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  Gently setting away the woman who brought my drink, I drop a kiss on her cheek and head for Viola and Dave. Knocking back the drink, I set it on a tray next to the door. “I’m done. Let’s go.”

  With a nod, Dave opens the door and leads the way.

  Chapter Twelve

  Viola

  I follow Mason out of the elevator on our floor at the hotel, trying not to watch the way his ass moves in those jeans.

  I shouldn’t even think he’s attractive at all. Not with the way he is—rude, moody, deliberately provocative. A slut.

  He had an entire flock of women surrounding him at the club, pawing at him, shoving their tongues down his throat.

  But for some reason his eyes kept coming back to me.

  Of all the things I have to do, babysitting Mason while he parties is my least favorite. But Marcus is concerned about Mason getting out of hand and thinks that I’ll somehow be able to exert control over him. I have no idea why.

  Though, to be fair, Mason hasn’t been staying out as late since Marcus put Dave and me on babysitting duty.

  I just … don’t want to do it. I don’t want to watch Mason make out with random women. I don’t want to watch him getting drunk. At all. And I especially don’t want to stay up late to do it when I have to get up early in the morning. An afternoon nap doesn’t really make up for the lack of sleep.

  At least Marcus has declared tomorrow a rest day. The next day we’re up early again to fly to Florida, and the whole grind starts over again.

  If Mason wants to party tomorrow night, at least I can sleep half the day tomorrow to prepare myself for it.

  Though, if I’m honest, I’d expected him to stay out extra late tonight, since nothing’s on the schedule tomorrow. It’s just after one in the morning, and we’re already back at the hotel. Which is even more surprising, given his willing harem at the club. I’d expected him to screw them all before we left.

  Instead, he had one drink and declared himself ready to go.

  Maybe all the late nights are catching up to him too?

  Mason stops at his door, but I keep going. He’s a grown man, and he’s sober, so I’m confident he can get himself inside his room without my help tonight. When he’s drunk, Dave and I make sure he gets to his bed, and I leave ibuprofen and water on his nightstand like a good little assistant, but tonight I don’t have to.

  What a relief. I can take a quick shower and crawl into bed and not move till I wake up all on my own.

  But Mason’s hand on my arm stops me short. “Can I talk to you? Just for a minute.”

  Pulling my arm out of his grip, I turn to face him, crossing my arms protectively. “What do you need, Mason?” The tired seeps into my voice, despite my usual resolve to not show him any emotion at all. Ever. My guard is down tonight, and I’m too tired to mount a proper defense.

  “Come inside and have a drink with me. I promise I won’t keep you long.” His voice is soft, and he sounds sincere, but … even if he’s being less of a dick than he started out, I don’t quite trust him.

  I glance at Dave, hoping he can give me some kind of direction, but he just shrugs. No help there.

  “Is there something going on between you?” Mason’s sharp question cuts through the quiet of the hallway, the soft sincerity gone in an instant.

  “What?” I can’t keep the disbelief out of my voice. “How is that even any of your business?” Shaking my head, I take a step back. “I’m tired, Mason. I don’t want to do”—I wave my hands in the air between us—“whatever this is right now. Can we talk tomorrow?”

  His mouth tightens, his jaw clenching, and for a second I think he might object and insist I speak to him right this minute. But he surprises me by giving a nod. “Alright. Tomorrow. Goodnight.”

  Sighing, I take a step in the direction of my room two doors down. “Goodnight, Mason.”

  Even though I should collapse into bed and fall asleep as soon as my head hits the pillow, I’m kept awake by thoughts of what Mason wants to talk to me about.

  Normally he just barks orders in my direction and expects me to follow them.

  To be fair, I do follow them. The only time I’ve raised an objection to anything he’s asked was the first time he wanted me to find him a club in Boston. And his stance on my job duties was made crystal clear at that time. I’ll draw the line at anything illegal, but otherwise, he seems to be correct.

  I do what they tell me. He and Marcus are the only ones who ask for more than the normal snacks, water, and schedule management. Aaron and Danny are a dream with their sweet families and lack of demands.

  Marcus is the one I have to follow around all morning, managing his schedule, keeping the various appearances and meet and greets on track. While I do that for all of them, as the frontman, Marcus has a busier schedule than the others.

  And even though I like Marcus and Danny and Aaron, none of them invite me in to chat. So what could Mason want to talk to me about? He doesn’t even like me.

  Eventually my circular thoughts give way to the exhaustion dragging at my body, but when I’m woken by a knock on my door, it feels like I’ve only just gone to sleep, despite the brightness creeping around the edges of the blackout drapes.

  Scrambling for my phone, I check the time. Ugh. It’s after ten in the morning, which isn’t early, but I wanted to sleep till at least noon. One o’clock if I could pull it off.

  Another insistent knock sounds on my door, so I drag myself out of bed to see what the emergency is. Though if there were a real emergency, wouldn’t I have texts and missed calls too?

  Going up on tiptoe, I peer through the peephole to see Mason looking as groggy and rough as I feel. Only now, that’s compounded with anxiety, because I never did come to any conclusions about why he’d want to talk to me. And if he’s coming to my room before noon on our day off, it makes me think it’s serious. Serious plus Mason doesn’t seem like it equals anything positive for me.

  Nerves zipping through my veins, I shout, “Just a minute!” and scramble for clothes to pull on. I do not need Mason coming in when all I’m wearing is an oversized tee and panties.

  I pull a bra off the floor, take my arms out of my shirt to put it on, then shove my arms back through the sleeves, pick up the leggings I wore yesterday, make a face because they’re gross, then grab a fresh pair from my suitcase. A glance in the mirror shows my hair’s a mess, but there’s not much I can do about it right now. I don’t have time.

  Maybe looking pathetic and exhausted will make Mason feel sorry for me and not do … whatever it is he wants to do to me?

  Or, more likely, it’ll only make him more vicious.

  I grab the Cataclysm baseball hat out of my suitcase just as he knocks again. “Is everything alright in there?”

  Instead of answering, I yank the door open and force a smile. “Sorry. I just woke up.” Because you woke me up. But I don’t say that, because Mason doesn’t care about me. Not really. Not as long as I do my job, which is whatever he tells me to do.

  Opening the door wide, I gesture him inside, closing it gently behind him because I’m still too groggy to handle the loud slam it makes if I were to just let it go.

  He glances around at my room, but there’s not much to see. The suitcase sits on the stand at the foot of my bed, but I stuffed everything in there and closed it when I got out the hat. My dirty clothes are in a bag in the corner. Otherwise, there’s just my messenger bag overflowing with their supplies and schedules on the floor by the desk and a case of water and boxes of their favorite protein bars on top of it. The rest of their snacks are kept with the equipment.

  “What do you want, Mason?” I ask, standing in front of my bed with my arms crossed, a clear bite to my tone. I should try harder to be polite. Professional. Non-antagonistic.

  But I’m too tired right now. And I can’t bring myself to care about keeping up my neutral front.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Mason

  The edge to Viola’s que
stion draws my attention back to her, my eyebrows jumping in surprise. “Are you feeling alright?” The question is out before I can think better of it. I came here to talk to her, apologize, and leave. I haven’t asked to sit because I’m not planning on staying that long.

  I barely slept, planning my apology, hating that she wouldn’t let me get it out last night.

  But somehow dragging her into my room when she clearly didn’t want to go didn’t seem like the best way to stage an apology.

  Now that I’ve barged my way into her room, I’m not sure this is any better.

  She raises a hand to her face and rubs her fingers across her forehead under the brim of her hat. “No,” she admits in a grumpy voice. “I’m not alright. I’ve been staying out till all hours making sure you don’t do anything stupid, then I get a few hours of sleep before I’m up again with Marcus, going with him to appearances and interviews. I get another two or three hours of sleep in the afternoon most days, but it’s not enough. I’m exhausted. All I want is to sleep. And you came banging on my door and waking me up and I will seriously start crying if you don’t just tell me why you’re here so I can kick you out and go back to bed.”

  Red-rimmed eyes spear me in the chest, and she drops her hand from her face with a loud sigh. “I’m too tired to pretend you don’t piss me off. Are you happy? Is this the reaction you wanted when you kept calling me Vanessa and Violet and Virginia? I know you know my name. Viola. Say it with me. It’s not hard. Only three tiny syllables. Vi-o-la.”

  Her pink lips form each syllable carefully, and my own lips part in unconscious response, but I don’t say anything.

  She stares at me, waiting, then snorts in disgust and turns to the bed when all I do is stare back at her. “Whatever. Maybe this will get me fired, but I don’t even care anymore. My mother will be thrilled at least. And I can get some fucking sleep for the first time in weeks. So there’s that.” She flops down on the bed, and I’m not really sure if she’s talking more to herself or to me.

  Seeing her like this makes guilt flood my insides. I’ve reduced this gorgeous, proud woman to this. Rambling, exhausted, near tears.

  I clear my throat, which catches her attention. She props herself up with her arms behind her, which only serves to put her tits on display. Tearing my eyes away, I force myself to look at her face. Her eyes, not her lips. She waves a hand. “Well? Considering you’re the one who wanted to talk so bad it couldn’t wait till I’m awake and dressed, I’m the only one talking. Spit it out. Then go.” She lifts her chin, her eyes glittering with defiance.

  And this side of her, this piss and vinegar, this audacious challenging side of her … this gets me going like nothing else. Her curves, her red, red lips—those all turn me on. But that package combined with this attitude? Hell, yes. Give me more.

  But I shut those thoughts down. I’m not here for that. And it’s clear that she doesn’t want anything to do with me. Not right now, at least.

  “I’m sorry,” I finally manage to grate out.

  One delicate eyebrow arches high on her forehead. “You’re sorry? What for? Be specific.”

  I clear my throat again, trying to get rid of the gravel clogging it. I could blame it on being tired, but that’s not what has my voice thickening, my breath catching. No, that’s all Viola, giving as good as she gets.

  Which only makes me want to push her harder.

  But that’s exactly what I’ve decided to stop doing. Dammit.

  I suck air into my lungs, hoping it’ll help me calm down. But with that deep breath, I only manage to inhale more of Viola’s scent—something light and fruity. I don’t know if it’s her lotion, perfume, shampoo, or something else, but it only makes it harder to think straight. To think with the head on my shoulders instead of the one currently growing harder between my thighs.

  Shifting my stance, I give my dick a little more room, hoping she won’t notice.

  “For being a dick. For calling you the wrong name for a long time even after I learned your real name. For keeping you out late and then waking you up today.”

  She watches me, her eyes never leaving mine, her pose still that mix of languor and challenge that makes me want to climb on top of her. “And yesterday?” she prompts.

  “You mean when you barged into my room?” I cross my arms, a lazy smirk coming to my face as I shake my head. “No. I’m not sorry for that. That’s the risk you take when you come in without knocking.”

  Her mouth opens wide in a gasp, and fuck me, but I want her gasping for different reasons. “I knocked,” she protests, sitting up straight. “I knocked two times!” She holds up two fingers in illustration.

  I give her a careless shrug in response. “Still. I was in my room. I had every expectation of privacy. You let yourself in. I won’t apologize for you walking in on me. That one’s on you, darlin’.” And she liked it. I don’t push the issue, but I know it’s true, and she does too, somewhere deep down where I’m sure she won’t admit it.

  She scowls, crossing her arms again. “Don’t you darlin’ me. I’m definitely not your darlin’.”

  With a low chuckle, I shake my head again. “Too true. My apologies once again.” We stare at each other for a prolonged moment, the humor and antipathy dying away as her dark eyes hold mine. “I am sorry,” I repeat, my voice once again husky. “You won’t need to babysit me at night anymore. I’ll come back to the hotel after the shows and keep my … extracurricular activities confined to my dressing room.”

  Her lips part like she wants to say something, but I don’t wait around to find out what it is. With a final nod, I cross the room in three strides and let myself out.

  I’m clearly still an asshole. And my apology doesn’t go far, especially since I didn’t say even half of what I’d planned. Finding her sleep rumpled and adorable in a ball cap and flimsy tee did things to me. Seeing her frazzled and frustrated and defiant by turns only made those things worse. Harder to ignore.

  Or just harder. Period.

  Letting myself into my own suite, I waste no time shoving my pants down and taking myself in hand, picturing again the way her lips parted and her eyes widened. Hearing her gasp. Imagining that I’m causing those reactions for very different reasons. That her scowl is playful foreplay and not real irritation.

  That she came to my room last night for a drink. That I don’t think she’s already involved with Dave the security guy.

  Frustration and arousal meld together with fantasy and the memory of the feel of her body, the taste of her lips, the way she responded so quickly the one time I managed to kiss her. My hand moves faster over my dick, the tight friction almost punishing, my hips snapping as I fuck my own fist until I spurt over my hand and my knees go weak.

  Peeling my eyes open, I look down at the mess in disgust. I’m disgusted with myself altogether. I’ve been deserving of the disgust aimed at me from all sides.

  I’ve been spiraling since Blaire left. I know it. Everyone knows it.

  But I’m tired of being a shithead. I’m tired of forcing everyone to clean up my messes, both literally and figuratively.

  And regardless of Viola accepting my apology, I’m determined to stop being an asshole to her.

  Kicking off my jeans, I head to the bathroom and wet a washcloth. Cleaning up after myself starts now.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Viola

  The next morning dawns bright and early, and though I’ve never been a morning person and no matter how much I’m getting paid I’ll never be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, I’m not dragging as much today.

  Spending almost all of yesterday in bed certainly helped.

  I didn’t go back to sleep right away after Mason left, instead flopping around in bed with my brain circling around and around his apology.

  Is that what he really wanted to say to me the night before after we got home from the club? That he’s sorry? That’s why he wanted me to come into his room and have a drink.

  I don’t know …
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  Or did he just feel bad for waking me up and my unhinged tired and nearly incoherent babbling made him feel sorry for me enough that he apologized.

  Though he did apologize for calling me the wrong names. He still couldn’t quite bring himself to call me Viola, though. Not even when I prompted him in the rudest way possible.

  On second thought, that might’ve been part of the problem.

  In any case, he’s apologized, and I’m going to take it at face value. For now. Maybe he’ll call me Viola someday when I’m not treating him like he’s an idiot. But really, who could blame me? For weeks he’s called me anything and everything else.

  With a deep, bracing breath I drag my luggage to the hallway and station it by the elevator. “Hey, Luke,” I say to the security guard on duty. “I’m just going to leave this here while I get the guys.”

  He offers me a nod of acknowledgement. Luke’s not much of a talker, but he seems pleasant enough.

  One by one, I knock on the doors, checking in to make sure everyone’s on schedule, going down the line in my usual order—Marcus, Danny, Aaron, and Mason.

  At Mason’s door I stop, square my shoulders, and take a deep breath. I don’t know what kind of reception I’ll get from him. I normally expect irritation and antagonism. But after yesterday? I don’t know. Politeness, maybe? Hopefully? At least?

  I knock firmly and prepare myself to wait a while. Have to knock again. I’m not using my damn key card, though. Not after the last time. My cheeks heat at the memory, and I jump when the door opens in front of my face.

  Mason looks me over, a sly smile claiming his lips. “You feeling alright?” he asks, just like yesterday. “You look a little flushed.”

  “Fine. I’m fine. Everything’s fine,” I stammer, trying to exorcise the memory of his bare chest, abs, narrow hips, and the thick, round head of his dick that played peek-a-boo with me behind his hand. Instead of calming down, though, my cheeks only get hotter. But I ignore it, despite the way Mason’s looking at me, his eyes roaming my face and down my chest. I know I’m pink all the way down to my neckline. But I’m just going to pretend I’m not.