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Rae
“You buy those?”
I look up from my computer as Ash enters the suite, juggling a ball between his knees.
“Buy what?” I ask.
“The flowers.”
I look at the lilies from Harrison that I’ve moved around the hotel room no less than five times. “No. They were a gift.”
After doing the interview yesterday and going to La Mer to see the Russian homewrecker and his happily wrecked now-fiancée, I’m trying to enjoy a day to myself.
Instead, I’m questioning whether I made a grave miscalculation by going after Mischa so aggressively.
“We have company,” Ash goes on with a grin.
I straighten in my seat at the kitchen table, tugging on the hem of my threadbare tank top. Is Harrison here?
Ash holds the door, and the guy from the gala, Gavin, follows him in.
“Hey.” The man gives me a wave every bit as casual as his messy-on-purpose brown hair and his easy grin.
If he recognizes me from the event, he doesn’t let on. Or maybe Ash told him we’re nothing.
“Excuse us.” I grab Ash and tug him out to the patio, shutting the door. “This a good idea?”
“Have you seen him?” He tosses an appreciative look at the man, who’s perusing the coffee table magazines. “Plus, he came here for me.”
I lift my hands. “Last time, the way he acted sent you spinning out. You deserve someone great, Ash, and I don’t like how he treated you.”
“S’alright,” he murmurs. “Gavin is about to make it up to me.” He ruffles my hair. “But thanks.”
I watch him head inside, grab the man’s wrist, and drag him down the hall. Conflicted feelings collide in my chest. I want to see Ash happy, but with someone who deserves him.
Sex is one thing, but if he’s trying to hide feelings behind it…
Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe this guy won’t hurt him again, or maybe Ash can keep physical separated from the emotional.
Before I can decide what to do, my phone rings on the table. I lunge for it, my stomach flipping as I see it’s an unknown number.
Possibly Mischa.
“Yeah?” I answer.
“Rae. It’s Leni.”
My brows shoot up as I close out of the Ableton Live software on my computer. “Oh, hey.”
“We’ve had a little problem at Debajo. I need you.”
I’m already visualizing flames like the night Harrison was dragged from his bed to find Kings a pile of smoldering char. “What kind of problem?”
“Our talent for tonight isn’t going to make it. He’s too stoned to play.”
Disbelief rises up. Not because it’s the first time in history a DJ has been inebriated on stage, but because Harrison could’ve had the decency to call me himself.
Just because I told him to back off pursuing me doesn’t mean I wouldn’t have enjoyed him asking me to come back to Debajo. A little begging would have been nice.
