Page 6 of Dirty Love

“Had to go upstairs.”

“This place is crazy some nights.”

Some more than others. I still need to get into the guest rooms, but I’ll do that tomorrow morning when the maids are cleaning. “Good place to see and be seen, though.”

He snorts. “Then why are we here?”

It was a good question. Why was he here?

This is thing about friendship when you’re in my line of business. You can’t truly trust anyone. Everyone is hiding something. Everyone has an agenda. Two. More. Agendas inside ideologies studded with debts and expectations and tied up with so many strings…

Washington. Fucking cesspool. And to think that when I moved here, I thought it was magical.

—four—

Tabitha

San Francisco

He calls a little after midnight, Pacific time. Three in the morning for him. One ring, then he hangs up. A signal for me to call back once I’m alone.

I shoo everyone out of my suite, telling them I need to get some sleep.

Instead, I pick up the bottle of tequila I’ve been drinking from and head into my room, heart pounding.

He answers on the first ring, his voice chill and laid-back as always. “Have a good show?”

I hate small talk. “It was fine.”

He doesn’t reply right away. I don’t want to talk about the tour, or performing. Also off-limits are discussions about my manager, my label, and why I’ve refused to see Wilson for almost four months.

We have this. That has to be enough for now.

I take a deep breath. “What did you do tonight?”

He laughs. “Knocked the shit out of assholes for money.”

“That’s healthy.”

Ignoring my sarcasm, he drops his voice. Less chill, more intense. “I want you to come watch me fight some time.”

“I’ve been to fights in Vegas. I hate them.”

“What I do isn’t like anything you’d see in Vegas, secret girl.”

Oh, it’s going to be that kind of night. Someone’s horny, and he knows the pet name gets me going despite myself. I roll onto my side. “I’d go and watch.” This is our shared, impossible fantasy. It makes my chest ache. “Tell me about it.”

I picture him prowling into a dark industrial park. Hoodie up, slim sweatpants. He’d look like a teenage punk. I asked him once how old he is. He doesn’t look like he’s in his mid-thirties, but he swears his baby face is more of a curse than a blessing.

He obviously hasn’t spent enough time in Hollywood.

“So there’s some waiting around, watching the other fights,” he says, still setting the scene for me.

“Is it dangerous?”

“Do you want it to be?”

I press my thighs together. “I want you to stand between me and danger.”

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