“Do you want me to help?”
“Nope.” He takes another quick look around. “You’ll be all right here.” He nods to one of the security guards. “No one should bother you.”
“Logan Randall, I’m not a little kid. I’ll be okay.” I search the area again. “Best believe I’ll scream my head off if someone tries stuffin’ me in a box.”
The playful smile on his lips fades. “Not funny.”
“I’m fine.” I pick up my phone. “Got plenty of comments to go through on my social media and some photos to post.”
“I shouldn’t be long.”
Content in the sunlight, I munch on my egg-bites and sip my coffee while I post some photos from the other night. Comments pop up almost instantly. I respond to the nice ones and delete the nasty ones without comment—because fuck mean people. I’m sick of ’em.
“Shelby, right? I wanted to speak to you.” A husky female voice interrupts my scrolling.
Big hat girl.
My inner warning bells start clanging.
Why’d she wait so long to approach me? No, correction, why’d she wait until Logan left the area to approach me?
If she’s a fan, she would’ve said something right away, wouldn’t she?
“You are Shelby Morgan, right?” she asks again. “The singer?”
“Yes,” I answer carefully, slowly running my gaze over her to see if she’s reaching for a weapon or something. Can’t be too careful after what happened in Virginia.
I scan the room, searching for Rooster. Or hell, anyone at all. The security guard by the elevators is staring straight ahead toward the front door. The clerks behind the counter are busy cleaning out the coffee pots.
At least people are around if I need to start screaming.
Wait a second.
I take another gander at this gal. Can’t be more than a buck twenty soaking wet. She’s got some height on me, but I’m pretty darn spunky when I wanna be.
She’s beautiful. Perfectly shaped oval face and smooth, clear skin. Neatly put together in a dainty polka-dotted dress paired with a slim belt. Long, sleekly blown-out caramel-colored hair. A shade of blond I don’t think is found in nature often. Must spend a fortune at the salon. Lightly tanned skin, like she perfectly times her sun exposure down to the second.
A rich, spoiled mean-girl vibe I’m all too familiar with rolls off her in waves. I grew up around girls like this. Went to school with lots of ‘em. Got bullied, insulted, and pushed around by entitled brats plenty of times.
But I’m not poor little Shelby Morgan anymore. I’m making my own damn money off my own god-given talent, not livin’ off my parents or some trust fund. I’m not about to take guff from anyone.
I stand, forcing her to scuttle away a few steps. Pulling my shoulders back, I straighten to my full height, which is unfortunately still about two inches shorter than this haughty gal.
“What can I help you with?” I ask in my own imperious tone.
“I read the Glow article. About what happened to you.”
Oh. Okay. Maybe I should calm my tits. That scene with Glenna the other night might’ve rattled me more than I realized.
Is this chick a reporter? Or shoot, maybe she’s another victim of Martin Suggs? Or a therapist trying to drum up business?
I look her over again. Nah, she doesn’t look old enough. I peg her to be a couple years older than me. Besides, that has to be an unethical way to round up clients.
“And?” I prompt.
“I want to talk to you about that man you’re with.”
Over her shoulder I spot a blur of black leather. Jigsaw. Thank God. He seems to be searching the lobby.
Not caring if I seem rude or not, I raise my hand and wave. “Jiggy! Over here!”
The girl reaches out and wraps her fingers around my arm, forcing me to meet her intense eyes. “Shelby, you need to listen to me.”
“Get your hand off me.” I jerk out of her grasp.
She glances behind her and mutters, “Son of a bitch.” Whirling back to me, she reaches for my hand again. “Listen, the man you’re with. He’s not who he says he is.”
“What in the Sam Hill are you talking about?”
“Shelby! You all right?” Jigsaw calls out. He comes to a dead stop about two feet from the woman. His eyes bug as recognition sets in.
Rage twists his features. “Ashley, what the fuck are you doing here?”
Clearly they know each other.
How?
I look her over again. She doesn’t look like a club girl or porn star. How does she know Logan? Or Jigsaw?
Where the heck did they go if they didn’t go to Washington?
“Jensen.” She gives him a look that could freeze hot lava. “I should’ve figured you’d be around here somewhere.”
“Come on, Shelby.” Jiggy muscles between us and curls his arm around my shoulder. “You need to fuck off back to wherever you came from, Ashley.” Jigsaw’s threatening voice should send her screaming from the hotel, but she defiantly lifts her chin.
“Still coveting his girls, I see.” Ashley sneers. “Careful, Shelby, or you’ll end up as his sloppy seconds.”
Jigsaw growls and coils tight.
Now this bitch has really pissed me off. I shrug out of Jiggy’s grasp. “I don’t know you and I’m not interested in whatever trouble you’re trying to cook up. You hear me?”
“Shelby!” Logan’s voice echoes through the lobby.
Jigsaw tugs on my hand. “Come on. Let’s go.”
Ashley reaches for me again. “I’m trying to help you out here. You don’t know the full story.”
Taking a wild stab in the dark, I figure this is Logan’s ex from high school. The one Jigsaw supposedly lost his virginity to a few weeks after she and Logan broke up. “I’m not interested in petty high school bullshit, sweetheart. You need to get over it and move on.”
“No, honey.” Her lips curl into a cruel smirk. “You’re the one who doesn’t understand.”
“Ashley?” The shock and devastation in Rooster’s voice tears me away from the girl.
Eyes wide and jaw slack, Logan stares at the girl, slowing his steps. He slides his tongue over his lip. A nervous gesture I’ve never seen him do before.
That slight movement unnerves me more than anything else about this encounter.
Something about her has him rattled.
The man who handles seven hundred pounds of machinery with ease.
He’s waded into rivers to save me.
He’s gone toe-to-toe with FBI agents.
He’s jumped into bar fights to rescue me.
He’s utterly fearless.
The man who wears his motorcycle club’s cut with pride and doesn’t give a fuck what anyone thinks of him.
I shift my gaze to the girl again.
This hundred-and-twenty-pound bag of hair worries him.
Why?
Rooster stops next to me, strong and steady. His calm mask has slipped into place. Almost as if I imagined the glimmer of fear.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” he rumbles, low and ferocious.
As if he hadn’t even spoken, Ashley doesn’t take her eyes off me. “This guy. Your white knight,” she rolls her eyes, “is lying to you.”