Not what he did. What I did. Seriously, what had gotten into me? Thoughts of his manaconda had obviously rattled my common sense. No, actually I hadn’t gotten that far. But if the rest of him was as lethal as his mouth, then there was a reason why the moniker fit.
Because, Jesus, I’d never been so wound up.
I liked sex.
I liked men.
Occasionally I even indulged in putting both of them in the same equation. But clients were off-limits. I’d learned that lesson a long time ago, and wouldn’t ever make that mistake again.
Ten minutes with Hunter Jordan and I’d forgotten rule number one. I only had two, for fuck’s sake.
Don’t get personal. Don’t get naked.
These were easy rules to follow. Another five minutes in that hidden space and I’d probably be another statistic in the legion of women who had lost their panties to the lead singer of Hammered.
I rubbed my temples.
Keys recapped her marker and pushed the finished pile over to a man with jet black hair and the bluest eyes I’d ever seen. “Your turn, O.”
“Thanks, love.” The faintest lilt of Ireland whispered into his voice.
Owen Blackwell—bassist for the band. My research and eidetic memory clicked in. He’d grown up in the states, but his parents were immigrants from Ireland. A delicate gold cross on a chain glinted just below his collarbone, barely discernible in the other silver and black corded necklaces he wore.
A man of faith? Or maybe it was just sentimentality. It looked like the kind I’d gotten at my confirmation as a teen. Mine was stashed in a jewelry box in my mom’s closet in Vegas.
Sin City and all of its ungodly patrons were no match for my mother’s interesting version of morality. Rhiannon McManus might be one of the last Jubilee dancers in Vegas—more of a trainer these days than an actual dancer—but she made sure I’d been raised right. Illegitimate daughter or not.
I knew all about costumes, duty, outward appearances, and the truth.
I also knew that people in the entertainment business often didn’t know the difference between truth and public image. I was good at constructing the perfect image, and making them believe it.
I would do the same for Hunter.
If I kept my job, anyway.
“Is anyone going to tell me anything?” Keys asked.
When both me and Indie remained silent, she sighed and pulled out her phone.
“Fine,” Keys said. “I’ll just fish out the truth in the chaos.”
I sighed. It wasn’t like I could hide my transgressions. They were probably being uploaded to YouTube, Facebook, Tumblr, and Reddit at this point. “I—”
“My new girlfriend just outed us in front of five hundred people.” Hunter flipped the curtains behind him. Patrick reached in after him and thwacked him in the back of the head. “Hey!”
“Don’t be an asshole.”
Hunter rubbed a spot behind his ear. “And we just had our first fight, too.”
I stood. “Your what? And we what?”
Another man came through the curtain. He had dark eyes and rich mocha skin, and wore a suit that had been cut for his long, athletic build. “Bravo on finding a way to boost your trending numbers into the top three, my friend.”
I recognized the voice. Dex Munroe, an executive for Ripper Records, had been blowing up my phone since six that morning. His rich, cultured British accent was almost as hypnotic as Donovan Lewis’s, but had a touch of slickness that Donovan never had.
I’d instantly wanted to block his calls.
Hunter rolled his eyes at me, but his face morphed into a relaxed smile when he faced Dex. “Yeah, that’s what happened.”
I hid a smile. Way to lay it on thick.
I marched over to Dex and Hunter. “We met less than an hour ago.”
“And within thirty, you had your tongue in his mouth, hey?” Dex smiled, his teeth blindingly white. He held a hand out to me. “Dex—”
“I know who you are.” I ignored his hand and put mine on my hips. “Are you the one who put the girlfriend thing in his head?”
“No. God, no.” Dex dipped one hand into his slacks, the other holding his phone, tapping away with his thumb. He barely acknowledged me as he moved farther into the room. “Hunter having a girlfriend is the last thing I want.” He dropped his phone into his suit jacket pocket. He slapped Hunter on the back. “He’s our cash cow. Can’t have him locked down.”
“I’m no one’s cash anything,” Hunter muttered.
Dex nodded to Patrick. “Did you have those boxes brought in?”
Patrick’s nostrils flared, and one auburn brow arched. He waited a beat, then nodded.
Dex clapped, then rubbed his hands together. “I’ve written up a price sheet to add to what you already have, Indie. Twenty-five a magazine, fifty for it signed by the band. I have three cases that I procured from the printer this morning.”