Manaconda (Hammered #1)(6)
“Watch it, Jordan.”
“What?” Hunter blinked and pulled the pan off the burner. A pop of flame fired up into the sky. “Dammit.”
“I thought you had it that time.” A shorter, lanky man with blue-tipped blond hair laughed. He swung the pan’s handle away, and twisted knobs on the front of the stove. Blue tips turned toward me. “Way to distract my boy here.” He sighed. “Good thing he didn’t singe his eyebrows off.” He slapped Hunter. “Photo ops wouldn’t like that.”
“Fuck off, Tristan.”
Blue tips—Tristan—laughed. “How did you get back here, sweetheart?”
“I’m here for him.” I pointed to Hunter. “And I’m not your sweetheart.”
Tristan laid his hand on his chest, a smirk spreading across his too-attractive-for-his-own-good face. “Apologies.”
Charm. A lot of it. God save me from guys that thought a pat on the head and a sweet nickname would save the day. Usually it was because they were too lazy to remember a name. My last client had used that trick. Oh, he mixed it up with baby, girl, and darlin’, but they all meant the same thing.
You’re not worth remembering.
Wow. I was definitely riding the bitch train today. I pasted my professional smile on my face. No time for that line of thought.
Hunter lifted the bottom of his apron and wiped his hands. “Don’t mind Eves. It’s the red hair. It stuns him stupid. You should see how he reacts to Wyatt.”
No, I wasn’t going to laugh. Even if that was at least a semi-original comeback.
Hunter absently pushed at his beanie. “Do I know you?” He frowned. “Did I miss an interview?”
“No. I’m your handler, Mr. Jordan.”
His eyebrows shot up, and a dimple dented his left cheek. “Well, that’s a new one.”
3
Hunter
I wasn’t sure I liked the sound of “handler” but I was willing to hear the lady out. Because there was no doubt this woman was a lady. She was no fan—at least no fan that I’d ever met. I’d chatted up a handful of professional women over the years, but none had ever quite held themselves like her.
My band brought out the college girls, some teens, and all of the bad girls looking for a good time. Not class wrapped in pink and creamy lace with f*ck-me-unconscious heels. But it was the hair that really kicked me in the nuts. Red. The kind of red that didn’t come out of a bottle. Except for the flash of deep wine colored pieces that peeked out.
That part wasn’t so suit-like at all.
And long enough to wrap around my hand—twice.
Okay, rein it in. I cleared my throat.
Tristan nudged me. “Tongue back in, Romeo.”
“Fuck off.”
He was my oldest friend in Los Angeles, but that didn’t make him any less of a dick sometimes. Unfortunately he was a dick that owned the lock on my favorite hobby—cooking.
I’d lobbied for the Ace Hotel for our release party. When the internet had exploded because of my magazine cover, Ripper Records had bumped up the bank. Last minute pull thanks to Tristan, and I got a bonus cooking lesson with my mortification-inducing meet and greet.
Tristan was the main reason I had to go to the gym so much. The f*cker taught me all about French and Italian cooking. Carbs, man. Unkind to the abs.
I looked at my watch—yeah, I still wore one. I liked the weight of it on my wrist, and had a little problem with buying them. Hey, there were worse things to be addicted to. “I’m not on for an hour.”
“You have about five hundred records and posters to attend to.”
“I already have a manager.” I folded my arms. “As pretty as you are, I don’t need someone else telling me what to do. Indie is enough.”
“Indie is hot as f*ck though.”
I reached out and slapped Tristan in the back of the head. “No.”
He scrunched up his shoulders. “What the hell?”
I pointed a finger at him. “No.”
Tristan grinned at me. “What? A little Pasta Eves and a bottle of red. No one’s ever complained.”
I rolled my eyes. “She’d chew you up and spit you out like overcooked angel hair, friend.”
Tristan snorted. “Yeah she would. Man, what a way to go though.”
One thin auburn brow rose as my “handler” crossed her arms under her chest. God, don’t look, Jordan. “If you’re finished playing?”
I grabbed a bowl of delicately buttered garlic noodles and mushrooms from the sideboard. “Playing? I’m cooking.”
“From what I saw, you were burning.”
I walked to her with the bowl and handed it to her as I passed her. “You distracted me.”
She looked down at the bowl. “I’m not your pack mule. Carry your own food.”
I pulled off the apron and hung it on the hook. “Not for me.”
“I’m not hungry.” She licked her burgundy-stained lips and I could hear the roar of her belly from where I was standing.
“You’re hungry.”
She set the bowl down with a click. “We don’t have time for eating. By my estimation, you have around thirteen hundred and fifty people waiting to see you.”