Chapter 10 Aspen
Aspen
You can run, buddy. But you can’t hide.
The morning after Joz’s disastrous press conference, I arrived at his hotel room at ten o’clock. I’d tried to call him several times the night before, but he hadn’t answered. In the end, I’d decided to let him lick his wounds in his own way.
My PR team had already kicked off damage control, and I had a meeting with Brian Gardiner, editor of Rock Legends, tomorrow. Signing Joz was a coup for my company and me, and I refused to let a fucking weasel of a British so-called journalist ruin my moment.
The manager of Kingcaid Midtown appeared crossing the lobby when I arrived. He spotted me and diverted from where he’d been going.
“Aspen, great to see you. What can I do for you?”
“Nothing. I’m here to see a guest.”
“Mr. Raynor?”
“Yes.”
“I’m afraid he checked out last night. Around six o’clock.”
Goddammit, Joz. I should’ve guessed he’d do something rash. It had been obvious he wasn’t thinking straight after what that bastard journalist said.
I clapped a hand to my forehead. “Oh, heck. I’m such a doofus. I completely forgot he had to head back to England earlier than planned.” Keeping up the pretense, I laughed. “Too many plates spinning. One was bound to smash sooner or later.”
“As you’re here, can I offer you with some breakfast? Chef has the most delicious smoked salmon and eggs on the menu today. The salmon’s been flown in all the way from Scotland.”
“That’s good of you, but I’ve already eaten. Another time, maybe.”
I said goodbye and returned to my car, fizzing with annoyance. Would it have killed Joz to drop me a line letting me know his plans? I got that he was butt hurt, and rightfully so, but I wasn’t the enemy.
I called his number again and left a “Call me” message, then spent the next two days speaking to various news outlets and playing down Joz’s reaction to the loss of his former girlfriend.
Fortunately, Brian Gardiner wasn’t a douche, unlike his employee.
Turned out Gary Tomlinson was freelance, and Gardiner hadn’t been impressed with his tactics.
Made sense why I didn’t know Tomlinson on sight.
Apparently, he’d spent the first few years since graduating college working for local newspapers in the north of England and had only recently moved south in a bid to skyrocket his career.
Instead, he’d burned it, and I had zero fucks to give.
With the story all but buried, and still with no word from Joz, I flew to London Thursday night, arriving on Friday morning.
I was used to flying regularly, but five transatlantic flights in two weeks was a lot, even for me.
My body clock had all but given up trying to figure out which time zone we were on.
After leaving my overnight case at the hotel, I caught a cab to Joz’s apartment.
As I alighted onto the sidewalk, an overpowering stench rose from the Thames.
I’d visited London enough times to have experienced the famous river’s unique smell, but this was ripe even for the Thames.
It might be pretty, but it had a hell of a sting in the tail.
I buzzed his apartment, then stepped back, shielding my eyes from the sun to look up at the top floor.
He could be out, or maybe he hadn’t returned here at all when he left New York, but my gut told me he was here.
After that fucking sad excuse for a reporter stuck the knife in, I’d wager Joz wanted to return somewhere familiar to lick his wounds.
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught the curtains twitch, but when I properly looked, I couldn’t see him.
Seconds later, though, a buzzer sounded, and the door clicked open.
I went inside, making sure to close it behind me.
The internet had put paid to stars addresses being a secret, security a constant concern for those in the public eye.
Even my family required the services of a bodyguard from time to time, although I’d never found the need for one myself. So far.
The elevator doors glided open, revealing a foyer. As I stepped out, the door opposite opened, and Joz stood there in a pair of ripped jeans, bare feet, and a Metallica T-shirt.
Why were bare feet so sexy?
Strike that. Why were bare feet on Joz Raynor so sexy?
“Great band,” I said, pointing my chin at his shirt.
“What are you doing here?”
“Shouldn’t the question be what are you doing here?”
His nostrils flared, and for a second I thought he was going to tell me to fuck off and slam the door in my face. Then again, if that had been his intention, he could’ve just left me out on the sidewalk.
Spinning on his heel, he walked away, leaving the door open.
I followed. Joz’s place was exactly the kind of apartment I’d buy if I needed a permanent residence in London, all exposed brick, vaulted ceilings, and picture windows offering a great view of the city.
It was open plan and sparsely furnished, with a kitchen in one corner, a large L-shaped sofa opposite a TV, and a coffee table.
I’d expected to see several guitars scattered about and Joz’s many awards lining the walls, but there wasn’t even a single picture.
“Do you live here permanently?”
“When I’m in the country, yeah. Why?” He ambled over to the kitchen, opened the fridge, and removed a bottle of water.
“It’s… minimalist.”
“It has what I need.”
He poured two glasses of water and brought them over to the couch, setting them on the table. “I don’t have any milk for coffee. Sorry. Unless you’re happy to take it black?”
“Water is fine.” I tried to perch on the edge of the couch, but it was one of those squishy affairs that automatically sucked you in, and you kind of ended up half lying down. Comfortable for watching a movie. Not so much for trying to conduct business.
Joz flopped at the other end from me, crossing his feet at the ankles. I found myself staring at them, until he cleared his throat, and I dragged my gaze to his face. For a man, he had great feet.
“Guess you’re here for an apology for what happened on Monday.”
“If I was looking for an apology, I’d be at that piece of shit Gary Tomlinson’s place, demanding one on your behalf.”
Joz’s eyebrows moved a fraction of an inch, his eyes softening a touch. “I shouldn’t have reacted. I gave him what he wanted.”
“I’d like to have given him what he deserved—a punch to the face.”
He scrubbed a hand over his scruff, his lips quirking up at the corners. “I’d pay good money to see that.”
“No payment required. I’d give away free tickets.”
He smiled, the tension that had weighed down his shoulders lifting like an early morning fog hit by the sun. “Still, I fucked up. It was unexpected, that’s all. Him mentioning Caroline, I mean.” He winced, as though even saying her name hurt. It probably did.
“Let’s draw a line under it, okay? Although, if you ever run out on me again, I will chop you into little pieces and feed you to the fishes.”
He saluted me. “Gotcha Don Corleone.”
I grinned. “The Godfather is one of my favorite movies.”
“You have good taste.”
“Yeah, I do.” Our eyes locked. “I signed you, didn’t I?”
“Bet you’re glad I insisted on three years now, huh?”
“With an option for two more.”
He smiled. “So, what’s the skinny on the story? Am I going to wake up and find out I’ve traveled back in time to eight years ago?”
My heart clenched, but I shook my head. “The story is buried. There may be the odd line here or there, but no one is going to focus on what happened.”
“You did that?”
“It’s my job.”
“Cleaning up after artists with a short fuse is your job?”
“Man, you don’t know the half of it.” I angled my head. “Do you want to talk about it?”
He ran his tongue along the inside of his bottom lip. “Not particularly. It was the worst time in my whole fucking life.” As I opened my mouth, he held up his hand. “Don’t.”
“Have you ever talked to anyone? A therapist?”
“You Americans and your therapy.”
“You British and your ridiculous stiff upper lip.”
He relaxed into a smile. “Touché.”
“Well, have you talked to anyone?”
“I did the therapy thing. It helped me kick my addictions.” He sighed before resting his head on the cushion and staring at the ceiling.
“But not the guilt.”
“No.”
“I can recommend someone if you’d like to tackle that.”
“I won’t, but thanks.” Leaning forward, he picked up his water and sipped. “I am sorry for bailing, but if I’d stayed, I’d have fallen off the wagon. Had to keep moving, you know?”
“I wish you’d called.”
Slowly, he rolled his head in my direction. “And if I had, what would you have done?”
My right shoulder hitched. “Kept you company. Checked out if The Godfather was streaming anywhere, and showed up at your hotel room with a bucket of popcorn and a six pack of soda.”
He chuckled. “We should hire out a cinema. Watch it in style.”
“I’m game if you are.”
His chest rose as he drew in a deep breath. “Tell me something, Aspen. I know you said cleaning up after artists is a part of your job, but does everyone signed to your label get this kind of personal service?”
No. “I pride myself on treating every single artist signed to Kingcaid Music the same. If they need me, I make myself available.”
“Hmm.” He ran his middle finger over his bottom lip. Damn, I wished he wouldn’t do that. He was altogether too damn sexy. Every second I spent with him tested my self-applied rule of never dating musicians. Especially those signed to my label.
“Looking forward to getting into the studio in a few weeks’ time?” Well done. Steer the conversation onto safer subjects.
He nodded. “Yeah. More than ready. I have a couple of songs written already, and a ton of ideas. Gonna spend the next few weeks here writing.”
“That’s good.”
We lapsed into silence, but as was often the case with us, there was no awkwardness, just the quiet comfort of spending time with someone—and words were an unnecessary interruption.
He reached out a hand and brushed his pinky against mine. “Thanks for coming.”
I twisted my head and smiled. “Nowhere else I’d rather be.”
And you know what? It was true.