Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 87142 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87142 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
I flinched, and my stomach turned over, flooding me with nausea at the thought.
“So again, unless I’m propositioning you for some action, Ben, it’s none of your business who I take to bed, and I don’t swing that way, so spoiler alert: it’s never your business. I’m fine. I’m sober. Unless there’s a contract we need to go over, get the fuck out so I can get some sleep.”
Ben appraised the situation and then nodded. “Fine. I’ll see you both tomorrow.” He let himself out, the door shutting loudly behind him.
“You didn’t tell him I kissed you.” Nixon leaned back against the wall.
“No.” I shook my head.
“You didn’t tell Quinn either.”
“Of course not.”
“Why not?” He turned those narrowed eyes on me, and my nausea grew tenfold. “Embarrassed?”
“That I kissed you? No. That I crossed a professional line I swore I never would? Absolutely. And what happens between us isn’t fodder for gossip, or anyone’s business but ours,” I snapped.
“Professional lines…because this is just business, right, Shannon? You’re just doing your job so you get whatever Ben promised in that little deal of yours.” He let his head fall back against the wall. “You’re only here because I need a babysitter, and I only let you stay so I don’t shit all over my friends’ lives.”
Something in my chest crumpled, and it hurt.
There was another knock at the door, and I took the easy way out and opened it, then signed for the snacks as the attendant laid the spread out on the dining room table. Once he was gone, Nixon pushed off the wall, regret flashing through those dark eyes.
Regret over what? That he’d lost his temper? Or that he’d kissed me in the first place?
“I got you salted caramel,” he said softly, pushing the dish of ice cream my way.
“I liked you better when I knew you were an asshole,” I replied. “At least I expected it then.”
His eyes whipped toward mine.
Guess it was a statement on how far we’d come that I’d say something like that to him, but what he’d said felt like more of an accurate measurement.
“I’m going to bed.” I grabbed my phone from the table and walked off.
“What about Westworld?” he called after me.
“I’ve had enough drama for the night.”
If this was the night before the show, I couldn’t wait to see what he was like after it.
* * *
“Get that out, now!” I yelled at one of the roadies, pointing to the bottle of Crystal Skull in Nixon’s dressing room.
Thank God Nixon was with Jonas right now. He’d been ice-cold this morning. Every move he made was distant, professional, and completely dismissive. I’d gone from being someone he binge-watched shows with and played guitar for to the hired help.
But I’d always been the hired help, hadn’t I?
The roadies cleared out the alcohol, and I made a quick sweep of the dressing room to be sure there weren’t any more presents lurking in corners or drawers. Once I was certain the room was clean, I put out two shot glasses and set the little bottle of amber liquid between them on the coffee table in front of the little love seat.
Then I smoothed my hands over the line of my pencil skirt and checked in the mirror to make sure the buttons on my blouse were still lined up all the way to my throat. The outfit would have been entirely too hot for the weather, but the sleeves were sheer. I’d ordered it last week, and a stab of disappointment had pricked at me this morning when Nixon hadn’t even glanced my way.
He’s not supposed to glance your way, you idiot. But I wanted him to.
The door burst open, and Nixon stalked in, his jaw tight.
“He’s all yours, Zoe.” Jonas gave me a sympathetic wince before shutting the door, leaving me alone with Nixon.
He paced along the line of guitars that waited on their stands. All eight were electric, and he’d tuned six of them to specific songs this morning, then retuned them, only to do it all again.
I’d never seen him so tense before a show.
“No leather?” I asked, noticing the way his jeans hung on his ass. If I were a pair of jeans, I would want to be Nixon’s, that was for sure.
“I’ve gained a little since our last tour. Nothing fit,” he muttered, studying the neck on his Fender. “Has anyone been in here?”
“I’ll get your measurements and order you some new ones. And no, just me and the roadie I called in to haul something out.” I settled back against the counter that ran the length of the room.
Nixon turned and lifted his eyebrows in question, which was the first time he’d looked me in the eyes since last night.
“You don’t want to know.” I shook my head. “No one has touched the guitars.”