Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 87142 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87142 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
“You sure you don’t need a meeting?” I asked.
“For the tenth time, it wasn’t a twelve-step program,” he growled. “And if you think I’m going to stand up in front of a bunch of strangers and air my shit, you don’t know me half as well as you think you do.”
Okay. No meetings.
Instead, he spent an hour on the phone with his therapist from the rehab center.
* * *
Two days later, I left him playing Madden on the X-Box while I grabbed a quick shower. I’d confiscated his wallet, car keys, phone, and even tipped the bellman to alert me the second Nixon tried to leave the building without me, so I felt relatively safe during the nine minutes it took to wash the day off me.
My hair dripped as I wrapped a thick terry robe around my body. The loud, pumping music coming from the living room made me groan. What the hell was he up to now?
I threw open the bathroom door, then marched through the guest suite and into the hallway that led to the living room. It was lined with pictures of the band mid-show. Some were almost a decade old, and others were from this last year. I pulled the edges of my robe a little closer as I strode into the living room.
“What the he—” My jaw dropped.
Nixon sat lounged on his couch, his arms stretched across the back and his thighs spread wide as two young ladies in underwear ground on each other in front of him.
This was exactly the kind of scene I would have expected to stumble in on a few months ago, so I wasn’t sure why I was remotely shocked…but I was.
“Want to join in?” Nixon called over his shoulder, barely sparing me a glance.
“Think I’ll pass.” I shook my head but didn’t turn around. There were parts of my job that I absolutely loved—this was not one of them. I picked up the remote, pressed a button, and the music died.
“Hey!” the girls complained.
“Come on, Shannon, you gotta let a guy have a little fun,” Nixon threw at me with a smirk. “Or did you think I was going to tone it down just because you’re in the guest room?”
“I honestly don’t give a shit who you have fun with,” I snapped as my stomach turned over. To be fair, I’d walked in on him in far more compromising situations. Nixon’s biggest addiction after the alcohol was sex. The drugs had always come after that. “But I do need to see some IDs, ladies.” That was one scandal that wasn’t happening on my watch.
One girl—the blonde—grabbed her purse while the other one scoffed.
“Nine minutes,” I said to Nixon. “I’m impressed.”
“Only took three.” He shrugged with a grin. “Didn’t even have to leave the building. Just pointed through the glass doors and nodded.”
Great, because that was going to do a ton for discouraging the fans to stake out his door.
“Here’s—” The girl fumbled her wallet and dropped the purse. “Crap,” she muttered as the contents spilled on my bare feet. Condoms, lip gloss, some cough drops that looked like they’d been purchased during the last presidency…and one small skull-shaped bottle of vodka.
Shit.
Nixon rose to his feet, his eyes narrowing on the bottle.
This was bad. This was so, so, so bad. Any other liquor would have been better.
“Sorry,” she muttered, shoving everything but the vodka back into her bag. That, she held between her fingers until her friend snatched it, offering it to Nixon like a tithe.
No, no, no.
“It’s Crystal Head,” the girl explained, like we were idiots. “We read that article in Rolling Stone, and you said it’s your favorite.”
That was enough. “Okay, I think you ladies had better—”
“Get the fuck out,” Nixon barked as he stormed into the kitchen. “Now.”
Relief swept through every cell in my body as I ushered the girls back into their clothing and out the door. What the hell would I have done if he’d reached for the bottle? Smacked it out of his hands? Wrestled him to the ground? The truth was, if he wanted to drink, there was little I could do to stop him. He could have slipped away to a bar—instead of the driving range—at any point this week, but he hadn’t.
I put the girls in the elevator, then closed the door behind me after I came back inside the penthouse. A warm, tight feeling filled my chest, and I put my hand over my heart. I was proud of Nixon.
“Fuck this,” he spat, ripping his hands over his hair. “And could you put on some clothes?”
So much for that warm, fuzzy feeling.
What the hell? I was wearing more clothing than those two had been. “Can you keep your dick in your pants long enough for me to get dressed, or should I expect Girls Gone Wild, Volume Two when I get back out here?”