Chapter 8
8
KATRINA
I pause outside his suite on the 18th floor.
The hallway stretches in both directions, paths wide open for me to take. I could drop the robe now and go back downstairs, return to the party.
In fact, that’s exactly what I should do.
I should turn around, march straight to the hotel bar where all my friends have coupled up, laughing, embracing after a long week apart—but I won’t be alone! No. There’s a whole gang of handsome, wealthy single men down there waiting to grope my ass and?—
I knock on the door.
Before I can take a breath, it swings open.
On Tesla Kyle.
Guitarist of The Electrics.
She stands in the doorway, electric blue hair tied back in a messy ponytail, stray strands falling to frame her face. Soft measuring tape hangs limply around her shoulders, draping over a well-loved tank top that’s torn in several places.
Her face lights up at the sight of me—then falters. “Hey,” she says, squinting. “You’re not my turkey burger.”
“Oh, uh… no. I’m not,” I say, lifting the heavy blue robe in my hands like a shield. “I actually stopped by to?—”
“Come in,” she says.
“No, I’m just?—”
“Perfect!”
“Huh?”
Tesla’s eyes sparkle. “Come in!” she repeats, lurching forward to grab my forearm. “Model for me.”
“Model?”
She yanks me inside. I stumble, the robe slipping from my fingers as she drags me toward the bed. Fabric is sprawled across it—mostly yellow, most of it half-sewn, pinned, or in various stages of repair.
She lets go as I reach the edge, and I nearly face-plant into the pillows.
“Actually,” I say tentatively, “I should really get going?—”
“This’ll only take a minute,” Tesla says from behind me. “Arms.”
“Arms?”
“Arms! Put ’em up!”
I obey, slowly raising them. Before I can think to question it, Tesla grips the bottom of my bridesmaid dress and yanks it up.
“Hey—!” I slap my hands over myself, barely covered in a strapless flesh-colored bra and white shorts.
Tesla doesn’t care. She’s already scanning the bed, humming to herself as she plucks something from the pile.
“Hands,” she says.
“Hands?”
She lifts the garment expectantly, urging me to comply. I hesitate, then sigh and slide my arms through the thin straps. She circles me, pulling it tight, her fingers quick and practiced.
“Breathe in.”
I inhale, and she yanks.
I realize what I’m modeling for her.
A corset.
I stagger, each sharp tug knocking me off balance. The fabric digs in, every shallow breath squeezed from my lungs.
Tesla spins me around, studying her handiwork. “Okay,” she murmurs, nodding, lips tugging slightly at the corners. “Okay, okay! Yeah.”
“Yeah?” I wheeze, thoroughly smooshed.
She brightens. “Yeah!”
Bracing myself, I glance down. My jaw drops at the sight of my breasts practically lifted to my chin.
“Oh. Push-up. That’s… nice.”
“Mm-hmm.” Tesla hums, circling me again, making small adjustments. “Not a perfect fit. You’re a bit scrawny.”
“Scrawny?”
“Goldie’ll fill it out better than you do.”
I look down again and snort. Hard to believe, but okay.
Tesla steps back, brows knit, teeth sinking into her bottom lip. “Overall, though… I think it’s good. But…” Her gaze drifts past me. “What do you think, boss?”
My head swivels.
I inhale sharply.
Logan.
He leans against the bathroom doorway, casually swirling the liquid in his highball glass. His gaze drags over me, slow and deliberate.
“I think you had it right the first time,” he says. “She’s perfect.”
Heat blooms across my face.
“I don’t know,” Tesla mutters. “It needs… something . Something more . Something I can’t quite put my finger on.”
“Finger it later,” Logan says, taking a sip. “Take the rest of the night off.”
Tesla sighs. “You sure?”
Logan doesn’t repeat himself. He just nods, the decision already made.
“All right.” She huffs, tossing a few items into her sewing kit before zipping it up. “But if it’s not done by the show and Goldie throws a big fit…”
“I’ll deal with it. Goodnight, Tessie.”
“Okay.” Tesla heads for the door. “Goodnight, you two.”
“Good—” I stop mid-word, still very tied up. “Wait?—!”
“Hey!” Already one foot in the hall, Tesla gasps happily. “There’s my turkey burger!”
“Uh…” the room service guy mutters as the door clicks shut.
And then… Silence.
Just me.
Logan Shock.
And a corset.
“Hello,” he greets.
“Hi,” I say, rooted in place, struggling to breathe. “I, uh…”
What am I doing here?
Wait—what am I doing here?
Spotting the robe on the floor, I lurch toward it. “I brought your robe back!”
I try to scoop it up, but the corset is too tight. If I bend too far, I might topple right out of it.
Logan chuckles at my hesitation. “Allow me,” he says, setting his glass down and closing the space between us.
“Thank you,” I murmur, expecting him to grab the robe.
But he moves behind me.
Before I fully register what’s happening, his fingers brush the laces at my back, and he unravels them.
“Oh, you… I…” Panic pinches my throat. “You don’t have to?—”
But then— air.
The tension eases, and my ribs expand. A full, unrestrained breath spills out of me, and I nearly melt from the relief.
“Thank you,” I say again.
“You’re welcome.” A soft chuckle. “Never worn a corset before?”
“Oh, no.” I laugh, shaking my head. “No, I’m far more comfortable in something?—”
The corset goes slack, sliding down my torso. My hands fly to catch it, pressing it against my skin before it falls too far.
“Looser,” I finish with a squeak.
Logan hums, still behind me, still close enough that I can feel the heat of him at my back.
A moment later, my blue bridesmaid dress drifts into view, dangling effortlessly from his fingers.
“Oh!” I snatch it from him, careful not to let go of the corset. “Thanks.”
He shifts away. I glance over my shoulder to confirm, watching as he turns his back to me, facing the wall.
My skin on fire, I move fast, letting the corset drop onto the bed and pulling my dress on over my head.
Once I’m properly covered, I grab the robe. But before I can hand it over, it hits me—what just happened.
He turned around.
Is Logan Shock… a gentleman?
I tame my expression as I step up behind him. “Here,” I say.
He faces me, nodding as he takes the robe. “Ah, thank you.”
“Sorry I ran off with it,” I say. “If I’d realized you were so attached to it…”
“Please.” He scoffs. “They bill you nearly two hundred dollars for these things—a lesson Goldie learned the hard way back in Seattle.”
“Ah.” I chuckle. “Frugal.”
“Waste not.” Logan walks the robe back to the bathroom, tossing it onto the hook behind the door. “How’d the rest of the reception go?”
“Great,” I say. “Sorry I didn’t come sooner. There was cake and speeches and all that.”
“I figured.”
“And the band played, of course. A new song Jonah wrote for… his new wife.”
Logan returns to the room, nodding slowly as he retrieves his glass.
“After that, the party started trickling toward the bar, and since I’m probably never drinking ever again after last night, I took the opportunity to…”
“Escape?” Logan finishes for me.
The word rings true, but I tilt my chin and say, “Slip away.”
All right.
You returned the robe, Kat.
Time to leave.
Logan raises his glass. “To the happy couple.” He downs the rest, ice rattling in the space left behind.
I nod, letting my gaze drift.
Little pieces of Tesla linger on the bed. Clothes and fabric scissors and pincushions. I force my curiosity away, eyes landing on the couch instead.
Yellow sticky notes are spread across the cushions. Some litter the coffee table. A few are crumpled on the floor, torn at the edges.
Scribbled words and phrases. Doodles. Half-finished thoughts.
“Sticky notes,” I observe.
“Sticky notes,” he echoes.
“Are you…” He moves toward them so suddenly I second-guess my question, but I ask anyway. “Are you working on something new?”
Logan drops onto the couch next to an acoustic guitar, which he slides onto his lap with effortless ease. “I am,” he says.
I smile at the chaos of ink and notes. “I just use a notebook.”
He pinches his pick and strums once. The vibration hums through my chest, each note plucking along my spine.
“I don’t like notebooks,” he says. “Not this early in the process. Sticky notes force quick thinking. Brevity. I can shift things around and…” He pauses, glancing up with a smirk. “Saying it out loud, I now realize it may sound crazy.”
I laugh. “Not to me.”
“Good.” He strums again, fingers light on the fretboard, eyes lingering on me. “You’re free to join me, if you like,” he offers. “I’m always open to a little friendly collaboration.”
Time to leave.
Time to leave.
Time to leave.
“Oh, no.” I shake my head. “I should get back to the party, I think. I just came by to return the robe and… to thank you for… well, today. And this morning. And… last night.”
Logan chuckles. “You’re welcome.”
Time. To. Leave.
“So, I should go.” I force a step back. “And I guess I’ll see you… in two weeks.”
At the Battle of the Bands on Halloween night.
Criminal Records versus The Electrics.
I turn, but the motion stalls as he strums again.
A simple chord. Nothing more.
But it tickles my insides, striking something deep within me.
And for a moment, I forget how to move.
Time to…
I spin back around, locking eyes with Logan. “I want to ask you something,” I say.
“Fire away,” he says.
“But I’m not sure I trust you enough to tell me the truth,” I add.
He pauses, amused, his eyes full of challenge as he waits for me to ask my question.
I press my lips together, hesitating. “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why did you help me last night? You could have let me make a very public ass of myself,” I say, moving forward slightly. “It would’ve been all over Gossipa this morning.”
“True,” he concedes.
“So… why? If it were Knox, I doubt you would’ve bothered.”
His lips twitch. “Also true.”
I hold his gaze, waiting. Demanding more.
“Knox can take care of himself,” he says.
My stomach tightens. Even among enemies, I’m still just Knox’s baby sister—someone who always needs saving.
“And I can’t?” I ask.
“I didn’t say that.” His attention lingers, softer now, almost pensive. “Would you believe me if I told you that you were my favorite?”
I blink twice. “Your favorite what?”
“Well, you’re clearly the most talented member of Criminal Records,” he says, like it’s an objective fact.
I huff out a laugh. “I am?”
“Anyone with two ears can hear it.” He leans in slightly. “And anyone with two eyes can see how beautiful you are, so… yes. You are my favorite.”
I fall quiet, caught off guard. I don’t even know how to reply to something like that.
“Of course I helped you,” he says. “You’d do the same for me. Or for one of my girls, I suspect.”
“Right,” I murmur, still thrown. But the surprise fades quickly, replaced by something else. “For you or one of your… girls.” I glance at the bed. “Well, I’ll get out of your hair so Tesla can come back.”
“We’re not together.”
I hesitate, mid-step. “You’re not?”
“I don’t get involved with people I work with.”
“Oh, I assumed…” I swallow. “The three of you always seem so… close.”
“We are. But not like that. Goldie and Tesla, however…” He smirks. “They love each other very much.”
“Oh.” Heat rises to my cheeks. “Well, that’s nice. Good for them.”
Logan nods.
I shift a step back, determined to keep moving, to fight against the invisible tether that keeps dragging me toward him. “Still, I should?—”
“If you’ll allow,” Logan interrupts, giving that tether a gentle tug. “I have something I’d like to ask you. If you’ll answer truthfully, that is.”
I straighten and nod.
“You’re beautiful,” he says.
“That’s a question?”
“You’re talented beyond measure,” he continues. “And yet, they always stick you all the way in the back. Why?”
His unexpected words settle at the base of my spine, warm and prickly. “Well, I’m just a pianist,” I say.
Logan stares, unsatisfied. Demanding more.
“I’m not much of a performer, I guess,” I say, thinking it over. “I don’t rock out with a guitar or dance with the mic stand or anything. But—” I perk up. “Knox and I have our dueling piano battles! So, I get plenty of time up front.”
Logan doesn’t look convinced. His expression twists slightly—doubt, disappointment.
“Those piano battles,” he says. “Are they staged?”
“No. But we get that question a lot.”
“You win legitimately every time, then?”
“Not every time, just…” I let a grin slip through. “Most of the time.”
Logan smiles, too—another firm tug on our tether.
“And…” I trail off, turning it over in my head. “I don’t know. I guess I prefer it where I am. In the back. Out of the way.”
“You deserve better.”
“I’m fine where I am.”
“Are you?”
I meet his eyes, my skin heating under the weight of his stare. He barely blinks, studying me. It’s like he’s memorizing me, determined to not miss a single detail.
“I’m gonna go now,” I say, forcing a turn toward the exit.
“Why?”
No.
Don’t turn around.
Just leave.
I turn anyway, just enough to meet his gaze. “Because I shouldn’t be here.”
His brow arches. “Why not?”
“We both know why not,” I say.
He squints at me, playful. “Do we?”
“You’re in The Electrics. I’m in Criminal Records.”
“So?”
“So?” I echo, frustrated.
“Our bands are rivals,” he says. “That means we can’t be friends?”
“You want to be friends?” I ask.
“You vomited in my bathroom and passed out in my bed. I kinda assumed we already were.”
“Okay.” I laugh despite myself. “When you put it like that… sure. But…”
“But?” he prompts.
I set my jaw. “You leaked that footage of Harmony to Gossipa.”
Logan exhales through his nose and gently lays his guitar on the couch. “I did,” he admits. “But that wasn’t my choice.”
“You bugged our bus.”
“Monroe bugged your bus.”
“But you bugged our dressing room with those flowers,” I accuse.
“I—” His brow furrows. “What?”
I smirk. “Just checking.”
“You think I spied on your dressing room… with flowers?”
“Knox does.”
Logan laughs. “Idiot.”
I smother my smile. “Our bands are rivals,” I say, quoting him. “Being here with you feels… wrong.”
“Wrong,” Logan repeats, rolling the word over his tongue like he’s tasting it. “Like you’re breaking the rules?”
“Yes,” I admit, holding my breath.
He nods once, then rises from the couch. “Well… it would appear to the casual observer…” He takes a few slow, deliberate steps toward me. My pulse kicks up, but I stand my ground, too damn curious to run, too intrigued by what he’ll say next. “That members of Criminal Records break their own rules regularly.”
“Do we?”
“Your brother and his pop star,” he says, stopping a foot away. “On again, off again. Public drama. Restraining orders.”
“Okay.” I nod, seeing his point. “But that was?—”
“Your guitarist,” he continues. “Falling into bed with your opening act. Same goes for your manager and your drummer.”
“Sure,” I say, dropping my gaze. “But those were?—”
“Jonah and his muse.”
I freeze. A warm shiver ghosts down my spine as he takes another step closer.
“Katrina,” he says, his voice soft and steady, but there’s nothing gentle about the way it settles in my chest. “If you’ll allow me one more question, one more honest answer.” His eyes hold mine, effortless. Unshakable. “Why is it okay for everyone to break the rules… except you?”
I don’t answer. I can’t.
Because suddenly, I’m not sure I know why.
“Did you know you talk in your sleep?”
I almost flinch. “I do?”
He nods, his face hovering so close to mine.
“What did I say?” I ask.
“Oh, nothing much,” he says, unblinking. “Just... Jonah. Jonah.”
“Oh.”
“Why not me?”
“Strange,” I say, clearing my throat. “Must have been having a weird wedding dream or something.”
Logan doesn’t buy it. His expression shifts—something softer now, something close to pity. “Don’t worry,” he says. “Your secret is safe with me.”
Panic grips my chest. “No,” I say, too fast. “There’s no secret. Jo and I are friends. Just friends. He’s...”
The words thin out, hollow as they leave my lips. Because I know.
And so does Logan.
“He’s a fool,” he says.
I shake my head. “No. He just fell in love with a different girl. That’s all. And Marla’s great. We’re good friends, and she’s... she’s his muse.”
“He’s a fool,” he says again.
I look up. Every bit of me threatens to fall into his eyes again. Part of me even wants to.
“Katrina,” he whispers, his lips impossibly close. “We?—”
“Have to go,” I say, stumbling over the words. “I. Me. Me have to... go.”
I break away, this time grabbing the door and throwing it open before that damned tether yanks me back to him again.
Halfway through the doorway, I pause, glancing back to offer a polite smile. “Thanks again, Logan.”
He bows his head. “You’re welcome, kitty.”
The door closes behind me with a quiet click, but it may as well be a gunshot after the way he called me kitty again. I race down the hall, my pulse pounding loudly in my ears.
At the elevator, I reach absently for the buttons, but stop, fingers hovering.
I could go down to the lobby. That’s still what I should do. Mingle with the other wedding guests. Drink. Dance. Watch Jonah and Marla take off on their midnight helicopter ride to the private runway.
Exhaling slowly, I tap 23.
The elevator climbs slowly, but my heartbeat doesn’t settle. By the time I reach my floor, I’m still rattling, still moving too fast, needing to get there before I completely unravel.
I slide my keycard through the lock and push. The door doesn’t open.
I try again. Locked.
I swipe the card. Again. Again. The light never turns green.
Frowning, I glance down at the keycard in my hand and…
It’s not mine.
It’s Logan’s.
A rush of heat floods my face as I dig into my pocket, fishing out my real key. I unlock the door, rush inside, and shut it behind me, a hanging garment bag crinkling as I lean my back against it. I close my eyes, forcing a deep breath. Trying to shake off what just happened.
But... nothing happened.
We just talked.
We talked about my deepest, darkest secrets and desires.
But still. Just talking.
I push off the door, exhaling. That’s when I notice it—hanging on the back of the door over my garment bag.
My dress from last night.
Cleaned. Perfect. A standard note from the Botsford Plaza staff thanking me for my stay clipped to the hanger.
I know I shouldn’t, but...
I smile.