Tryst

  Chapter Three

  Somewhere between me losing my composure and Caleb escorting us to Ransom Reed’s dressing room, there was a concert. I know it was amazing—evidently Ransom brought the house down with their best show yet—but I couldn’t tell you what songs they performed or how many bras were thrown at their feet. Honestly, I can’t even remember my own name.

  What happened out on that stage was no concert. It was no simple, rehearsed performance. Every note was a raspy moan on the back of his throat. Every lyric was a threat of pain, violence, and pleasure so deep and fulfilling, it should be illegal. And every movement of his hips was a jolt of adrenaline straight into my core.

  Yet, even with concentrated sex racing through his veins, his songs were about so much more than the physical. I felt pain in his words. Loneliness, heartbreak, joy, fear. I listened to his life story and lived within the sultry timbre of his voice.

  Ransom Reed is no singer. He’s a magician. And his greatest trick of all is hypnotizing the masses with the tip of his golden tongue.

  I anxiously pace the floor, awaiting his arrival. I can feel Tucker’s eyes on me—he’s never seen me this nervous to meet a potential client before. Even Caleb couldn’t stop giving me the side eye at my jittery behavior.

  “Just relax, babe. He’d be a fool not to hire you,” Tuck assures me, using that soothing shrink voice reserved for his patients.

  “That’s not what I’m worried about,” I confess. He raises an inquisitive brow but doesn’t press for more. He doesn’t want to hear that I’m worried that Ransom will hire me.

  “You know you don’t need to do this,” he says, leaving his spot on the leather couch and coming to stand before me. He gently grasps my shoulders to halt my incessant pacing and levels his eyes with mine. “You don’t need him. Hell, with the client list you already have, you’re already too busy. Taking on another client, especially a musician, will only ensure that we never see each other.”

  I know he’s right, but I don’t have the nerve to tell him so. Tucker is always right—he’s always the voice of reason. And being married to someone who is always right makes you realize just how wrong you always are.

  The dressing room door opens, unleashing a barrage of voices battling to be heard. Although Tucker’s body is blocking my view, I can clearly hear what sounds to be an entertainment reporter, asking for Ransom’s thoughts on the end of the Hostage tour.

  “The whole experience has been absolutely incredible,” he answers, the smoothness of his speech completely contrasting the almost rugged rawness of his singing voice. “And to end it here in New York City is the icing on the cake.”

  “What about the rumors of you leaving the band? Any truth to that?”

  I clearly hear Ransom huff out a half chuckle. “None at all. They’re just that—rumors. My bandmates are my family. We are absolutely devoted to each other and our music.”

  Good answer. Maybe Ransom isn’t a lost cause after all.

  “So the story about you and Cash Colby getting into a physical fight are untrue? And that you have supposedly slept with Striker’s wife? Rumor has it, you’re the biological father of her unborn child. How do you feel about becoming a daddy?”

  An audible gasp escapes the lips of half a dozen groupies that have been hanging on to their rock god’s every word. I peer around Tucker just in time to see Ransom visibly freeze mid-step. He slowly turns back to the reporter behind him—the guy who’s itching for an ass kicking. And the way Ransom’s fists close at his sides and his angled jaw tightens, he’s just the one to scratch that itch.

  “That’s enough questions for now. Please direct any further questions to my assistant sometime next week,” I find myself saying without fully thinking it through. I can’t fully justify my outburst, but I know the look on Ransom’s face was just a prelude for trouble. And the publicist in me couldn’t sit idly by and witness the press-provoked shit-storm.

  Of course, every eye draws to me, wondering where the hell I came from and who the hell I am. Back straight, I step around Tucker and approach the group at the door. Yet, for all my confidence, I can’t find the nerve to look up at Ransom as I come to stand between him and the reporter.

  “And you are?” the reporter asks. I recognize him—someone from VH1. He’s short, plain, and about as nondescript as you can get. But one tweet about how Ransom Reed violently accosted the press after the biggest show of his life, and he could successfully destroy the rocker’s already questionable image.

  “Heidi DuCane.” I extend my hand and he takes it, just as recognition sets in.

  “Ah, Ms. DuCane. I wasn’t aware that you repped the band. While I have you here, do you mind if I ask you about one of your other clients?”

  I roll my eyes. These press assholes are fucking, life-sucking vampires. As soon as they smell blood, their fangs come out. And I don’t have to guess which client he’s talking about. Ever since the news broke about Justice and his relationship with Park princess, Ally—formerly Allison Elliot-Carr—my phone has been ringing nonstop, every vulture in town just dying to know the scoop on the two of them, and Oasis. My answer is always the same: “We refuse comment at this time” aka “Fuck off!”

  And that’s exactly what I’d like to say to this little weasel of a reporter right now.

  “I do mind actually. This is Ransom’s night. Let’s keep it about them and their music. The operative word being music. That is what the VH1 brand is based on, correct?” I reply, not even bothering to mask the annoyance in my voice. I don’t know why, but I feel the need to protect Ransom. And considering that I’ve never even met him, let alone don’t represent him, I have no right to feel that way about him.

  Caleb and his shiny suit step up and, with a little more diplomacy, ushers the reporter out of the room, along with the crowd of awaiting groupies. A simultaneous, disappointed Awwww resounds from the other side of the door.

  Without the distraction of the reporter, I’m forced to look up at Ransom, realizing that we are much closer than I’m comfortable with. Still, I stay planted where I stand, refusing to be intimidated. He must’ve gotten the same memo because he stares back at me, intensity simmering behind those dangerously dark eyes that seem to study me with rapt attention.

  “Publicist, huh?” he says, his lips moving into a sly smile. “I wasn’t aware I had hired one.”

  “Ransom, we talked about this,” Caleb speaks up, moving to inspect the spread of gourmet cheese, fruit, and premium alcohol. He picks up a bottle of champagne and proceeds to pop it open. “After Ingrid quit with your last social media snafu, I told you that you’d need to hire a replacement ASAP.”

  That social media snafu being a very detailed, up-close-and-personal dick pic taken by some random hookup while Ransom was asleep. Ingrid Carlsbad, a pretty solid publicist and rival, was able to get it removed just hours after it made its big debut (pun intended), but the damage was already done. So she took the coward’s way out and quit, rather than appear incompetent by her peers.

  “I know that, Caleb,” Ransom retorts. “I just don’t recall hiring this one.”

  With that, he tears his eyes away from mine and walks to the back of the dressing room. Not in an act of retreat. It’s as if he’s dismissed me, yet I’m too goddamn dumb to realize it.

  “Heidi DuCane is the best in the business. You need someone who is willing to protect your image, and at the same time, make sure Ransom stays trending. If you couldn’t tell from how she just handled that reporter, Heidi is who you want.”

  Ransom pulls a beer from the fridge and pops it open, taking a long gulp. When he pulls the bottle from his lips, he spies Tucker quietly standing just feet away. Ransom frowns slightly, blinking his heavily lashed eyes rapidly before bending down to retrieve another beer. Then without a word, he offers it to Tucker, who accepts with a thankful nod. After that . . . nothing. Ransom doesn’t even glance in my direction.

  Head high and shoulders pressed back, I go to stand b
eside my husband, the only person in this room who doesn’t have an interested stake in Ransom’s career. Yet, he’s the only one that seems to be gaining his attention. If I didn’t have built-in gaydar, I would totally be giving Ransom the side eye.

  “Mr. Reed, you need a publicist—yes—but you also need someone who knows her shit and is willing to go to bat for you.” I take a step toward him and meet his gaze, which seems more . . . bored . . . than anything right now. Still, I soldier on. “I am that someone. I know this business like the back of my hand. I’ve made some incredible connections within the music industry and the press. And I protect my clients like my life depends on it. You won’t find a better publicist than me, I can guarantee you that. But I’m not here to beg for your partnership. I don’t need to. You know as well as I do that you need me.”

  Ransom studies me for a long beat while he takes another sip of his beer. Even when he tips the bottle up, displaying his smooth, tanned throat, he keeps his eyes on me. When he’s swallowed his fill, he turns to Caleb, who is frantically texting while helping himself to Ransom’s rather expensive champagne.

  “Where’d you find this one, Caleb?” he says, completely ignoring my whole spiel.

  “I told you I’d bring you the best and I delivered,” Caleb answers without looking up from his phone. “Heidi is who you want. Trust me. Have I ever steered you wrong?”

  “Today?” Ransom laughs, the sound husky and deep. It causes the tight knot of irritation to unfurl in my gut. He looks back at me, regarding me with a look that I can only describe as contemplative, as if he’s analyzing everything about me. Self-consciousness snakes up my spine but I deny the urge to look down at the ground. His gaze quickly sweeps to Tucker for just a second, and then back to me. “Bring her to the suite,” he says to Caleb, his eyes still studying me intensely.

  “You got it,” Caleb replies, stowing his phone in his suit jacket. “Ok, you’ve got the fan meet-and-greet and a briefing with the guys. We need to get moving.”

  Without another word, Ransom strides to the door. Before his hand touches the knob, he looks back at me and smirks. “Nice to meet you . . . Heidi.” Then he launches himself into the fandemonium.

  “Hang out here for a bit, if you can,” Caleb says, quickly following his client. “Drink the champagne—Ransom demands it, but doesn’t like the stuff. I think he only requests it for me. And help yourself to anything here. I’ll be back as soon as I can to escort you to the after party.”

  I screw my face in annoyance. I’m not used to taking orders from anyone, especially Caleb. He notices my scowl and shoots me a knowing smile, his dick growing an inch, no doubt. “You’re in, Heidi. He likes you. He just likes fucking with people.” And he heads into the hallway, ducking and dodging worshipping band sluts in ripped Ransom tees and short skirts.

  “That was . . . interesting,” Tucker says, as we both stare after the closed dressing room door. We can clearly hear the sheer fuckery on the other side, but we stand completely frozen in shock, as if we’re in the wake of a tornado. That tornado being Ransom Reed.

  “Interesting? That guy’s a dick! He should be lucky I’m even entertaining the idea of representing him.” I go straight to the champagne with every intention of draining the entire bottle. This whole situation has got me wound so tight, I don’t even bother with a glass. I just take it straight to the head.

  “Relax, babe. You heard Caleb—he likes you. You know these entertainer types are all about dramatic effect,” Tucker reasons. “Besides, he’d have to be a fool not to hire you.”

  Tucker finishes off his beer in a few hearty swigs and chucks the bottle in the nearby trashcan. Then he comes up behind me, sliding his hands up my bare arms before resting them on my shoulders. When he begins to knead, I feel the tension slowly ease out of me.

  “Just listen to what he has to say,” he coos, bringing his lips to graze the shell of my ear. I lean back into his touch, until my backside hits his groin. “And if you don’t like what you hear, we will at least get a nice night out together.”

  “And free booze,” I add, taking another drink from the champagne bottle.

  As always, Tucker is right. After several more swigs of bubbly, I’m feeling relaxed and optimistic about my next interaction with Ransom Reed. I mean, so what, he’s ridiculously sexy and so drop-dead gorgeous that it makes my eyes hurt. Even if he’s been cursed with the dreaded asshole gene, he’ll be pretty to look at. And let’s face it—I’m used to dealing with assholes. Hello, Justice Drake, anyone? And I’m two parts asshole myself.

  When Caleb reenters a good while later, both Tucker and I are pleasantly tipsy, having raided the dressing room’s mini fridge. We’re noshing on a cheese and fruit platter when he tells us it’s time to head to the after party.

  “Where’s it at?” I ask him as he leads us outside where his ride awaits.

  “The Royal. Penthouse.”

  The Royal? That’s a modest choice, considering that most entertainers would surely choose the swankier offerings, like The Plaza or Ritz-Carlton. But, then again, the papzz would expect that.

  “Which penthouse?” The Royal has three of them, all boasting a nightclub sorta vibe.

  “All of them,” Caleb answers, pulling out his phone to reply to a text.

  We ride the short distance in companionable silence until we reach our desired location, which, honestly, isn’t much to look at from the outside. Caleb leads us to the elevators, stopping briefly to greet a few industry folks. We take the ride to the top where the party is already in full swing.

  What the preshow festivities lacked in booze and boobs, the after party more than makes up for it. We step into the largest suite, which is crammed with wall-to-wall partygoers who look as if they’ve been at it for at least an hour. Everyone is beyond toasty, the music is loud and the lights are dim. I can barely make out anyone familiar, although I suspect the largest packs of girls have band members smuggled between them.

  “Where’s Ransom?” I shout at Caleb over the music.

  “He’s here somewhere. Grab a drink, have some fun. He’ll turn up somewhere.”

  I turn to my husband, who looks just as out of his comfort zone as I am. Don’t get me wrong—I haven’t always been this square. But penthouse parties haven’t been my thing since my twenties.

  “Come on,” he says, grasping my hand and leading me through the crowded room. We stop at what appears to be a bar. It’s littered with various bottles of alcohol, champagne, wine, and beer. He finds a clean flute and pours me a glass of bubbly before snagging himself a beer.

  “When in Rome,” he says, smiling in a toast. That smile is a picture of beauty. And unfortunately, I don’t see it half as much as I used to. I take a sip of my drink and grin right back at him.

  Ok, maybe one night of fun won’t hurt. What’s the worst that could happen?

  Chapter Four

  It’s close to midnight, and Tucker and I are three sheets to the wind, and one sip away from being pissy drunk. Surprisingly, we’re having fun. The music and jovial atmosphere are infectious, and by the second drink, we find ourselves moving together to the rhythm, our bodies pressed close together. I can feel Tucker growing against my backside as he sways to the beat, and I encourage it by rubbing my ass against the threat of his erection. We shouldn’t be doing this—someone could see us. But with the lights this dim and the room this crowded, we can’t find a good reason to stop. Especially when Ransom Reed, the whole reason we’re here, is nowhere in sight.

  As if he’s heard his name in my thoughts, the crowd parts, and I glance up to find him across the room, sitting on the back corner of a couch. He’s ditched his stage clothes and is dressed casually in worn jeans and a white V-neck that’s just tight enough to display cuts of impressive, lean muscle. A slouchy beanie sits on his head that reveals longer front layers of dark brown hair. He’s leaning forward, elbows on his knees and a beer in his hand. And he’s staring right at me. Even with scantily clad women hangin
g all over him, vying for his attention, his intense, dark gaze is pressed solely onto me. I’m not sure what I should do, so I keep moving side to side with Tucker right behind me, flexing his hips into the curve of my ass seductively.

  I feel soft lips moving along the side of my neck and I melt into the enticing touch, yet keep my stare trained on the exotically alluring man across the room. There’s a woman sitting between his legs, her body angled so her face is in his crotch. I can see her hand moving against something, but I don’t see anything nor does he react to what she’s doing. Another woman leans over to whisper in his ear before letting her tongue trace the line of his jaw. Yet another desperate groupie is behind him, rubbing his shoulders. He doesn’t move. Hell, it’s hard to tell if he’s even blinked since we locked eyes.

  I know whatever is transpiring between us right now is inappropriate, both professionally and personally. Tucker could look up at any moment and easily see Ransom eye-fucking his wife. And if that weren’t enough, he would see his wife . . . taking it. Eye-fucking him right back while her loving husband sweeps tender kisses up and down her neck.

  This isn’t me. I’m not irresponsible or reckless. I never put my own personal feelings before business. And sure, I’ve had plenty of opportunities to explore the prospect of sleeping with other men. I just never truly craved the feel of a stranger’s body pressed against mine, touching me, kissing me, filling me. Until now.

  A look of resignation flashes in Ransom’s eyes and he suddenly climbs to his feet, leaving his harem lonely and dejected. My heart pounds faster, harder, as he stalks toward me, and everything around me ceases to exist. The music, the people, even my husband. I shouldn’t let him have this power over me and my body, but he already does. And he’s never even touched me.

  I hold my breath, holding back frustrated tears as fear and guilt spike in my veins. I don’t understand what’s happening. Is it the champagne? Quite possibly. But I’ve never behaved like this before, and I’ve always been able to hold my own. No, alcohol is no excuse for what I’m feeling.