Chapter 22 #2
She flounces away, and it's doubtful Sawyer will ever be able to match the look of genuine shock on his face. A good rule of thumb is to pull out the rug from underneath him before he does the same to you.
Harder than it sounds.
“Check out?” he repeats. “You’re staying here?”
“Just for last night.”
“That didn’t take long.” Sawyer’s expression now broadcasts I-told-you-so triumph. “I figured you might wait at least a week.”
I shrug, salting my eggs. “We wanted out of the bus.”
“And?” He leans forward, all boys-club curious. Pantomimes some lewd act. “Is Gia in the sack like wrangling a feral bobcat?”
A flash of annoyance boils my blood. I want to smack him for that statement and refuse to dignify it with a response.
Well, not a kind response anyway.
“Fuck off.”
A starched couple side-eyes us from two tables over with an air of moral superiority. Well, eyes me, specifically. Sawyer looks every inch the accomplished and well-compensated entertainment industry executive that he is. I look like a vagrant who accidentally wandered in among the rich and famous.
“Someone’s got it bad,” he teases.
I cut my bacon strip and fork a bite into my mouth. “Not another word. I’m serious.”
“What’s the bus mood?” he ignores my request. “This stuff can blow up the tightest band. Especially when she gets the golden treatment.”
“It’s fine,” I lie. “They kind of knew what was brewing.”
“Which means you knew.”
I know what he’s implying, but a noncommittal shrug is all he gets.
Sawyer sips his water, staring me down over the rim. “Does she know about your resurrection?”
“No.” My eyes drift past his to the view of the snow-capped Alps. “I’m not convinced that’s the right path. Plus, a reminder: my soul isn’t yours to sell.”
Sawyer gives me the look he’s recently perfected—total pain in the ass. “Bigger men have fallen from the pussy effect. Lust only lasts so long. Do me a favor and think with your head, not your cock.”
It takes every fiber of my will not to explode. If I give in to it, Sawyer wins the inevitable pissing match. He always wins. My older brother doesn’t participate in team sports because doing so would one day distract him from the larger goal of his life: to be the last prick standing.
What I can offer on the flip side is a powerful look of disgust.
“Did it cross your mind that I might actually like her?” I ask, and the weight of that admission doesn’t go unnoticed—even by me.
Sawyer considers me for a moment, like he figures I might deserve an actual, thoughtful answer.
“Forced proximity, alcohol, and high times, JC. Vegas shotgun weddings are built on those very foundations. Touring relationships fall into the same category,” he adds, as if my liking Gia is a flaw in my reasoning. “Who else are you going to like?”
I sympathize with any woman who dates Sawyer. The wine-and-dine fairy tale of everlasting love is a script to produce, not a life he actually lives. If a free blow job were on the line, he’d happily stick his dick through a random hole in the wall.
“Hell, maybe it’s real,” he muses on. “But ask yourself—if you didn’t see her every damn day, would she still have that shine?”
Shine? I think. How about glowing brighter than diamonds?
This morning, on our private deck, Gia and I breathed the raw January air, bundled in robes, fingertips tracing each other’s lips.
The sun looked impossibly golden. Church bells pealed like angels.
I’d never experienced the kind of peace that comes after everything has been said or doesn’t need to be.
Holding on to Gia in a foreign city, in the gentle devastation of a new beginning, felt like a form of heaven. I refuse to let Sawyer diminish my feelings.
“What time are you coming to the show?” I ask, tired of speaking in his code.
“The opener sounds dreadful, so scratch that. I’ll pop in backstage pre-show.
And by the way…” He grins with a thumbs-up gesture.
“Props. The reviews are smoking. You’re magic on stage.
Don’t forget that. You can make a killing with the right tour.
Six months on the road and, boom, fat bank account. ”
“It’s not about the money anymore.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he says, carefree in his dismissal of me. “That’s what all you creative types say. Gia’s on fire right now, sure. But staying relevant? That’s a whole different game in this market. And we both know you’ve elevated her to this level. Not saying it's entirely unearned…”
But he is.
For the record, I love my brother, but I do harbor secret fantasies about knocking him with my Les Paul, sending that smug attitude flying.
“Oh, do you remember Jordan Bettman?” he pivots, like he does, from one topic to another without preamble. “The guy running our LA office?”
“Vaguely.” I imagine another fat cat in a suit. “Why?”
“He’s retiring. Instead of the hiring runaround, I’m bumping Bettina to run the show in Vancouver. You and I in the City of Angels. I’ll crash at your place until I get set up.”
That jarring news makes me sit up straighter. Usually, Sawyer is as empty of surprises as a cover band. “Fun times.”
A smile grows across his face. “Right?”
I throw him a thousand-watt skeptical stare. Wrong. Way wrong. I unfortunately witnessed Sawyer changing one day at the gym into sheer black briefs riding high in the back, digging into the crack of his ass. The front narrowed to a snug little pouch that made me squirm.
I’ll take staying on the road indefinitely for a thousand, Alex.