Tryst

  When he’s standing directly in front of me, his towering frame eclipsing the party before us, I hesitate to look up into those dark, hypnotic eyes. But I can’t help myself. He completely disarms me of all good, God-given sense.

  “Come with me,” he demands, before turning toward the exit of the suite.

  “But . . .” That single words stops him in his tracks but he doesn’t face me. “But what about my husband?”

  I’m cringing before the sentence has even fully escaped my lips. What about my husband? What the fuck am I saying? If Tucker wasn’t standing here, would I have posed that same question?

  Ransom looks over his shoulder and shrugs. “Bring him too.”

  Of course. Of course, I would bring him. Why wouldn’t I? And why would I ever put myself in a position where I’d even have to question that?

  When it seems like I’m still debating the decision in my mind, Tucker takes my hand and gently pulls me toward the direction of Ransom’s retreating back. He doesn’t wear the same awkward look of confusion as I do. Maybe he’s much more sober than I, able to sift through whatever illusion I’ve created in my head.

  I allow Tucker to pull me out of the suite as Ransom leads us to another room, away from the drunken fray of sweat-slickened bodies and vibrating bass lines. We’re far enough that the crowd has thinned and we’re able to slip in the unoccupied suite undetected. It’s one of the smaller penthouses, and while it is just as luxurious, it’s much more understated in its décor.

  “Have a seat,” Ransom mutters, his voice low and serious. He makes a beeline for the wet bar and grabs two beers, handing one to Tucker. Then he turns his attention to an ice bucket cradling a chilled bottle of champagne. Odd, considering that he doesn’t like the stuff, according to Caleb. He pops the cork and pours a single glass, and brings it over to the couch where I sit, my legs and arms crossed over my body in nervous defense. I take the glass thankfully, although I don’t need it, and soothe my suddenly parched throat with a large gulp.

  “So . . .” Ransom begins, settling into an armchair across from the couch Tucker and I occupy. The way his body slides into the seat so gracefully, as if he’s so sure of every bit of his body, evokes thoughts in my head that I have no right to think. He positions his left ankle over his right knee. “Why do you want me, Heidi?”

  I choke on my champagne.

  Full on coughing, sputtering, retching choke. Tucker pats my back, which is completely unnecessary, and I wave him off. When I lift my reddened face from my hands, tears smudging my mascara, Ransom is standing in front of me, offering a bottle of water. I accept it with a nod and down half the bottle.

  “Thank you,” I croak, my voice hoarse. Oh my God, this is a disaster already, and I still haven’t figured out what the hell I’m doing here. I clear my throat a few times and look up at Ransom, head high despite my watery eyes. “What do you mean?”

  Ransom raises his brows and looks at Tucker and then back to me. “Um, why do you want me . . . as a client? Why do you want to work with me?”

  I let out a relieved sigh. Business. We’re here to talk business. Of course. Why the hell else would we be here?

  Feeling foolish, I muster up a confident smile. “Suffice to say, you’ve been in the press quite a bit, and not all of it positive. Not a big deal, because we all know that any kind of publicity is good publicity. But there’s a fine balance between the effects of good press versus bad press. And I want to make sure that even your bad press is shown in a positive light.”

  “Such as?” He sits back in his chair and takes a swig of his beer.

  “Your feud with Cash Colby.” I hold up a hand before he can even attempt to explain. “It’s not my job to prove if it’s true or not. It’s my job to ensure that whatever it is generates record sales. That’s it.”

  “But that’s not even the issue. Cash and I are fine. He’s an attention whore and I’m a cocky asshole. That’s our dynamic and it always has been. It works for us.”

  “But does it?” I inquire, raising a brow. “That may be how you see things, but is that what everyone else sees? Because to your fans—the ones that purchase concert tickets and buy albums—there seems to be discord, which results in breakup rumors. And breakup rumors gets people imagining that they can actually hear the disconnect in your music. Which, inevitably, makes them not want to support you. Following my drift, here?”

  Ransom touches his index finger to his lips, contemplating my words. Then he sets down his beer bottle and begins to fish for something in his back pocket. He pulls out a small cigarette case and opens it up on the coffee table between us, revealing a neatly wrapped joint.

  “You mind?”

  “Not at all,” I answer. Tucker shakes his head beside me.

  Ransom sparks it up and takes a long, deep pull. The potent smell of marijuana hits me hard, heightening my champagne buzz. Still, I grab my glass and take a nervous sip. After another drag, Ransom leans over and offers the joint to Tucker, who looks at it as if it’s a crack pipe. His gaze wanders to me and I shrug. I can see it in his eyes—he wants to be young and reckless again. He’s tired of playing it safe. So with the very tips of his fingers, my husband accepts the joint.

  At first, he takes a tentative pull, just enough to fill his lungs with the aromatic smoke. After exhaling, he brings it to his lips again. Ransom and I are both watching him, waiting for him to freak out, but that moment never comes. Instead, he releases a chest full of smoke and passes the J to me.

  Let’s get one thing straight. I’m never the type to engage in irresponsible behaviors with my clients, let alone illegal ones. But as it stands, Ransom Reed is not my client. Not yet, at least.

  I take the small, thin joint between my manicured fingers and bring it to my MAC Russian Red painted lips. Inhaling deeply, I let the sensation sweep through me, disarming all the anxiety rattling my senses. I take another puff and pass it back to Ransom before relaxing back into the couch cushion.

  “You know that shit’s not true,” he says, his voice strained from just taking a hit. Smoke billows out from between his lips. “That rumor about me being the biological father of Striker’s unborn child? It’s not true. I’ve never touched Trudy.”

  “I believe you,” I say, going for the last of my champagne, my mouth growing unbelievably dry. I drain it in one gulp. Tucker, being the caregiver that he is, gives me a quick peck on the side of my face and jumps up to retrieve the bottle. He refills my glass just as Ransom passes him the joint.

  “And that bullshit with Cash . . . that’s just us. Ever since we were kids. So whatever bitch is claiming that we brawled over her, she’s a fraud.”

  “Could it be possible that you both slept with her?”

  Ransom frowns, but now that we’re all feeling pretty nice, it just makes him look adorable. His already slanted eyes are just mere slits but I can still feel the intensity of his gaze on me. What is it with this guy? Why does it always seem like he’s studying my every move, as if he’s trying to figure me out. Tucker studies my words, my expression, trying to get into my head. Ransom . . . it seems like he’s trying to get into something else.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Did you both fuck her?” I ask flatly. No need to beat around the bush.

  Ransom makes an amused face. “Like a threesome?”

  I shake my head, feeling hot blood rush to my cheeks. “No, no. Not like that.” A lazy smile slides onto my face. “Or maybe . . . yeah. Exactly like that. Like a threesome.”

  Both Tucker and Ransom break into chuckles, and for some reason I can’t comprehend, I join them. It’s ridiculous—I’m smoking weed with a potential client, asking him if he had a threesome with a bandmate? This is so not me. But fuck it, why can’t it be?

  Tucker passes me the joint and I take a long hit. It’s almost dead and Ransom gestures for me to go ahead and finish it.

  “Have I had threesomes? Yes,” Ransom muses, hands folded behind his head as he reclines in his se
at. “Have I had threesomes with Cash? Yes. Was that girl involved? No.”

  My steel-gray eyes grow in size. “So you had a threesome? With Cash?” God, that sounds . . . hot. Cash is commercially beautiful with his longish, sandy blond hair and perfectly proportioned features. But Ransom . . . he’s dangerously good-looking. The type of beauty that you know means trouble. The two of them together? Holy Hot Rock Gods, Batman.

  My face flames and I look down at my champagne flute, suddenly bashful at my own thoughts. I feel warm fingers slide down my cheek and I look up to find Tucker wearing a sluggish smile.

  “That excites you, doesn’t it?” he asks quietly, his speech falling into that Louisiana accent that I love so much. It comes out whenever he’s tired or drunk, and in this case, high. I’ve always told him he was my very own Harry Connick Jr. The wavy, russet hair and blue topaz eyes, the full lips and sexy, southern drawl—everything about him screams ruggedly refined sensuality. And the way he’s looking at me right now—like he wants to take me right here on this couch, no matter who’s watching—I can’t really say that I would hinder him from doing whatever the hell he wanted.

  Eyes low and hooded, Tuck leans over to gently kiss my bare shoulder. The soft brush of his lips feels like silk on my already tingling skin, and I suck in a breath. Face red with both embarrassment and desire, I glance up to find Ransom staring at us intently. Not disgusted or even amused. He’s . . . enthralled.

  “Threesomes,” he replies, accentuating the s. “Don’t tell me you’re a prude, Heidi. Because whoever I work with needs to be able to keep up with any and all aspects of my life.”

  I answer with a shake of my head. How the hell did we get on this subject? Weren’t we just talking about . . . oh, shit. What were we talking about?

  “I’m not a prude. But . . . how would something like that work?” I ask, too intrigued to stop now. “With you and Cash? Do you two . . . ?”

  “Do we fuck?” Ransom tacks on when I’m too ashamed to finish my thought. “No. The girl gets fucked, but we don’t touch each other. It’s not like that. Sometimes we take turns while the other watches. Sometimes we’re both inside her . . . at the same time.”

  Mouth beyond dry, I reach for my champagne, which thankfully, Tucker has refilled. It’s gone in less than three gulps.

  Ransom’s gaze sweeps to Tucker, then back to me. “Does this subject make you . . . uncomfortable?” He grins crookedly like he already knows the answer.

  I glance up at my husband, who I half expect to be wearing an expression of shock and repulsion. But he seems . . . fine. More than fine. If I didn’t know any better, he looks flushed with craving. And what he’s craving can’t be found in the wet bar.

  “No,” I answer, turning my attention back to Ransom. “I’m not uncomfortable. Not at all.”

  Over a few more beers, champagne, and another joint, we talk about the most random shit ever. I laugh when Ransom reveals some pretty bizarre stalker occurrences, involving his missing, worn underwear and shaved pubic hair. Tucker chuckles through a story about his days playing college football before he blew out his knee and I have to admit, the groupies were almost just as bold. I like this side of Tucker. Being open and honest and carefree, without worrying about what’s appropriate or professional. And he and Ransom seem to really get along, despite being totally different in every way, shape, and form. Sitting next to them is like being caught in freeze-frame between night and day. But oddly, I don’t prefer one over the other. It just seems natural to want them both.

  “Wait. Does that even count?” I ask, after Ransom shares the story of how he lost his virginity.

  “If it gets hard and can slide into pussy, it counts,” he replies smugly.

  “But you were twelve! You were a baby! How is that even possible?”

  He shrugs before taking a swig of his beer. “It happens. A lot more than you think, actually.”

  “But she was sixteen! She knew better,” I scoff.

  Ransom shrugs. “What can I say? I’ve always been drawn to older ladies.”

  His statement sets my skin aflame and I look away, trying to hide my ridiculous grin. When I feel more in control of my erratic hormones, I look back only to find that he’s still staring at me. His intensity makes me feel . . . uneasy. Like he knows exactly what I’m feeling. Like he can tell that every word he speaks sends shockwaves between my thighs.

  “How about you, Tuck?” Ransom says, releasing me from his hold. “Spill it.”

  Tucker leans back into the couch, gathering me into his arms and taking me with him. I kick off my heels and curl up at his side, tucking my bare feet under me. Feeling the full effects of alcohol mixed with pot, I let my eyes close and just enjoy the high.

  “Can’t say I’ve ever done the older woman thing,” he replies before kissing the top of my head. “But blondes . . . I’ve always had a thing for blondes.”

  “Yeah . . . me too.”

  My eyes pop open and dart over to Ransom, who is wearing that same cocky grin. Did he just say . . . ?

  “They’ve always been my weakness,” he continues.

  I self-consciously touch my own white-blonde hair and smile. He’s gotta be fucking with me. Maybe he gets a rise out of knowing he’s completely unattainable to very married women like me. But then again, those groupies in the other suite—the ones that were damn near giving him a hand job and licking the sweat from his brow in public—were all various shades of bottled sunlight.

  “What? No young girls with big boobs and perky, little asses?” I jibe. “Old blonde chicks do it for you?”

  But even with me chuckling at my own lame, self-deprecating joke, Ransom looks at me with genuine seriousness, as if he’s completely sober.

  “No. Girls don’t do it for me. But real women do. Women like you.”

  The emphasis on the last word has me nearly shaking like a leaf. Not because I’m nervous that he’s admitted to being attracted to me, but because I feel Tucker stiffen beside me. I risk a peek at him and find him looking down at me, an unnamed expression on his face. It’s not anger or agitation. It’s . . . No. It couldn’t be.

  “Funny you should say that,” my husband says, his eyes on me, but his words for Ransom. “Apparently, you do it for her too.”

  Face on fire, I turn to interject, only to be stunned by Ransom’s brilliant smile. “Oh, is that right?”

  “No . . . no, it’s not like that. I, um, I,” I stammer. Dammit. For someone who’s been known to castrate people with just her words, I find myself completely incoherent, which only makes Ransom smile wider.

  “So you’re not attracted to me?”

  “I didn’t say that,” I manage to spit out.

  “Then you are? Which one is it?”

  Tucker chuckles softly beside me, just as amused by my fumbling. “You’re on her list,” he reveals slyly. I sit up straight, eyes wide, and smack him playfully across the chest. He feigns injury, but I know he hardly felt it. His college football career and highly paid trainer have kept Tuck’s body impressively hard and toned. If it weren’t for the tiny bit of gray around his temples, he could easily pass for twenty-nine.

  I can’t even look at Ransom now, let alone explain. However, I can damn near feel his stare burning straight through me.

  “List?” he drawls. “What kinda list is this?”

  “Her Fuck-It List,” my (soon to be deceased) husband explains. “Men she’s allowed to sleep with if the chance presents itself.”

  “Huh,” Ransom snorts. “Interesting. And I’m on this list?”

  Gathering what little bit of liquid courage I have left in my system, I look up at him and nod once. “Yes.”

  “And you have a free pass with me, without any repercussion from your husband, if we agree to sleep together?”

  I swallow, my tongue suddenly feeling too thick in my mouth. “Yes.”

  Ransom sits forward, resting his elbows on his knees. Getting as close to me as he can without leaving his seat. A
ll traces of humor are wiped clean from his gorgeous face, and I’m left only to take in that dangerously intense stare.

  “So, Heidi . . . if you had the chance, would you sleep with me?”

  Even with Tucker’s arm around me, his fingers lightly stroking the skin of my shoulder, I am lost to the stranger in front of me. And like the golden-tongued sorcerer that he is, he conjures a single word from my body and casts it from my lips.

  “Yes.”

  Chapter Five

  Let’s play a little game.”

  Ransom Reed, sex-on-fire rock star, leans back in his seat once again, regarding me with an almost cocky air. I should be pissed off at both him and my husband, but I’m not. And judging by the wicked gleam in his eyes and his recent suggestion, he’s not bothered in the least.

  Fuck. What have I gotten myself into?

  I don’t even have a right to be angry. This was my fantasy. This is what I wanted.

  And I do. I think that’s what messes with me the most.

  Heidi DuCane, PR powerhouse and devoted wife, wants another man.

  “And what game is that?” Tucker asks, a hint of excitement in his voice. A jolt of fear and exhalation fills my belly, making me feel a bit queasy. Shit, I wish I’d finished my dinner.

  “Think of it like Truth or Dare, but with an edge. You don’t get to choose whether you do a dare or tell a truth, but you can always opt out. Anyone who works with me needs to be able to keep up. And if you can’t roll with this”—he waves a hand along his taut torso, a gesture that makes it seem like he’s offering himself to me . . . to us—“then I can’t trust you to represent me in a way that’s honest to who I am and what my music is about. So you’re either in, or you’re out. And if you’re out, there’s the door.”

  Tucker nods before looking down to meet my timid gaze. “Yeah. I think I can deal with that. How about you, Bunny? Sound good to you?”

  I look back at the gorgeous, smiling man beside me, and wonder where the fuck my husband went. This isn’t Tucker. He isn’t spontaneous or risky. He doesn’t play juvenile games or drink in excess or smoke pot. He’s safe and responsible. The peanut butter to my jelly. The yin to my yang. He’s my constant. And this . . . this is about as erratic as one can get.