Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 91146 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91146 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
After searching the bed, the sectional sofa, and the bathroom I should have used before falling asleep to stop any nasties, I sling my panicked eyes to Knox. “Have you seen it? I left it right there.” I thrust my hand at the bedside table, its tremor unmissable.
Dirty-blond locks fall across his eye when he shakes his head. “Maybe you left it in your room—”
“I didn’t leave it in my room.” I feel ill, physically sick. “I left it right there. Right next to…” My words trail off when I realize my songbook isn’t the only thing missing. Laken’s bags and the skintight jeans I had to peel off him are also gone.
Even the condoms we diminished from the stash in his pocket are nowhere to be seen.
He wouldn’t have taken my songbook, surely. What benefit would he get taking a book filled with songs consumers will never hear since they’re contracted to a label unwillingly to produce country-pop singles?
I freeze when a disturbing notion fills me.
The song I wrote last night isn’t under contract. It can be sold and performed by anyone because the only witness to its copyright is the person who stole it.
Just the thought of Laken stealing from me makes me the angriest I’ve ever been, but it has nothing on the guilt that rains down on me when I remember the inscription inside the cover of my beloved gift.
I can’t replace that. It is irreplaceable since the person who inscribed it is dead.
“Nik?” Knox murmurs, drawing my focus to him. “Are you okay? You’re not coming down with something, are you? I plan to have you booked out until Christmas.”
“I’m fine. I just…”—feel like a complete and utter idiot—“am excited about the upcoming tour.” When my stomach gurgles, I mutter, “And maybe a little bit nervous.” I step closer to him, my mind off my hurt and back onto the matter that had my songbook sitting empty for half a year. “Are you sure the pop angle is what we should be taking? The lyrics I—”
“I thought you trusted me?” he interrupts with his puppy-dog eyes on display for the world to see.
“I do. I just—”
He interrupts me this time by gathering my hands in his and gently squeezing them. “If it will ease your mind, we will discuss it more during our flight to LA, okay?”
I nod. “Thank you.”
When he leans in to press a kiss to the edge of my mouth, I freeze. His overfriendly nature is nothing out of the ordinary. It is the fact I can smell sex and intrigue on my skin that has me clamming up.
Much to my relief, Knox acts oblivious to the intoxicating scent. After sucking in a big breath, he says, “But since you’re adamant the world needs it to be Nikki J at rehearsal this afternoon, how about you put the facilities to good use before joining me downstairs for a quick breakfast? The jet is already on the runway.”
“I can’t shower here,” I stammer out, like being screwed senseless in a wall-less room is far more acceptable than showering in one.
When Knox bows a suspicious brow, I make out the disgust in my tone isn’t as potent as it is. “All my supplies are downstairs.”
I gather up the bedding that didn’t escape the deluge last night. Somewhere between peeling off his skintight jeans and screwing me unconscious, Laken transferred our make-out session to the rug in front of the fireplace.
Although my skin felt like it was on fire, he kept the blanket close in case we had unwanted visitors.
Apparently he didn’t want anyone seeing my skin but him.
I’m such an idiot.
Determined not to be made a fool of twice in less than twenty-four hours, I say, “I’ll be ready to leave in thirty. Ten if my detour pays dividends.”
I need to get my songbook back from Laken because aside from its sentimental worth, the lyrics I penned last night could be the only stable foundation of my career.
Before Knox can get another word in or follow me out, I gallop down the secret entrance stairs of the rooftop room before throwing open the fire exit door next to the elevator and descending another two dozen levels.
I’m hot, sweaty, and moody when I reach the thirty-seventh floor.
No one will survive my wrath, not even a woman paid to take it.
“Excuse me,” shouts a lady with bright-red hair and fishnet stockings. “I’m not expecting a client for another hour.” I freeze halfway into the bathroom of her suite when she says, “So if you’re looking for your husband, he isn’t here.”
“I’m not looking for my husband.” I turn to face her. “Just a man who—”
Her sigh cuts me off.
Lucky, as I was lost for words.
“How much does he owe? If it’s over fifteen hundred, Henry will cover it. If it’s less, you’re on your own. Henry only accepts debts his men will happily beat out of the johns who skip on their obligations.”