“Yeah, close to it. But it’s not like that. It’s not just the time.”
“Well, you risked your life to save hers after she had been kidnapped by the Russian mob. Doesn’t that count for something?”
“I don’t know.”
“Life and limb, literally,” she said.
“But I didn’t destroy my hand to do it.”
“Did anyone order you to go after her? Was that your job, running into hostage situations to rescue people? Especially ex-girlfriends?”
“Of course not. I’m a musician, not security. I practically clawed my way onto the plane to go after her. I think Xan would rather that I hadn’t gone, but he realized that more muscle was better.”
“Was your presence important?” Raji asked. “What was your contribution?”
Peyton considered. “I kicked the shit out of some guys while we were getting out of there. I took a lot of Tae Kwon Do as a teenager. I’m pretty good at kicking people in the head when the situation calls for it.”
“Ah, so you were the Chuck Norris of the group,” Raji said, pretending to admire him.
He laughed. Chuck Norris. Sure he was. “I kicked a gun away from a guy, too. God, this sounds meager.”
“So even though your hands were tied behind your back, you didn’t need to break your hand to fight. You did your part without sacrificing your hand.”
Peyton hadn’t considered that. “I suppose.”
“How many people did you kick?”
“It all happened so fast. Bullets were whizzing all over the place, and the chandelier had shattered and was raining glass shards down on us. I was just kicking guns away and kicking people in the head, trying to survive and get us out.”
“Estimate,” Raji told him.
“More than five. Ten, probably. Not twenty.”
“You fought off at least ten people during your getaway. That sounds like a sizable contribution.”
“Okay,” Peyton said, unwilling to argue it further and distracted by her lithe body in his hands.
“So you saved Georgie’s life and Xan’s by kicking people in the head and physically fighting the Russian mafia, and you’ve given her back half of the time that you were mean to her in high school.”
“But that’s an oversimplification, or you’re making it sound like a month with KV equals a month that I bullied her. I don’t think it balances out like that. I feel like I haven’t paid back the debt.”
“Guilt is tough, Peys. You could give her your whole life and not stop feeling guilty about it. The guilt means that you regret it. It means that you’ve changed, not that some magical guilt-scale isn’t balanced yet.”
“It changed the course of her life.”
“Her father’s crimes changed her life. That’s why she didn’t have money for school and why she thinks she needs to pay people back. Joining Killer Valentine changed the course of your life. You gave up a soloist gig with the L.A. Phil and a classical career to be in a rock band, and I don’t think you even like being in it. You should get the fuck out of KV before this guilt eats you alive.”
“I signed a contract for a year,” Peyton said.
“Then we should start planning what you’re going to do when your contract is up in four months.”
Peyton ran his hands down her arms. “I could move to L.A. and fuck you every day.”
“Nah, you don’t want to do that. Let me get my laptop.” Her eyes gleamed, and a hungry grin spread her lips. “We can start a spreadsheet for you.”
He laughed. “My contract isn’t up until late summer, anyway. It’s snowing in other parts of the country, still. Next time we see each other, I’ll let you open a spreadsheet on me.”
Raji kissed him, and her soft lips on his filled him with desire again. God, she was one sexy little woman.
She whispered near his ear, and her warm breath puffed down his collar, “Promise me. Promise me that you’ll let me open a spreadsheet and type in ultimate outcomes and interim goals and metrics. I adore metrics.”
He chuckled. “I promise.”
She cuddled closer to his chest. “I’ll hold you to that one.”
Peyton wrapped his arms around her and stroked her back until he realized that she had fallen asleep in his arms.
He carried her limp body into her bedroom and covered her up before he grabbed his bag and caught a ride to the airport for his afternoon flight. The sound check for that night’s concert in Reno was scheduled to begin in four hours.Chapter ThirteenMom’s Parking Ticket“Hey, Amma,” Raji said, lying on the lower bunk in the on-call room. She had ten extra minutes she could wedge into her day, she figured. “How are you?”
“Oh, fine,” her mother sighed, her thick Indian accent making even those words sound like music.
“You don’t sound fine.”
“I don’t want to trouble you.”
Raji sat up on the bed and swung her legs around to the floor, ready to run and get on a plane to New Jersey if she needed to. “What is it, Amma?”