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She quit her job at the Gilded Lily the next day.
We both knew Mary liked to be taken care of, and I didn’t see a reason for her to continue sweating her ass off in a filthy strip club, when I had money to burn.
I could’ve been poor — penniless — and I still would’ve made sure she would never have to lift her finger.
Women didn’t need to know that bills were due — my women were made for leisure.
I tried to focus on what Barb — our manager — was saying about the Friday gig, but it was too early and I was still mentally living in a different time zone. The one where Mary’s legs were wrapped around my waist and she was moaning my name.
Good God, Milo — get your head out of the gutter.
“…label wants the setlist locked by tonight,” Barb droned on, clicking through slides on her laptop. “No new material, stick to the hits. And for fuck’s sake, Milo, keep your head in the game, yeah?”
I looked up from my phone. “Me? What the fuck did I do?”
“I heard about your club proposal.” Barb’s eyes locked on me.
In another life I would’ve considered bending her over this fine conference table, but that train had long since left the station.
A few too many arguments over trivial shit and suddenly the little Milo down south didn’t want to cooperate.
I didn’t blame him. Barb had a hot East London accent — but the things she said in it — well.
Made sense why she was our manager and not Mrs. Cross.
“My club proposal?” I feigned ignorance. “That don’t ring any bells.”
“Sure, it doesn’t. Anyway — minimal drinking before the show — and absolutely no groupies. Is that understood?” Barb pinned me with that sharp, no-bullshit stare she’d perfected over the years.
I leaned back in the leather conference chair, spinning my phone between my fingers. “Groupies? Come on, Barb. My middle name’s Abstinence.”
Killian, sitting across the table, nearly choked on his coffee. Brett snorted. Owen just grinned like the degenerate he was.
“You think you’re cute,” Barb mused. I could’ve sworn her eye was a second away from twitching.
“I think I’m adorable,” I said and winked at her.
I thought she would launch her laptop at me but instead she smirked and said: “Perfect. Bottle that up.” She pointed a finger at me. “I want that same energy on Friday.”
The meeting dragged on for another forty minutes.
Setlists, promo obligations, some bullshit about a possible European leg if the new single charted well — which was a gamble because we didn’t have a new single.
I nodded in all the right places, but my mind kept drifting back to the penthouse.
Mary was probably still in my bed right now, tangled in my sheets. Fuck, I wanted to be there with her.
When Barb finally dismissed us, Killian fell into step beside me in the hallway.
“You really got her to quit the club?” he asked, quiet enough that the others wouldn’t hear.
“Yeah.”
He gave me a long look. “You sure that’s smart? Moving that fast?”
I shrugged. “She hated it. And I don’t want other men looking at her like that anymore.”
“They’re gonna force her into an NDA, you know that,” Killian said as we walked out of the label offices and into the sticky New Orleans evening. The exhaust fumes mingled with the humid heat, making a pressure cooker out of the city.
I lit a cigarette and shrugged, the smoke curling up between us. “Let them. She’s not some random groupie leaking our shit to TMZ. Mary’s smart. She gets it.”
Killian gave me that big-brother look. “Milo. You always get like this. You see a shiny new toy and it’s suddenly like your head’s screwed on backwards.”
I took a long drag, letting the smoke burn my lungs before exhaling toward the sky. The afternoon heat pressed down like a wet blanket. “She’s not a toy.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” he muttered.
“Stop.” I flicked ash onto the sidewalk. “She quit the club. She’s in my bed. Shit’s good.”
Killian rubbed the back of his neck. “Just… slow down, man.”
I crushed the cigarette under my boot. “It’s not like I’m putting a ring on her finger, dude. Chill.”
He didn’t look convinced, but he dropped it as we reached the cars. Good man.
On the way back, I stopped by the liquor store and picked up a bottle of wine. Figured we could celebrate her leaving the Gilded Lily — but when I got back, the penthouse was quiet.
“Mary?” I called out, kicking the door shut behind me. My voice echoed off the high ceilings. No answer. The kitchen lights were off. The bedroom door was cracked, but the bed was empty. Her pink phone charger was still plugged in by the nightstand.
I checked my phone. No texts. No missed calls. It was almost eight PM.
I told myself she’d probably gone out with Dahlia or Lolly for a celebratory drink. Girls’ night. Fine. I could wait.
Three hours later the wine bottle was empty and I had moved on to the watered-down rum on the shelf — and yet, there was still no sign of Mary.