“Truth is, I shouldn’t even be doing this,” she continued. “But you’ve ever so slightly woken my cold dead heart. Turns out, I happen to know what it’s like to be in your position. Someone wrote an album about me once, too. Not what you’d call a pleasant experience.”
Huh. Though, in Martha’s case, I’d hazard a guess that any lyrics about grinding a guy’s heart beneath five-inch heels would be deadly accurate.
She tapped her foot against the concrete. “So?”
“Where will Adam be going?” I asked, stalling.
“Straight home, if I have anything to say about it. But I can’t guarantee that.” Her eyebrows bent with the merest hint of a frown. “Sometimes he can struggle to unwind after a show.”
Interesting. I resisted the urge to smile at the irony. I’d had trouble getting Adam off the couch. And now it seemed the new woman in his life had trouble keeping him there.
In all honesty, the whole situation was kind of doing my head in. Adam’s new life could officially be labeled: crazy town. Bodyguards and luxury cars and this terrifying woman running everything. Back when I knew him, all of a year ago, he’d owned exactly one pair of socks, and they both had holes in them. Not so sexy. You can guess what he got for Christmas that year. He spent his days writing songs or jamming with friends at various bars around town. Sometimes, he’d manage to get paid for a gig or land some delivery work at a pizza place. Do a few shifts behind the bar at a local club. But that was about as far as his behaving like a responsible adult went. He’d couch surfed for years, living with various friends and acquaintances, until he and I hooked up. Now this was his life.
Mind blown.
“You can talk to him on the drive to wherever he goes, then Mac will take you wherever you want,” said Martha. “In a couple of days, Adam’s on a plane to start the European leg of his tour. Trust me when I say this is the only opportunity you’re going to get to talk to him face-to-face in the foreseeable future. Do you want it or not?”
Oh, man. I really shouldn’t have, but I climbed into the SUV, sliding across the black leather seat to the far side. The interior was pristine with that new-car smell. In days gone by, he’d borrowed my crappy old hatchback to get places. Wedging guitar cases and amps into the small vehicle with amazing skill. Now this. How far the boy had come.
The large handsome dark-skinned man sitting in the driver’s seat gave me a smile in the rearview mirror. “Miss.”
“Hello.” My smile wobbled, the most likely cause being my lack of confidence. Which was crazy. Adam Dillon had never intimidated me a day in his life. As beautiful and talented as he might be, it was hard to be unsettled by someone who constantly forgot to put the toilet seat down. It had to be this situation—the concert, the limousine, the security. I’d be fine in a minute. Give me a chance to catch my breath and I’d be…
And there he was, a towel perched hoodlike on his head, and a bottle of Gatorade attached to his lips. One bodyguard in front, and another bringing up the rear. Martha marched beside him, her mouth moving with what I assumed was an endless stream of information. Occasionally, Adam nodded in reply. He wore sneakers, jeans, and a tee. The shirt was bathed in sweat, clinging to his skin. Guess it got hot under those spotlights. And he had more room to strut around than on the tiny stages at the little gigs he’d done when he was with me.
But that wasn’t all. While he’d looked like a quintessential rock god on the stage, as he drew nearer, I could see that his face was pale, and there were bruises beneath his eyes. To put it mildly, he looked like shit. And yet, all I could do was stare.
It was probably just the shock of seeing him again after so long. I mean, I’d seen him. Hell. I could hardly avoid him on billboards and the internet and all the rest. Sometimes with beautiful women draped over him, and sometimes without. Wasn’t that just fucking delightful? But experiencing him again in the flesh seemed like something else entirely. Something I apparently hadn’t been quite as prepared for as I’d hoped.
A woman dashed up behind the group, waving a piece of paper and a pen. And she was gorgeous, dammit. A statuesque redhead with ample cleavage spilling out of her barely tied-on top. She shrieked Adam’s name in what I guessed to be some sort of groupie come hither mating call. Glass would have shattered at the high pitch she managed, though Adam didn’t even flinch. Didn’t even acknowledge her existence. The rear security dude stopped her progress, and that was that.
Where were these hordes of fans a short year ago when he was playing to half-empty clubs and selling CDs from the trunk of my car? He was the same guy playing the same music back then. Better music, actually. More honest. Less me-being-a-bitch-centric, which I was bound to appreciate.
“To the club, Mac,” said Adam, climbing into the vehicle, obviously not having seen me. There he was, rock ‘n’ roll’s newest darling and my ex-boyfriend.
Martha all but growled. “Straight home, Mac. I mean it!”
“You’re not my real mother,” grumbled the rock star.
“I’m not your mother at all, you idiot. Now enough with the partying. Go home and get some rest, Adam. Or else.” She turned to go, then paused. “By the way, there’s a problem with the parking level access gates at the apartment building so you’ll need to go through the front door.”
Mac just nodded.
“And there’s one other potential issue on the horizon tonight,” Martha continued. “But
