But I pull myself out of the emotional flashback and focus on the present, defense and deflection my only tools right now. “Danny has two accidental kids, and I’m the manwhore?”
“Danny has a wife and a family and doesn’t party in the greenroom till after four in the morning,” Marcus responds in a tired voice. “Danny doesn’t make the janitorial staff so disgusted that they call Chad, who calls Viola, who passes the phone to me, because I was on the way to do an early morning radio show. You’re welcome, by the way, for handling all of those duties and not dragging you along since you’re the only other one without kids.”
Crossing my arms, I turn back to face him, snorting at the idea of him dragging me to a radio show interview. “You wouldn’t even try. The PR team would never let you.” I gesture at the tabloid I dropped on the floor. “And that’s why. No one wants me facing questions about that. Seems like I’m doing a pretty good job of getting what I want, don’t you think?”
With that parting shot, I spin on my heel and stalk off, prepared to ignore Marcus if he calls after me. But he doesn’t bother.
Because we both know I’m not worth the effort.
Chapter Six
Viola
With a deep breath, I brace myself to knock on Mason’s door again. I had to roust him out of bed at lunchtime to get him to go see Marcus.
I have to fight down the blush at the various memories flitting through my head like a movie montage—shirtless Mason on stage at the first concert in LA and again at the concert last night. The picture of Mason with his shirt pulled up, eyes hooded, lips parted as he stares down at the woman kneeling in front of him in the picture in the tabloid. That picture is everywhere. And since I followed Blaire’s advice about setting up Google alerts for the band, each of the guys’ names, and the names of their significant others and children, I’ve seen that picture more times than I care to count. I lost track somewhere north of twenty.
But the worst, most vivid, most disturbing memory to my mental health was when I barged into his room and pulled the sheets off him, revealing his naked ass. It’s firm and tight, flexing in the most mesmerizing fashion when he lifted up to see who’d dared disturb his slumber.
I quickly averted my eyes when he climbed out of bed, shamelessly nude and grumbling about being woken up too damn early.
I had to bite my lip and stifle a snort at that assertion. I hadn’t had the luxury of sleeping in till noon in years. And in fact, I’d been up since about the time Mason had apparently crawled back to the hotel and climbed into bed.
Whatever. His sleeping habits aren’t really my problem. Marcus told me to get him up and in a car to the venue, so that was what I did.
And now I’m here to repeat that process, only this time it’s four forty-five, and I’m hoping he’ll just answer the door when I knock and that I won’t have to barge in and see him naked again.
I mean … I wouldn’t object to seeing him naked again in general. But like … if he weren’t a jerk to me. And wanted me there. And he clearly doesn’t like me or want me around at all.
He constantly calls me by the wrong name—on purpose. I overheard him and Marcus talking in the greenroom this afternoon. It would’ve been hard not to, unless I’d been on the other side of the building instead of just down the hall. They were practically shouting, and the door was open, and I was waiting in Marcus’s dressing room like he told me to, going over my checklist of things to get ready for the show tonight, double- and triple-checking everything, because while last night went better than the concert in LA, I still feel like I’m barely keeping my head above water.
While this isn’t exactly my dream job—I had no idea how exhausting it was until I started—it’s miles above being the administrative assistant at an insurance office.
Except for this part. No one at my old job leered at my ass, groped me on my first day while kissing me like we were long lost lovers, or continually called me by the wrong name.
In fact, I’ve never had anyone be so dismissive of my name before. Ever. Usually I get comments about how unusual it is, people mistaking it for the instrument that’s spelled the same but pronounced differently, and questions about how I ended up with a name like Viola. My parents are Shakespeare scholars, though, and while they named my older brother very obviously after The Bard, the story is that they argued long and hard about which female character to name me after. Viola won out, for not dying and being the heroine of my mom’s favorite play, Twelfth Night.
And it’s not like I want to be around Mason. He’s rude and surly and … and rude. Even if he is absurdly attractive. I can admire his physical beauty and still not want to hear him speak. Thinking about saying, “You’re so pretty, shhhh,” the next time he says something rude to me makes me giggle.
I’m stalling, though, and I need to get on with it. Time’s a-wastin’, and everyone will be waiting for us, especially if Mason is naked and has to get dressed.
Straightening my spine, I knock firmly on his door, gratified to hear a gruff, “What?” through the door.
I take that as an invitation to enter, though I’m still crossing my fingers that he’s dressed. And showered. This morning on
