Dirty Pleasures (The Dirty Billionaire Trilogy #2)(4)

Pushing that thought away, because it was just one more piece of baggage that Tana was talking about when she dropped me off, I grab my jacket and head for the door.

Despite his badass reputation, Boone’s a good guy. A really good guy. His tiny, gorgeous, chart-topping girlfriend is a lucky lady. But from what I’ve seen of her, I’m not so sure she’s aware of that fact. She’s actually kind of a bitch. And by kind of, I mean, she’s a total Grade-A, possessive, catty bitch.

Not that I’d ever tell Boone that. These lips don’t do the gossip thing. One negative word to the wrong person, and I’d be screwed. So I just keep my opinions to myself. The world of country music isn’t so different from high school.

I lock my apartment door behind me and hoof it down the stairs and out to the covered parking where my 1998 Pontiac Firebird waits for me. And yes, I’m completely aware that what was cool in 1998 is not quite so cool now. Which means that I got a killer deal on it when my 1988 Fiero kicked the bucket just before I got my golden audition ticket for Country Dreams.

I suppose I could buy a little bit newer car with the semi-regular paycheck I get now, but the Firebird still gets me from A to B, and I prefer to save my money for a rainy day. If there’s one thing that I’ve learned about this town, it’s that everything can change in a moment.

Thirty-five minutes later, I pull up at the gates of Boone’s place, and a man built like a brick shithouse comes out of the guard shack and bends down to my window. I open the door—because the window doesn’t work anymore—and he smiles.

“I got the same problem with my Grand Prix. Fucking Pontiacs,” he says.

“You got that right. I’m Holly—”

“Yep. Know who you are, sweet thing. They’re waiting on you. Buses are here and ready to go too.” He backs away from my car and activates the gate opener.

I swing my door shut and drive through. Sure enough, two tour buses are parked in front of the house set off from the road by almost a mile-long driveway. I pull into a small parking lot-size area beside the garage and shut off my car.

I need to get in there and find Chance and make sure he reports in that I wasn’t late before someone at the label starts checking, looking to boot me off. As soon as the thought hits my brain, the man in question knocks on the window of my car and opens the door.

“You need to replace this piece of shit, girl. And why the hell didn’t you answer your phone?”

I frown at Chance. “What are you talking about? I answered your texts.”

He pulls me out of my car by the hand. “Well, you didn’t answer when I called you five times to ask you to pick me up some Johnny Walker on the way. The bus is out, and Boone wants some for the road.”

“Crap. I must’ve had my radio on too loud. It’s on vibrate.” I reach back into my car to grab my purse and start rooting through it to find my phone.

“Your suitcase in the trunk?” Chance asks.

I nod, not looking up from my task, and he reaches around me to pop the trunk. By the time he has my suitcase in hand, I’m starting to panic.

“Where the hell is my phone?” I mumble. “I had it.”

“Come on, girl. Let’s move it. We won’t get to San Antonio with you standing here digging through your purse.”

I jerk my head up and stare at him. “San Antonio? I thought Dallas was next.”

Chance shakes his head. “Nope. That’s why we’re leaving early. Boone signed up to do a last-minute charity gig, and you’re along for the ride. Dallas is after that, so it’s not that far off.”

Dropping my purse on the ground, I bend over and look between the seats and the console to see if my phone slid down. Chance, clearly impatient with me, calls it. I wait, but there’s no telltale buzz or vibration.

“Shit. I must’ve left it in my apartment.”

“No time to go back for it, so you’ll have to have someone get it for you and overnight it to you. I’ll get the hotel address.”

I huff out a long sigh. Shit. I don’t even know if I have Tana’s number to ask her to go back to my place and grab it . . . but then again, I bet Chance or Boone does. Between the two of them, they seem to have everyone’s number in this town.

“You ready to rehearse?”

“What?” I ask, my mind still on how to retrieve my phone.

“The duet. ‘That Girl.’ Boone wants to play some acoustic stuff on the bus, so you’re riding with him. I made sure you’ve got a guitar on there already. Now come on, let’s go.”

Chance leads me by the arm up to the house to say hi to the guys before we all climb up the stairs. All my worries slip away once I let myself fall into the easy bullshitting and name-calling with the guys. And once I’m on the bus with Boone, I let myself go in the music.





It’s a couple of hours and who knows how much whiskey later when we stop so the guys can grab a smoke. I stumble onto my own bus—one that I’ll be sharing with my band and maybe the other opening act, if they don’t have their own bus. No one has seen fit to share that detail with me yet. But because it’s out of my control, I don’t waste any more time thinking about it.

Some drunk hope makes me think that maybe I missed my phone in my search of the purse, so I dump the entire contents out on the kitchenette table.