Forgetting Popper (Los Rancheros #3) Read Free Page B

The wind tickles my legs through the various slits. My upper
body is covered by a shirt that aptly states “Rock and Roll stole
my soul,” covered by a flannel shirt, and for good measure, over
that I have my trusty leather jacket.
    By the time I make it to the top floor I’ve
got my face set, telling myself over and over it doesn’t matter if
they don’t want me anymore. As soon as I step off the elevator, I
see two people I was not expecting to be here.
    “What are you doing here?” I ask immediately.
Brian stands up and brushes his suit jacket over his potbelly.
Tammy stands more gracefully.
    “We were called in this morning when you
actually agreed to come here. It’s an embarrassment the way you’ve
put this off. The next contracts have to be signed before the tour
is over,” Tammy says while trying to look down her nose at me.
    “You missed the fucking concert, by the way.
It’s a good thing we could get such a late flight last night or we
wouldn’t even be here,” Brian says, walking closer to me. I force
myself not to back away.
    “Why did you get on a plane last night? I
didn’t agree until this morning.”
    Tammy shrugs. “Mr. Brennick’s secretary
called late last night to say you would be meeting him, so we
dropped everything. Inconsiderate, as usual.” She purses her lips
for only a second in disapproval before straightening them out
again to make sure she doesn’t get wrinkles.
    The chirpy voice is back, and interrupts
whatever comeback I had. “Mr. Brennick will see you now, Ms.
Dinah.” She was a little bitty thing, probably in her forties, but
all smiles that instantly make me tired.
    I turn to follow the little bird as she flits
down the hall toward a conference room at the end of the hall, not
waiting for my entourage.
    “Can I get you something to drink, Ms.
Dinah?”
    I lick my lips nervously, immediately pissed
at myself. “Water. In a bottle.”
    “Of course, and you, sir?” My manager and
publicist give long-winded, complicated drink orders that make me
cringe as I scan the room. No lawyers. Just a man with his back to
the room, looking out the floor to ceiling windows. For some reason
I stare at him.
    Maybe not some reason, he does think
he holds my fate in the music industry in his hands. But in his
perfect charcoal suit, he looks down on the world like a hawk. He
knows we’re here, yet he stays with his back to us. I know all
about intimidation, and this man is a master. Too bad I’m the queen
of this game.
    Or so I thought.
    When he turns around, his features are
catalogued almost in slow motion. Is he moving slower? Am I still
being affected by the drugs? I must be, as I see broad shoulders
give way to massive chest. Adam’s apple, tanned skin, clean shaven
face, strong jaw. Slight dimple in his chin, strong nose that may
have been broken once upon a time, high cheekbones. It’s the eyes
that gut me. Grey eyes that have stared into mine more times than I
can count. He has such expressive eyes. He asks a question and I
hear it without him ever saying a word. He reprimands and I feel
the lash. He praises and it warms my cold heart.
    “Batty,” I croak. The sound of my own voice
is what gets me moving. I flash back to a conversation we had in an
elevator what seems like a million years ago as I stalk across the
room.
    “ I’m trying really hard not to slap you
right now,” I growl.
    He smirks and looks at the doors. “One day
you will. But it won’t be today.”
    His eyes tell me he knows what’s coming, but
he doesn’t stop me. I think about balling my fist and ruining his
pretty suit, but even as I think it his eyes flash. Why does he
have this power over me even now? I want to erase the last five
minutes, go back to where he was my Sundays, and didn’t intrude
into my Monday.
    The echo of my hand hitting his cheek sounds
in the room like a shot. My palm is instantly on fire, but I’m not
satisfied. I raise the other hand to get in another shot. Batty—or