Damage Control

  I continued my dictation, “Cursory investigation into Mr. Union’s past revealed no known issues with alcohol or disorderly conduct, which begs the question…why now? What prompted a formerly almost-too-clean-for-a-rock-artist to suddenly go off the deep end?”

  Just because he hadn’t made a public spectacle of himself until recently didn’t necessarily mean that something had happened in the past couple weeks. I’d seen several news stories from June that had talked about him breaking up with his girlfriend. His behavior hadn’t been called into question back then since it had appeared to be a relatively harmless bit of brooding. Maybe the reports were mistaken. Brooding could have been a cover for drinking, even drugs. I’d heard rumors that some coke had even been found in his hotel room. His manager had been the one to hire us, and he’d said alcohol was Reb’s drug of choice, but it wouldn’t be the first time a manager hadn’t known all of his client’s dirty little secrets. And it definitely wouldn’t have been the first time a manager had covered for one of his clients either.

  I frowned as I squeezed the stress ball. Was Reb really the sort of man who’d be so broken up over a woman that he’d be drinking enough three months later to do what he’d done? Everything I’d observed about people in the entertainment industry, in general, told me that only a small percentage of them managed to have long-term relationships. Most of them went through romantic partners like they did clothes. The articles I’d read had said that Reb had been with his girlfriend for ten months. A lifetime for someone in his profession, but I still thought it seemed overly dramatic to still be so upset.

  Unless he’d seen a future with her.

  Was that even a possibility? I hadn’t seen anything in the news about him ring shopping, gossip about wedding venues. I didn’t remember any interviews where he or the girlfriend – Misty? Mitzi? – said anything about marriage, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. They could be one of those couples who didn’t believe in institutionalized marriage.

  I needed more insight before I could do anything, I reluctantly admitted to myself.

  “Mr. Union has been relatively private about his personal life,” I said into my phone. “Most media reports are based on speculations or interviews with people close to Mr. Union rather than direct conversations with him. To get real insight into his life, I’ll have to talk directly to the sources of the articles. Or…” I paused, torn between anticipation and annoyance, “I’ll have to speak to Mr. Union himself.”

  I glanced at the time. Nearly noon.

  I stopped recording and set my stress ball down on the desk. I could track down people who knew Reb, ask them what they knew. They’d probably be able to fill in the blanks I needed.

  But I didn’t want to do that. I wanted to talk to him. Even though I tried to tell myself that it was because it was a simpler solution than going to several different sources, I knew a part of me wanted to see him again.

  I stood and smoothed down my skirt. Physical attraction wasn’t going to stop me from doing my job the best way possible. He was good-looking. So were a lot of men. I’d resisted the charms of better men than Reb Union.

  I’d go to see him after lunch, ask him about the things I needed to know, and then I’d go straight back to the office and put together a strategy to improve his image quickly. Once he was back on top, I could move on to other clients and forget all about him.

  The nagging voice in the back of my head piped up that it might be easier said than done.

  It wasn’t as hard to knock on his door the second time because I knew what to expect. More or less anyway.

  “Back again?” Reb asked as he opened the door. “Come on in.”

  I followed him into the apartment, noting the empty bottles on the table in front of the couch. Unless he’d had friends over and hadn’t cleaned up yet, he hadn’t taken my ‘advice’ about not drinking.

  “Sorry,” he said, turning to face me. “I wasn’t expecting company.”

  I gestured toward the table. “So these are all yours?”

  He shrugged and shuffled his feet, thrusting a hand through his bronze hair. “Some friends stopped by last night.”

  I raised an eyebrow. Friends or not, he’d been drinking already this morning. “I came by to talk to you about a few things, but if I’m interrupting…”

  “S’okay.” The words weren’t slurred, but they definitely weren’t precise either. “You can stay. Want something to drink?”

  I took a couple steps toward him, fixing my sternest expression on my face. “You need to take this seriously, Mr. Union.”

  “Mr. Union?” He snorted a laugh, the sound almost enough to startle a smile out of me.

  That was definitely not the sort of laugh I expected from someone like him. With a mother who was a visible member of New York high society, I’d seen numerous pictures of him schmoozing with the cream of the crop. People who weren’t just rich, but old money. Politicians and philanthropists. The kind of people who practiced their smiles and laughs in front of a mirror so they’d be absolutely perfect. Not too big or loud, not too small or soft.

  Definitely not the kind of people who snorted.

  Still, I couldn’t let his response go unanswered. “Do you find this amusing?”

  He closed the distance between us, and under the smell of whiskey, I caught a whiff of soap. At least he’d taken a shower since I’d seen him last.

  “Nothing about this is amusing, Miss Ryce.” He frowned, his gaze dropping to my mouth before coming back up to meet my eyes. “Is it Mrs. or Miss? I don’t see a ring, but that doesn’t always mean single.”

  I fought the urge to cross my arms, knowing that with him looming over me, it would come across as defensive rather than annoyed. “Let’s stick to the matter at hand, Mr. Union.”

  “Reb,” he corrected. “I get enough ‘Mr. Union’ from brown-nosers and ass-kissers.”

  “We need to maintain professional boundaries,” I argued. “I’m not here to be your friend.”

  “That’s good,” he said, his voice deepened, roughened. “Because I have enough friends.”

  I could feel a flush creeping up my neck, and I clenched my hands into fists. “Mr–”

  “You’re an employee, right?” he asked, taking a step in my direction. “I mean, technically, I hired you, right?”

  Reluctantly, I nodded. I wasn’t sure I liked where this was heading.

  “Then I’m your boss.” He grinned, his eyes lighting up. “And I’m telling you to call me Reb.”

  In the back of my mind, I could hear my mother telling me to pick my battles. She told me more than once that was how she’d kept a balance when it came to discipline. Treating him like a child seemed like the best way to go.

  “All right…Reb.” I spoke through gritted teeth, but it was enough to satisfy him.

  “Thank you. Now, tell me, Paige,” his voice slid across my name like a caress, “is there a Mr. Ryce?”

  I shook my head. This was a bad idea. I was supposed to be getting background information on him, not the other way around. How had I lost control of the situation so quickly?

  “Is there someone gunning for the position?”

  “No,” I said, hating the breathless way the word came out. “I’m single. Now that we got that out of the way, can we–”

  My sentence was cut off as Reb wrapped a hand around the back of my neck and pulled me to him, our mouths crashing together in an explosive kiss.

  Eight

  Paige

  For the first time in my life, my mind failed me. I couldn’t think about anything other than the heat of his mouth on mine, the taste of expensive whiskey when he slid his tongue across mine, the feel of his strong fingers on my neck.

  I only had a few kisses to compare this one to, but I had a feeling that it wouldn’t have mattered if I’d had a thousand kisses before. Nothing else would feel like this. Like every cell in my body was suddenly awake in a way it’d never been before. Awake, and aware of this n
ew humming electricity that flowed between the two of us.

  Almost involuntarily, my arms went up and around his neck, his hair soft against my fingers. He made a sound in the back of his throat, a hungry, desperate sound, and then his free hand gripped my hip. When his teeth grazed my bottom lip, the shock of it jarred me back to my senses, and I took a step back.

  My breath was ragged, and as I looked at Reb, I could see that he was just as affected as I was. That didn’t make me feel any better though. If anything, I felt worse. My first client and I’d kissed him…no, he’d kissed me.

  “I’m flattered, Mr. Union.”

  His entire body went stiff, his expression hardening.

  “But I’m here as your PR rep, nothing else. I shouldn’t have let…I mean, that shouldn’t have happened.”

  He nodded and turned away. “Of course not. Sorry about that. Misread the situation.”

  “It’s all right,” I conceded, but something about the slump of his shoulders told me that something was off. This wasn’t just some rejected kiss to him, though I wasn’t arrogant enough to think that this was because of me specifically.

  “Don’t worry about it.” He dropped onto the couch and picked up the only bottle that still contained some liquid. “It’s not the first time I’ve been rejected by a woman for what I wanted.”

  I’d been considering walking away and leaving him to whatever pity-party he’d been throwing for himself, but I didn’t hear just bitterness in his voice. There was sadness there too…and self-loathing.

  No matter how much I told myself that it wasn’t my job to get personally involved, I couldn’t bring myself to walk away.

  “What do you mean? Rejected for what you wanted?”

  He drained the last of the whiskey and tossed the bottle to the other end of the couch. “Shouldn’t you be going? Running away from the deviant after your precious virtue.”

  I flushed and told myself that he was drunk, rambling, probably didn’t know what he was saying. Hell, he probably wouldn’t even remember any of this tomorrow.

  But this wasn’t about a kiss, and to do my job, I needed to know what was going on. That was why I’d come here, after all.

  I walked over to the couch and sat on the arm. It was far enough away from him that we weren’t touching, but close enough that he’d feel more like he was talking to a friend than someone grilling him.

  “What’s going on?” When he didn’t answer, I added, “I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me.”

  “Why would you want to help me?” he asked, looking up at me. His eyes were dark and open. Sad. “You didn’t want me kissing you, and I thought it was a good kiss. Thought you wanted me to kiss you, but I was wrong. Not the first time I didn’t know what a woman wanted. I used to think I did.”

  “You’re not making any sense,” I said. What he was saying should have put me off. All of it sounded like the kind of shit an egotistical little prick would say to get a woman in bed.

  But something told me that wasn’t what he was doing right now.

  “You might as well know. Nobody else does, but at least you’ll know, and you can get out while you can. Flee the sinking ship.” He made a disgusted sound and smacked the couch with the flat of his hand.

  He really needed to quit drinking. This would do worse things for his reputation than trashing a hotel room or punching someone. Fans could handle their rock stars behaving like assholes, but this was the wrong side of vulnerable.

  “I’m guessing you did your homework because Chester would have only hired the best, so you know about the break-up.” He glanced at me, and I nodded but didn’t say anything. He continued anyway, “She wasn’t living with me, Mitzi, I mean, but she stayed at my place when we were in New York. She had problems, and I knew it, but she didn’t want to talk about them, so I didn’t.”

  He picked at a thread on the couch, and I wondered if he felt more like he was talking to himself rather than me.

  “I came in one day and found her in bed with a couple roadies. She was strung out and didn’t even blink when she saw me. She just kept fucking them and told me that it was all my fault. That if I hadn’t made her do…” His voice trailed off, and he raised his head. “I’ve never forced a woman to do anything. You have to believe me.”

  Even if my gut hadn’t been telling me that he wouldn’t do that, I could hear the desperation in his voice, and it wasn’t because he wanted me to believe him. He wanted to believe it himself.

  “I believe you,” I said gently.

  He’d been drunk when he kissed me, but he still let me go when I’d taken a step back. If he was the sort of guy who would force what he wanted on someone, that would’ve been a perfect opportunity to do it. But he hadn’t.

  Maybe he wasn’t as bad as I’d originally thought.

  “You’re pretty,” he mumbled as his head dropped forward, chin on his chest.

  I sighed. “Okay, you’re going to get a crick in your neck if you sleep like that.”

  I stood up and then reached down to get a firm hold under his arm. He was bigger than me, but I was stronger than I looked. It took some maneuvering, but I managed to get him to his feet. He kept muttering random things under his breath, but I didn’t bother trying to figure out what he was saying. I was pretty sure I’d figured out the incident that had triggered his change in behavior. Now, I just had to get him sobered up and then we could get started on rehabbing his career.

  Nine

  Reb

  Something was off.

  The pounding in my head was familiar and expected. So was the bed. Except I wasn’t supposed to be in this bed. Why was I here instead of at a hotel?

  Oh. Right. Because I’d done some stupid shit and coming back here had been my only option. Well, the lesser of all the evils offered. No way in hell would I stay with my mom, or with my friends.

  So, I’d come home. As my brain sluggishly woke, I realized that I still didn’t know why I was in my bed. I’d slept on the couch before because I hadn’t wanted to be in here.

  Before I could try to sort things out any further, my body let me know that I’d been out for a long time. It was probably a miracle I hadn’t pissed the bed. Passing out drunk often didn’t guarantee the ability to wake up for the call of nature.

  I groaned as I climbed out of bed, my joints stiff and aching. Everything of mine ached, actually. I limped into my bathroom, my hands keeping me from stumbling into something I couldn’t see in the dim light. I could have turned on the lights, but I had a feeling that might make me throw up, and cleaning up puke was not what I needed right now.

  I breathed a sigh of relief as I emptied my bladder. Tempted as I was to go straight for my liquor cabinet, I was already in the bathroom, so a shower was probably a good idea. After everything that’d happened, I needed to at least put forth an effort, or all my years of hard work were going to burn right in front of me.

  I drank a glass of water as I waited a few seconds for the water to heat up. Maybe after I’d had some of the expensive scotch I’d gotten from someone, I’d call Chester and find out if he’d gotten any feedback from the PR firm. Paige hadn’t liked me much, which made me wonder if she was going to request a change. I hoped she didn’t, and it wasn’t only because I thought she was hot.

  She hadn’t been impressed by me. In fact, I’d gotten the impression that she really didn’t care what I thought about her beyond her ability to do her job. She’d held her own with me, both yesterday when we first met and then earlier today…

  Shit.

  She’d come back over.

  I leaned out of the shower to check the clock on the bathroom wall. Six o’clock. Was that morning or evening? The last thing I remembered was talking to Paige. It had been afternoon. Maybe. But I didn’t feel like I’d slept for only a few hours.

  My alcohol-soaked brain struggled to put the pieces together, but it took until I was toweling off before I was able to process that it had to be six in the morning. I’d slep
t for more than twelve hours. My stomach growled, as if it had needed the acknowledgment of time to be allowed to announce how long it had been since I’d eaten.

  I wrapped my towel around my waist and started toward the kitchen. Breakfast first. Then I’d call Chester and have him send Paige a nice fruit basket or something in case I said something rude yesterday. I didn’t think so, but it never hurt to be cautious.

  I was halfway down the hall when something new caught my attention. I smelled food. Specifically, bacon and coffee. Someone was here, but considering they were cooking, I felt safe in assuming they weren’t here to hurt me. My stomach rumbled again, and I walked faster. I’d never seen Chester cook, so I doubted I’d find him waiting for me, which meant it was most likely my mother. At the moment, I was prepared to happily trade a lecture for some breakfast.

  The person standing at the stove, however, wasn’t my mother. I’d only met her twice, but I had no problem recognizing Paige, even from the back.

  “Did you stay the whole night?”

  She jumped, then turned, the startled expression on her face shifting to something else for a moment before disappearing behind a mask of indifference. If I hadn’t known better, I would’ve said she was checking me out…because I was wearing only a towel. Shit.

  “Sorry,” I apologized. “I forgot I wasn’t wearing–”

  “You’ve been asleep for more than a day,” she interrupted, the look on her face telling me that she wasn’t going to acknowledge my lack of clothes. “It’s Thursday evening.”

  I shook my head. “That’s not possible. I would’ve had to get up.”

  She turned back to the stove. “You did,” she said. “Sort of.”

  “What does that mean?”

  She hesitated, and I had a feeling I wasn’t going to like what she had to say.