their upcoming show . . .”
Broadcasting live. In the studio right now.
A studio six blocks from here.
My legs respond before my thoughts, carrying me partway to the door before I toss the prepaid to the attendant. “Give me the works, I’ll be back! No lavender!”
Promotion means public appearances. Which means a chance to see Her again. Just a look. A look and a few notes live. No harm in that, right?
I rocket down the sidewalk, hell-bent on catching her. My lungs already ache, subsisting on half breaths as I race for the studio. Worth it.
V
Jax and Sasha clamber into the back of the limo, leaving a trail of feathers and sequins in their wake. The area behind us descends into chaos, with riggers and techs moving as fast as they can to pack up equipment we’re going to use at the mall.
Damon stands between me and the car, coordinating the security team, cherry-picking the best of his guys to ride shotgun in each vehicle and others to drive ahead and behind. All the while, he’s fielding calls, following up tips, and whittling down leads. Hunting for Micah every spare moment, no matter how brief.
Is that what this sudden rash of promotion is for? A trail of bread crumbs for Micah to pick up?
I have plans of my own and pause in front of Damon, teetering in my heels. “Last night’s catching up with me. I’m going to need something to keep me going.” I slowly lean against him, careful not to get any makeup on his suit.
There’s a pause in which I’m certain he holds his breath, and then one of his hands finds its way to the small of my back. The corset I’m wearing today is more like body armor than clothing, the antithesis of my shirt from last night. There’s no bare skin available for touching, yet I can somehow sense the heat from his fingers, his wrist, as his arm tightens. He’s holding me up. I can feel the barest whisper of movement in my hair; he must have given himself permission to breathe again.
I almost feel bad that the only thing he’s going to get for his troubles is a snootful of product.
“Whatever you need,” he says, voice low and controlled, like he’s trying to throttle the words. “We’ve got a lot more to do today, and I need you on your game.”
Turning into his chest, I slide my hands under his coat, making sure he can feel my fingernails through his shirt. “Thanks.”
One of the guards calls to him; I disengage even as he takes a deliberate step away from me. Before he can say anything, I duck into the limo, no doubt affording him a glimpse of bare thigh and black garters under six layers of bruised-raspberry crinoline.
“What’s with the spontaneous bump and grind?” Jax demands, looking like she can’t decide whether to be amused or nauseated.
“I thought Corporate didn’t want the two of you . . . uh . . .” Sasha trails off, making vague hand gestures when she can’t find a polite way to finish the sentence.
“Corporate’s not the only one who doesn’t want us ‘uh-ing.’ Just putting in a formal request for a pick-me-up.” I quickly turn Damon’s phone to vibrate and tuck it into a hidden pocket of my skirt.
M
Pace slowing. Breathing labored. Pain . . . manageable.
I expect to burst onto the scene outside the studio, but there’s no sign of the Skulls, their entourage, or the crowd that populated the area a scant few moments ago. Where throngs of screaming fans, a phalanx of media cams, and the machinery of fame should be, there’s nothing but an empty husk of a stage.
A few members of the studio’s private security force mill about, but otherwise, zilch. The whole scene’s a ghost town, abandoned en masse, leaving a baffled quartet of people who really shouldn’t be allowed to carry batons or stun-tech of any kind.
Still, I keep my distance. I need to catch my breath before I start moving again, and having some wannabe greyface open fire because I sneezed at an inopportune time isn’t really how I want to go out.
The
Broadcasting live. In the studio right now.
A studio six blocks from here.
My legs respond before my thoughts, carrying me partway to the door before I toss the prepaid to the attendant. “Give me the works, I’ll be back! No lavender!”
Promotion means public appearances. Which means a chance to see Her again. Just a look. A look and a few notes live. No harm in that, right?
I rocket down the sidewalk, hell-bent on catching her. My lungs already ache, subsisting on half breaths as I race for the studio. Worth it.
V
Jax and Sasha clamber into the back of the limo, leaving a trail of feathers and sequins in their wake. The area behind us descends into chaos, with riggers and techs moving as fast as they can to pack up equipment we’re going to use at the mall.
Damon stands between me and the car, coordinating the security team, cherry-picking the best of his guys to ride shotgun in each vehicle and others to drive ahead and behind. All the while, he’s fielding calls, following up tips, and whittling down leads. Hunting for Micah every spare moment, no matter how brief.
Is that what this sudden rash of promotion is for? A trail of bread crumbs for Micah to pick up?
I have plans of my own and pause in front of Damon, teetering in my heels. “Last night’s catching up with me. I’m going to need something to keep me going.” I slowly lean against him, careful not to get any makeup on his suit.
There’s a pause in which I’m certain he holds his breath, and then one of his hands finds its way to the small of my back. The corset I’m wearing today is more like body armor than clothing, the antithesis of my shirt from last night. There’s no bare skin available for touching, yet I can somehow sense the heat from his fingers, his wrist, as his arm tightens. He’s holding me up. I can feel the barest whisper of movement in my hair; he must have given himself permission to breathe again.
I almost feel bad that the only thing he’s going to get for his troubles is a snootful of product.
“Whatever you need,” he says, voice low and controlled, like he’s trying to throttle the words. “We’ve got a lot more to do today, and I need you on your game.”
Turning into his chest, I slide my hands under his coat, making sure he can feel my fingernails through his shirt. “Thanks.”
One of the guards calls to him; I disengage even as he takes a deliberate step away from me. Before he can say anything, I duck into the limo, no doubt affording him a glimpse of bare thigh and black garters under six layers of bruised-raspberry crinoline.
“What’s with the spontaneous bump and grind?” Jax demands, looking like she can’t decide whether to be amused or nauseated.
“I thought Corporate didn’t want the two of you . . . uh . . .” Sasha trails off, making vague hand gestures when she can’t find a polite way to finish the sentence.
“Corporate’s not the only one who doesn’t want us ‘uh-ing.’ Just putting in a formal request for a pick-me-up.” I quickly turn Damon’s phone to vibrate and tuck it into a hidden pocket of my skirt.
M
Pace slowing. Breathing labored. Pain . . . manageable.
I expect to burst onto the scene outside the studio, but there’s no sign of the Skulls, their entourage, or the crowd that populated the area a scant few moments ago. Where throngs of screaming fans, a phalanx of media cams, and the machinery of fame should be, there’s nothing but an empty husk of a stage.
A few members of the studio’s private security force mill about, but otherwise, zilch. The whole scene’s a ghost town, abandoned en masse, leaving a baffled quartet of people who really shouldn’t be allowed to carry batons or stun-tech of any kind.
Still, I keep my distance. I need to catch my breath before I start moving again, and having some wannabe greyface open fire because I sneezed at an inopportune time isn’t really how I want to go out.
The
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