Simple. And the system worked for us.
Until it didn’t.
Tonight the system totally crashed and burned. Thanks to me hurling myself, half-naked and angry, over that crucial line I’d never let him cross.
In the cold shower that followed, all I’d concluded about that was that for such a smart girl I could, on occasion, be really fucking stupid.
What the fuck was I thinking?
Like I was gonna teach Zane a lesson by shoving what he wanted in his face, once and for all? Like angry-kissing him for cockblocking my hookup was some kind of punishment?
And then what? What did I expect him to do?
Grope me, definitely.
Try to fuck me, probably.
And then I’d laugh in his face and shove him away?
Right. Really fucking mature.
More likely, at the rate I was going, I would’ve hate-fucked him into next Tuesday.
Great plan. Like that was gonna help anything.
Couldn’t be any worse than being rejected by him, Maggie May.
Yeah, thanks, Mom. I kinda got that.
I flopped onto one of the cushioned lounge chairs and put my feet up, taking another few swigs straight from the champagne bottle. Yeah, so I was drinking alone and that was kind of pathetic. Plus, I was having a two-way chat with my dead mom in my head. Nothing new, but it might be a good idea to bring another living person into this for a sanity check.
I pulled my phone out of the robe pocket. There were a couple of work-related texts awaiting reply; nothing urgent, but I responded. Then I thumbed through my contacts. Under Favorites I had the members of the band—Zane, Jesse, Elle and Dylan—as well as my boss, Brody, our head of security, Jude… and yeah, my dad. Not that I ever called him. The only other person on the list was Jessa, Jesse’s sister, my girlfriend who’d introduced me to the band and to Brody in the beginning.
I stared at the very short list, stunned.
How the hell had my personal life come down to this?
It was no big secret that over the years I’d grown apart from, drifted away from, or just plain alienated all my girlfriends back home. Not on purpose, but life with the band, on and off the road, and working twenty-four-seven had taken its toll. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had a meaningful conversation with anyone outside this fucked up little rock ’n’ roll bubble I called a life.
Mom. But she’d died three years ago.
I might’ve called Jessa, but I knew she was in New York for work, which meant she was probably asleep right now. That, or getting laid. And I didn’t really want to interrupt either of those activities.
Didn’t really feel like hanging with anyone in the band, either. The way my luck was going tonight, far too good a chance of running into Coop, and I was not having that.
Zane was right about one thing. Coop was a pussy.
I was totally gonna burn his shirt along with my expensive hookup lingerie. I didn’t need any souvenirs from the worst sexual disaster of my life. Rejected by two hot guys in the span of five minutes? Might’ve set a new land speed record on that one.
Way to go.
If my future sex life was gonna end up as barren as my list of friends, it wasn’t looking good.
I tossed my useless phone aside and that’s when it hit me, hard. I’d broken my own biggest rule by pouncing on Zane, who had all but vomited in response, and I had no one to talk to about it. No one to call up on a Friday night and vent to.
No one who loved me enough to snap me out of my funk and tell me I was better than this.
You are better than this.
Thanks, Mom.
I drank to that.
Then I heard a door open behind me and I cringed.
Please, please be anyone but Zane. The cleaning crew. Coop? A half-naked groupie looking for her lost stocking?
No such luck.
Zane swaggered onto the patio, followed by room service. I refused to look at him, focusing instead on the giant room service tray the dude brought out and laid on the low table next to my lounge chair. It had a bowl of vanilla ice cream and a little glass pitcher of what had to be chocolate syrup, a stack of trashy magazines, and a martini glass filled with jellybeans—red, orange and purple only.
All my favorite shitty-mood fodder.
Zane tipped the room service guy and as soon as the guy was gone, he took the champagne bottle from my hand. His fingers brushed mine and I caught his scent, again… my guts clenching as the memory of our kiss slammed into me. I could still feel it. Could still taste it. And lucky me, I now knew Zane smelled almost as good as he tasted… like raw, clean man, pure sex and total fucking trouble. I could never quite put my finger on that crazy-delicious scent of his. A hint of cool steel and warm leather… and some kind of spice? Fresh ground cardamom and cloves?
Who the hell smelled that amazing all the time?
I watched as he crossed the patio and set the bottle on one of the weird pseudo-ancient-Greek-motif mosaic tables, out of my reach.
“Whoever decorated this place, it’s tacky as shit,” he muttered.
Yeah. It was.
I considered protesting about the champagne, but I’d already sank half the bottle anyway, and truth be told I didn’t like drinking in front of Zane. Seemed kinda wrong. Like eating a giant piece of chocolate cake in front of someone on a diet… only so much worse.
Maybe if the person was
