Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 74467 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 372(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 248(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74467 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 372(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 248(@300wpm)
Ansell appears at my elbow. I don’t know how the hell that man does it. I wonder if there’s a tracking beacon stuck inside my shoes or something.
“Good crowd,” he says, looking at me instead of the performers.
“Is your friend here?”
“In the back.”
“That’s good. Is he going to survive these guys?” I nod at the weird folk group.
Ansell shrugs. “He’ll survive.”
I turn to him and let my hand slip down into his. His face twitches and the slightest hint of a smile tugs at his lips like he’s genuinely excited to feel my palm touch his.
“How did you make this happen? The Troc’s been booked out for months. I know, because I tried to get them a set here a couple weeks ago.”
“I have my ways.”
“Ansell.”
“The band that was supposed to play tonight is stuck in Canada. Apparently, the Canadians found weed in the lead singer’s backpack and detained him when he tried to cross the border.”
I frown slightly, head tilted, staring at him. He gives me nothing—his face is totally passive—and I can’t help but wonder if he somehow set that up. I mean, Ansell has reach and power, but could he really get some weed slipped into some random guy’s bag?
But no, that’s paranoid. These are musicians. They’re all smoking weed and half of them probably try to smuggle it over the border every week. It’s just coincidence.
“Thank you,” I say, moving closer. “I know you have a dozen acts that would’ve loved this slot.”
“I do, but none of them are as promising as Pride. I know you’re thinking I only did this because of you, but that isn’t true. I did this because you’re right about that band.”
I smile slightly and stand on my toes to whisper in his ear as the folk band comes to the climactic end of their set. “Are you sure it’s not for me? Just a little bit?”
Another tiny smile. More micro-expressions. Standing close to Ansell in public like this makes my stomach do flips, even if we are wreathed in darkness and nobody’s looking. My father’s words flow through my mind, and I back away from Ansell and lean against the wall, crossing my arms over my chest.
What would people say if they knew what was happening between me and my boss? The rumors would go insane and I don’t know what I’d do. They’d ruin Ansell, that’s for sure. His whole business is built on relationships and honesty, and I can’t imagine his reputation would survive a blow like that.
Dating his younger employee after she blew up her engagement to a Crawford? That’s real scandal, the kind you don’t survive. Touching him in public is like waving my hand over an open flame. It’s begging for pain.
And yet I can’t help myself. I still want him, even now, even knowing it could easily destroy us both.
“Come with me,” Ansell says, moving away from the stage. “Let’s get in the crowd.”
We head around the side, past the bouncers and the security, and slip into the packed house. The Troc was once a burlesque theater a long time ago, and it retains some of its ancient charm. The center area is empty, only hard wood and standing room, with a large stage framed by box seats and the entrances to the backstage area, plus an enormous PA system. Details from the turn of century remain in the arch that hangs above the stage and in the details of the railings at the base of the boxes.
The place is packed. There’s barely any room to move. If Ansell’s big label friend is nearby, we’ll never find him. The crowd is on its feet and the energy begins to ramp up as Pride comes out from behind the curtain and begins to plug in and warm up, Tobias running scales, Kari rolling a slow beat, Dean nodding along to the rhythm, when they suddenly launch into their first song, and the set begins.
Ansell doesn’t dance. He watches, arms crossed, scowling as the people around him sway and move. I want to bump into him and see if he’s got any rhythm at all, but he glances at me more than once and I catch him smiling as I move my hips to the beat.
He likes what he’s seeing and that only makes me want to dance more, but we’re deep in a crowd and we’re supposed to be working. As much as I’d like to grind up against him and see if I can’t get a reaction out of the Ice King, I keep myself subdued, but the thrill and the desire are deep inside my core, pulsing to escape.
The show goes great. Pride is on fire, and they rip through their set like lightning. The crowd loves it and the energy stays high throughout, and only heightens when Pride comes back out for their first encore.