Dirty Pleasures (The Dirty Billionaire Trilogy #2) Read online

  As the first act, I generally play to a less-than-full stadium, when people are a little more concerned about making sure they have full beers than they are about paying attention to my music. Well, except for the fans who actually come to see me.

  But this is where everyone starts, I remind myself, and I’m crazy lucky that I’m on tour with Boone Thrasher to begin with. And the duet? That’s huge.

  I spend thirty seconds freshening up my makeup and shoving my toiletries in my makeup bag before slipping into the battered brown-and-black cowboy boots I bought for my eighteenth birthday. Which was the fourth birthday in a row that my mama didn’t even bother to send a card.

  Pushing that thought away, because it was just one more piece of baggage that Tana was talking about when she dropped me off, I grab my jacket and head for the door.

  Despite his badass reputation, Boone’s a good guy. A really good guy. His tiny, gorgeous, chart-topping girlfriend is a lucky lady. But from what I’ve seen of her, I’m not so sure she’s aware of that fact. She’s actually kind of a bitch. And by kind of, I mean, she’s a total Grade-A, possessive, catty bitch.

  Not that I’d ever tell Boone that. These lips don’t do the gossip thing. One negative word to the wrong person, and I’d be screwed. So I just keep my opinions to myself. The world of country music isn’t so different from high school.

  I lock my apartment door behind me and hoof it down the stairs and out to the covered parking where my 1998 Pontiac Firebird waits for me. And yes, I’m completely aware that what was cool in 1998 is not quite so cool now. Which means that I got a killer deal on it when my 1988 Fiero kicked the bucket just before I got my golden audition ticket for Country Dreams.

  I suppose I could buy a little bit newer car with the semi-regular paycheck I get now, but the Firebird still gets me from A to B, and I prefer to save my money for a rainy day. If there’s one thing that I’ve learned about this town, it’s that everything can change in a moment.

  Thirty-five minutes later, I pull up at the gates of Boone’s place, and a man built like a brick shithouse comes out of the guard shack and bends down to my window. I open the door—because the window doesn’t work anymore—and he smiles.

  “I got the same problem with my Grand Prix. Fucking Pontiacs,” he says.

  “You got that right. I’m Holly—”

  “Yep. Know who you are, sweet thing. They’re waiting on you. Buses are here and ready to go too.” He backs away from my car and activates the gate opener.

  I swing my door shut and drive through. Sure enough, two tour buses are parked in front of the house set off from the road by almost a mile-long driveway. I pull into a small parking lot-size area beside the garage and shut off my car.

  I need to get in there and find Chance and make sure he reports in that I wasn’t late before someone at the label starts checking, looking to boot me off. As soon as the thought hits my brain, the man in question knocks on the window of my car and opens the door.

  “You need to replace this piece of shit, girl. And why the hell didn’t you answer your phone?”

  I frown at Chance. “What are you talking about? I answered your texts.”

  He pulls me out of my car by the hand. “Well, you didn’t answer when I called you five times to ask you to pick me up some Johnny Walker on the way. The bus is out, and Boone wants some for the road.”

  “Crap. I must’ve had my radio on too loud. It’s on vibrate.” I reach back into my car to grab my purse and start rooting through it to find my phone.

  “Your suitcase in the trunk?” Chance asks.

  I nod, not looking up from my task, and he reaches around me to pop the trunk. By the time he has my suitcase in hand, I’m starting to panic.

  “Where the hell is my phone?” I mumble. “I had it.”

  “Come on, girl. Let’s move it. We won’t get to San Antonio with you standing here digging through your purse.”

  I jerk my head up and stare at him. “San Antonio? I thought Dallas was next.”

  Chance shakes his head. “Nope. That’s why we’re leaving early. Boone signed up to do a last-minute charity gig, and you’re along for the ride. Dallas is after that, so it’s not that far off.”

  Dropping my purse on the ground, I bend over and look between the seats and the console to see if my phone slid down. Chance, clearly impatient with me, calls it. I wait, but there’s no telltale buzz or vibration.

  “Shit. I must’ve left it in my apartment.”

  “No time to go back for it, so you’ll have to have someone get it for you and overnight it to you. I’ll get the hotel address.”

  I huff out a long sigh. Shit. I don’t even know if I have Tana’s number to ask her to go back to my place and grab it . . . but then again, I bet Chance or Boone does. Between the two of them, they seem to have everyone’s number in this town.

  “You ready to rehearse?”

  “What?” I ask, my mind still on how to retrieve my phone.

  “The duet. ‘That Girl.’ Boone wants to play some acoustic stuff on the bus, so you’re riding with him. I made sure you’ve got a guitar on there already. Now come on, let’s go.”

  Chance leads me by the arm up to the house to say hi to the guys before we all climb up the stairs. All my worries slip away once I let myself fall into the easy bullshitting and name-calling with the guys. And once I’m on the bus with Boone, I let myself go in the music.

  It’s a couple of hours and who knows how much whiskey later when we stop so the guys can grab a smoke. I stumble onto my own bus—one that I’ll be sharing with my band and maybe the other opening act, if they don’t have their own bus. No one has seen fit to share that detail with me yet. But because it’s out of my control, I don’t waste any more time thinking about it.

  Some drunk hope makes me think that maybe I missed my phone in my search of the purse, so I dump the entire contents out on the kitchenette table.

  A handful of tampons. A dozen or so lip glosses and lipsticks. A lighter—not sure where that came from, since I don’t smoke. My wallet. My car keys. My songwriting notebook. My smaller backup songwriting notebook. Six pens, in all different colors. Two pencils. Gum. Gum wrappers. Loose change. Lint.

  Still no phone.

  Before I left Boone’s bus, I asked Chance for Tana’s number, just in case. He wrote it on my palm in Sharpie with big block letters saying Call Me above it.

  I make my way up to the bus driver’s seat.

  “Hey, Chaz?”

  “Ma’am?”

  “Told you to call me Holly a dozen times, Chaz.” Maybe more than a dozen, if I’m being honest.

  “Yes, Ms. Holly.”

  “Can I borrow your phone?”

  “Sure thing.” He grabs it from the pocket in the side of his seat and hands it over, all without ever taking his eyes off the road.

  “Thanks.”

  I stumble back to the couch and position my thumb over the number pad. I glance down at my palm, and I know the person I should be calling instead of Tana is Creighton.

  But you didn’t merit a phone call from him, the hurt inside me protests. It’s true, but still.

  I drop my head to the back of the couch when it hits me that even if I wanted to call Creighton, I don’t know any of his numbers by heart, and it’s not like I can just call Information or something. I could google Karas International, but what is the likelihood they’ll ever put me through to his personal line? Even when I had that number, his secretary didn’t believe that I was me at first.

  My best bet is getting my phone back.

  I punch in Tana’s number, and she answers after I call her three times in a row.

  “Hello?” Her voice is suspicious as shit, and I realize she doesn’t recognize the number. Plus it’s almost midnight.

  “It’s me. Holly. Sorry for calling so late.”

  “Oh, hey, hon. No worries. You know I’m up at all hours anyway. What’s up? The man come track you down already?”

&nb
sp; I squeeze my eyes shut. Hell, even if Creighton wanted to track me down right now, I think even he’d be SOL. I’m on a bus on a highway headed for a tour stop not on my tour list.

  But then again, I guess I don’t know what kind of resources he has at his disposal, or if he’d use them to come after me. The hope rising in my chest, the hope that started blossoming that night we ate Sixteen Candles style on the dining room table, wants desperately for him to come chasing after me with an apology.

  “Holly?”

  “Sorry, I’m a little whiskey-mellowed right now, and you can blame that on Boone.”

  “Ooh, that boy is so damn hot. If you weren’t married to a billionaire, I’d say you need to snake him from his bitchy girlfriend, even though I strongly disagree with poaching on every level. But that’s neither here nor there. So, you call your man yet?”

  “No, because I left my phone in my apartment, I think, and all his numbers are on it. Can I ask you a huge favor?”

  “Oh shit, and you know you can ask me anything, doll.”

  “Would you go back to my place in the morning and call it and see if you can find it? And if you do, can you send it to me in Dallas? I can text you the address.”

  “Sure thing. Although, if I didn’t love you quite so much, I’d have to point out that I have a personal assistant who does this kind of crap for me. You owe me, girl. I want an invite to a really fancy party when you and the big billionaire reconcile. Or maybe a week in Paris. I heard he has a place there.”

  Paris? I didn’t know that. “I’m sorry to ask. You know I wouldn’t if I had someone else I could trust.”

  “I’m just giving you a hard time, girl. I’ll take care of it in the morning.”

  “Thank you, Tana.”

  “This does entitle me to say one thing, though.”

  I brace myself. “Go on.”

  “I bet you’re wishing now that you wrote more on that note than just ‘good-bye.’”

  “That’s dangerously close to saying ‘I told you so.’”

  “Sorry, babe. But it’s true.”

  “Maybe he hasn’t even realized I’m gone yet,” I say, wondering if it might actually be true.

  “I imagine that man will find you before you find him,” she replies. “He doesn’t strike me as the type to have a wife go missing and let it stand for long.”

  “I guess we’ll see.”

  I hope she’s right, and equal measures of dread and hope fill me again. I made a mess of this, but Creighton isn’t blameless either.

  “I should go,” I tell her. “I need to sleep off the whiskey so I can think with a clear head in the morning.”

  “All right, babe. You do that. Talk soon. Love you.”

  “Love you too, Tana. Thank you.”

  We hang up, and I return Chaz’s phone to him.

  “Thanks, Chaz. I’m going to call it a night.”

  “Sure thing, ma’am. Sleep well.”

  I’m too tired to correct him as I make my way to the bedroom in the back of the bus—one I’m surprised none of the guys in the band have claimed. But the curtains of the bunks are all pulled tight, and I’m not about to offer to swap.

  I strip off my jeans and slide between the sheets of the queen-sized bed. Without my pajamas, I’m sleeping in just a T-shirt and undies. But considering that the guys have seen me in this and maybe less, I’m not concerned. They’re all married or in long-term relationships. Even more than that, they’re road warriors with more tours under their belts than I have fingers.

  The sound of the tires on the highway lulls me to sleep, and my last thought before I finally drift off is whether my leaving is going to trigger one of those dozen clauses for Creighton to annul the marriage.

  Actually, that’s a lie. My very last thought before sleep claims me is how much it would hurt if he did.

  The penthouse is silent when I let myself inside. I expected to be home almost eight hours ago, but negotiations got heated, and I couldn’t step away from the table without losing all the leverage I gained.

  If anyone can close a deal with sheer force of will, it’s me. Winning this one was too fucking important, and once I had the finish line in sight, I wasn’t letting anything get in my way. Although not the biggest dollar deal I’ve ever done by a long, long shot, I’ve never had one that meant more on a personal level. Preliminary agreements, including an iron-clad confidentiality agreement, were signed, and I was pretty fucking pleased with myself.

  Eager to find Holly, I head for the bedroom, but it’s dark. I close in on the bed, looking for the telltale lump that should be curled up dead center, but I find nothing but a smooth comforter.

  I flip on the bedside lamp; I’m not sure why exactly. It’s not like I can’t tell the room is empty, even in the dark.

  “Holly?”

  Nothing. I flip on every light as I move from room to room.

  No Holly. She’s not here.

  The clothes are here. The guitar is here. But she’s not here.

  The last time I came home to find the place empty, I flipped the fuck out, thinking she left me. But that was before. The last couple of days, we’ve . . . well, we’ve figured some shit out, and what started out as a crazy whim seems like it can actually work.

  I also just banked a decent chunk of money on the fact that it can actually work, not that that particular fact matters.

  I finally make my way to the kitchen and turn on the lights. A lined piece of notebook paper sits in the center of the island counter.

  Two words.

  Just two fucking words.

  Good-bye, Creighton.

  “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I roar. “No fucking way!”

  Last time I thought she left me, and I was wrong. This time, I’m not sure how I can be wrong when it’s as plain as the ink on the goddamn page. The Amex Black Card I gave her is right beside it. That sends a whole message of its own.

  “Fuck me. No fucking way.” I don’t know why I’m talking to the empty room, but I can’t seem to stop myself. “She doesn’t get to leave me. I’m not fucking done with her.”

  I grab my phone and find her number. I hit Send. It goes straight to voice mail.

  I call over and over and over until I’m just staring at the phone and getting more and more pissed every time her voice mail picks up.

  “This is Holly. You know what to do.”

  I’m not sure how many times I’ve called her when I finally leave a message.

  “Holly, this is your fucking husband. Where the fuck are you? And if you think you’re fucking done with me, you’re dead wrong, sweetheart. Better get ready, because I’m fucking coming for you.”

  An absent thought about winning an award for the number of times I’d used variations on the word fuck floats through my brain as I hang up and call Cannon.

  “Dude, the deal is inked. You better not have cold feet now,” he says rather than hello.

  “She’s gone,” I say without preamble.

  “Come again?”

  “She’s fucking gone. Left a note that said good-bye. She’s fucking gone.”

  “Shit. Maybe we can undo the deal.”

  “That’s not why I’m calling. It’s only money. What I want is my fucking wife back. So go find her.”

  Cannon clears his throat. “Um, she called. This afternoon, but I knew you didn’t want to be disturbed.”

  Unable to believe what I just heard, I still. “Please repeat yourself.”

  “She called. I told her you were busy.”

  “And what did she say?” I bite out each word.

  “Nothing. She just . . . hung up.” In the background, I hear Cannon typing furiously. “I’ll get our guy on it. I’ll check her credit cards.”

  My brain, exhausted from hours at the negotiating table playing mind games with the other side, shifts into gear again. “You’re going to have to track her personal credit cards, because she left the one I gave her.”

  “Damn, man. Th
at’s harsh. Or maybe nice? Fuck, I don’t know. At least she didn’t go out and spend a shit-ton of money and leave you with the bill.”

  “Considering she left every other goddamn thing—the clothes, the shoes, the fucking guitar—I’m not surprised.” The fact that she left the guitar grates the most. It’s a giant fuck-you, if I’ve ever seen one.

  The guitar is what trips my memory. Fuuuuck.

  I fucked up. Her tour; she had to be there. I didn’t even think. She has no idea what I did for her . . . and she fucking left.

  “I’ll call you back when I’ve got something,” Cannon says.

  “No need. She’s gone back to Nashville. Get the jet online. I want to be in the air in an hour. Make sure I’ve got a car waiting on the tarmac, and text me her fucking address.”

  The last part is a little humbling to add, considering I should probably know my wife’s address for her last residence. But I also didn’t care enough to ask before. Because I was more than content to have her in my bed, in my fucking penthouse, and not ask many questions about her life before me. That was apparently a big fucking mistake.

  “Will do, man. Hold up—the jet is already ready to go. Captain Jim is on standby.”

  Of course it fucking is. Because I forgot. I dig a finger and a thumb into my temples and close my eyes.

  “Tell the captain I’ll be right there.”

  “Will do.”

  I hang up and head for the bedroom. All the clothes I instructed a personal shopper to pick out for Holly mock me as I fill my suitcase. I don’t know what the fuck I’m supposed to pack for groveling, and I sure as hell haven’t ever been to a country concert, but I’m fresh out of flannel shirts and cowboy boots. So I toss in some jeans, T-shirts, a few suits—because you never know when you might need one—and all the rest of my shit.

  I’m out the door in less than ten minutes. I’m going to find my wife.

  In Nashville, dawn is still a couple of hours away when I park the rented Mercedes SL65 AMG at the curb of an apartment building that has seen better days.