“I hate you, and I’m perfectly fucking fine,” I sobbed. “I am so…so over you, Adam Dillon. S-so…”
“Goddammit,” he snarled, reaching for me.
Chapter Two
Everything seemed to happen at once. The bodyguard cleared a space outside and opened the car door. Adam snaked a hand around my waist and dragged me up against him and out of the vehicle. Lights flashed and people shouted. Basically, all hell broke loose. Again.
“What are you doing?” I whisper-screeched.
“I’m not leaving you like this. We’re going inside.” And that was that.
My feet barely touched the ground. In fact, they definitely didn’t due to my wrapping them around his waist. It just seemed safer since the man had gone insane and seemed determined to carry me off so we could continue our fight elsewhere. If he was so desperate to get cried on and yelled at, then I was certainly the girl to do it. Easy, as he carted me through the waiting crowd. With one hand on my ass, he used the other to cradle the back of my head, encouraging me to hide my face in his neck.
Excellent idea. How the hell did he tolerate people getting all up in his grill all of the time? Outside his home, for heaven’s sake.
Small point: I could ignore the heat and scent of him while avoiding appearing on gossip sites no problem whatsoever. Women are multitasking masters at the best of times. Achieving both of these aims at once would not be a problem at all. Even if nibbling on his shoulder had once been a favorite hobby of mine. That I wanted to sexually attack him in the middle of a press and fan frenzy was disturbing news.
My hands clutched at him, holding on tightly as he strode into an upscale apartment building. The shouting voices and flashing lights faded behind us, the concrete walkway changing to a smooth marble floor.
“Evening, Mr. Dillon,” said the concierge, an attractive older woman with grey hair drawn back in a neat bun. She didn’t even take a second glance at me clinging to the man like a howler monkey. Dignity certainly played no part in my current position. I guessed in an apartment building like this, they saw all sorts of things. Because this had to be the infamous building where half of the world-famous band Stage Dive lived. The rock band who’d given Adam a hand-up in the music world after I’d kicked him out.
The tears slowed, though my breath still came in hiccupping sobs. How embarrassing. So not okay. His sneakers squeaked against the white marble flooring as Bon the bodyguard pushed the button for the elevator. All in all, the apartment building seemed to be some art-deco throwback with lots of shiny surfaces. A couple of pieces of expensive art stood on pedestals. The overall effect was one of expense and privilege.
“You can put me down now,” I said, doing my best to sound calm, cool, and collected. “Thank you.”
Adam frowned, but did as asked. His hands gripped my waist as I slid down his long, hard body. The whole experience made me tingle in a most unwelcome way. We were broken up. Way broken up. Tonight had turned all too emotional and physical for some reason. Not what I’d planned at all. Hard nipples poked at the thin material of my blue cropped tee, and my stomach flip-flopped. I crossed my arms over my chest and focused on my breathing. Everything would be fine. Denial was ace.
When the elevator arrived, a couple was already standing inside, having obviously come up from the parking level beneath the building.
The dude with long blond hair and tattoos had a baby attached to his front in one of those infant carriers. A pretty redhaired woman stood next to him, carting a baby bag. It was black with little cartoon skulls on it. So much rock ‘n’ roll cool with diapers included.
“Adam. Dude, bro,” said the man. “How’s it hanging?”
“Hey, Adam, Bon.” The woman gave me a somewhat tired but curious smile. “Hi.”
“Anne. Mal.” My ex nodded and said no more. He definitely didn’t introduce me. Even more awkward.
Bon pressed the button for a floor near the top of the building, and off we went.
Meanwhile, if Adam’s new rock star status didn’t overexcite me, the elevator’s current occupants sure did. I mean…holy shit. I may or may not have been a devoted member of the Stage Dive fan club for several years. David Ferris remained my favorite. Which actually might explain my whole tall, tattooed, long dark-haired guitarist fascination, now that I thought about it. But back to the famous dude who stared me in the face.
“Who’s your friend?” asked Mal. As in Malcolm Ericson, the drummer for Stage Dive. “The girl currently ogling me with slack-jawed wonder. Her eyes are red. Did you upset her?”
I shut my mouth and turned away. Gawky tweens showed more cool than I currently exhibited. With ease.
Mal played with a tiny socked foot that was sticking out of the baby sling. “It’s okay. Don’t be embarrassed. I am indeed amazing. Why the things I can do would frankly astound you. Take this infant attached to my chest here…his name is Tommy. I made him.”
The pretty redhead, Anne, shook her head. “If memory serves, I think you might have had some help with that.”
“Geez, babe, you’re as bad as Davie. Remember when he wanted co-writer credits on Fall for just filling in the gaps between my drum fills?”
“Filling in the gaps with stuff like lyrics and music, you mean?” asked Anne. How the woman managed to keep a straight face was beyond me.
“Exactly. The little stuff. But no…apparently, you just have to be in the room when the magic is happening and you get co-writer credits. It’s a good thing I’m so magnanimous about sharing the glory.” Mal stopped for a moment and looked between Adam and
