Dirty Pleasures (The Dirty Billionaire Trilogy #2)(7)

“I’ll call you back when I’ve got something,” Cannon says.

“No need. She’s gone back to Nashville. Get the jet online. I want to be in the air in an hour. Make sure I’ve got a car waiting on the tarmac, and text me her f*cking address.”

The last part is a little humbling to add, considering I should probably know my wife’s address for her last residence. But I also didn’t care enough to ask before. Because I was more than content to have her in my bed, in my f*cking penthouse, and not ask many questions about her life before me. That was apparently a big f*cking mistake.

“Will do, man. Hold up—the jet is already ready to go. Captain Jim is on standby.”

Of course it f*cking is. Because I forgot. I dig a finger and a thumb into my temples and close my eyes.

“Tell the captain I’ll be right there.”

“Will do.”

I hang up and head for the bedroom. All the clothes I instructed a personal shopper to pick out for Holly mock me as I fill my suitcase. I don’t know what the f*ck I’m supposed to pack for groveling, and I sure as hell haven’t ever been to a country concert, but I’m fresh out of flannel shirts and cowboy boots. So I toss in some jeans, T-shirts, a few suits—because you never know when you might need one—and all the rest of my shit.

I’m out the door in less than ten minutes. I’m going to find my wife.




In Nashville, dawn is still a couple of hours away when I park the rented Mercedes SL65 AMG at the curb of an apartment building that has seen better days.

This is where Holly lives?

My anger at her record label grows exponentially. They’ve been making plenty of money off her, and yet she’s been paid practically nothing for her work. Motherf*ckers. That’s going to end in short order.

I make my way up the crumbling sidewalk to the cracked stoop and scan the list of names by the door. Before I press the buzzer, someone exits and holds the door open for me, so I’m able to head right upstairs—because the security is f*cking nonexistent.

Wickman is listed as being on the fourth floor, apartment E, and there’s a sign taped to the elevator that reads Out of Order in faded black marker. I can only guess how long it’s been there. One thing is for damn sure—Holly won’t be staying another night in this dump.

I climb the steps three at a time and knock. It’s the closest approximation I can get to polite at this point.

I wait.

No answer.

I knock again. Less politely.

No answer, so I bang on the door.

“Holly, open the f*cking door.”

The door across the hall creaks open, and I turn to see a blond guy with dreads sticking his head out.

“Dude, keep it the f*ck down. Some of us are trying to sleep.”

I ignore him and continue banging on the door.

“She ain’t here, man. And I don’t think she’s coming back for a while.”

According to the tour schedule Cannon e-mailed me, they weren’t scheduled to be in Dallas until the night after tomorrow.

I turn back to the stoner. “How do you know she isn’t here? And how the f*ck do you know she’s not coming back for a while?”

“Calm down, bro. I saw her carry a suitcase out last night.”

I don’t ask why he was watching Holly carry a suitcase out because it doesn’t matter. She’s never coming back to this place, and she’ll never see him again.

I call Cannon when I hit the curb. “She’s already gone. Find out where that tour stops next.”

“On it.”

“Now. While I’m on the goddamn phone.”

“Said I’m on it, Crey. Hold on, I got something. Looks like there’s a new stop on the tour.”

I climb into the Mercedes and haul ass back to the jet.





“You’ve got to be f*cking kidding me,” I say to the security guard standing between me and the entrance to the backstage area of the Majestic Theatre in San Antonio.

“No one gets back here without a pass, and you ain’t got a pass.”

“My wife is back there.”

“Don’t f*cking care, man. You ain’t got a pass. You call her and you get her to give you a pass, then you can go back there.”

Considering Holly still hasn’t answered a single one of my calls, I’m not about to admit that isn’t a possibility. I’ve spent all day in San Antonio trying to track her down, and my patience is shot. The theatre lights go dark.

“Show’s startin’, man. Get your seat before I have you escorted out.”

I open my mouth to argue, but a spotlight snaps on, illuminating the stage, and a very round man dressed in a radio station T-shirt strolls out with a microphone.

“Are ya’ll ready for this little lady?”

The crowd yells back, but apparently their response isn’t sufficient for his purpose.

“I said, are ya’ll ready for Holly Wix?”

The crowd roars, and I decide the security guy’s suggestion isn’t a bad one. I might as well find my seat, because it seems I’ve finally found my wife.

I had to buy a ticket from a scalper out front because the show was sold out. On the upside, my seat’s in the second row, so I’m not going to complain. Leaving the security guard behind, I slide down the row to my designated seat to find three screaming teenage girls on one side of me, and a middle-aged woman who is not at all excited on the other.