Not a lot of foot traffic.
“Just pull it together,” he said. “You need to pull it together.”
He shut off the water with his elbows and went to rub his hands dry on his—oh, shit. His shirt.
He stripped himself and wadded up the cotton, shoving it into the three-inch-wide space between the sink and the battered cupboard. He’d have to come back for it; he had other things to worry about now—but at least he had a clean button-down in his backpack.
The next thing he washed was his face, his neck, his chest. And hit all that shit with bleach, too.
When he was finally done, a quick check of his watch reassured him that other than housekeeping staff, he was likely totally alone.
Walking around the cramped space, he brushed cobwebs out of the way, but was thankful for them. Along with the heavy layer of dust on the countertops and the seventies labels on the supplies on the shelves, it seemed reasonable to assume no one had been anywhere near here recently.
Well, except for him and Jennifer. And she’d stayed out in the hall.
She wasn’t going anywhere. Anymore.
“Shit, shit, shit.”
Focus. He needed to f**king focus—God, he hated when he got like this. All scattered and weird in the head—
“Hello.”
G.B. let out a bark as he wheeled around. Standing in the doorway, looking like twelve million dollars, was that brunette, the one who had come and visited him the night before last.
“I’m glad I found you,” she said in that seductive voice of hers.
“How did you know I was down here?”
Had she seen—
The woman waved a manicured hand, batting away the question. “Someone upstairs saw you. They said you were with a woman—I hope I’m not interrupting.”
From out of nowhere, the self-preservation that had always rescued him came to the forefront, zipping him up tight.
“I’m not sure where she went.” He felt himself smiling. “What can I do for you?”
The woman walked into the squalid room, her perfume covering up the sting of the bleach and the musty odor of the damp concrete walls.
“I’ve been thinking about you,” she murmured.
“Have you?” He snagged an old cloth and wiped his hands, wishing the thing was clean. “That’s lucky for me.”
She looked around the utility room. “What are you doing down here? Half naked?”
“I was looking for some old props. I ended up with paint all over my hands—and my shirt.”
“Messy, messy. But you took care of it, didn’t you.”
Something in the tone of her voice made his eyes narrow. For a split second, he could have sworn knowledge seemed to glow in her stare.
“Did the bleach help?” She sniffed the air. “I can smell it. You know, clean hands are so important.”
What the … fuck?
“Actually, I’ve been thinking about you, too,” he said, taking control of the conversation. “And what you told me.”
“That’s why I’ve come. I believe some things should be done face-to-face.”
“So you’ve listened to my demo?”
“Yes, I have.” She took a step forward.
“And?”
As she took another step toward him, he stayed put and let her close the distance. He was aware that there was plenty down the darkened hall that he couldn’t have her or anyone else see, and so he needed her out of here—fast.
“I love it.”
“Do you?” He deliberately let his eyes drift down to her spectacular br**sts. “That means a lot.”
An A & R Vice President at RCA loved his demo? Shit, the fact that she was smoking hot was for once secondary. “Let’s go upstairs and talk—”
The woman cut him off. “I like it down here. It’s gritty and raw.”
The light above the sink flickered.
“I find that surprising,” he demurred. “Given the way you dress.”
Last time he’d seen the kind of stuff she was wearing, he’d been in a taxi heading down Madison Avenue, looking at window displays.
She licked those cherry-red lips of hers. “I believe in sampling—the work, that is.”
“Do you.” Shit. Bad timing. “Well, you’ve heard my—”
“You are your own product. You write and perform your own songs. Very unusual these days.” Leaning in, she smoothed his bare chest. “Very special.”
Not the time or place.
G.B. took her wrist gently and removed her palm. “I’m flattered.”
Her left eye twitched a little. But then she smiled in a sharp way. “You should be. It’s not every singer that I show an interest in.”
“Are you looking to sign me?”
“Maybe.” There was a silence. “I have to sample the goods first.”
Gone was the seduction—now it was a demand, and the math was very clear: Either he banged her here, or any conversation about his future was going right into the shitter. And she was legit. He’d gone to the Internet and looked her up.
Devina D’Angelo.
If timing was everything, he couldn’t figure out what his destiny was supposed to be. The opportunity he’d waited his whole adult life for had shown up—at exactly the perfectly wrong moment.
“I like to sample the goods,” she said for a third time, putting her hand back on his pec. “And afterward, maybe we can find you a clean shirt.”
Again, there seemed to be some kind of knowledge behind her black eyes. But he was probably just being paranoid.
After a moment, he felt his head nod. “Okay … yeah. Sounds good.”
Chapter Thirty-three
“These are all for me?”
As Sissy leaned into the huge white-and-red Target bag, she was astounded. It was like a bathtub full of yoga pants, and shirts, and sweatshirts—even bras and underwear and socks. And there was another load, this one with books, magazines, bath towels, toothbrushes, and toothpaste.
She sat back in the kitchen chair. “Thank you—this is incredible.”
Adrian, Jim’s roommate, colleague, fellow angel, whatever, looked over as he shut the refrigerator. “And I brought a couple of dinners home with me. Some loaded potato skins or something—and ribs. Also a steak.”
Across the way, she sensed Jim looking at her and she glanced over. He was leaning against the doorjamb, arms crossed over his chest, eyes heavy-lidded.
For a moment, she pictured him on the floor of that bathroom, weeping. Difficult to ever imagine that had happened—right now, between his hard body and impregnable expression, he seemed bulletproof.