She presses her lips together, and I take a deep breath, trying to piece together a response, but she’s not actually done. “Your brother still plays some of Brash’s hits. Or at least he used to. I’ve seen some of those videos too.”
“Did you stalk me online or something?” I interject.
She waves off my question. “Of course I googled you. I’d be stupid not to. And I also googled your brother. And even though he capitalizes on your biggest hits—and who can blame him?—his new music is way different. It fits the current trends, it has more grown up themes, and it’s interesting. If that’s what your sister-in-law did for him, then yeah, I can see why that video went viral. I can see why he’s been able to translate that into lasting success. And your pity party about how you’ve worked so hard and he just had it handed to him?” She shakes her head. “That’s bullshit, and you know it. Yeah, the viral video gave him a huge boost, there’s no denying that. But he works hard to stay there, and you know it because you’ve been working your ass off to help him stay there too.” She pauses again for another deep breath, but this time I wait to see if she’s done before trying to say anything.
Her voice is softer now, but still ringing with truth bombs. “Look, I get it. You’re the one that wanted it. It burns that he got it when he wasn’t trying and you were. But he understands the industry—what listeners want—better than you. Plus, he went viral with an original song that he wrote. Your whole channel is mostly covers, with a few notable exceptions, and those aren’t that interesting either. Doing covers can work for some people, if the goal is just to get discovered, but the covers have to be top notch, and they have to inject some of the performer’s own personality into them in a way that resonates with people to do well. Otherwise everyone would just listen to the real thing.” She taps her fingers on her leg in a quick rhythm, her gaze abstract, a thoughtful frown puckering her face. And because I’m not a complete moron, I wait for her to come to whatever conclusion she’s reaching for.
“Hang on a sec. Wait here.” She gets up and almost jogs past me, disappearing behind a door that must lead to her bedroom. The sound of rustling papers and her muttering reaches me where I wait on the loveseat, and I take the time to actually look around the apartment.
It’s pretty bare—just the basics. The nubbly gray loveseat we’ve been sitting on, a beat-up coffee table in front of me, a cheap entertainment center with the same brand of flat screen I had in my room as a teenager. Actually, it looks identical, which means it’s at least ten years old. There’s a tiny dining table made of light colored wood and two mismatched chairs in the corner by the kitchen. Which fits the whole vibe of this place. Mismatched, cobbled together odds and ends. Nothing like the curated, put-together, professionally decorated homes I’m used to occupying. The closest to this I’ve seen in a while is Gabby’s goofy collection of knickknacks she likes to keep in her and Jonathan’s condo.
Actually, Alexis and Gabby would probably get along well. They both have that no-nonsense ball-busting thing going for them. You wouldn’t know it with Gabby. She hides it well behind that sweet, Texas girl, southern accent exterior. But I’ve heard her and Jonathan working on songs together. She’s got a spine of steel, and she’s not afraid to speak her mind when it matters to her.
Alexis has that too. Despite the pixie-girl image she’s cultivated, she just handed me my ass on a platter with a minimum of words. Though if I stop and think about it, Tinkerbell was a kidnapper. Maybe pixies aren’t all sweet and cute after all.
Something tells me that if I’m open to what she has to say, she’ll give me the answer to all my problems.
But the longer she spends in her room, the more I reconsider. Maybe her disappearing into her room is actually her not-so-subtle way of kicking me out?
When she reappears, she brandishes papers at me, a gleam of triumph in her eyes. “Here. Try this.”
I accept the papers and flip through them. It’s sheet music for a song by a band that was popular twenty years ago.
She flicks the top sheet with her finger. “This is more like what you should be singing. If you’re going to do covers, do this. Not that recycled teeny-bopper crap. You’re better than that. You have more depth, more range now. Even the more recent performances of you and your brothers show that off. Jonathan knows how to work the crowd better, but of course, they’re his fans, so it makes a certain amount of sense for him to usurp your lead singer role a little bit. They’re there to see him, not you. But if you want people to pay to see you, you gotta show them what’s underneath the pretty boy exterior.”
My lips curl in a practiced smile. “You think I’m pretty?”
She scoffs, throwing her hands in the air. “Of course that’s what you focus on. I’m over here trying to help you out, and you’re worried about if I find you attractive?”
Setting the sheet music on the coffee table, I stand. She crosses her arms and steps back, but I close the distance between us, anchoring her in place with one hand on her hip. “Thank you,” I say, my voice low, filled with all the sincerity I can muster. I am grateful, because she’s had more recent success than I have and actually has a shot at climbing that ladder again, and she is trying to help me. But that doesn’t diminish the sting of her assessment of my songs.
She looks up at me, her eyes wide, her lips parted in a way that’s so tempting that I can’t stop myself. I lower my head, slow enough that she could dodge or push away if she wanted, but she doesn’t, and when my lips touch hers, it just feels good. Right.
This isn’t the hungry kiss we exchanged in front of the cameras—at least not at first. It starts off slow, sweet, my lips on hers, hers pressing against mine. Soft. Yielding.
And then she opens on a sigh, and I accept the unspoken invitation, seeking out her tongue with mine.
Once again her hands are wrapped around my lapels, and she yanks me closer so our bodies are flush. My hand tightens on her hip and my other arm wraps around her, holding her close, trapping her against me, even though it’s clear she has no desire to get away.
Her tongue duels with mine, rubbing and thrusting into my mouth, where I suck on it, making her gasp and break away. Except there’s nowhere to go with my arm still wrapped around her and her still pulling me close. She’s panting, staring up at me with those wide, guileless eyes. And like someone flipped a switch, her hands open, and she takes a jerky step backward, a rusty automaton coming to life.
“Uh, um … hmm.” She hums and stammers incoherent sounds without coming out with anything close to a sentence.
I should be worried that she seems upset, but I’m a little too busy feeling smug at having reduced her to speechlessness with a kiss. What would happen if I got her to orgasm?
But her next words stop that thought in its tracks. “This can’t happen.”
Chapter Ten
Alexis
Colt blinks at me a few times like my words don’t make sense to him. I mean, I know I wasn’t really speaking words for a second there, but that statement was clearly audible and in English. I’m not sure where the disconnect is.