Dirty Pleasures (The Dirty Billionaire Trilogy #2)(9)

I call her name, but I don’t yell it. She doesn’t hear me. Another dozen feet and she’ll be standing right in front of me.

Rage burns in me as they get closer and I see the last guy who played—this Boone guy—with his arm around her, holding her against him.

What the f*ck?

“Holly.” This time it comes out louder and harsher.

The guy drops his arm and comes to the railing a few feet away from me to sign some woman’s tits. Classy guy. Holly continues toward the bus.

“Holly!”

She jolts to a stop, turns, and her eyes go wide as they lock onto mine. She stumbles, and another man reaches out to steady her. I don’t like his hands on her any more than I liked the last guy’s arm around her.

Her smile is tight when she comes toward the railing. The tit-signing genius comes down the line, meeting her in front of me.

“You okay, sugar?” he asks her.

Holly opens her mouth to respond, but I beat her to it. “She’s fine. She’s just wondering why her husband is standing with the groupies.”

His eyes cut to me. “So you’re the husband, huh?”

“Yeah, I’m the husband.”

He looks to Holly. “Didn’t mention he was comin’.”

“I didn’t know he was,” she says quietly.

“How about you move this reunion onto the bus?” Boone says.

Holly nods, and he gestures to security. “Get him on my bus. We’ll be there in five.”

A security guard hops the fence and leads me around the crowd to the tour buses. We slide between the barriers and he raps on the door. It opens, and I climb up the stairs.

It’s not the pit I expect it to be. Aside from a case of empty beer cans and a few empty liquor bottles, there’s not much garbage. Some clothes, drumsticks, notebooks, guitar picks, and video game controllers litter the counter and table.

I stand next to the couch and wait.

It takes longer than five minutes. Impatient, I move to the tinted windows and watch their slow progression—signing autographs and taking pictures from awkward angles.

Finally, the door opens again, and Holly climbs inside.

I’ve made myself at home on the couch, and I’m considering what to say. But she beats me to it.

“What are you doing here?” she asks without prelude.

“Looking for my wife,” I reply.

She mumbles something in response.

“Excuse me?”

“I said I’m kinda surprised.”

My first instinct is to defend myself, but there’s really no point. I screwed up, and I know it. That doesn’t mean I’m not still pissed that she didn’t wait just a little bit longer before she walked out.

I decide an apology is the best choice. It’s not my usual, but I’m surprised how easily the words come. “I’m sorry, Holly. I f*cked up. I told you I’d be somewhere, and I wasn’t.”

Her mouth drops open, and I’m instantly reminded of all the things I want to do to that mouth.

A slow clap starts from the front of the bus, interrupting the conversation.

“Now that’s a guy who knows how to grovel. I’m taking notes, man, in case I ever get myself up shit creek.”

He strolls down the aisle and holds out a hand tattooed with what looks like brass knuckles with skulls. “Boone Thrasher.”

I stand and appraise him, man-to-man. “Creighton Karas.”

We shake hands, neither trying overly hard to crush the other’s, which is more than I expected from a guy with brass knuckles tattooed on his hand. Assumptions and all that.

He’s still wearing the ripped jeans, camo ball cap, and biker boots he wore onstage, although he must have pulled on a new T-shirt because he ripped the last one off mid-performance.

“You treat this girl right, you hear? Or you’ll answer to me.” Thrasher’s gaze drills into mine and his words are solemn.

I open my mouth to tell him it’s no f*cking business of his what I do with Holly, but I pause. Honestly, I’m glad she has someone who cares enough about her to threaten me on her behalf. As long as his concern is completely platonic, we don’t have a problem.

“Thanks for the warning. I’m glad Holly has a friend at her back.”

He catches the emphasis I place on the word friend. “No worries, man. I’ve got my own woman. Not looking to poach yours.” He leans closer and adds, “Besides, if I would’ve wanted her, you never would’ve had a shot.”

His cocky confidence instantly makes me want to ram my fist into his face, but Holly huffs quietly, apparently over the macho posturing Boone and I are engaging in.

“I’ll respectfully disagree with you on that,” I reply, ready to end the conversation.

He laughs, a booming sound that fills the bus. I step back and throw a possessive arm around Holly.

Thrasher is smiling when he says, “You just might do, man. Definitely better than that douche, JC.” He holds up both hands. “I ain’t got no problem with the fact that the man prefers dick to *. To each his own. But I do have a problem with him using Holly to pretend that ain’t the case. If you’re man enough to f*ck another man’s ass, then you should be man enough to be honest with your fans about it—or at least not demand a beard from the label. Just my opinion. Not that it means shit anyway.”