I slowly relaxed, the tension easing from my muscles. Hot baths had always been my heaven, my refuge, my security for when I felt anxious or overwhelmed.
I reached for the cell phone sitting at the end. Need some music. Pulling up several playlists, I couldn’t decide on what I wanted to hear. So, I searched the recommended playlists. One of the suggested offerings was Angry Gods’ last album.
My neck muscles tightened. Is this my karma, to be reminded of that jackass? I’d heard the album before, and it was good—great, even—but I’d never connected to the music on a personal level. It was the last hurrah Viktor and his band had recorded before their bass player died in a freak accident. After that, the band never really got over the death, and they went their separate ways. It seemed to have affected Viktor the most, though, because his drug use and multitude of other arrests had spiked out of control.
What the hell. I might as well give it a go. The first song opened with a folksy melody using acoustic guitars and a simple, yet effective, drumbeat. Twenty seconds into the song, and Viktor’s unique vocals began their soft and seductive croon.
Remembering how his lips brushed against my ear, and imagining that voice breathing its warmth next to my skin, I let my toes curl in pleasure. I closed my eyelids and pictured his gentle stare caressing my body again. The sunshine played throughout his honeyed hair and gave him a godlike aura in the light.
For a few minutes, I lost myself in his song, forgetting how arrogant and annoying he’d been earlier today. The man could sing, I had to give him that, and I understood why so many women threw themselves at his feet. If it hadn’t been for his sour, arrogant attitude, I might’ve found myself falling for him.
But of course, I was too smart for that. I’d never go for someone as damaged as him—not again. No way. No how.
Chapter 10
Viktor Farrow
The owners of the recording studio spared no expense with my entertainment. Several barely clothed women pranced around the oasis pool, flicking their hair and sashaying their hips as they walked past, their glances telling me I could do anything to them, and they’d enjoy it.
I lounged in a chair, content to watch them under the cover of the starry sky and old-fashioned tiki torches scattered around the water. Hidden speakers, disguised to look like natural rock scattered around the area, played an eclectic mix of hard rock, metal, and old-school grunge. To my right sat a platter of fine meats and cheeses, along with crackers, fruits, finger sandwiches, and chocolates.
A server stopped at my side with a tray of bubbling champagne in flute glasses. “Would you care for one, sir?” He bowed lower, making it easy for me to snatch one if the urge hit.
I hesitated. Fuck yeah, I want one. That old familiar desire to down the alcohol rose inside me, whispering I could have one, just one. One wouldn’t hurt me, would it? My fingers reached outward, but I stopped. One always led to two, and two to five, and then I’d find myself right back where I’d been two years ago.