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Rae
“Need anything?” security half mouths, half yells over the music at my gig.
I shake my head. “No. Why?”
He glances at my setup, and I realize my track’s getting stale.
Shit.It happened again. I was staring off into space.
My set at Wild Fest had my full attention, but before that, I caught myself doing this more than usual. Now, thanks to a stop I made earlier today and Harrison showing up at my hotel, my mind is running overtime.
What kind of man barges into your hotel and kisses you?
The same kind who buys and sells clubs like candy.
The kind who drags around a vendetta, who wears a suit as if it’s armor, and when he smirks, panties drop in a ten-mile radius.
I thought it wasn’t possible to miss Harrison more than I did these past months, burying it under work and my Little Queen costume. But when he appeared in the living room of the hotel suite Ash rented, rumpled and furious, longing hit me so hard I nearly launched myself at him.
I shoved it down, reminding myself we’re on different paths. He’s on one he chose over me.
Explicitly.
Remorselessly.
I change the song, segueing into something with a bassline that matches the throbbing in my stomach, and a new wave of energy grips the crowd when they recognize it.
He had no right to kiss me. But from the second his lips crashed down on mine, I was transported to a time and place where I would’ve done anything for him. For a moment, I forgot everything we aren’t, and the friction of his lips and tongue was enough.
If he hadn’t pulled back, who knows how long it would’ve taken for reality to set in?
I shake myself again. I came to Ibiza for work. Both the meeting I secretly took this afternoon, not even letting Ash in on it, and the series of shows I agreed to play at this club for part of the summer.
Harrison King is not part of the plan.
What if he’s staying?
A shiver runs through me. I hadn’t anticipated that because the reason he wanted to be here—La Mer—is no longer in play. There’s no possible explanation for his appearance unless he wants an extended vacation.
As I hit the next transition, a familiar face in back corner of the club has me doing a double take.
Blond hair, buzzed short. A distinctive profile and hunched posture.
It’s the guy I saw selling to Maxx at Wild Fest. He’s been logging as many air miles as I have.
I watch the club owner approach him, and they argue. The dealer leans in, says something that has the owner pulling back and shaking his head.
Security clearly sees the interaction but doesn’t make a move to intervene.
After the show, the owner approaches me. “Thanks for playing. We were lucky to get you at Bliss on short notice.”
“Sure. Who needs a vacation?” I flash a smile, but the man only cringes.
“I could use one right about now.”
I think about what I saw earlier. “Who was that guy dealing?”
He looks caught out but relents when I raise a brow. “He’s one of Mischa’s. First showed up six months ago. I should’ve objected right away, but I didn’t until it got worse.”
