Page 12 of Dirty Love

“He might have his wife with him.”

I toss my hair. “Oh, kinky.”

“Tabitha.”

“What? Are you going to pretend you don’t want me to blow him? You want me to blow everybody.”

He doesn’t say anything.

I close my eyes. “I need my rest. Go away. I’ll do your bidding and you can judge me for it, just like always.”

At first I think it’s going to work. But then I feel the heat of his body, an oppressive blanket against my side. His words come out hissing like snake. “Don’t you fuck with me, Tabitha. I know all your dirty secrets, and unless you want them plastered…everywhere, you’ll keep your fucking mouth shut. And your legs, too.”

We’ve done this before, many times. It never gets easier. I press my palms to my legs and will myself not to freak out. “I’m not—”

“Don’t lie to me. You’re…planning something.” He draws an unsteady breath. I still don’t look at him. “But you think you’re just hurting me. Ticket sales are slow for the next tour leg. You’re fucking this up for everyone.”

I know I am. I start to shake. “It’s all your fault,” I whisper. Fuck it. Fuck him. I don’t care anymore.

He laughs, close enough to my face that I feel his breath against my cheek. It feels hot and gross. Drops of spit land on my cheek as I turn away. “You’ve always got another choice, Tabitha. Ten years and you haven’t taken it.”

“Not much of a choice.”

“Only because you’re a pathetic, greedy bitch.” Hard and heavy, his words bludgeon me. Slam. You’re awful. Slam. You’re gross. Slam. You’re a slut. Slam—

A song starts in the back of my mind. Darkness pulls in around me as I disconnect from his hatred, pulling into myself. I’m scared, yeah. Fucking petrified. But I’ve learned how to survive, too.

He has no idea.

No, I don’t have a plan. Wilson’s kept me deliberately in the dark. That doesn’t mean I can’t and won’t defend myself if the opportunity presents itself.

And Victor Best in my dressing room? Maybe I can work with that. What’s the worst that can happen?

DIRTY LOVE

part two

dirty

—seven—

Wilson

eight months earlier

Los Angeles

July

I don’t like L.A.

It’s my job to sniff out insincerity, to figure out where the lies begin to stain the truth and trace the edges to the culprit. Because there’s always someone pulling the strings. There’s always a puppet master.

The problem is, in L.A., everyone’s a puppet master, and life is a set of staged lies.

They call it performance.

I call it fucking annoying.

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