9. Chapter Nine
Chapter Nine
Pasha
T hroughout the dance rehearsal, while I showered and changed for the show, as I watched Mia and Alyssa on stage and waited for Mia to be ready for the super-fan after-party, Alyssa’s financial troubles were at the back of my mind.
How could she owe money she hadn’t spent?
I understood how credit cards worked. Though I tended to believe many of those cards were glorified scams and refused to own one.
There was no such thing as free money. The interest on those pieces of plastic convenience could sink a person into perpetual debt.
If I couldn’t pay with the cash from my bank account or a legitimate loan from a bank, I couldn’t afford the item.
When Mia emerged from her hotel room, ready to greet her fans, she grinned. “I like these smaller venues. Don’t you?”
“Yes,” I agreed. Security was easier, and there were fewer things to go wrong in general, which should have made me happy.
But the slower pace had given me time to dwell on Alyssa far too much.
I found if I kept myself busy enough, I could pretend the intense attraction didn’t exist. Today, she was all I could think about.
“I’m not holding back tonight. Anyone who tries to film me, kick them out, okay?” She frowned and checked her watch, which she turned toward me so I could see. “Aww. Isn’t she cute? God, I love this crib-view thing. Do you think it’s creepy?”
“It’s not creepy.” I smiled. “You love her, and you like to know she’s okay. Now, if you get a Tyler cam on your bed…”
She laughed and landed a punch to my shoulder. “I’m not obsessed with him now. I can go a bit of time without seeing his face—or other parts of him. My theory is that first love is an addiction. Well, you know, I’m sure. Even when I was gone from him, I never really was.”
Her words caught my attention, drawing me deeper into the conversation.
“Is that how you feel? Obsessed? Addicted?” Had I ever felt that way about Zoya?
Perhaps. Maybe. Our relationship had been comfortable, stable.
I’d felt good with her, never going through the turmoil I experienced around Alyssa.
“Sure,” she said. “I mean, my therapist said love sets off similar zones in the brain to addiction. Or maybe it was lust. I don’t know.
One of those. At the time I was like, ‘uh-huh, uh-huh, right, tell me how to control it,’ but you can’t.
You feel what you feel.” She eyed me as we neared the door to the conference room for the party. “Why are you asking?”
“No reason. Just…curious.”
“Curious?” Mia smirked. “You’ve been spending a lot of time with Alyssa.”
I shook my head. The last thing I wanted was for Mia to get the wrong idea. “She’s helping me with the dance.”
A crease appeared in her forehead—not quite a frown but a more thoughtful expression. “She’s helping you?”
“Yes. I asked her, and she said ‘yes.’”
“Huh.” She chuckled and wagged her finger. “That’s very interesting. ”
“Not really, no.” Panic floated over my chest, threatening to drown me. I didn’t want her adding one and one and getting three.
“Well,” Mia said, pausing outside the conference-room door.
“I’m not telling you to take the night off or anything because you’re my best defense against my own stupidity.
But every single bodyguard from the tour is in this room.
So, if you want to guard someone else’s body…
” Her grin was wicked. “I’m just saying, you’re allowed to ensure the safety of all my staff but especially the backup dancers. ”
I sighed and ran a hand through the back of my hair. “That is nice, but I am in charge of your security.”
Mia opened the door, and a chorus of high-pitched screams greeted her appearance, framed in the doorway.
She was swarmed by enthusiastic fans, and I was flanked by two other bodyguards who stood on the periphery.
Every fan in this room had been vetted, but the initial storm toward Mia caused a spike in my protective drive.
My instinct was to push them back, keep them away.
Ninety percent of the time, that was my job.
I should be used to the screams and the crush of young girls, but the adrenaline rush always came.
Once the fans had settled into a reasonable fever pitch and some sense of order, I scanned the room for any other problems.
As though my gaze was a heat-seeking missile, it locked onto Alyssa, who was leaning over the bar, talking to the bartender.
Not talking. Flirting . She was flirting with him.
I’d seen her flirt often enough with other men, had been the focus of it once.
Her breasts were pushed forward and up with her forearms, not quite spilling out of her tight tank top.
Her ass almost peeked out of her short skirt, and the smile on her face was wicked, the kind meant to make men think of beds, walls, floors, tables, any surface where they could make her theirs .
She glanced over her shoulder, and our gazes locked across the room. She smirked. Without breaking eye contact, she tipped the clear liquid from her shot glass into her mouth. We stared at each other, my body electrified with need, with the memory of being buried inside her.
I wanted to close my eyes and sink back into that moment. I didn’t dare look away, wasn’t sure I could. She gave me one last assessing look before turning the full wattage of her smile back on the bartender.
My body tensed with the desire to storm over to the bar, drag her away from the bartender, throw her over my shoulder, and take her up to my room, claim her on the bed, on the floor, against the wall, in the shower, all the places I’d dreamed about, fantasized about in the weeks since our first encounter. I clenched my fist and took a step.
Someone in the crowd jostled me, and the movement was like coming out of a trance. I shook my head and cursed under my breath. I refocused on Mia and her fans, avoiding the far corner of the room, while my mind ran wild.
Claim her? Throw her over my shoulder?
What was wrong with me? Good men didn’t have these thoughts.
For the next few hours, despite my best efforts, my gaze kept being drawn to Alyssa. She taught a few of Mia’s fans dance moves from the tour, and she flirted with the bartender.
Every once in a while, she wobbled from the dance floor to the bathroom. Whenever I caught myself staring at her, I re-centered by finding Mia in the crowd and scanning for devices.
No one was allowed their phone in the room.
Anyone found with a phone or recording device received a lifetime ban from any future Mia Malone events.
For most, that was a deterrent, but there were a few over the last year who risked the consequence.
A professional photographer circled to capture the moment, and every fan received a link to the photos after the event.
A glint of something metallic coming out of a pocket caught my attention, and I narrowed my focus. What was it? A lighter? Someone stumbled in front of me, and without thinking, I grabbed their elbow, steadying them. So many drunk people at these events.
When I glanced down, prepared to give them the are you drunk enough yet? look I’d perfected, I found myself locking eyes with Alyssa.
“I think you’re avoiding me.” Her tone was wounded, like my behavior was a personal attack. “I thought we were becoming friends.”
We had been spending a lot of time together, so maybe we were. Didn’t feel like friendship, not yet. Would it ever? I grimaced and gestured toward Mia, only realizing then that I still cradled Alyssa’s elbow in my hand. “I’m working.”
“Everyone is working.” She threw out her hands. “Would it kill you to say ‘hello’ to me?” Her words carried a slight slur, as though she was on the verge of being too drunk.
“Hello,” I said, keeping my expression neutral.
She stared up at me, and the room narrowed, the noise and chaos around us falling away.
I could stare into her brown eyes for hours and never want to look anywhere else.
In her depths, anger, frustration, and hurt warred.
Then another emotion emerged, one I suspected was reflected in my own gaze.
Lust . Like every other time I’d caught a glimpse of her tonight, I longed to cart her off, show her what she did to me.
“I’ve never been with a good man before,” she said.
When she wobbled on her heels, I steadied her with a hand on her waist, my fingers brushing against her bare hip.
The close contact, the softness of her skin under my hand was making it hard to think clearly, to keep in check.
“I’m not sure I’m a good man.” The places my mind was going right now were far from clean or decent.
A partial smile appeared on her face, a mix of amusement and regret. “You are. Trust me. I’ve dated all the assholes. You are not one. I still can’t believe you turned me down in the practice room.” She slumped her shoulders. “You turned me down.”
The pitiful slant of her shoulders stirred my protectiveness. I’d never intended to hurt her. I lowered my head so my lips were close to her ear. Her hair smelled like warm vanilla, and I wanted to nuzzle her neck.
She latched onto my shirt, swaying toward me. The words I’d intended to say lodged in my throat, stuck for a moment, as though resisting escape. “You scare me.” My voice was rough with the confession.
A laugh bubbled out of her, and she stared up at me. “I scare you? But you’re…I mean…you could crack me in half with your bare hands.”
I shook my head. She was too drunk for this conversation, and I wasn’t sure I could explain it better than that.
The emotions she stirred were too unpredictable, too feral, more than anyone would ever need to feel for another person.
How did someone fall into that intensity and ever pull themselves back out?
Mia had been right—an addiction, an obsession—nothing healthy or sane.