Manaconda(7)

My band brought out the college girls, some teens, and all of the bad girls looking for a good time. Not class wrapped in pink and creamy lace with fuck-me-unconscious heels. But it was the hair that really kicked me in the nuts. Red. The kind of red that didn’t come out of a bottle. Except for the flash of deep wine colored pieces that peeked out.

That part wasn’t so suit-like at all.

And long enough to wrap around my hand—twice.

Okay, rein it in. I cleared my throat.

Tristan nudged me. “Tongue back in, Romeo.”

“Fuck off.”

He was my oldest friend in Los Angeles, but that didn’t make him any less of a dick sometimes. Unfortunately he was a dick that owned the lock on my favorite hobby—cooking.

I’d lobbied for the Ace Hotel for our release party. When the internet had exploded because of my magazine cover, Ripper Records had bumped up the bank. Last minute pull thanks to Tristan, and I got a bonus cooking lesson with my mortification-inducing meet and greet.

Tristan was the main reason I had to go to the gym so much. The fucker taught me all about French and Italian cooking. Carbs, man. Unkind to the abs.

I looked at my watch—yeah, I still wore one. I liked the weight of it on my wrist, and had a little problem with buying them. Hey, there were worse things to be addicted to. “I’m not on for an hour.”

“You have about five hundred records and posters to attend to.”

“I already have a manager.” I folded my arms. “As pretty as you are, I don’t need someone else telling me what to do. Indie is enough.”

“Indie is hot as fuck though.”

I reached out and slapped Tristan in the back of the head. “No.”

He scrunched up his shoulders. “What the hell?”

I pointed a finger at him. “No.”

Tristan grinned at me. “What? A little Pasta Eves and a bottle of red. No one’s ever complained.”

I rolled my eyes. “She’d chew you up and spit you out like overcooked angel hair, friend.”

Tristan snorted. “Yeah she would. Man, what a way to go though.”

One thin auburn brow rose as my “handler” crossed her arms under her chest. God, don’t look, Jordan. “If you’re finished playing?”

I grabbed a bowl of delicately buttered garlic noodles and mushrooms from the sideboard. “Playing? I’m cooking.”

“From what I saw, you were burning.”

I walked to her with the bowl and handed it to her as I passed her. “You distracted me.”

She looked down at the bowl. “I’m not your pack mule. Carry your own food.”

I pulled off the apron and hung it on the hook. “Not for me.”

“I’m not hungry.” She licked her burgundy-stained lips and I could hear the roar of her belly from where I was standing.

“You’re hungry.”

She set the bowl down with a click. “We don’t have time for eating. By my estimation, you have around thirteen hundred and fifty people waiting to see you.”

Waiting for me to sign a glossy photo of my cock was more like it.

Fucking magazine.

I’d already signed a dozen of them before I’d escaped to Tristan’s kitchen. Every artist dreamed of getting their picture on the front of Rolling Stone—hell, you didn’t even have to be a musician anymore. It was like a flashing neon sign that you’d made it in the fame game if you were on there.

Too bad my neon included an unfortunate bunching of my jeans and outline of my cock. No one gave two shits about the charity I’d started, or the animals I helped. And they sure as shit didn’t give a crap about our new album.

Just the “Manaconda” highlighted on that cover.

My shoulders bunched up with angry knots as I pulled on my lightweight plaid shirt. The lights were going to be murder for the meet and greet, and I was going to be a sweaty mess even before I hit the stage. All the stress I’d cooked away was back.

I snagged the bowl on my way out. “I’ll see you tonight, Tris.”

“Not if I snag Indie first.”

“Asshole,” I shouted over my shoulder.

“Love you too, man!”

I shook my head and twirled pasta on my fork. A good carb load and I’d be set for a few hours. Even if the hot redhead didn’t want any of it. “So, what’s your name?” I asked over my shoulder.

I was so used to people from the staff in hotels making excuses to meet me that it didn’t faze me anymore. At least this one wasn’t fawning all over me. I hated that. Didn’t know what to do with it. In my early twenties, my flirt game had been sound. Now I was just tired.

Me and Tristan had raged through Los Angeles nightclubs five nights a week when I was in town. These days, I craved a night alone. It had been happening even before the magazine insanity. Now I just wanted everyone to go away.