I raise my hands in surrender. “I just thought she might be happier with—”
“See…” she says, pointing a sharpened finger at me, “that’s exactly what I’m talking about. It’s not your place to ‘think’ anything about Shiloh or what would make her happy.” She gives me the once over. “As a matter of fact, you don’t have any place at all when it comes to Shiloh. She may not seem young, but she is.”
This woman has been fawning over me since we met at Rockefeller Center at the beginning of all this, handing me business cards and giving me her pitch. I guess she’s pretty pissed I gave Lucky Freddie’s number.
I nod. “I get that, and I haven’t touched her.” I scoop the paper with our notes on it and hold it up for her to see. “We’ve just been working on some things.”
Her eyes narrow slightly, but before she can say anything else, the door behind her slides open and Lucky steps through, rubbing the sleep out of one eye. Her copper hair sticks up at every angle and there’s a sudden rush in my groin at the image of waking up next to this in my bed.
Through the sleep haze, her eyes flash bright when she sees I’m still here. “Hey.”
“Hey,” I say and try to keep the flood of sparks I feel in my chest from bleeding into the word.
“What’s going on?” she asks, her eyes moving between me and her manager.
I glance at my phone again. “I just missed my flight.” I zip my hoodie. “Gotta get to the airport and see if they can get me on something else today before our tour manager blows a gasket.”
“You should just ride with us,” Lucky says.
But where Lucky’s face lights at the idea, Billie’s does the opposite.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Shiloh,” she says, her sharp gaze daring me to contradict her.
Lucky looks at Billie like she has two heads. “Why not? We’re going to the same place.”
“He’s got his things at the hotel, and he’s already paid airfare.” Billie’s excuse is lame, and it’s obvious she knows it by the look on her face, but she just keeps going. “He’s got until tomorrow afternoon to get to Miami. The airline will be able to rebook him before that.”
“You’re coming with us.” Lucky’s words are clipped and decisive. She says them to me, but they’re clearly meant for Billie.
“Okay,” I say with a nod. “Thanks.”
Billie turns and heads up front, clearly not happy at being vetoed.
“Maybe pissing her off wasn’t a great idea,” I say, settling back onto the couch.
Lucky goes to the cupboard and pulls down a box of cereal. “Want some?”
A laugh erupts out of me at the sight of Lucky holding up the box of Lucky Charms.
“What?” she says, smoothing down her hair self-consciously, as if she wasn’t perfect.
“Just…” I shake my head as my smile fades. “Nothing.”
God, she really is perfect. My eyes skim over the body under the oversized black T-shirt that hangs to mid-thigh, all firm curves and contours. They follow lower, along the lines of a pair of legs I’ve pictured wrapped around my waist (or my head) in every fantasy I’ve had for the last two months. She’s fucking killing me.
“Yes or no?” she ask, irritation creasing her forehead.
“Yeah, thanks.”
She pulls down two paper bowls and fills them, then unearths a small carton of milk from the fridge in the bar.
“When’s the bus scheduled to pull out?” I ask as she hands me a bowl and spoon.
“No clue,” she says, setting her bowl on the table and dropping onto the couch. “But when we start moving, you’ll know.”
We eat and sometime later, as Lucky’s putting Ironman 2 in the DVD player, the bus starts moving.
“It’s been a while since I’ve done this,” I say, looking out the window as we leave Atlanta behind.
“Billie says this is a lot cheaper than flying,” she says, stabbing her thumb into the remote and zipping past the previews. She looks at me. “I never realized the artists have to pay their tour expenses. What the fuck is that all about?”
I shrug. “Just the way it’s always been. But the label does most of the promotion.”
“Still.” She sets the remote down and slouches into the corner of the couch, propping one leg on the coffee table. “I know what I get for royalties and they’re making a shit-ton of money off me. The least they could do is pay for my fucking bus.”
“You can negotiate some of that shit,” I say, unable to keep my eyes off the lines of her legs. “We get a flat rate for each appearance versus a percentage of ticket sales.”
“Because you’re you,” she says, her voice full of sarcasm.
“And you’re you.”
It takes me a second to realize the conversation’s stalled, and when I lift my gaze to her face, expecting to see it facing the TV, it’s facing me instead.
“See something you like?” she asks with a sultry smirk that’s begging to be kissed off her face.