Chapter 7
Chapter seven
Kelsey
“I hate getting to airports early,” I say, dropping into the seat next to Carter in the waiting area. I wanted to go to the lounge area, but it’s not in this terminal, so we opted to sit by our gate.
“We only have an hour until our flight boards,” Carter says, his dark brows pinching together as he looks at the large smartwatch on his wrist.
“Exactly. We could’ve waited at least another thirty to forty-five minutes,” I say as I prop my feet up on my suitcase, eyes scanning the seats around us.
His large frame shifts, turning to face me fully. “Are you joking?”
“No. I just don’t see a need to be here earlier.”
“So you don’t miss your flight if something unexpected happens,” he explains slowly.
“Ehh, it’s not that hard to get another flight.”
I pretend not to notice his wide eyes blinking as he takes in my statement.
“Kelsey, how many flights have you missed in your life?” he asks.
I shrug. “Not that many.”
“But more than one?”
“Sure.”
“How many more than one?”
“Maybe like four. Five? It’s really not a big enough deal for me to keep count.”
“This changes everything I’ve ever known about you.”
I raise my eyebrow.
“Truly,” he says. “You seem too…put together to be someone who misses flights.” He leans forward as he says it, putting his elbows on his spread knees, his hands clasped in the middle.
“I just have better things to do with my time than sit in an airport. I travel enough that the time I lose during the rare occasion I miss my flight is more than made up for by the time I save all the other times.”
“Huh.”
I wait to see if my conversationalist travel buddy will say more. When it becomes clear he has nothing else to add on the subject, I pull out my phone, firing off emails to a few of my employees, confirming all the last-minute work we’ve been putting in for the start of rehearsals tomorrow.
I know my team has done everything we can to be prepared for this, I know we have. But also, have we? There is always something more that can be done, particularly when it comes to advance-team work.
I run through what we know about the woman Jaxon eventually filed a restraining order against last tour for stalking.
Bennie Jensen learned the hard way there’s a fine line between obsessed fan and stalker.
Turns out, breaking into a famous musician’s dressing room with a pair of scissors and nail clippers so you can take home “a few pieces of him” is so far over the line that you get a night in jail and a restraining order against you.
Street drugs were taken, prescription ones were not, and Bennie came to believe she needed a few toenails and pubes—I shudder at the thought—from Jaxon.
Supposedly, someone named Dee told her she needed them for a love-potion.
I’m a bit surprised Jaxon’s lawyer didn’t file more than a restraining order.
Unfortunately, the forty-two-year-old hasn’t been seen in the last six months.
She stopped taking her medication again, and her older sister believes she might be living on the streets in San Francisco.
I would’ve preferred to have confirmation of that before the tour begins, but in the end, Trent and I decided it would require too many resources, and even then, the odds of finding her would be depressingly low.
I email Lila again, confirming she has pictures of Bennie in the folders and asking about Dee, the infamous love-potion maker.
There was nothing in the file about her, but I’m not sure if that’s because the police didn’t think she was real or because they couldn’t find anything on her.
My guess is the former, but I’d rather double-check some overworked cop’s work than appear incompetent.
The truth is, Jaxon has over one hundred people that his former security firm identified as stalkers.
There will be facial recognition at many of the stadium entrances specifically scanning for their faces, but for every hundred we know about, there has to be at least that many who haven’t crossed our radar yet.
Or haven’t escalated from obsessed fan to just obsessive.
After finishing the work I can do from my phone and scrolling through my socials for what seems like a decade, I start people-watching.
There is a hilarious kid, maybe seven or eight, who’s just dancing along to her music.
Since she has pink-and-purple headphones on, I can’t tell what she’s listening to, but she is getting after it with her headshaking. Dang—to be that carefree.
My attention is pulled away from the dancer as two women walk by in Denver College sweatshirts.
They’re young and excited, chatting animatedly about something.
The one with her hair pulled into a messy bun does a double take as she passes Carter.
At first, I think she must know him, but after her quick head-to-toe perusal and an elbow to her friend’s ribs, I realize she’s just checking him out. Not that I blame her.
Carter is inarguably attractive. He’s roughly six feet tall with hair so brown, it’s almost black, and dark-chocolate eyes.
As terrible as the logo is on the black polo, I’ll admit the shirt is doing good things for the man’s chest and biceps.
It doesn’t hurt that it exposes his well-defined forearms either.
Denver College should be sad she missed the show on the walk into the airport, though, because his dark-washed jeans were doing great things for his ass. Not that I was looking, of course.
Carter notices the woman’s perusal and quickly averts his eyes, more focused on his phone than he has been the entire time.
I smirk but let them move out of earshot.
I point my chin at the woman’s back as she sits on a black airport chair a few rows away from ours. “It looks like they’re on our flight. I guess you’ll have at least one option for fun tonight.”
Carter doesn’t follow my gaze to the girl, instead focusing on his phone. He shakes his head but chooses not to reply. Not the worst move on his part.
Unfortunately for him, I’m bored, so I’m not going to take his silence as an answer. I’ve been fairly successful at convincing the people in my life to reveal their deepest, darkest secrets to me lately, and now I crave the challenge of it.
“Are you the one man on earth who isn’t interested in a fun night out with one”—I look back to the girl and her friend—“maybe two, college girls?”
Poking the bear is fun—as long as you’re faster than it. And when it comes to intellectual speed, I’m always the fastest.
He rotates his head slowly to send me a glare that sends my heart racing. But then he looks back at his hands, acting as if I hadn’t spoken. I let out a sigh, disappointed he’s not going to take the bait.
“I think you do the male population a disservice with that comment,” Carter says to his hands.
I force my Cheshire cat smile to stay hidden, the thrill of a verbal sparring match thrumming through my veins.
And Carter is not just any sparring partner.
He has the brainpower to be a worthy opponent for once.
It’s a rare find, and why I resort to arguing with my sisters and dad so often.
I want the other person to at least have a chance.
“Or am I just an astute observer of human nature?” I ask sweetly.
“You’re spending time around the wrong humans if that’s what you’re observing.”
Why are smart men such a turn-on?
Not sure where that thought came from, I try to focus on a comeback rather than the way the muscle in his forearm is flexing and unflexing as he waits for my response.
“Or is there just an overabundance of men who would fuck any woman who looks like that, regardless of her age?” I don’t swear nearly as much as my sisters, but that makes it an even better tactic for throwing people off.
Disgust. That’s the only way to describe the look that crosses Carter’s face, and since I do have to work with this man in a professional setting for the next seven weeks, I add, “As long as she’s legal, of course.”
Carter leans into me, his musky, clean scent hitting me as he nears.
How did I not notice that soul-stealing smell while sitting next to him all morning? And, more importantly, how am I going to make it through the next seven weeks knowing I could smell it again if I just get closer to him?
Normally. Like a normal person who should not and will not have weird thoughts about how good her coworker smells. That’s how.
I force myself to pay attention to the words coming out of Carter’s mouth, though focusing on his lips is clearly a mistake too.
“You don’t even believe what you’re saying, do you, Kelsey?” he says, his voice low.
Professional. Remain professional. Do not focus on the way he just said your name.
I take a deep breath and—bad idea. I force my eyes to stay open instead of closing like they want to at the scent.
“I do think it’s true of some men.”
“But not all of them?”
“No.” Ew. Why am I conceding that?
He’s still in my space, his shoulder pressed against mine as he leans close to me. Wait, is he getting into my space just to throw me off my game? I’m so impressed, I can’t even pretend to be mad.
“Because you know most men—not boys—are after so much more than that. Most men, at the end of the day, want a partner—someone who challenges them, makes them better, and helps them become who they’re meant to be.
They want someone who shows them what it means to truly live, because with her, life is wild and free. ”
“No,” I say, turning to look out the window. “I don’t know that.” I don’t tell him that I know for a fact at least one man doesn’t want me for a partner. No, he wanted me for an underling, for someone he could boss around. For someone to do all the work and take none of the credit.
“Well, it’s what I want,” Carter says, leaning back in his seat.
I’m sure that’s what Lukas would’ve said five years ago, too.
But it’s easy to say you want a partner.
Being a partner rather than in charge is where things get a bit more difficult.
Lukas told me numerous times he wanted to be my partner, both in life and in business, and look how that turned out.
When the opportunity came, he did everything he could to take control from me—at least with the business.
So I took control of our life partnership and ended it faster than you can say articles of dissolution.
“What’s that look for?” Carter asks.
“Nothing.”
“You don’t believe me?”
“I believe you believe it. I just don’t think that, if given the opportunity, you wouldn’t jump at a chance to move from partner to boss. It’s why men—not just boys—like young women: they’re easier to control.”
I can tell from the shape of his mouth that he’s not impressed by my comment, but that’s too bad for him.
“Sometimes, Kelsey, letting go of a little control isn’t such a bad thing.”
“I haven’t found that to be true.”
“Then you’ve been spending time with the wrong men.
Because trust me, I don’t want some eighteen-year-old.
When I take control, it’s not taking away your power, it’s giving you freedom.
Because when you’re with a real man, you learn being partners doesn’t mean sharing power equally; it means letting it flow between you so each person gets exactly what they need.
It’s dominance and submission and unparalleled trust, all at the same time. ”
I hope he can’t read the shock on my face because…what? How does Carter, the man who barely converses with anyone, say something like that out of the blue?
“You sound,” I say, breathing like I just climbed a flight of stairs, “like you’re talking about the bedroom.”
His eyes gleam. “Maybe I am.”