Pepper’s hand turns icy in mine, which makes me even madder.
“I see.” His eyes narrow, tone turns from hot to frosty. He nods slowly. Yeah, he does see.
I make an attempt to dial back my aggression. “With total respect, Junior, I have it handled. You will get your money.” I meet his gaze evenly.
“Oh yeah? Tell me how that’s gonna work if she’s not playing at my casino.”
It’s not his casino. It’s Nico’s, but I sure as hell don’t argue that point.
“She lost her voice. I took her to the Paramount and she drummed up publicity playing guitar with The Sores. Now everyone on the planet knows she’s in Vegas and we have plenty of tickets for them to buy. Her appearance tonight only helps us.”
“I don’t like getting fucked around,” Junior spits. “I want an extra hundred grand for this fuck-fest delay.”
I only hesitate for a moment. Pepper can make that money in two nights if I can get her shows to sell out. “You’ll have it.” I turn around and propel her forward, open the door and get us the fuck out of there.
“I’d better!” he calls after me.
I stop and turn around. “Junior, have I ever let you down?”
He gives me a hard look for a long moment. “No,” he finally says.
“I have it handled. Swear to la madonna.”
Junior’s shoulders relax, ease seeps back into his posture. “Good. Good, Tony. I’m countin’ on you.”
“Thank you, Junior. Buona notte.”
I lead Pepper away, my body as cold as hers. I walk off swiftly and don’t look back. Junior’s way of doing business is still old school, like his dad’s. He’s volatile and deadly and not someone any of us want to tangle with—his own brothers included.
I lead her to the elevators and put my key card in to get to her suite. She pulls her hand out of mine, retreating into herself, a mask of nothingness on her face.
“I’m sorry about that.” We’re alone in the elevator, but she doesn’t look over, just watches the doors.
I put my knuckle under her chin. “Hey. Look at me.”
When she lifts her eyes, there’s accusation in her gaze, which I probably deserve. There’s something else too—misery.
“I’m not gonna let anyone hurt you, songbird.” I say it softly, but it’s an oath. I need her to believe me.
She pulls her chin away from me, not with a quick jerk, but a sad, slow withdrawal.
I want to gather her up in my arms, protect her from the world, but she’s rejecting me. I can’t bring back the happiness she found at the Paramount. I can’t even replicate that moment. It wasn’t about me.
The only thing I can do is protect her from Junior and get her out of here as soon as possible. Contemplating any more—believing I could make her happy or try to be a boyfriend to her? That’s impossible.
Just like my mom, she’ll never forgive me for what I am.
Pepper
The clusterfuck only gets worse when Tony drops me off at my suite. I hold my keycard up to the door and walk in only to find Hugh inside.
Fucking Hugh.
Tony’s already walking away, but my first instinct is to call him back. Not to have to face Hugh on my own. But that’s stupid. Tony and the Tacones are the enemy, not Hugh. Hugh’s just the idiot who got us into this mess.
“Where in the hell have you been? Oh wait, I know.” He holds up his phone, where a video of me playing with The Sores is running. “You were playing at the Paramount. Do you have any idea how that’s going to look to the Tacones?”
Actually, yes. I just found out first hand how it looks to one of them. A very scary, very lethal one. Someone Tony felt the need to protect me from, judging by the way he shoved me behind his big body. And if Tony’s scared, this guy is a serious badass.
I don’t walk to talk about any of this with Hugh. Not after what he did last night—and his half-assed texted apology today did not make me forgive him—and not after what I just came from.
I drop my purse and pull out the notepad. I was with Tony, I write, then flip it around for him to read. I don’t bother telling him that fact didn’t excuse it with the Tacones, because I don’t want to deal with his hissy fit.
He stands up from the bed—my bed, and why in the hell does he have a key to my room?—and walks toward me, his face grim. “What exactly is going on with you and Tony Brando? Are you”—his lip curls with disgust—“seeing him?”
I grip my pen, annoyed at having to write this when it’d be so much faster to speak. Seeing? What are you, eighty?
“You know what I mean,” he splutters. “Dating? Fucking?”