8. Chapter Eight #2
The worst part is that the prick has talent. Real talent.
Enough that I can’t write him off as some desperate shithead trying to treat Wills like a groupie. Memphis Cross does not beg for attention. He stands there as if attention had already dropped to its knees and thanked him for the privilege.
Memphis leans close to Willow. Too fucking close.
His hand rests on the counter’s edge beside her drink, not touching her. If he were sleazy, I could handle that. Sleazy gives me a reason to break teeth and call it a public service.
But Memphis is not that. He is careful. The kind of fucker smart enough to keep his hands to himself, as if that makes him innocent, while every ugly part of me is already imagining those fingers snapped before they ever get close enough to touch her.
He watches her as if she isn’t just the woman who writes our songs.
He is looking at her as if he wants to fuck her. As if that thought has any right to exist in his head without me punching him in the face.
Willow tilts her face up toward him and he says something I cannot hear over the music.
Something ugly sparks in my chest.
The woman in the gold dress whispers something in my ear, her tits brushing my arm as she leans in close. But nothing reaches my ears.
I don’t give a fuck what she’s saying. She could be offering me her room key, her mouth, or her pussy on a silver fucking platter, and I still wouldn’t turn my gaze away from Willow laughing at Memphis Cross.
“Careful,” Cruz says beside me.
I glance over. “What?”
He has appeared with two drinks and pupils bright enough to suggest he has already found the party’s real hospitality. Lipstick stains his neck and a smear of glitter clings near his collar.
He looks from me to the bar and back again.
“Your face is doing that thing.”
“My face is famous,” I say. “It does a lot of things.”
“This one says you are two seconds away from dragging Memphis Cross outside to teach him why dental plans matter.”
I take one of the drinks. “I don’t give a shit about Memphis.”
Cruz snorts. “Sure.”
I shoot him a glare.
Cruz only grins wider. “Don’t piss on the carpet unless you plan to claim her properly.”
“Shut the fuck up.” I turn my attention back to the fuckhead who is talking to Willow.
Memphis leans in again.
That’s it.
My glass hits the nearest table harder than it needs to, champagne sloshing over the rim because apparently even my drink knows when to get out of my way. I move before the smarter part of me can pretend it still has a vote.
“Phoenix,” Cruz calls behind me.
I ignore him.
“Stone,” he says, sharper this time.
I keep walking, eyes locked on the asshole with a death wish, because the pretty little fucker has spent long enough breathing near anything that is not his.
The crowd parts for me. People shift, smile, reach, offering themselves in little pieces as if touching me might make them interesting. Someone says my name. Someone else drags a hand along my arm. A camera flashes.
I give them enough Phoenix Stone to keep them wet and grateful without slowing them down.
By the time I reach the bar, Memphis is saying something in a low voice and Willow is looking up at him, that faint smile still on her lips.
Mine, some fucked-up part of my brain says.
“Memphis Cross,” I say, sliding into the conversation with enough charm to make murder seem casual. “Didn’t know Damon had started letting solo acts into these things. Must be nice having no one onstage to prove you’re the weakest link.”
Memphis turns, and to his credit, he doesn’t flinch. His gaze flicks over my face, then to Willow, then back to me.
“Phoenix Stone,” he says. “I was beginning to think the screaming near the entrance was a weather event.”
I let my gaze linger on him, slow enough to be rude. “Cute. Did you rehearse that in the mirror or does the label write all your little jokes now?”
His mouth curves. “Only the good ones.”
“Shame they held those back.”
Willow’s eyes cut to mine.
Cold already.
Good. At least she is looking at me now.
I clap Memphis on the shoulder. Friendly enough for anyone watching. Firm enough for him to understand the subtext. “Heard your last track. Didn’t hate the first ten seconds.”
His brows lift. “That almost sounded painful for you.”
“It was.” I smile. “Enjoy it while it lasts.”
Memphis smiles back, but there is understanding in it now. He knows exactly what I’m doing. Men always do, even when women are expected to pretend we are being civilised.
“Willow was telling me about the new album,” Memphis says.
I lean against the bar, close enough to cut into the space between them without giving the impression that I’m doing anything but standing exactly where I fucking want.
“What were you saying, Wills?”
Willow’s eyes narrow when she hears me throw out that nickname. A little reminder that I had her before Memphis Cross ever got close enough.
Memphis looks amused. “Wills?”
I turn my head slowly and give him a smile that has undone better men than him. “You wouldn’t understand.”
His brow lifts.
“Old habit,” I say. “Old enough to matter. The kind you don’t get to walk into and think your cock belongs in the conversation.”
“Phoenix, stop.” Willow’s fingers clench around her glass.
“Damon was looking for you,” I tell Memphis.
Memphis’s mouth curves. “Was he?”
“Yeah.” I let my gaze crawl over him, bored enough to be insulting. “Probably trying to find you a booster seat at the big-boy table before the grown-ups notice your whole career is an overcompensation for a small cock.”
Willow exhales through her nose.
Memphis takes the hint, because apparently the fucker is not stupid enough to mistake my smile for an invitation to stay.
He picks up his drink, nods to Willow, and says, “It was nice talking to you.”
“It was,” she says.
His gaze moves to me. “Phoenix.”
“Memphis.” I put enough boredom into his name to make it clear I am done pretending this is a conversation.
He leaves with that same knowing expression most men do when I get in their way. The one that says he sees the leash even though I keep pretending there is no collar.
The second Memphis is gone, Willow turns cold enough to chill the air around us.
I reach for a drink, mostly because my hands suddenly need something to do.
“What?” I ask, since playing stupid has always been easier than telling the truth.
“Don’t.” Her tone is cold.
“Don’t what?”
“Insult me by pretending you don’t know what you just did.”
“I was saying hello.”
“You interrupted.”
I raise my glass. “Technically, I joined a conversation.”
“You fucking bulldozed it.”
“I was being friendly.”
Her eyes flick over my face, flat and unimpressed. “You don’t know how to.”
I let the smirk sit because it is easier than giving her anything soft enough to cut. “You looked bored.”
“Stop with the bullshit, Phoenix.” Her voice stays low, sharp enough to slip under the music and find skin.
“What bullshit are we talking about?”
“That little king complex you drag out whenever you decide the world has touched something you think is yours.”
My smirk doesn’t move an inch but everything beneath it does.
I set my glass down on the bar. “Careful, Wills.”
Her eyes flash. “Don’t fucking call me that when you’re acting like a selfish prick who only remembers I exist when another man looks at me.”
I laugh once. “You think I’m fucking jealous of that polished little label pet?”
“What would you call it then?”
“Common sense.” I lean closer. “He was looking at you as if he wanted to fuck you against that bar.”
Her mouth tightens. “So what if he was?”
My smile disappears.
Willow steps closer, but there is nothing soft about her steps.
“If I want to fuck Memphis Cross, I will,” she says, low enough that only I hear it. “If I want to fuck anyone in this room, I will. If he asked me to get down on my knees and suck his cock, I fucking could.”
Something inside me goes black.
My gaze cuts past her shoulder, hunting the crowd for Memphis before I can stop it. I want to find him. I want to drag that fucker back by the throat, press my mouth to his ear, and explain that he doesn’t fucking ask Willow for anything.
The thought of it makes every ugly thing inside me stand up and bare its fangs.
Willow sees it.
Her laugh is small and vicious. “Look at you.”
“Wills.”
“No.” Her eyes flash, bright and furious beneath the smudged black around them. “You don’t get to fucking stand here and collect half the women who come your way. You don’t get to keep a hard-on for every bad decision that breathes near you, then lose your shit because another man looks at me.”
I could say something cruel. I could smirk and turn this into another fight she’ll write into a song, making me sing it back to her in front of thousands of people who’ll never know I deserve every word.
“You don’t own me, Phoenix. Get it through your fucking head.”
She sets her glass on the bar, turns, and walks away. Not leaving me a single thread to pull her back to me.
For once in my miserable life, I can’t think of a single thing cruel enough to save me that will not prove her right.