Chapter 7
Aspen
Smug is a horrible look.
While curled up on the couch at the owners suite of Kingcaid Kensington—sans Penn and Gia this time—I marked up a few changes to the press release.
Considering I hadn’t given them much time to pull this together, my PR team had done a great job.
I was glad now that I’d preempted Joz signing the contract.
Unlike Presley, who’d also signed earlier today, there was a rush to get the news out there before it leaked.
Signing a megastar like Joz wasn’t something I could leisurely take my time over.
Sooner or later, someone would blab and ruin the big reveal.
Hell, an innocent meeting such as our dinner at this very hotel a few days ago could set tongues wagging, but confirmation that he’d actually signed with my label was the kind of news where I needed to control the narrative.
My phone buzzed on the glass coffee table to my left. I glanced at it. Joz. Frowning, I picked it up.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Raynor?” I hated how formal and stiff I sounded, but his incessant flirting and constant innuendos meant I felt the need to keep re-drawing the line in the sand.
Falling into bed with my new signing was a one-way ticket to disaster, and my business was far more important than my non-existent sex life.
“Stop calling me Mr. Raynor, for one. You sound like my year eleven teacher scolding me for writing lyrics in class when I should’ve been doing simultaneous equations or some other completely useless shit taught in schools.”
“She must’ve been a saint. And equations are important for certain careers.”
“She was, and not mine.”
I made a frustrated sound. “Are you always this annoying?”
Another of his throaty chuckles that made my clit tingle sounded in my ear. “Yes.”
“Lucky me,” I muttered.
“What are you doing right now?” he queried, ignoring my sarcastic retort.
“Marking up your press release so my team can make the changes necessary before Monday.”
“Well, put it down, because I have a far better offer.”
“Which is?”
“I’ve been invited to the opening of a club tonight. I wasn’t going to bother, but I thought you might want to come and keep me company.”
“Loud music, overpriced drinks, and sweaty bodies crowding the dance floor. Sounds like something that’s easy to say no to.”
“Aww, come on, Aspen. All work and no play makes for a dull life.”
“I’m perfectly happy with my life. Plus, I have to get on a flight back to New York in the morning. My fourth in a week. A late night is not in the cards.”
“If I promise to have you home before midnight, will you come?”
“No.”
“Great. I’ll see you in the lobby in twenty minutes.”
He hung up. He fucking hung up on me. Argh. I tossed my phone on the couch. He was such an annoying asshole. Although, if I truly thought that, why was I smiling?
Changing out of my sweats, I put on a dress and heels, and, in petty bitch style, I purposely left it thirty minutes before I rode the elevator down to the lobby.
After scanning around for a few seconds, I spotted him in his incognito attire: dark glasses, baseball cap worn low, his long hair tied back, chin lowered to avoid eye contact with anyone.
For such a famous man, he’d mastered the art of being invisible in public places.
He looked up as I approached, greeting me with a huge smile and what seemed to be genuine pleasure at seeing me.
“For a second, I thought you weren’t going to show.”
“Considering I said no, that wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility.”
“But you’re here. Why?”
I shrugged. “Beats me.”
“Be honest, Aspen. You enjoy my company.”
“If it’s the last thing I do, I will knock that arrogance right out of you.”
“If we replace ‘knock’ with ‘spank’, you’ve got yourself a deal.” He hit me with another one of his dazzling grins, and I’d wager his eyes were twinkling behind his sunglasses.
I pinched my thumb and forefinger together. “I am this close to returning to my suite.”
He ran his tongue along his bottom lip, and God help me, I stared.
“You can kiss me if you want.”
I gave him my best scornful glare. “Considering where that mouth has been, I’ll pass.”
“How do you know where it’s been?”
“I read the news.”
“Don’t believe everything you read, especially in mainstream media.”
“Great.” I groaned. “A conspiracy theorist.”
“Nope. Just a guy who’s seen more bullshit written about him than the truth.”
A flush of shame coated me. He was right; I’d seen plenty of stuff about my family and the stars I managed to know the press made crap up all the time.
Scandalous headlines received ten times the clicks than good news stories did, and it didn’t seem to matter anymore if what they reported held a grain of the truth.
“Sorry. You’re right.”
“I mean…”—he shrugged—“I’m not a monk, but nor am I just jamming my dick in anything that moves.” Sticking out his elbow, he arched a brow. “Shall we go?”
It felt both odd and right when I slid my hand inside and wrapped my fingers around his impressive bicep. “Lead the way.”
On the car ride to the venue, Joz carried the conversation with funny anecdotes and stories from his wilder days.
He was so easy to be around, and I found myself getting lost in the deep cadence of his voice and the way his eyes lit up when he talked about music.
Little wonder he’d sold millions of albums and played to packed-out stadiums for the last decade. He was the whole package.
It didn’t take long for the car to stop.
Joz put his sunglasses back on before he climbed out, staring at the sidewalk while he waited for me to join him.
Slotting his fingers between mine, he led me inside without getting spotted, and for the second time tonight, I discovered I’d made assumptions that turned out to be wrong.
This was a club, sure, but not the kind with strobe lights, a DJ blasting out tunes, or a dance floor crammed with people. It was a small, cozy venue, with small tables dotted around a small stage, and a bar serving fancy cocktails rather than beer.
“Not what you thought, huh?” Joz winked, and I groaned.
“Fine. Fine. But just so you know, smug is a horrible look.”
He threw back his head and laughed. After removing his baseball cap and glasses, he untied his hair, shook it out, and, once again, I found myself transfixed by him. He had a presence, an… aura. An abundance of star quality.
“Want to kiss me now?” With his head cocked to one side, he fired off another wink.
Closing my eyes, I expelled a heavy breath through my nose. “You couldn’t handle a woman like me.” I opened them, staring firmly at him.
“Maybe, maybe not. Wouldn’t mind giving it a go, though.”
“I already told you; I don’t mix business with pleasure.”
His perfectly straight teeth grazed over his bottom lip. “I can still get out of that contract, you know.”
My eyes flared wide. “You wouldn’t!”
“A choice between a chance to climb between the sheets with you, or a music contract?” He grazed a hand over his scruff, then leaned down and put his lips close to my ear, eliciting a shiver as they brushed the lobe. “You’d win every time, Aspen.”
“Hey, you made it.” A guy in his early forties clapped Joz on the back, giving me a few precious seconds to pull myself together.
Get a grip. Remember, this was what famous men were good at. When they set their sights on someone, they had this ability to make them feel as though they were the center of their universe. Until boredom kicked in and the poor woman found herself kicked to the curb.
Not this woman.
“Thanks for inviting me.” Joz thrust out his hand, and the two men shook. “Lars, this is Aspen. Aspen, this is Lars Saint, the owner of this club.”
Lars’s gaze traveled over to me. “Great to meet you, Aspen. I see your eye for beautiful women hasn’t dulled, Joz. Always have been one for the stunners.”
I swore Joz bristled. “I also have an eye for smart women. Aspen is an extremely successful CEO.” He cleverly avoided mentioning my surname or Kingcaid Music, and I flashed him an appreciative smile. Last thing we needed was for the rumor mill to fire up before the official announcement.
Coming here tonight could have been a huge mistake, but Joz was one hell of a persuasive man. Besides, if my PR team got wind of a story, they’d squash it before it was published.
Lars’s cheeks pinked up, and he cleared his throat. “Yeah, uh, of course. Why don’t I get you guys a drink? What’ll you have, Aspen?”
“Cosmopolitan, please.”
“Gotcha. Joz?”
“Iced water. Good luck tonight.”
“It’s open mic night if you’re up for it.”
Joz shook his head. “I’m off the clock.”
“Fair point. But if you do decide to, this is a safe place. No press, guaranteed, and you won’t get bothered either.”
“Thanks. I’ll bear it in mind.”
We chose a table at the back of the room, to the left of the stage, and Lars brought our drinks over, then began doing the rounds. As he promised, not a single person approached Joz to ask for an autograph or a picture. In fact, no one paid us any attention at all.
“How long ago did you give up drinking?”
“A few years back.” He angled his head away from me, seemingly lost in thought. “I’ve done it all: drugs, booze, sex.” He faced me again. “Bad things happen when you lose control. It wasn’t easy to quit, but I’m a better version of myself for it.”
A distant memory pricked at me, something I’d read, perhaps, but I couldn’t bring it into focus. I opened my mouth to ask a follow up question, but Joz cut me off.
“How’s the kid doing?”
Didn’t want to talk about his past. Got it. “He’s a little bemused, but he’ll get there. We’ll take it slowly with him.”
He nodded. “I knew your label was the right call.”
A woman got up on stage and began to sing a jazz number. “I’ve invited Presley to your press conference on Monday,” I said. “Thought it would be good for him to see the rigmarole of it all up close.”
“For sure.” He drummed his fingers on the table, tapping his foot in time to the music as a train of singers took their turn, some better than others.
Dialogue flowed between us like we’d known each other for years and had done this a hundred times. This was the real Joz Raynor: music lover, great conversationalist, easy to be around. When he quit the constant flirtatious behavior, he appeared vulnerable and even a little bit sad or lonely.
As the clock inched toward eleven, I finished my drink and picked up my purse. “I really should go. I have an early flight.”
“Don’t go yet. Stay a little while longer.”
“I shouldn’t.”
“If I sing, will you stay?”
“You’re off the clock.”
“Not for you. I’d like to sing for you. Please.”
I rubbed my lips together. Hearing him sing live was worth staying up late for. “Just one song. Then we’re going. Deal?”
His brilliant smile caused my stomach to flip over several times. “I like making deals with you, Aspen.”
Getting to his feet, he ambled over to Lars, who was propping up the bar. Lars nodded, then disappeared, returning a few minutes later with an acoustic guitar that he produced from God only knew where.
Joz climbed on the stage and pulled up a stool. Several murmurings reached me as recognition swept through the audience.
“Evening,” Joz said, saluting the small crowd. “I’d like to sing something, but I have a favor to ask you. Please, no cameras.”
More shuffling and whispers and a multitude of nodding heads as everyone settled back to listen to an impromptu Joz Raynor performance.
I settled into my seat right along with them, transfixed by the man tuning the guitar.
The second he opened his mouth and sang, I was lost. I’d expected something upbeat—one of his hit songs from the last album, maybe.
Instead, he chose a haunting melody I had never heard before.
Was it a B-side and that was why it was new to me?
The lyrics spoke of regret and remorse, of pain and guilt, of bone-deep sorrow and inner hatred.
To me, it sounded personal, and the way he closed his eyes as he sang almost confirmed that to be true.
Three and a half minutes later, Joz lowered the guitar, and applause broke out.
I joined in along with them, my vision slightly blurred, emotion swelling in my throat like a sponge held under water.
He thanked the audience, handed the guitar back to Lars, then dropped into his seat beside me. He downed the entire glass of water before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“That was… beautiful.”
He gave me a wry smile. “Thanks. I don’t sing it often. I’m not sure why I chose to sing it tonight.”
“It sounded like it had a deep, personal meaning to you.”
He stared into the middle distance as another singer took to the stage. I pitied them following Joz, although the audience greeted them just as enthusiastically.
Joz cleared his throat. “Yeah.”
I didn’t know what made me do it, but I closed my fingers around his wrist. “I’d love to hear about it if you’d like to talk. The inspiration for it, I mean.”
His expression darkened and he pulled his arm away. “No.”
His clipped denial lashed at me like a whip. “No problem. I didn’t mean to intrude.”
“You didn’t.” He got to his feet. “Guess I should get you back to the hotel.” Without waiting for me, he strode to the exit.
I scrambled to catch up. His driver closed the door once we were both situated, but the effortless conversation we’d enjoyed the entire evening had vanished, replaced with an awkward silence.
When we pulled up outside Kingcaid Kensington, he didn’t even bother unclipping his belt or looking at me. “Night, Aspen. Thanks for coming.”
“Thanks for a lovely evening.” I climbed out of the car, staring after it as it wound its way onto the road and out of view.
What in the hell was that?