Crazy Love, page 9
She fished her phone free from her pocket and turned it on. Several texts and two phone messages lay in wait. She flipped through the texts. The first one said, You saw the man, not the superstar, I know you did. Give the man a chance. The last one said simply, I’ll stay up until you get here, even if it’s morning. The phone message said something similar.
She quickly typed in a message. I’m coming over.
His answer came in an instant. I’m ready.
I probably smell like tiger piss. Kennedy waited for a reply.
The tiger beneath her stirred, causing her to lift her head. He got to his feet, gave her a sniff, as if confirming her statement, and padded toward the pond, perhaps thinking of a starlight dip in the pool.
Kennedy stood, brushing off her pants. Her phone blipped, and she quickly scanned it.
I probably smell like a freaked out male. Scared you’d run for good.
She smiled at his confession. Needed to sort my head.
Sort it over here. Let me help.
“Yep, the man seems kind.” She let herself out of Kato’s pen, waving to his ghostly body standing in the pond, in the moonlight, watching her. On the way back to Big Jim’s cottage, she dropped the plastic container in the sink, filled it with soap and water, and scrubbed her arms, hands, and face with the strong cleanser they used to wash off the animal stink. So I don’t smell like a fairy princess. I hope he at least appreciates a good clean fuck.
Chapter Twelve – Dante
After Kennedy split from the restaurant, Dante taxied it home, and immediately got on the phone with his lawyer, his agent and his publicist. That scumbag Jordan Jones will be the death of me. Joining the growing list of celebrity lawsuits against paparazzi, Dante had spent a fortune attempting to get the photographer off his tail, with little success. And while his publicist might be able to squash any stories...operative word might...his agent had been livid when told of Dante’s behavior tonight. Unless his lawyer could pull a miracle out of his ass, Dante might be the one faced with assault charges, not the photographer.
After his phone calls, to keep from kicking a hole in the wall, or breaking his floor to ceiling windows, he’d gone into his workout room and pummeled the heavy punching bag hanging from the ceiling, until exhaustion took over.
He’d barely finished when Kennedy’s text message came. Since he didn’t know where she lived, he didn’t know how long it would take her to get to his place. His mind got all twisted, and he didn’t even think to ask. He felt so out of control with this girl. All of the info he possessed amounted to Jack shit.
Now, fresh from the shower, he stalked the front room around and around and around. When his Droid rang, he lunged for it, knocking it off the glass coffee table. “Hello?” he answered, picking it up from the floor, breathless.
“Hey,” his drummer said.
“Oh. It’s you.”
“Yes. It’s me,” Gia replied in a deadpan voice. “Don’t sound so excited. Want to go out and get a drink with me? Heat and Keys are out getting their rocks off with some chicks. I’m bored.”
“Sorry, Gia, I can’t.”
“Is it the new girl?”
“Yeah. She’s driving me crazy. She opens and closes like a frigging door.”
Gia laughed. “You’re not used to that, are you, Mouth?” Hating the model who gave him the nickname, she refused to add the Magic part. “You’re used to supreme adoration. Remind me to congratulate her next time I see her.”
“What do you mean I’m used to adoration?”
“Come on, D, don’t be coy. You’re used to females fawning all over you.”
“I haven’t been sexually active for months,” he said in protest.
“Whoop de doo. Two months. And not for lack of trying on the girls’ part. They’re like puppies the way they hang all over you. And by the way, I wish you’d take one of them up on their offers. You’ve been a bitch to work with lately. Now with Kennedy in the picture, it’s like you’re having the worst menstrual period of your life.”
“Thanks a lot. Where’s the support?”
“Oh, I support you. I just think it’s funny that Kennedy is putting out both flares and caution flags. You’re a lot to handle, in case you didn’t know that.”
“Stop right there.” Dante’s voice grew cold.
“I wasn’t going to say anything.”
“You didn’t have to. I know you’re thinking it.”
Gia grew quiet for a few seconds. “No. I wasn’t.”
“This time,” Dante said.
“Goddamn it, D. No, I don’t think Madeline’s death was your fault. No, I don’t think you and your lifestyle drove her to drugs. I’ve told you over and over—any reactive bullshit I might have said when she died was just that—reactive bullshit. When are you going to forgive me? When are you going to stop thinking that kind of shit?”
Her voice shrieked through the speaker, causing Dante to move it away from his ear.
“And I’ll bet you’re trying desperately to show Kennedy that you’re more than the rock star.”
“So what if I am?” He sounded like a teenage whiner.
“So stop it already! If you want her to see the real you, be the real you. Stop trying. Simply be yourself.”
“I have been the real me.”
“Really? Because if your behavior at Crow & Wicket the other night was any indication, you’re probably putting on your smooth, ‘I’ve got this’ face around her. If she’s as freaked to get close to you as any real woman might be, there’s a reason for it. And you playing the Big Dog isn’t going to help.”
“What the hell do you mean?”
“Please, Dante. Stop being thick. You offered everyone backstage passes, not a huge deal but an expense, nonetheless, a ride in the jet, which our accountant would shoot you for, then you ran after her when she went to the bathroom to escape. I’ll bet you corralled her when she came out of the bathroom.”
“What’s wrong with that?” His words lashed out at Gia.
“Nothing, if she’s only going to be a one-night stand. Sounds like you want a more permanent fixture.”
“Sometimes you’re a pain in the ass, you know that?”
“And you love me.”
“Yeah. On occasion.” He ran a hand through his damp hair. “I was at least honest with her when she grilled me about my past.”
“That’s a start. That shows some cohones.”
“She even asked where I got my stupid nickname.”
“And you told her everything?”
“Not everything, but I didn’t lie.”
Gia sighed in his ear. “Dante.”
“Look, I’m not in the mood to be lectured. And even you don’t know the whole story. I’m way pissed off. Jordan Jones scared Kennedy off.”
“Shit. Not Jones.”
“Yeah, Jones. And I might be up on assault charges.”
“Again?”
“Yeah, again. And then Kennedy took off in the taxi, without me. Rather, with me on top of Jones in the middle of the street about to bust his nose.”
“Shit,” she said again. “The Garden is a mega-gig. The tour is the ride of a lifetime. Our agent’s already having a coronary, hoping we all don’t get into trouble. You have to play it cool, Dante.”
“I know I have to play it cool.” He blew out his breath. “I want her, Gia. I fucking want this woman. None of my usual game seems to be working. She opens, and then puts up solid, impenetrable barriers.”
“But she keeps coming around, right?” Gia’s voice sounded softer. “Were you expecting her to call when I called or merely hoping?”
“Expecting. She’s supposedly on her way. Unless she’s chickened out,” he said, anger rising in his voice.
“So, there’s your answer.”
“What’s my answer?”
“She needs to feel like she has some control, Dante. I can sense it. Give her a long lead line. Toss her a loose rope. Let her grab it and climb at her own rate.”
“You mean sit around and let her make all the first moves like a passive idiot?” The words exploded from his mouth. “Fuck that, Gia. That’s not my way, and you know it.”
“Someone has to steady the rope, you big dummy.”
“You’re not making any sense.” Dante ran his hand through his hair. He stopped trekking through the front room and slumped on the couch.
“You already did it, Dante.”
“I did? When?”
“When you let her make the first move in calling you, remember?”
“Oh, yeah. I did do that. That was pure hell. You saw me at practice.”
“Yeah, I did. And yet you’re capable of giving Kennedy the reins. If you don’t like it, you take them back. I’m sure you’ll have no problem doing that, Dante,” she said, scoffing.
“Okay. What do I do?”
“I can’t figure out everything, Mouth.”
Dante pictured her rolling her eyes. “You’re right. This is mine to figure out.”
“Get cracking, boss. We’ve got a few short weeks before it’s go time at the Garden. Don’t want to fuck up that one.”
“No, Gia. We don’t. Biggest gig of our life can lead us to more, or leave us in ashes. Thanks for the talk, chica.”
“No problem, Mouth. Now go get ‘em, tiger.” She chuckled. “Tiger, get it? She works with tigers?”
“Yeah, Gia. I get it. Let’s hope I can get the girl.”
Chapter Thirteen – Kennedy
Curious about her motivations, Kennedy typed, I did it again, as she sat in the taxi heading for Dante’s.
What’s that? Her sponsor texted back.
Dressed like a hootchie mama.
Are you going to meet the guy? Or out trolling for action?
The latter. With the former.
Then don’t worry about it, Nancy texted. You probably look hot.
It feels like a costume. Like armor. I’m in my ‘fuck you, all you want is sex’ place.
It’s only clothing. It can mean whatever you want it to mean.
Right now it means ‘fuck you, don’t get close to me.’ Kennedy bit her lip.
All the while he’s fucking you. Sounds like he’s definitely going to fuck you with his eyes. Sounds like you want the attention. Own it.
You’re too fucking smart, Kennedy typed.
LOL. Enjoy. Stay safe. Choices.
Kennedy dropped her phone into her clutch. This definitely feels like a booty call. A midnight booty call. I might as well play the part. She sighed, squared her shoulders and looked at the fancy pants apartment awaiting her, hearing the theme song for Pretty Woman playing in her head.
“Here’s your address,” the driver said. “And here’s your price.” He stopped his meter.
She pulled a few bills from her purse and handed them to the cabbie. “Thanks for the ride,” she said. “Keep the change.”
At the door, waiting for the doorman to open it, she had to take several long deep breaths before pressing his number.
“Kennedy Swift?” the elder man asked.
“That’s me.” She tried her best to smile.
“Right this way.” He led her to the lift.
At the elevator, she took several more breaths. On the way up, she seriously considered punching the Emergency button, finding a paper bag to breathe into, and heading back downstairs. When the elevator stopped, she felt certain she’d launch from the top of her head, leaving her body in a heap on the floor.
The elegant doors slid open, and as the sight of Dante came into view, she inhaled sharply and pressed into the corner.
His dark hair lay damp, slicked back from his forehead. Barefooted, he wore gray sweatpants hanging from his hips, and a worn, sleeveless T-shirt, revealing far more muscles than she had a right to see. His arms were folded across his chest, and he seemed to be in no hurry to make a move in her direction. Instead, his green-gray eyes leisurely tracked her from head to toe and back up again, his gaze loaded with potent longing. “Going somewhere?”
I am so over-dressed. “You indicated...I thought you wanted...” She shivered, wishing she could slip into the walls like a ghost, joining Mosi in the afterlife. She lifted her jaw. “I’m here, aren’t I?”
“Should I entertain you in the lift?” The corners of his lips rose in amusement. “Or should I change and we can hit the town?”
“No,” she squeaked. She cleared her throat. “No.” She stepped from the elevator, gliding past Dante.
Eyes fixed on her body, he still made no move in her direction.
She rounded the corner into his penthouse mansion, her eyes widening at the splendor, at the view, at the everything. She stared, puzzled, at the blank walls, punctuated with hooks for hanging pictures or paintings. The back of her neck prickled as if she were being watched. She turned to see Dante, in the same position, only now leaning against the wall between the foyer and this magnificent room.
“Your decorator forgot something,” she said.
“What’s that?”
“Pictures. Paintings. Art. You only have hooks.”
“I’m waiting for new art to adorn my walls. Everything was extremely outdated.”
“I see.” She continued to saunter through the room, his gaze tracking her every move.
“Can I get you anything? Wine? Scotch? Beer?”
“No, thanks, I’m fine.”
He strode toward a small, elegant bar tucked in the corner, removed a crystal tumbler from a glass shelf, and filled it with a finger of amber liquid from a crystal decanter. He lifted it to his lips, pausing before taking a sip. “Are you sure I can’t get you anything?”
“No, thanks.” She took a deep breath for courage. “I’m an alcoholic and an addict.”
His eyes narrowed briefly, and his nostrils flared. He hesitated before taking a swallow of his drink, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “How active?”
“In recovery. Three-hundred sixty-eight days now.” She scrutinized him waiting for a reaction.
He nodded and took another sip. “Good. Is it hard? Not using?”
She looked him directly in the eye. “Some days are better than others.” When’s he going to tell me to leave?
“But you manage.” It came out as more of a command.
“Yes. I manage.”
He tipped his head back and tossed the remaining liquid down his throat.
She studied his firm jaw and throat, the ambient light in the room making his skin appear bronze.
He set the tumbler on the granite bar top. “I’m not an alcoholic. But I do drink. That going to be a problem for you?”
“We’ll have to see, won’t we?”
Studying her, he raked his hair with his fingers and changed the subject. “I’m not going to make the first move with you, Kennedy. I think I scare you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means, I’m here for the taking. But you’re going to have to take the lead.”
This unsettled her. Dressed like this, in a blue and black shimmering dress that barely covered her ass, plunged low in the front, and dipped deep in the back, high heels adding inches to her five-foot-six height, she expected Dante to be all over her. She wanted him to be all over her so she could reject him if she felt overwhelmed. Instead, he’d handed the keys to her. She glanced toward the foyer.
“Yeah,” he said. “That, too.”
“Excuse me?”
“You can leave if you want to. I won’t talk you out of it.”
Her eyes met his again, confused.
“Your move,” he said again.
“You can’t mean that,” she said, suspicious. This has to be a trick.
“Can’t I? Test me.” He took a couple steps in her direction.
She shrank back, thinking, Right, it’s my move. Liar.
Instead, he brushed past her, heading for the leather sofa. He sat down, his back propped against suede pillows, one arm lying along the back, the other on the armrest, one leg stretched the length of the couch. “Your move,” he repeated for the third time.
The city night provided the backdrop to the intoxicating vignette before her. Weighing her choices—leave or stay—she decided the latter was more delicious. She stepped out of her heels, and peeled out of her pantyhose, wanting to feel the plush fur and hide carpets and gleaming wood beneath her feet.
He watched her, his eyes narrow. His tongue slid along his upper lip, then disappeared, drawing her attention toward his mouth.
She stalked toward him, feeling like a big cat—a wet and extremely wanting cat.
His mouth parted, but his arms stayed put.
When she stood a foot away, she said, “Take your shirt off.”
He levered forward, peeled his shirt from his torso and tossed it on the floor, revealing a chiseled six-pack, golden brown abs and enough chest hair to tickle. A bold tattoo of a heart with a dagger through it, blood dripping from the blade, colored his left pec.
So sexy, she thought, her libido surging.
“Now what?”
“I don’t know.” She stepped closer, leaned forward, and reached out to trace a line along his firm belly. The contact with his skin made her sizzle.
He sucked in a breath, his erection jerking against his sweatpants, but he didn’t move.
She let her head fall forward, allowing her long hair to glide against his skin.
He hissed.
She delicately used the pads of her fingertips to draw spirals along his stomach and sweep up toward his chest. His nipples made her mouth water. She dipped her head and suckled one, drawing it to a small, hard point. She repeated the process on the other side.
He groaned.
When she lifted from her ministrations, she delighted in seeing his head resting languidly against the pillow, eyes closed, lips parted. The juncture between her legs throbbed in anticipation. I can’t let him see my tattoo. She kissed the pulsing artery in his neck, letting her lips rest on the steady beat, beat, beat of the blood pushing rhythmically through his skin. She progressed up his throat, placing lingering kisses on his strong jaw. Every place she touched made her insides quiver with need. She made her way to his succulent lips, allowing her lips to brush against the soft skin, back and forth, before melting against his mouth.
