Manaconda (Hammered #1)(7)

Waiting for me to sign a glossy photo of my cock was more like it.

Fucking magazine.

I’d already signed a dozen of them before I’d escaped to Tristan’s kitchen. Every artist dreamed of getting their picture on the front of Rolling Stone—hell, you didn’t even have to be a musician anymore. It was like a flashing neon sign that you’d made it in the fame game if you were on there.

Too bad my neon included an unfortunate bunching of my jeans and outline of my cock. No one gave two shits about the charity I’d started, or the animals I helped. And they sure as shit didn’t give a crap about our new album.

Just the “Manaconda” highlighted on that cover.

My shoulders bunched up with angry knots as I pulled on my lightweight plaid shirt. The lights were going to be murder for the meet and greet, and I was going to be a sweaty mess even before I hit the stage. All the stress I’d cooked away was back.

I snagged the bowl on my way out. “I’ll see you tonight, Tris.”

“Not if I snag Indie first.”

“Asshole,” I shouted over my shoulder.

“Love you too, man!”

I shook my head and twirled pasta on my fork. A good carb load and I’d be set for a few hours. Even if the hot redhead didn’t want any of it. “So, what’s your name?” I asked over my shoulder.

I was so used to people from the staff in hotels making excuses to meet me that it didn’t faze me anymore. At least this one wasn’t fawning all over me. I hated that. Didn’t know what to do with it. In my early twenties, my flirt game had been sound. Now I was just tired.

Me and Tristan had raged through Los Angeles nightclubs five nights a week when I was in town. These days, I craved a night alone. It had been happening even before the magazine insanity. Now I just wanted everyone to go away.

“Kennedy McManus.” Her voice was low and smooth like bourbon—like her amber eyes.

I opened the door and raised my arm for her to go under and through. Her eyes flicked to my bowl of noodles again, before she sailed through. Kennedy was a stubborn one.

The lobby was alive with people. Some were checking in, some were for Tristan’s restaurant, but a lot were for Hammered’s release party. Radio stations, music publications, and anyone else who’d procured a press pass filled the space.

“Shit.”

She peered over her shoulder. “Should have thought of that before you disappeared.”

“Kenny, you’re a ball-buster.”

“Kennedy,” she corrected.

I snagged the back of her jacket and hauled her back a step. “Not that way.”

She swatted my hand away. “Oh, and which way would you choose?”

“One that doesn’t include a camera or video,” I answered. I palmed my bowl in one hand, and her wrist in the other.

“Mr. Jordan—”

“Hunter,” I corrected.

Her heels clicked loudly on the marble behind the bar. I just knew someone was going to turn around. Suddenly her clomping softened. I peeked over my shoulder and she’d somehow gone on tiptoe. I wasn’t aware an arch could be that high. The flex of her calf made my throat dry.

Damn, what was it about women and heels?

She tipped her head at me and her eyes widened in the universal what-the-f*ck look. I grinned at her and twisted my fingers to link with hers. “This way,” I murmured.

This was an old hotel with tons of different passageways. Once upon a time, they had been used for smuggling in booze. Now they were perfect for the more famous clientele to get around without being seen.

I backed into a doorway that looked like a pantry. Instead the shelves opened back into a corridor.

“Wow,” she gasped.

“Pretty cool, huh?”

“So that’s how you disappeared.”

I shrugged. “This is one of my favorite hotels.”

“You can let go of my hand now.”

I looked down at her. “Easier.” I kept moving down the narrow space and hung a left. Rope lights lined the floor and an overhead rail so we could see where we were going.

“Do not get us lost, Mr. Jordan.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll be at that precious meet and greet.” My fork clinked against the side of my bowl as I snaked us through the winding space. This was one of the fastest ways into the theater’s backstage. The only problem was that we had to dart across the main lobby of the theater to get to the next space.

When they’d remodeled the theater, they’d opened up and cut off some of the secret tunnels. I got to the doorway and paused. Kennedy was still rushing behind me and bumped into my back.

“Sorry,” she whispered and stepped back.

Too bad. The quick scent of orange blossoms overpowered even the garlic of my dish. It was a pretty scent, not thick and cloying like some women.

She laid a hand on my lower back and crowded in on me. “Why are we stopping?”

I popped the hinge on the door slowly. I winced. Man, I hope no one heard that click. I peeked out. Yeah, there was no worries there. There was about four hundred people mobbing the merchandise table. “Fuck.”

“What?” She wiggled between me and the wall until she was under my arm.

I swallowed a groan when her hip brushed along my zipper.

“Well, crap.”