“Manaconda” was in huge white letters just above my belt.
They may as well have drawn neon arrows to my dick.
Goddamn Rolling Stone.
The cover of my dreams had become my own personal nightmare.
I really should get that billboard. Then everyone would know for goddamn sure.
Yeah, I had a pretty big cock, but that wasn’t all I was, goddammit.
I cleared my throat. “Could I get my sunglasses?”
The woman behind the counter flushed. “Sorry. What number did you leave it under?”
“Eleven.” Inches. For my cock.
They wished.
The woman had the good grace to pull the magazine off the counter. At least I didn’t have to look at it for another hour. I was sure I’d be signing an assload of them tonight.
She looked down at her magazine then back up at me.
Fuck me sideways.
“Did anyone ever tell you that you look like Hunter Jordan?” She slid my sunglasses across the counter.
My face, every goddamn morning in the mirror. “Who?” I asked.
She shook her head. “That’s just silly. Hunter Jordan wouldn’t be working out here. It’s way too dumpy.”
“Not dumpy—cheap,” the scary blonde said.
“Same difference.”
She glanced down at the magazine, then at my arm. No way to disguise my tats. Definitely time to go.
“Oh my God.”
I rushed for the door and out to the sidewalk.
“That is him.”
I winced and kept on walking. Just a few more feet to the car. Our driver spotted me and hopped out of the black Range Rover with tinted windows.
“Wait!” The jacked-up blonde sprinted after me and tagged my arm just before I could get to Patrick.
Six-feet-four inches of linebacker-sized ginger came forward. “Miss, please step back.”
I sighed and held up a hand. “It’s fine.” I looked down at the woman. She was very attractive, just a little scary. “Hi.”
She thrust the magazine at me. “Could you sign this?”
Practice your smile, asshole. Tilt lips up. Yep, there we go. It must have been good enough because she beamed back at me with teeth as artificially white as she was tanned. “Sure. Do you have—”
She shoved a Sharpie at me. “To Ginny.”
“Right.” I set the magazine on the hood of the SUV. I uncapped the marker and started at the top.
“No. Down. You know, near the manaconda.”
My fingers tightened around the marker. “Right.” I scrawled my name over the huge white type and handed it back to her.
“Thank you. Your momma should be proud.” She winked and walked backwards toward the gym. “I’d be happy to give him a ride.”
Okay, first…don’t mention my cock and my momma at the same time. That was a surefire way to kill any thoughts of sex.
I gave a halfhearted laugh, hoping it didn’t look like the grimace it felt like inside my head.
“Some days I wonder if they are actually waiting for you to whip it out,” Patrick quipped.
“Shut up.”
“At least you didn’t snarl at her like that nurse yesterday.” Patrick laughed and opened the door. “Have a good workout?”
“Fuck off.”
His lips twitched as he closed the door after me. He rounded the SUV and got in. “Your day just got even more fun. Indie texted everyone to meet in the hotel lobby at six.”
“Awesome,” I muttered and dragged my shades off and yanked my beanie down over my eyes. I’d never been more excited to share an album in my life, but every listening party since the release of our new album, Bronze, had ended up an ode to my cock.
Again, that seemed like something that should be perfect, and yet…not.
Fuck me.
2
Kennedy
I circumnavigated the snaking line of people, mostly women, in the lobby. My four-inch Dior heels clicked on the black and white marble. Hundreds of people hugged the wall in a queue, but my shoes still echoed in the huge room.
My assistant had checked me into the Ace Hotel, left me a few changes of clothing, all of the research he’d gathered on the band, and a packet from Ripper Records. I unearthed the special all-access pass and hooked it onto my purse. Three guys in black jeans with black T-shirts emblazoned with the Bronze album across the front waved me through.
“Hey, how come she gets to go ahead of us?”
I ignored the shriek from an annoying voice and opened up my iPad as I entered the theater area. My heels went silent on the red brocade carpeting. I took a second to look around. The Spanish Gothic details were so ostentatious that I couldn’t not look. I’d been in the theater a few times, and still…every single time I was gobsmacked.
Number one—I wouldn’t want to have to dust it. Because holy crap there were tons of details on every little part of the stage, the balconies, and the walls. Stalagmite-like lights came out of the ceiling and lit the room in a diffused soft light. Everything was Spanish-flavored. Not a huge surprise in Los Angeles, but this was beyond the pale.