Manaconda(13)

I think I liked her even more for it.

“Sick fuck,” I muttered.

Wyatt pushed off the wall. “Excuse me?”

I rolled my eyes. “I’m talking to myself. Just fucking relax. What the hell has you so wound the fuck up?”

He crossed his arms, his biceps bulging out of the slick silk suit jackets he liked to wear. We were goddamn rock stars. If I didn’t give him six kinds of shit, he’d probably wear them behind his fucking kit.

“Nothing.”

“No, it’s something.” I crossed to him. “Spit it the fuck out.”

“You don’t want to start this, Manaconda.”

“Seriously?” I took a step closer to him, until we were toe-to-toe. We were almost the same height, him just a hair taller because I already had my shitkickers on for the show.

Wyatt gave me his blank-face. The one that didn’t let anyone in, no matter what.

I shoved him back a step. “Don’t be a pussy. Say what you gotta say.”

“Haven’t you been knocked on your ass enough today? I can guarantee you won’t get up so easy if I do it.”

“Enough.” A hand landed on my belly. I knew it was her before even looking down. Her voice was in my head already, but it was her scent that burrowed into my brain. Immediate flashbacks to our time in the tunnel, the feel of her mouth under mine, and the grip of her fingers in my hair—all of it made me suck down a groan. I didn’t look away from Wyatt. Even when her fingers twisted into my T-shirt with a bite of nails, I held steady.

Wyatt simply lifted an eyebrow and finally broke our staredown. “Not your girlfriend, huh?”

Kenny put a little more force into her grip on my shirt. I spread my legs for better balance. No way was she dumping me a second time. She waded right in between us, peering up at Wyatt but leaning back against me—not much, just enough that every instinct inside of me wanted to curl my arm around her and drag her behind me.

She was as fearless as Indie.

“No. I’m the PR agent for the band appointed by Donovan Lewis. My job is to get you through this release party and use the current viral push to extend the life of your album and boost ticket sales. Period.”

With tongue. That amendment wouldn’t win me any favors, so I kept my mouth shut.

“Is that what we’re calling Manaconda? A viral push?” Wyatt asked.

“Quit fucking calling me that.” I knew not to show it bugged me. Wyatt usually needled me in good humor, but it came out far bitchier this time. He needed my boot up his ass. What we really needed was to pound it out with sparring gear like we had in our early twenties.

We were supposed to be grownups now. Five albums under our belts and a decent fan following, as well as a new decade should have tempered us. But the entire band was getting itchy.

Now this magazine thing had us in Bieber-land. I didn’t want to go back to the squealing girls that were barely legal. I was more interested in a suit for the first time in my life.

And all she saw was a cock.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

Okay, so it was my cock. Six months ago that would have been enough. Hell, even three months ago I wasn’t choking on all this restlessness. I was so damn tired of not feeling anything.

Until today.

Today had been electricity and gunpowder wrapped in orange blossoms.

And I didn’t want this freaking magazine to ruin it all.

The side of her hand came in contact with my chest. She’d twisted my Henley so much that the buttons were gaping. She didn’t seem to notice. Good thing, because my dick was trying to bang its way through my damn zipper.

I always liked feisty women. They just usually tended to be wild women of the groupie variety, not bossy little redheads with my career in their hands.

“Hudson, I’m not here to—”

“Wyatt,” he corrected flatly.

And wait a minute. Why did I get the Mr. Jordan stuff and my best friend didn’t?

She cocked her head and I could practically hear the gears moving in her head. Shelving the info, processing, adjusting. It was fascinating. I should be warming up for the show, but I couldn’t wait to hear what she had to say.

“Wyatt, the magazine is a tool. The cover of Rolling Stone is still a big deal, but if they hadn’t taken that particular picture it would have just been just a little buzz. A collector’s item for fans, and maybe—emphasis on maybe—a few people would notice it at the gas station and download the album.” She tapped Wyatt’s chest with a short, wine-colored nail. “Now it’s a way to grab attention, and ride the comet’s tail into ticket sales. Into getting spots on late night television. That’s the important part. The legacy of the band, not a sensationalistic name for an appendage.”