Strong: A Stage Dive Novella (Stage Dive #4.5)(5)

Shoulders squared and tits out, I presented my most confident face. “I can do this.”





CHAPTER TWO



“You’ve got yogurt in your hair.”

“He threw it at me.” Shoulders slumped, I sat on the carpet, some godawful children’s show blaring from the TV. “I can’t do this. The kid hates me.”

“Martha.” Sam sighed. “He’s two and a half and doesn’t even know you. Give it a chance.”

The he in question, Gibson Thunderbird Rollins-Nicholson, stared rapt at the screen as animated dogs pulled off a daring rescue. Crazy name for a little kid. Being born a musician’s progeny clearly came with the risk of being named after their favourite instrument. Meanwhile, the executive protection officer leaned against a nearby wall with his arms crossed over his broad chest. A small towel was slung over one buff shoulder and he wore workout gear. Guess he’d been making use of the private gym.

Ben and Lizzy hadn’t stinted on the place. A sprawling Georgian Colonial in one of the fancier areas of Portland. Of course, the former ballroom/indoor basketball court had been converted into a recording studio and band practice area. My brother only really cared about two things, music and family, so no big surprise about the remodelling. Not that I’d been counting on them throwing any large parties to keep me entertained. Those wild days of groupies, models, and film stars hanging around and swinging off the chandeliers were long gone. Probably for the best.

“David was right, I don’t know a thing about children,” I said, feeling deeply sorry for myself. “I figured I spent years running around after rock stars, catering to their every whim. How different could it be? So he’s shorter and doesn’t know how to express himself particularly well. All Mal ever did was babble incoherently at me. Some days I basically had to wipe the drool off that maniac’s chin. After him, Gibson should be a dream, right?”

“Not so much, huh?”

“Not so much.”

“What’s wrong with your eye? It’s a bit red,” he asked, leaning closer.

“Huh? Oh, it got yogurt in it too,” I lied, turning away. “I’ve been rubbing it.”

“Ah.”

Thank goodness my thick makeup covered the rest of the mess. Sam plucked a Kleenex from a box nearby and wandered closer, inspecting my dairy product-splattered hair. The intoxicating scent of clean male sweat filled the air as he leaned in. His gray tank was faded and old. But good Lord, did it do amazing things regarding leaving the bulk of his arms on display. All of his skin glistened and my stomach tumbled and tightened. It felt almost like nerves. Though I did not have a crush on the man. Because how ridiculous would that be?

His hand came toward me and I flinched. Dammit.

The hand paused ever-so-briefly and even with my eyes askance, I could feel his gaze drilling into me, searching my face. He can see it. Of course he could see it. No amount of makeup was going to hide that sort of thing from Sam. Whatever else his virtues and vices, the man was good at his job. And his job was violence. Recognizing it, and knowing how to prevent it. Still, it grated on me to show any sign of weakness. I’d rather be an overly proud bitch than a weak and wounded little thing any day of the week.

Then the pause was over and the hand continued forward. “Just cleaning you up,” he said, his voice deeper than the ocean.

“Yeah, I…” Shit. “Thanks.”

Ever so carefully, he lifted a thick strand of my dark hair and wiped it clean. His movements were cautious and slower than usual. I ignored the way his brows had drawn in ever so slightly.

“Maybe I should start shaving my head like you do,” I joked, disliking the way-too-loaded silence between us. “If he’s going to make a habit of throwing food at me.”

A manly grunt.

“Bet it cuts right down on the styling time and I’d save a bundle on shampoo.”

“Sam-Sam-Sam-Sam-Sam.” Gib threw himself at the big man’s back, little arms latching around his thick neck. Of course the kid loved him. It was just me he hated, his own flesh and blood. Lovely.

“Hey, buddy. You behaving yourself?”

Gib nodded his head up and down with much enthusiasm, the little fibber.

“Then why did poor Martha have yogurt in her hair?”

The kid just shrugged. “Want Mom.”

“Your mom’s at college. She’ll be back later.”

“Daddy?”

“He’s busy working right now,” said Sam in soothing tones. “You need to hang out with your Aunty Martha for a while. Your folks will be back soon, okay?”

“No!”

“Gibby—”

“No-no-no.”

“He’s big on repetition,” I said, wincing at all of the noise. For little lungs, the boy sure was loud.

“You can have fun with Aunty Martha.” Sam’s smile was so hopeful. “Hanging out with Aunty Martha’s great, isn’t it, buddy?”

“No-no-no.”

“Who could have guessed he’d say that?” I whispered. “Though to be fair, I’m kind of with him on that one.”

One of Sam’s brows arched, his gaze turning speculative. “You could be fun…in certain situations.”

I shut my mouth tight before it even had a chance to hang open.