Chapter 29
Chapter Twenty-Nine
HENDRIX
If there’s one thing to be said about Lance Creed, it’s that the man moves quickly. No grass is growing under his feet, that’s for sure. So it’s completely unsurprising to me when I get a text from him this morning asking to meet before we leave LA today.
While Zara gets ready in the hotel suite, I dash downstairs where we’ve agreed to meet and go through all the required paperwork to sign with the Creed Agency. I’m also meeting with my new agent, Saul.
It’s been twenty-four hours since I gave my brother the thumbs up to move ahead, and had I not been holed up with a sick girlfriend yesterday, this probably would have already taken place.
Like I said, the man moves fast.
It makes me wonder how much further along my career would be if I had just given in and signed with him like Zander did. But then again, I wouldn’t be here with Zara, which makes me think I’m right where I’m supposed to be.
Look at me being all sentimental and shit.
We meet in one of the hotel’s available conference rooms, and it takes me just five minutes to sign my name where my dad’s new assistant has marked. I don’t bother to look it over. I’ve seen this boilerplate Creed Agency contract more times than I can count.
Besides, this is my dad, the man who used to sneak me cookies after bedtime and gave me an allowance each week for doing literally nothing.
He’s no villain.
“Now that we have that out of the way, let’s get to the good stuff,” Saul says, grabbing a folder from his briefcase.
Do people actually carry briefcases anymore?
Saul is about the same age as my father, but half as cool.
He reminds me a bit of Stan Lee, but instead of sunglasses and superhero comics, you get tweed blazers and legal jargon.
“What’s the good stuff?” I ask hesitantly.
He opens the folder, and my eyes widen. “Are those—”
“Offers? Yup.” He confirms. “And good ones too.”
“Barely a month on tour,” my dad says, looking at me with a gleam in his eye. “You should be proud of yourself.”
I blow out a breath, feeling a little taken aback. “Do they want me or just the media attention I’ll bring with me?”
Saul shrugs. “A little bit of both, I’ll wager. And I think there are some we can easily weed out because of that. But there are legitimate offers in here, Hendrix. Bands who want you. Not your name or your…” He waves a hand in my direction.
“My abs?” I roll my eyes.
“Media attention comes and goes. Ask Zander, Asher, or anyone else who has been in the spotlight. So ignore all that.” He shoves the folder in my direction, and I stare down at the first name on the stack.
It’s a band I know well. One I would have been thrilled to work with six months ago. Hell, six weeks ago.
Now, all I feel is a hollow sense of dread in the pit of my stomach, especially when I look at their tour schedule: a four-month US tour and a three-month international tour, starting in October. Manic finishes up in September, which means I’d be leaving almost as soon as I got home.
Another seven months on the road.
Would Zara want to come with me? Can I ask her to?
Elena travels with Zander, but it’s not quite the same. Her career is portable. She can write anywhere. I can’t just assume that any band I’m signed with will need a full-time doctor or that Zara will even want that as a long-term career.
Fuck.
I swallow hard and glance up at Saul and my dad. Saul speaks first. “Take some time and look them over, and when you’re ready, give us a call.”
“Okay.”
As soon as I say goodbye and leave that room, my heart begins to race, and it feels like there isn’t enough oxygen in my lungs.
I take out my phone and call Zara.
“Hey.” Her voice is warm and sweet. My pulse starts to slow.
“Hey,” I reply. “How soon do you think you could be ready?”
“Five minutes? Why? I thought we weren’t due to leave until noon.”
I lick my lips as my eyes dart toward the exit. “There’s somewhere I want to take you first. You up for it?”
“With you?” I swear I can hear the smile in her voice. “Always.”
I start to feel nervous just as the Uber makes the final turn into the neighborhood. Up until now, I’ve been able to keep my chill. Zara and I talked about my new agent, and she congratulated me on all the bands that want me to sign with them.
But now I’ve lost every ounce of chill. Zero fucking chill.
What if she doesn’t like it?
What if my sister trashed the place?
What if my fears about the cheese are legit, and it really is a hazmat situation in there?
Once again, the last one is a bit of a stretch, but I can’t help it.
Aside from my sisters and my mom, I’ve never brought a woman to my house.
Even when Zander lived here, that had been our one rule: no hookups in the house. We’d saved forever to afford the down payment on this place, and when we finally got the keys, we wanted it all to ourselves.
In hindsight, that rule worked to our advantage when Zander’s face was splashed on the cover of every magazine and newspaper in the country. Our home remained private, and I never had to stress about any of his former one-nighters showing up at my door.
When our Uber driver pulls into the driveway, I let out a small sigh of relief. The lawn is mowed, the house is still standing, and there aren’t any packages at the front door, so I know my sister has been doing her job.
I turn toward Zara to gauge her reaction, and as soon as I do, all the insecurity and worry melt away.
She’s beaming from ear to ear as she takes it all in.
From the outside, it’s a pretty cookie-cutter California ranch-style home.
But from the way she’s looking at it, you would think it’s a goddamn mansion.
“We all good?” our Uber driver asks.
“Yup.” I nod, realizing we’re both taking quite a while to leave his car. “Thanks, man.”
“No problem.”
Zara grabs her small handbag and exits the back seat. I walk around the front of the car, and together we head down the walkway to the front door. I pull out my keys and twist the lock. It’s something I used to do several times a day, and now it feels almost foreign.
It’s crazy how quickly our lives can change. I steal a glance at Zara. In more ways than one…
I push open the door and let her go first.
Please don’t smell. Please don’t smell.
I walk in behind her and—oh thank fuck. No funky cheese smell. Just the same earthy fragrance it always has, thanks to the fancy plug-in thing Presley bought me for Christmas.
“I should have suggested you take me here that first night we hooked up.” She jokes, looking around the living room. “You have actual furniture. I barely had a bed in the middle of all those boxes.”
I stand next to her, nuzzling into the curve of her collarbone.
She’s wearing a tan sleeveless dress today with sandals.
Her hair is secured with one of those claw clips, and I swear she’s not wearing a bra just to drive me crazy.
“I don’t know…I think we made do,” I tease. “Besides, I don’t take women here.”
She turns, her brown eyes meeting mine. “But I’m here. Am I not considered a woman anymore?”
“No.” I turn her to face me, tucking a tendril of hair behind her ear. She reaches behind her and removes the clip from her hair, and it falls like a curtain around her shoulders. Gorgeous. “Now, you’re just mine. And I wanted you here because I wanted to see you in my space. In my house.”
She looks up at me, biting her bottom lip. My cock twitches in approval. “And now that you have me here, what are you going to do with me?”
Fucking hell. “Well, I was going to offer you a glass of water.”
“I’m not thirsty.”
“Crackers?”
She smirks. “Not hungry, Hendrix.”
“Do you want a tour?” I shift, trying to tame the raging erection she’s causing.
“Sure. Where’s the bedroom?”
My eyes dart to the hallway and then back to her. “Zara, yesterday, you were just—”
She places a finger gently over my mouth, silencing me. “I’m fine,” she insists. “I’ve been fever-free for twenty-four hours as of”—she checks her watch—“an hour ago. And I feel fine. That’s the beauty of the twenty-four hour flu.”
“You sure?”
Her brow lifts. “I am a doc—”
My mouth closes over hers because if she says she’s fine, I’m going to trust her. Like she said, or tried to before I stuck my tongue down her throat, she’s the doctor. She should know.
We kiss and kiss and kiss. Right there in the middle of my living room.
By the time my hands slide under her ass to pick her up, her lips are swollen and red. It reminds me of that night in Nashville when she got down on her knees and sucked me fucking dry.
“Bedroom?”
“Yes,” I manage to say.
We make it there, but it takes a while. About halfway down the hall, I slam her against the wall where I fall to my knees, rip off her dress—yep, definitely no bra today—push her panties to the side and eat her pussy like I’m fucking starved.
I don’t let up until she screams my name so loud the damn windows shake.
When I drop her onto my bed, she’s still breathless.
I am too. But it’s more from the sight of seeing her here, in my bedroom.
In my bed. I try to etch that image into my memory before pulling my shirt over my head.
She watches me with hungry eyes as I unbuckle my belt and remove my jeans.
Her gaze roams over every inch of skin. Every toned muscle.
Every tattoo before finally landing on that little cherub in the center of my chest.
Her cherub. Her cupid.
I can’t help but do the same, focusing on the bit of skin just above her panties where that fresh ink is healing.
They’re not a matching set, her tattoo and mine, and I wouldn’t want them to be.
She’s her own person, and so am I, but I still like how they link us with a single word. A single memory.
“You’re last name is Valentine? Like Cupid?” I ask.
“No, like the saint, you dumbass.”
“You’re smiling.”
“Just thinking about that time you called me a dumbass.”