Page 50 of The Twisted Beats

That is not what I want to hear.

I clench my teeth and furrow my brows. “Why have you been partying all day?”

“We’re at Coachella. My brother’s band is headlining tonight. He sent a van to pick us up at the house. It was stocked with enough alcohol to get his entire crew loaded. Between stops for the bathroom and traffic, it took us five hours to arrive.”

The niggle grows into a ball of lead. “I didn’t realize you had plans to see his show.”

“Yeah, I didn’t expect to come, but he begged. I didn’t ask Quinn until Thursday night, so it happened on a whim.”

I try to shake off my growing concern. “It’s good to hear you’re letting loose. You work hard. You should enjoy your time with your brother.”

Just don’t overdo it like you used to.

God, I sound just like her father. I growl under my breath. I didn’t say it out loud, but anytime I think of her dad, I cringe inside.

EDM music blares through the line. I pull the phone away from my ear, then bring it back, but far enough I won’t lose my hearing.

She yells, “Hold on, Jax. A band just went on stage in the tent where I am. I can’t hear a thing.”

“Look. It’s Livianna Hemings,” a woman says. She sounds young. “I love your brand, Lehlani Rose. It’s so fresh and edgy. Is the outfit you’re wearing part of your collection?”

Livianna’s voice carries. “The belt and bag are mine. I can’t take credit for the half-shirt, cut-offs, and boots.”

The woman giggles. “Yeah, I didn’t think The Rolling Stones shirt was yours.”

An image of Livianna forms in my mind. I’m sure her belt is cinched tight, accentuating her tiny waist and perfectly round ass. Not to mention the half shirt.

Shit, her breasts are probably peeking out at the bottom. Hopefully, she has a bra on. I don’t know why I’m worried about that. She always wears a bra. They’re too big not to.

Livianna says something, but it’s muffled. I wait for her to return to our conversation with my mind taking me on a wild ride.

She’s the sexiest woman alive and thinking about her drunk at a concert where half the audience will recognize her isn’t sitting right. Something could go wrong and I’m in no position to help her.

And the situation she’s put herself in is exactly when she’d have one of herfuck everyonemoods kick in. Brendan has triggered her more than once.

Her being at this festival a week after we took a step back from our relationship, when she confided in me she was heartbroken and mixing it with alcohol and whatever else they have on hand, is a recipe for disaster.

There’s no one there who knows how to ground her if she spins out. A little wave of nausea hits. I don’t like this one bit.

And Quinn… Fuck. Quinn’s a talented businesswoman, but won’t be any good to Livianna.

The two of them together at a concert are like The Hurricanedrink they serve at Pat O’Brien’s in New Orleans—delicious, strong, and potentially dangerous.

Having one is asking for a tinge of euphoria. Having two is bound to get you nothing but trouble.

My stomach churns. “Livianna, are you still there?”

She doesn’t answer. Loud music pours through and more people talk to her. I stand and pace, rubbing my neck as I do.

Who do I know that could get there and help her?

Okay, that’s enough, Jaxon. She can handle herself. She’s not a child.

While I wait, I try to get out of my head and focus on her having a healthy amount of fun. The music and people start to fade.

Finally, she comes back on the line. “I’m so sorry about that. It’s crazy here.”

“Yeah, I can tell.”