Manaconda(22)

“Thanks for coming, everyone. The band will be out in a few minutes. They’re just showering off the stage sweat.”

“We want them sweaty!” came a shout from the back.

You and me both, sister.

“I guarantee it’ll be worth the wait. Now, does anyone have any questions I can answer about the album or the upcoming shows in LA this week?”

“That little display in the hall before the show? Real or publicity stunt?”

My gaze snapped to the woman in the smart chocolate suit. I knew that voice. Music Life’s lead reporter, Kim Forrester. Blonde, gorgeous, and far too smart for her own good—she was one of the few reporters that I loathed and respected at the same time.

“Next question,” I said.

“So, publicity stunt,” she said with a smile. “I see.”

A TMZ reporter took that ball and ran with it for a goddamn touchdown. “How’s it feel to be one of Hunter Jordan’s many girlfriends? Jamie DuCaine seemed quite cozy with him at the show. Lindsey York as well. Just one of many, Kennedy?”

I didn’t remember the viper’s name, but she’d been trying to get her claws into a name like Kim had. Personally, I didn’t think TMZ was the best way to get names out there, but that was just me.

“This junket is for the new album, Bronze. Not Mr. Jordan’s personal life.”

“That poster behind you says differently,” said another voice from the middle of the pack.

“Did you read the Rolling Stone interview? If you did, you’d know there was a great deal of information on Hunter’s animal activism, his extensive collection of albums and guitars, the nearly two-thousand square feet studio in his home, or the fact that this is Hammered’s fifth studio album in ten years.”

“Boring, right?” My head swiveled toward his voice. I knew it, craved it already. Hunter stood at the top of the winding staircase above the tables. His powerful arms were outstretched along the intricate iron railings, his legs spread apart to show off his strong thighs in a pair of jeans that definitely mirrored that damn magazine. He leaned forward, every muscle strung tight in his arms as he gave a lazy smile. I couldn’t see his eyes. They were hidden behind mirrored aviators. “All you care about is my cock, right?”

Well, shit.

Where the hell was the rest of the band? I looked over my shoulder and Indie stood along the side with her fingers pinching the bridge of her nose.

Yeah.

This was not good.

Hunter sauntered to the stairs and down the steps with a lethally lazy gait. He was all sex. Every sin that a woman could think up would be attached to his leisurely smile and ridiculously tight jeans.

He didn’t look at me. Didn’t even nod in my direction. He calmly walked across the dais to the poster and crossed his arms as he posed in front of the damn near life-sized poster of him.

The funny thing was, he was even more impressive here in the flesh.

And the freaking paparazzi loved it. The whir of old school cameras, flashbulbs, the red dots of a hundred video cameras—all of it soaked him up.

This was exactly what he should be doing.

Then why was every single one of my nerves on high alert?





9





Hunter





No one was going to attack Kennedy because of a few mistakes I’d made. Kissing her, wanting her…no, those were a newfound bliss. My timing on the seduction? Yeah, well, that wasn’t exactly one of my finer moments today. Now, the press attacking her? Making her feel less?

Fuck that.

I’d been in our dressing room with the rest of the band, the high of the show still lighting up my skin like it was supposed to. That’s why I did what I did. The studio was another part of me. I likened it to nutrition. It sustained me, it helped me grow, it even excited me, but it was the stage that I lived for.

This shit—the press, the pictures—was a necessary evil. And normally I did it well, but the poster behind me made me want to raze the damn world. I didn’t even think. I just ran out with my hair still wet, my T-shirt still sticking to my damp skin from the shower.

“Is it true you have a new denim line?”

My jaw tightened and my smile stretched thin. “Nah, man. I’m no model.” My agent had been busting my balls about it, but I didn’t think it was actually a thing. Stef Wesley was known for blowing smoke up my ass when it suited him.

Kim Forrester tilted her head with a sly smile. “Simon Kagan’s been doing it for ages. They say you’re going to take over his campaign for Roman.”

“They say a lot of things.” I deflected to another reporter behind the pretty blonde from Music Life. “You.” I knew not to let Kim run at the mouth. She was a damn barracuda.