Dirty Pleasures (The Dirty Billionaire Trilogy #2) Page 3

  This is where Holly lives?

  My anger at her record label grows exponentially. They’ve been making plenty of money off her, and yet she’s been paid practically nothing for her work. Motherfuckers. That’s going to end in short order.

  I make my way up the crumbling sidewalk to the cracked stoop and scan the list of names by the door. Before I press the buzzer, someone exits and holds the door open for me, so I’m able to head right upstairs—because the security is fucking nonexistent.

  Wickman is listed as being on the fourth floor, apartment E, and there’s a sign taped to the elevator that reads Out of Order in faded black marker. I can only guess how long it’s been there. One thing is for damn sure—Holly won’t be staying another night in this dump.

  I climb the steps three at a time and knock. It’s the closest approximation I can get to polite at this point.

  I wait.

  No answer.

  I knock again. Less politely.

  No answer, so I bang on the door.

  “Holly, open the fucking door.”

  The door across the hall creaks open, and I turn to see a blond guy with dreads sticking his head out.

  “Dude, keep it the fuck down. Some of us are trying to sleep.”

  I ignore him and continue banging on the door.

  “She ain’t here, man. And I don’t think she’s coming back for a while.”

  According to the tour schedule Cannon e-mailed me, they weren’t scheduled to be in Dallas until the night after tomorrow.

  I turn back to the stoner. “How do you know she isn’t here? And how the fuck do you know she’s not coming back for a while?”

  “Calm down, bro. I saw her carry a suitcase out last night.”

  I don’t ask why he was watching Holly carry a suitcase out because it doesn’t matter. She’s never coming back to this place, and she’ll never see him again.

  I call Cannon when I hit the curb. “She’s already gone. Find out where that tour stops next.”

  “On it.”

  “Now. While I’m on the goddamn phone.”

  “Said I’m on it, Crey. Hold on, I got something. Looks like there’s a new stop on the tour.”

  I climb into the Mercedes and haul ass back to the jet.

  “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I say to the security guard standing between me and the entrance to the backstage area of the Majestic Theatre in San Antonio.

  “No one gets back here without a pass, and you ain’t got a pass.”

  “My wife is back there.”

  “Don’t fucking care, man. You ain’t got a pass. You call her and you get her to give you a pass, then you can go back there.”

  Considering Holly still hasn’t answered a single one of my calls, I’m not about to admit that isn’t a possibility. I’ve spent all day in San Antonio trying to track her down, and my patience is shot. The theatre lights go dark.

  “Show’s startin’, man. Get your seat before I have you escorted out.”

  I open my mouth to argue, but a spotlight snaps on, illuminating the stage, and a very round man dressed in a radio station T-shirt strolls out with a microphone.

  “Are ya’ll ready for this little lady?”

  The crowd yells back, but apparently their response isn’t sufficient for his purpose.

  “I said, are ya’ll ready for Holly Wix?”

  The crowd roars, and I decide the security guy’s suggestion isn’t a bad one. I might as well find my seat, because it seems I’ve finally found my wife.

  I had to buy a ticket from a scalper out front because the show was sold out. On the upside, my seat’s in the second row, so I’m not going to complain. Leaving the security guard behind, I slide down the row to my designated seat to find three screaming teenage girls on one side of me, and a middle-aged woman who is not at all excited on the other.

  I ignore all of them as the announcer says, “Then give a warm San Antonio welcome to Ms. Holly Wix!”

  The spotlight goes dark for a moment, and a drummer starts with a beat. One guitar joins in, and then a second, and the stage lights come up.

  And there she is.

  My fucking wife.

  She’s wearing a tiny black leather skirt, over-the-knee silver leather boots with fringe, and a tight silver halter top. Her hair is bigger than I’ve ever seen it, and a ton of glittery makeup has her looking every inch the country starlet.

  “Hey, San Antonio! Ya’ll are lookin’ gorgeous tonight.”

  Her accent is thicker than I’ve ever heard it. It rarely slips out when she’s around me, and I wonder if she tries to hide it. I don’t like the idea of my wife hiding anything.

  My thoughts are drowned out of my brain when the teenage girls next to me start screaming in the highest pitch humans can probably register. I catch phrases like, “Holly, we love you!” and “Holly, you’re so awesome!”

  For a moment I wonder if Holly was like those girls in her younger years. Going to concerts and dreaming about standing on a stage like this, and playing for a crowd.

  “Love you too, girls!” Holly calls out before launching into an upbeat song.

  It’s one that even I recognize because it’s the music on a commercial that has been airing for months. Most of the crowd rise to their feet, many singing along with her.

  I stay seated, soaking up the woman onstage in front of me.

  I’ve heard her sing in the shower, and compared to this it was like listening to Beethoven plink out a masterpiece on a child’s toy piano—absolutely no comparison.

  Holly’s incredibly fucking talented.

  And she’s mine.

  The crowd loves her—including the guy with the sign that says Marry Me, Holly.

  She can’t fucking marry you, douchebag. She’s already married to me.

  Right then, I realize I’m jealous. For the first time in my life, I’m fucking jealous. And it’s of a teenage boy holding a piece of hot pink fucking poster board.

  I don’t get jealous. Ever. It’s an uncomfortable feeling, and I don’t like it.

  Holly plays only five songs before thanking the crowd and waving as she leaves the stage.

  I could have listened to her—watched her—all night. Her sweet twang sank its claws into me, and those sassy lyrics were made all that much sassier by her red lips and swinging hips.

  I think I’ve just become a country music fan. Cannon will never let me hear the end of it.

  As soon as the theatre lights come up between acts, I’m out of my seat and heading for the security guy. I’ve got my wallet out and two grand in my hand when I stop in front of him.

  “Not again,” he mumbles. “Dude, step off.”

  “You see that woman who was just onstage?”

  He nods as if he’s bored with this conversation already.

  “She’s my fucking wife.”

  He looks down at my hand. I think he’s looking at the money, but his words prove me wrong.

  “Where’s your ring then?”

  I frown. I brought Holly’s ring to the hotel room on New Year’s Eve. I didn’t even consider getting one for myself, and Holly hasn’t mentioned it.

  Right then I decide that I want Holly to want me to wear a ring. Why the hell hasn’t she brought it up before?

  “I don’t have one. Newlyweds. You might have read about it in the paper. I’m Creighton Karas.”

  He raises one dark eyebrow. “The billionaire dude?”

  “Yeah.”

  He tilts his head. “Yeah. I guess you could be him.”

  I flash my license at him. “I am him.”

  “Still ain’t letting you backstage without a pass. So put your money away, man.”

  I grit my teeth, all the muscles in my jaw clenching.

  “But you can wait out back by the tour buses after the show. She’ll be going out that way, and you can talk to her then. If she wants your ass with her, then she can tell her security to let you on the bus.”

  I try to h
and him the money, but he waves it away. “Nah, man. I’ll get fired, and I like my job.”

  Fair enough. “Thanks for the heads-up.”

  “Better get yourself a beer and enjoy the rest of the show.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  And I do.

  Four beers and two more acts later, and I’m finally making my way around the back of the theatre to wait. What I find there surprises me. I’m not talking about the heavy metal barricades creating a path for the talent—those don’t surprise me. No, it’s the half-naked women shoving each other aside to press against those metal barricades. Security is stationed along the way, trying to hold them back, but the women are adamant that they’re going to see some guy named Boone or BT or something like that.

  I make my way to the edge of a barricade as politely as I can, because I’m not about to shove my way through a bunch of women. But then again, I’m not taking a chance that I’ll miss Holly, even if I do feel fucking ridiculous waiting outside with rabid fans like this.

  Finally, the back doors open and a swarm of security precedes a crowd of people. The women start screaming, and I’m lifting my hands to plug my ears when I catch sight of Holly.

  I call her name, but I don’t yell it. She doesn’t hear me. Another dozen feet and she’ll be standing right in front of me.

  Rage burns in me as they get closer and I see the last guy who played—this Boone guy—with his arm around her, holding her against him.

  What the fuck?

  “Holly.” This time it comes out louder and harsher.

  The guy drops his arm and comes to the railing a few feet away from me to sign some woman’s tits. Classy guy. Holly continues toward the bus.

  “Holly!”

  She jolts to a stop, turns, and her eyes go wide as they lock onto mine. She stumbles, and another man reaches out to steady her. I don’t like his hands on her any more than I liked the last guy’s arm around her.

  Her smile is tight when she comes toward the railing. The tit-signing genius comes down the line, meeting her in front of me.

  “You okay, sugar?” he asks her.

  Holly opens her mouth to respond, but I beat her to it. “She’s fine. She’s just wondering why her husband is standing with the groupies.”

  His eyes cut to me. “So you’re the husband, huh?”

  “Yeah, I’m the husband.”

  He looks to Holly. “Didn’t mention he was comin’.”

  “I didn’t know he was,” she says quietly.

  “How about you move this reunion onto the bus?” Boone says.

  Holly nods, and he gestures to security. “Get him on my bus. We’ll be there in five.”

  A security guard hops the fence and leads me around the crowd to the tour buses. We slide between the barriers and he raps on the door. It opens, and I climb up the stairs.

  It’s not the pit I expect it to be. Aside from a case of empty beer cans and a few empty liquor bottles, there’s not much garbage. Some clothes, drumsticks, notebooks, guitar picks, and video game controllers litter the counter and table.

  I stand next to the couch and wait.

  It takes longer than five minutes. Impatient, I move to the tinted windows and watch their slow progression—signing autographs and taking pictures from awkward angles.

  Finally, the door opens again, and Holly climbs inside.

  I’ve made myself at home on the couch, and I’m considering what to say. But she beats me to it.

  “What are you doing here?” she asks without prelude.

  “Looking for my wife,” I reply.

  She mumbles something in response.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I said I’m kinda surprised.”

  My first instinct is to defend myself, but there’s really no point. I screwed up, and I know it. That doesn’t mean I’m not still pissed that she didn’t wait just a little bit longer before she walked out.

  I decide an apology is the best choice. It’s not my usual, but I’m surprised how easily the words come. “I’m sorry, Holly. I fucked up. I told you I’d be somewhere, and I wasn’t.”

  Her mouth drops open, and I’m instantly reminded of all the things I want to do to that mouth.

  A slow clap starts from the front of the bus, interrupting the conversation.

  “Now that’s a guy who knows how to grovel. I’m taking notes, man, in case I ever get myself up shit creek.”

  He strolls down the aisle and holds out a hand tattooed with what looks like brass knuckles with skulls. “Boone Thrasher.”

  I stand and appraise him, man-to-man. “Creighton Karas.”

  We shake hands, neither trying overly hard to crush the other’s, which is more than I expected from a guy with brass knuckles tattooed on his hand. Assumptions and all that.

  He’s still wearing the ripped jeans, camo ball cap, and biker boots he wore onstage, although he must have pulled on a new T-shirt because he ripped the last one off mid-performance.

  “You treat this girl right, you hear? Or you’ll answer to me.” Thrasher’s gaze drills into mine and his words are solemn.

  I open my mouth to tell him it’s no fucking business of his what I do with Holly, but I pause. Honestly, I’m glad she has someone who cares enough about her to threaten me on her behalf. As long as his concern is completely platonic, we don’t have a problem.

  “Thanks for the warning. I’m glad Holly has a friend at her back.”

  He catches the emphasis I place on the word friend. “No worries, man. I’ve got my own woman. Not looking to poach yours.” He leans closer and adds, “Besides, if I would’ve wanted her, you never would’ve had a shot.”

  His cocky confidence instantly makes me want to ram my fist into his face, but Holly huffs quietly, apparently over the macho posturing Boone and I are engaging in.

  “I’ll respectfully disagree with you on that,” I reply, ready to end the conversation.

  He laughs, a booming sound that fills the bus. I step back and throw a possessive arm around Holly.

  Thrasher is smiling when he says, “You just might do, man. Definitely better than that douche, JC.” He holds up both hands. “I ain’t got no problem with the fact that the man prefers dick to pussy. To each his own. But I do have a problem with him using Holly to pretend that ain’t the case. If you’re man enough to fuck another man’s ass, then you should be man enough to be honest with your fans about it—or at least not demand a beard from the label. Just my opinion. Not that it means shit anyway.”

  Okay, I just might like this guy.

  “That situation has certainly been taken care of.”

  “Damn straight. I like your style, man.”

  I nod, more than ready for this conversation to be over. I’ve got Holly by my side, which means all I want is some time alone with her so we can get some things straight. Namely the fact that she’s not ever going to walk out on me again with nothing more than a two-word note. And not walking out on me period would be ideal.

  “We’ll get out of your way. I’m assuming the rest of your band is waiting to get on the bus?”

  “They’re on the opener bus.”

  I look to Holly, and she elaborates.

  “I’m sharing a bus with the other opening act. The labels split the cost.”

  I recall the four large bearded lumberjack-looking men who came onstage after Holly, and played a multitude of instruments.

  “You share a bus with four men?”

  “Seven, if you count the guys in my band too.”

  “That’s over tonight. We’ll get a hotel, and I’ll deliver you to Dallas.”

  “I always travel with my band,” she protests.

  “And now you’re traveling with your husband.”

  Thrasher takes a seat on the couch, not even pretending to give us privacy. In fact, he decides to share his two cents.

  “She travels with the tour. That’s the way it goes.”

  “Then she’s getting her own bus. Her band can st
ay with the other group.”

  He nods approvingly. “That works. Then I can kick their drummer off my bus. But you’re going to have to pick up the tab for that. No way the label will.”

  “Not a concern. If you didn’t insist she travel on a bus, I’d arrange for hotels and we’d take the jet.”

  Thrasher shakes his head and reaches for a bottle of Johnny Walker Blue Label on the table. At least the man doesn’t have bad taste in scotch.

  “That’s tempting fate, man. Too many good artists have gone down in crashes. I don’t hold with that.”

  “Creighton,” Holly says, interrupting us. “We need to talk about this.”

  I look down at her. “There’s nothing to talk about. You need to be here, and I find that I’m unwilling to let you be here without me.”

  She shakes off my arm, and I drop it from her shoulders. “That’s not really your decision to make.”

  I glance at Thrasher, who may as well go get some popcorn with how raptly he’s watching our exchange.

  My eyes cut back to Holly. “We’re getting a hotel for tonight.”

  She leans back against the cabinets of the galley kitchen and crosses her arms. I’d be lying if I said I’m not caught on the way her movement pushes her tits up in that halter top.

  My eyes are riveted, and I almost miss her words when she says, “We’re rolling out of here in a few and driving tonight.”

  My lips twitch, and I quell the urge to bend her over my knee for her sassy attitude. But that’s not something I want an audience for. “What time do you need to be at the venue in the morning?”

  Holly lets Thrasher answer. “Long as she’s there by noon, you’re all good. And if you take your damn jet, just don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. And I sure as fuck don’t want to have to get another opening act if your plane goes down.”

  I grab Holly’s hand and tug her against me. She inhales sharply when she makes contact with my chest. Her hand goes up, and her fingers curl around my shoulder. We need to get the hell out of this bus in a hurry before I forget I don’t want a goddamn audience.

  I don’t look away from her wide brown eyes when I speak. “We’ll see you tomorrow at noon, Thrasher.”