Manaconda (Hammered #1)(21)
I spotted Wyatt and Keys on the stairs. Finally. Hudson Wyatt was a helluva lot more interesting than I was. He’d done a charity race last month that still had the papers buzzing. Bats, Owen, and Zach were heading up the rear.
“Victoria Sheer was seen with Reed Mason, your guitarist, last night. Any thoughts?”
My spine snapped straight. The lazy stance I’d perfected was long gone. What the hell? I turned around to face Bats. Instead of the ready smile and f*ck off attitude, his face was blank.
My mood darkened.
I’d been trying my damnedest not to let this freaking Rolling Stone magazine thing kill my release day, but this? What. The. Actual. Fuck.
I turned back to the sea of reporters. “Does anyone actually give a shit about the album?”
When no one asked a question, I stood rock still. Alone on the dais, that f*cking magazine cover my only ally. Then a cool, soft hand slid into mine.
Kenny.
Her dark eyes fierce, her wine-colored mouth stretched into a perfect smile. It was a little too perfect. Not quite the crooked one that I’d had to fight for. She lifted up on her toes, and dragged me down to meet her lips. The kiss wasn’t as wild as the hallway, nor as hot as backstage, but she didn’t hold back.
Just enough tongue to let the roomful of press know that we’d definitely done it more than once. I breathed in her orange blossom scent and tugged lightly on the ends of her silky curls that had tumbled forward. She stepped away, flicking her hair over her shoulder as she stalked back to the podium. She swiped her thumb along her bottom lip before speaking into her microphone.
“Yes, we’re dating. No, he is not taking part in any threesomes—or moresomes—with anyone. I don’t share. Now if that’s enough of the reality show drama?” She pointed at an African-American girl with caramel hair done up in an impressive twist of braids. She wore a LA Love & Paws shirt in bright orange. Her fingers were nearly bloodless around the neck of a guitar in the same color. “Shannon, can you come up?”
Her dark eyes went wide. “Um, sure.” She came up on the dais. “We were wondering if the band would sign this for the auction this weekend?”
I smiled at the girl. Love & Paws was the one charity that I dropped everything for. I didn’t recognize this volunteer, but there were so many local shelters associated with it that I wasn’t surprised. “Absolutely.”
The rest of the band came up on the dais, settling into our usual seats. Bats stayed on the far end of the table, refusing to meet my gaze.
Kenny steered the conversation to the charity and all the others that the band supported. Slowly the questions skewed to the charities, the album, and a few more still tried to steer the questions back to our love life. At least this time Wyatt was under fire as much as I was.
Being a former racecar driver, often overseas, he dealt with a whole different socialite set. One that included a lot of damn royalty. And not the LA kind.
I tried to concentrate, but the only thing buzzing in my head were her words: I don’t share. Questions still picked at my brain—the Victoria subject, Bats keeping time with my former girl, why no one told me, but I locked them out with thoughts of Kenny naked in my room later. Naked anywhere later.
Finally, Dex came up to relieve Kenny. He spoke about Ripper Records and the showcase that was coming up in three weeks. We had to pose for pictures for the next half hour, and one last fan club photo op.
My face hurt by the end of it.
An Instagram booth had taken over half the lobby. Fan club members and the band took turns in the booth to take crazy pictures. At least that part had been fun. I’d only been groped three times. It was a record.
Kenny had slipped away sometime during the parade of cameras. We had an afterparty to deal with, and the A-listers from the balcony were invited. No press. Just friends, family, and people from the label.
My head was pounding, and my skin felt too tight. I wandered out of the groups, making small-talk with Jessica Travers, the head of our fan club. Happy to let her chirp on about the actors and internet famous people that had been in the balcony.
It didn’t mean anything to me. Ten years in Los Angeles had dimmed that particular excitement. I’d rather be home cooking.
If one more camera was shoved in my face, I was pretty sure I was going to start swinging. Keys tugged me off the sidelines and into the throng of people. The pure delight on the fans faces started pushing some of the disgust back.
Happy conversation about our new songs, about the show, about how Hammered had gotten them through hard times—those were the things that mattered.
Wyatt clamped a hand on my shoulder. “All right?”
I nodded curtly as the last of the fans were herded out by security. “Getting there.” I glanced over to Bats, who still hadn’t come near me. He’d turned on the boisterous party-boy mode. A bottle of his favorite vodka close at hand, and an innocuous bag of gummy bears in his hand.
Bats’ party trick—they were soaked in vodka. And he was eating them by the handful. Awesome.
“You know that was nothing, right?”
I shrugged. “Not the time, man.”
“They’re blowing it out of proportion. It’s what the reporters do.”
“If that’s the truth, then why is he drinking like tonight’s his last night on earth?”
“That’s just Bats.”