Dirty Pleasures (The Dirty Billionaire Trilogy #2)(32)

“I’ll leave that up to Holly.”

“*-whipped motherf*cker.”

The words are tossed over Thrasher’s shoulder, and I flip off his back as he walks away. I don’t like the son of a bitch, but then again, I don’t exactly hate him either. He’s looking out for Holly, and that I have to respect.

But horseshoes? Really?





“She’s kicking your ass, man!”

“You’re on his team, which means she’s kicking your ass too!”

The guys in my band are getting no end of amusement from ribbing the crap out of Creighton during our game of horseshoes at Boone’s favorite bar outside Biloxi. I couldn’t believe it when Creighton deferred to me about whether or not we join them rather than scooping me up and carrying me off to the bus, like he did the other nights after I finished up “That Girl” during Boone’s set.

Tonight, Creighton was waiting offstage with a beer and a smile. The beer was his, because I was still on the “tour diet from hell,” but he handed it over anyway and told me that Boone invited us out and he was leaving it up to me to decide.

In all honesty, my lady parts kind of need a break from the nonstop banging that we’ve been doing, and after-show sex is turning into the most energetic kind. So I said yes, partially out of self-preservation.

Now I’m wondering if I made the right choice. Creighton isn’t exactly showing any signs of wanting to commit murder, though. He’s just sipping on a beer and shrugging off the comments.

Finally, he says, “Since my ass is hers, she can kick it whenever she wants.”

His words come just as I’m swinging to toss my horseshoe and the throw goes wild, nearly kneecapping Boone.

He jumps back out of the way, his beer splashing out of the bar’s trademark red Solo cups. “Shit, woman. Watch your throw!”

But I’m not paying attention to Boone. I couldn’t care less about him, his kneecaps, or his beer. I’m staring at Creighton, trying to interpret what that comment meant. My ass is hers.

Is he truly in this for real? I mean, he’s said that I’m his, but it’s never really been a mutual sort of ownership like you’d have in a “real” marriage. Or is living in the middle of a tour, where we’ve finally found our rhythm, messing with his head?

All I know is that I’m scared to hope that this might last. Hope is a dangerous thing, and when it comes to Creighton, I’m terrified to gamble everything. This man has the power to wreck me.

Even as the thoughts circle my brain and I reach for the next horseshoe, I know I’m full of crap. It’s already too late. I’ve placed my bet, and it’s my heart that’s on the line.





A week later

It almost feels strange to know that I’m not getting back on a tour bus in a few hours. I can honestly say this has been a fascinating experience. Ten days, seven cities, and the constant reinforcement that I’m married to a woman of incredible talent. Experiencing Holly in her element has been eye-opening. She’s got grit and drive, and works harder than my hardest-working executive.

But as confident and bold as she’s been on tour, the moment we landed in New York City this morning, she drew into herself and uncertainty bloomed. I just need to close the deal, get this charity thing out of the way, and then I’ll be able to get her accustomed to this part of her life, her future. I need her to be comfortable here, because if I get my way, we’ll split our time between New York and wherever she needs to be. Wherever she chooses to be.

My pen hovers over the signature line of the document that will ensure no one will ever dictate to Holly again about her career. Never again will anyone have that kind of power over her.

I scrawl my signature on the line, and it’s done. Homegrown Records is mine.

We agreed to the initial terms of the deal the day Holly walked out on me in New York. I was so caught up in negotiations that I didn’t stop to take her call. Those negotiations were critical, heavily featuring her and her contract, and the fact that during the weeks between signing and closing, the execs couldn’t do a goddamn thing that would negatively affect her. It was a rookie husband mistake that almost cost me more than losing the deal would have.

But having both of those f*ckers at the table in front of me brought out a protective side of me I never knew existed. With every snide comment about how they lifted Holly out of some sad existence and gave her a shot through their show, I grew more and more determined to have their resignations in my hand.

She was a girl who didn’t know better and had nothing to lose when she signed their heavy-handed agreement. Knowing Holly now, they could have put anything in that contract, and she would have agreed to it just to have a shot at her dream. The fact that they continued to jerk her around with the JC situation was unconscionable. They deserved to be tossed out of the industry, in my opinion.

“Hope you know what you’re doin’, boy.”

I look up at Morty, the paunchy executive I’m tempted to have blackballed from the industry starting today. His threats over what he could do to Holly’s career had me wanting to rip his throat from his neck during negotiations. The fact that he’s trying to bait me just shows what an idiot he is.

“He doesn’t have a clue what he’s doin’,” Jim, Morty’s sidekick, says. “All he knows is this is the surest way to own that woman lock, stock, and barrel. You think she’s going to be happy that you did this? Mark my words, she’ll want your balls in a sling.”