“But?” I prompt, wanting—needing—to hear the rest of her answer.
With a shrug, she crosses her arms again and meets my eyes. “He never objected to picking someone from the PR-approved list when he and I had our arrangement. Neither did Aaron. That wasn’t our deal. The fact that his first reaction is to tell them to go to hell and that he’d rather go alone than with someone other than you?” Another slow shake of her head. “Talk to Mason. Figure out where you both stand on what’s between you. Then you’ll know if it’s worth it to feed yourself to the paps or not.” She drops her arms and starts to turn away, but stops herself. “But just so you know, whether you go to this event with him or not, the longer you two are whatever you are to each other, the more likely it is the media will catch wind of it. It’ll happen eventually. It’s really just a matter of time. Might as well go to a fun party with a hot rock star when you have the chance, right?”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Mason
Back at the hotel after the concert, I waste no time getting Viola into the shower where I lick her soaked pussy until she comes on my tongue then hoist her up against the wall and chase my own bliss. I can’t wait for the upcoming break. We haven’t discussed it yet, so I don’t know all her plans, but I intend for us to have some uninterrupted time together away from the demands of the tour, time for us to just be, to soak up each other’s presence and talk and fuck and live a life of pleasure-soaked hedonism.
Once we’re dried off and in bed, she rolls part way on top of me, her legs tangled with mine, her chin resting on her hand on my chest as she studies my face. Smiling, I tuck one hand behind my head so I can meet her gaze and use the other hand to play with a strand of her still-damp hair.
“I’ll do it,” she says apropos of nothing.
My eyes jolt to hers, my eyebrows lifting as my mind filters through the possibilities. What have we talked about recently? Or has she been reading my mind about inviting her to live in my condo during our break? She’s mentioned that she put most of her things in storage and sublet her apartment when she took the job with us. Which means she doesn’t have an apartment to go back to. I know she said her parents live in the Inland Empire, but what grown woman wants to live with her parents? I have to tamp down the expression of revulsion that wants to escape at the thought of moving back in with my parents for any length of time. Mr. and Mrs. Fundamentalist Preacher raining hellfire and brimstone on me day and night? No, thank you.
While her parents aren’t like mine, evidenced by the fact that she still actually talks to them and they haven’t disowned her nor do they hold her up as some kind of object lesson of how not to be a good person as I’m sure my father does at every opportunity, I also know they’ve been pressuring her to quit basically since she took the job. So I can’t imagine that moving back in with them for a month would be much more fun for her than living with my parents would be for me.
“I’ll go as your date to the awards show,” she says, drawing me out of my thoughts about parents and back into the present.
I have to blink a few times before her words actually penetrate my brain. “Wait, what? You will? Are you sure?”
A smile tips the corners of her mouth, and she nods. “Yes.” The way she whispers her agreement makes me think she’s still uncertain about her decision, but I’m thrilled.
When she showed me that email earlier, my entire body revolted at the idea of taking anyone else. And from the look on her face, I don’t think she was thrilled by the idea either. But when we discussed it more in my dressing room, she was so hesitant, I didn’t think there was any way she’d agree to go as anything other than my assistant. I’d already begun envisioning a night of having to keep my hands off her in a vain attempt to keep the charade going that we’re just band member and PA rather than … whatever we are.
Lovers is the best word, but that makes me think of those old SNL characters that Will Ferrell and Rachel Dratch used to play where they called each other lover in the most disgusting way. It’s hilarious on TV, but not so much in real life.
But girlfriend just sounds juvenile. And we haven’t had that talk yet. No time like the present, though.
With one hand under her arm, I tug her closer so her face is level with mine, draping an arm around her and rolling to the side so we’re lying face-to-face on the same pillow. “People will talk, you know,” I point out. It needs to be said. I need to make sure she knows what she’s getting herself into. Not that I think she’s clueless, but … it pays to be clear.
“I know,” she says quietly. “I saw the kinds of things they printed about Blaire. That they still write about her, actually. I know what I’m getting into.”
My chest fills with wonder, and I have to clear my throat a few times before I can speak. No one’s ever willingly made the choice to open themselves up to
