“It wasn’t high on my list of things to do.”
That was all the answer he gave. Not hitting Houston was becoming a full-time job.
Loren turned from the stove, scooping a steaming helping of eggs onto an empty plate and pushing said plate toward me. He didn’t seem at all concerned by the storm brewing or the fact that I’d ratted him out. It irritated me how self-assured these guys could be. They were spoiled, entitled, and had more arrogance than the ocean had water. Just once, I’d like to get under their skin as easily as they got under mine.
“I’d ask why Loren would tip you off,” Houston drawled, “but I already know why.”
Unfortunately, Houston made no move to explain it to me. I was more than simply curious. I was obsessed. They hated me, unequivocally, but there was more to it. I’d never experienced hate-sex before, and it was quickly shooting to the top of my fantasies.
“Is there some reason you feel attached to that job to keep it while rehearsing and touring with us?” Houston asked instead.
“That’s not the point. I should be allowed to come to that decision myself.”
“Why haven’t you?”
“Because the tour isn’t for three months. I still need to support myself until then. I don’t even know when I’ll be paid for that.” The label had offered me an advance, one I wouldn’t receive until the tour began.
Sliding a manila folder that was already waiting on the counter, Houston gave me a pointed look when I simply looked from it to him. After a brief staring contest that I lost, I sighed and flipped it open.
Inside were forms requesting my financial and tax information and what looked like an offer to pay me for rehearsals. It was more than generous and completely unexpected. When I looked up, the question was obviously in my eyes because Houston answered before I could voice it.
“I need you focused and devoted from this point forward.” The unspoken “to them” was heavily implied.
“This is a lot of money.”
“I agree,” Loren chipped in. “Houston seems to think you’re worth it.”
I guess we were back to square one, where Loren insulted me at every turn. He was a far cry from the concerned friend that he tricked me into thinking he could be last night.
“That remains to be seen,” Houston argued. “Nonetheless, do we have an agreement?”
How could I say no to that much money in exchange for quitting a job I hated? It should have been a no-brainer, so why was I hesitating?
Perhaps it was because they’d so very clearly decided this for me without thinking of including me in the discussion. I didn’t appreciate the high-handedness, even if it did come wrapped in a pretty bow.
“What if I don’t want to quit my job?” I asked them.
“That was never an option,” Houston answered, proving me right.
“Hence why we’re paying you more than you’re worth,” Loren added. “So there’s no reason for you to say no.”
“I can think of one.” Holding up the offer, I tore it in half with a smile that would make Miss America look like a sourpuss. “You both can kiss my ass.”
“Love to,” Loren smoothly and immediately responded.
“I’ll quit Succulent and devote myself to this band when the three of you show me some respect.”
Loren snorted. Houston stared.
“And not a moment sooner.”
Ignoring the plate full of steaming eggs, I pushed away from the island that separated me from them. At the entrance, I peered over my shoulder. Both still stood in the same place, watching me like I was some mystical creature they’d just discovered.
“Shall we?”I was beginning to think my advice to Braxton had done more harm than good. She’d put her foot down and got our attention.
It turns out it was much more than she’d bargained for.
Since she refused to quit her job, Houston never let up, no matter how much her playing improved. Not once—not for a second, an hour, or a day in the weeks since. If Houston was on her ass anymore, he’d be in her ass. No doubt that thought had crossed his mind once or twice.
At least today would offer her some reprieve since we had our first photo shoot and interview with Braxton.
While the magazine that had been promised the exclusive set up, I caught sight of a familiar face entering Clive’s. I was holding up one of the cracked concrete walls the owner tried to embellish with celebrity posters, neon signs, and photos of patrons and employees. The molded ceiling looked like it would cave any moment, and the floor appeared as if no one had cleaned it since opening thirty years ago.
This was the most rundown bar the magazine could find in L.A., with Braxton as the centerpiece to commemorate Bound’s “discovery.”
I snorted.
If we hadn’t taken Savant’s deal five years ago, this wouldn’t be happening right now. This would not be our reality.