15. Rae
15
RAE
“W ell, well. What is all this?” Ash calls from the front door.
I jump up from where I’m working on a track on the couch, headphones around my ears.
Ash already has the case open on the dining table, lifting one of the two dozen items inside.
He fumbles it, nearly dropping it on the floor. “Ah, bollocks.”
“I thought you were an athlete. What happened to hand-eye coordination?”
“Footballer. Foot-eye coordination. This a new part of your costume?” he asks as I trail a finger over the pairs of glasses.
“They’re not for me.”
“Ahh.” His eyes soften, and I hate how transparent I feel. “You know, the moment you flipped him off at Debajo the first night, I told him if he wasn’t going to make a move, I would.”
“But you haven’t,” I point out, pushing the attention back onto him. “It’s never been like that with us, even at the start.”
He frowns at the lenses in his hands, but I press.
“What is your type, Ash?“
Before he can answer, the door opens and Harrison walks in.
The room gets smaller the instant he steps inside, and it’s not because of his size or the tailored suit clinging to every inch of his hard body. It’s the way his attention finds me in a heartbeat.
“It’s not Ash you lay in bed thinking of while you make yourself come.”
The only thing hotter than imagining his filthy mouth on me while I touch myself, the tight-woven sheets smooth on my damp back, is imagining him down the hall knowing I’m imagining it.
It’s making it harder to remember I’m here to work for him for less than two more weeks.
Three shows, to be exact.
“Hi,” he says.
“Hi.”
There’s a beat of awkward silence before he continues.
“I spoke to Leni about moving your last show. You’ll still play Thursday and next Monday, but instead of closing Thursday next week, you’ll finish Saturday. I trust that’s acceptable to you.”
Surprise works through me. He’s offering to have me finish on the biggest night of the week. More exposure, and per our deal, more money. I should be irritated he didn’t ask me, but there’s another aspect of this proposal I’m focused on.
“You want me to stay here two more nights?”
He cocks his head, parsing my response. “Echo will cover any fees to change your travel plans. But you deserve to close on a weekend.”
I feel myself nod.
“Well?” Ash slides a pair of glasses onto his nose and turns to face his brother.
Harrison’s attention slides to his brother. “You look like a banker.”
“Fortunately, I don’t need glasses. You do.” Ash pulls them off and tosses them at Harrison.
“See? Hand-eye coordination,” I mutter as he catches them.
Ash snorts as he heads for the kitchen.
Harrison crosses to me and scans the table. He looks taken aback, as if the designer case sprouted legs and began scuttling over the floor.
“A mix of designers,” I say, pressing my fingers together behind my back as self-consciousness kicks in. “I figured you were a ‘don’t fuck with the classics’ kind of guy. Since you won’t see an optometrist, they sent options. You can keep the ones you want, send the rest back.”
With a moment’s hesitation, he slides a pair up his nose and lifts a brow at me.
I’m thoroughly unprepared for how hot he is. Like a barely tamed beast of a man.
“Um, yeah. Those ones.”
“I thought he’s supposed to be able to read with them,” Ash comments helpfully from the kitchen.
I grab my phone and pull up my social media feed, handing it over so Harrison can test the strength of the glasses.
“These seem very effective.” But he’s no longer looking at the phone as he backs me into the table with slow, deliberate steps.
I’m aware of him and the fact that his brother is a dozen steps away.
“You failed to disclose something important about this weekend,” he says softly. I wait for a beat, then two. “It’s your birthday.”
Dammit. I press both hands to my eyes. “Who do I have to kill?”
“Toro.”
“It had to be the old guy with kids.” I curse and blink my eyes open as he smirks.
“Don’t make plans.”
To buy myself an inch of breathing room, I shift up so I’m sitting on the table.
“I’ll have to prepare for my final two shows. Especially since one is next Saturday. Besides, I thought you were spending every second convincing Christian to sell you La Mer.”
His gaze flickers. “I decided to leave him time to sleep, and eat, and fuck his wife.”
“How charitable,” I tease.
I realize my mistake immediately as he steps between my knees, forcing my legs apart.
“A man needs a release, Raegan. It’s not healthy to work all day without satisfaction at night.”
There are mere inches between us, and my heart is racing.
Keeping my voice level is an impossible task. “I don’t celebrate my birthday.” I lift the glasses from his face, folding them and tucking them into the breast pocket of his jacket. “It’s cursed.”
He snorts. “How do you figure?”
“It’s a long story. And you should be warned… everyone has a birthday. I might get you back on yours.”
Blue eyes darken to a flinty gray. “You’d have to stick around.”
Surprise has me straightening even as footsteps from upstairs interrupt. Natalia.
Harrison leans across me to close the case of glasses, near enough his scent invades my senses.
“Two extra days is one thing, but I can’t imagine staying longer,” I murmur, though suddenly I’m wondering what it would be like. “For one, there’s the small issue of you hating me.”
“I never hated you. I wanted you to fix the damage your words caused.”
“You wanted to punish me,” I challenge. “I got up in your business and dared to ask questions, and you didn’t like it.”
His gaze roams my face, then lower. Harrison moves my hair behind my shoulder before wrapping it around his hand like a rope. He tugs on it, forcing my head back, and leans in, his mouth grazing my ear. “I still want to punish you.”
His hips press closer, near enough that I feel his hard length between my thighs.
With one jerk of his hands, he could have me on my back.
I want him to.
But when his phone goes off, he shifts away. I resist the urge to wipe my forehead and see if it’s damp as the rest of me.
“Don’t bother arguing about the birthday,” he says when he pockets the device again. “You’ll need to pack a couple of bags for our outing.”
“I only have one. What kinds of activities are we doing?”
He turns for the door.
“Drinking? Walking? Swimming?” I demand.
“Yes.”
I exhale, irritated by the lack of specificity. “Are there sharks?”
He turns back, his heated gaze sweeping my body. “Count on it.”
* * *
I think about those words.
As I try to work on my set for the night, then as I meet up with Leni to talk through new ideas for next weekend.
We hit a high of more than sixteen hundred people, and the bar staff makes me do shots until I trip out of the VIP room high-fiving everyone along the way.
The next day, I head down to a café I like, wearing my wig and sunglasses to meet the interviewer I agreed to see from social media.
The costume helps me feel protected, like this is part of my onstage persona and not edging into my personal life. It reminds me I’m still Little Queen here, not Rae Madani.
“How did you get into producing? You’re notoriously tight-lipped about that,” she asks when we’re seated at a table.
“Just caught the bug as a teenager. Helped when I got a computer and a synth.”
“Did your parents buy them for you?”
I flex my hands under the table. “My first one, yeah.”
She laughs. “Guess that gave you something to channel your angst. What do they think of your career now?”
Tension climbs up my spine, settles into my shoulders. “We don’t talk about it a lot.”
“You’re one of the only women playing the White Isle this summer. You’ve stood up for women’s rights even when it cost you.”
This is why I hate live interviews. It’s impossible to filter out these kinds of things. “It’s important to speak up for the people who can’t protect themselves.”
Despite the fact that she’s recording, she makes a note. I force myself not to lean over the table to see what she’s writing.
“Harrison King is lying low thanks to you,” she comments, and the right turn has me straightening. “Have you heard from him?”
It’s not common knowledge that Harrison owns Debajo. He doesn’t advertise the fact, and she clearly hasn’t put it together. I’m not going to do it for her.
“I’d rather focus on the future.”
I manage to steer the conversation away from me and toward my music.
As she rises to head to the door, I ask, “When are you expecting to finalize the article?”
“Soon. I’m pulling in more sources, and I’ll come by Debajo to take some photos.”
“Sure thing. I’m actually closing next Saturday.”
There’s a wave of nerves as I watch her leave. Playing a show is high stakes, but you get immediate feedback. With the media, you never know what they’ll come up with until it’s served up to the public on a platter.
I shake myself before dropping back into my seat to review some logistics for the upcoming shows.
Press is good. It’ll help Debajo, and my career.
My phone rings immediately after.
“Greetings, cousin. You’re unreal,” Callie declares.
“Um. Thanks?”
“Truly. With the money you sent, I’ve been able to cover payroll for another two weeks.”
“More will come after the last show,” I promise.
“I’ll pay you back every cent. I swear.”
“You don’t need to.”
I can almost hear her roll her eyes.
“How’s your mysterious, infuriating hottie?”
I turn it over. “Still hot. Still infuriating.”
“So, why do you sound as if you’ve softened?”
“He’s planning something for my birthday.”
I haven’t been able to get details out of Harrison about the birthday outing, though God knows I’ve been trying.
We’ve been in tense, flirtatious limbo for the past few days.
I spent extra time on my appearance before my set, hoping he’d be there. He was, and even though he was taking meetings, he spared me a hungry look from upstairs and texted me a song request.
Then we crossed paths when he came downstairs in shorts last night while on the phone. I was grabbing a snack.
“Who’re you talking to?” I mouthed.
“China,” he mouthed back.
I threw a napkin at him, which he dodged.
Yesterday, he texted me a picture of Barney with a toy in his mouth.
Harrison: ??
The toy was a crocheted doll a little longer than my hand, with blond yarn hair and a stitched-on frown. It wore a dark-blue costume with a tie.
Thanks to Barney, one of its arms was ripped off.
Rae: Natalia got me some craft supplies the week you were gone.
Harrison: And you were trying to send me a message?
I laughed out loud.
“He sounds romantic.” Callie’s voice brings me back.
“I guess so,” I admit.
Harrison’s not the kind of guy looking for an excuse to do something sweet.
If anything, he’s the opposite. Determined, single-minded.
The fact that he found out it was my birthday and is making something special from it despite my protests has my stomach flipping like a girl with a crush.
I’m not doodling “Mrs. Harrison King” in my notebook or anything. I’ve never pictured myself as the other half of any guy, and he may not even go there again given what happened with his ex.
But the little flutter in my chest feels entirely foreign.
After we finish talking, I respond to some emails and social messages before heading for the door of the café.
The sight through the glass makes me still.
Harrison’s strolling down the street as if I conjured him with my mind, looking like elegant sin.
When did I become the girl who has fantasies about a guy in a suit?
But he’s not alone. The woman next to him is pretty, with big sunglasses and pale skin under a wide-brimmed hat. She smiles at him as he talks animatedly, gesturing with his hands.
My stomach knots, twisting into a heavy mass.
We’re not dating. I’m not looking for a partner, someone to settle down and create one life with, to argue with and compromise with and lie awake at night next to.
No matter what Callie says, I need to keep my feelings for this man in check.
Starting with whatever he has planned for my birthday.