Page 3 of Behind the Lyrics
Feeling’s mutual, buddy.
Terri’s gaze bounced from me to him then back to me. She widened her stare and tightened her mouth.
I held back a giggle.She’s probably seeing the station’s one opportunity to garner new listeners and advertisers going up in smoke.
And if that happened, I’d be jobless. I sighed and rolled my eyes.
Without much enthusiasm, I held out a hand to Viktor and took a step in his direction. “Angela Morales.” I kept my words flat and even. “Nice to meet you.”
That lovely gaze traveled over my body, starting with my face then leisurely moving lower. Something flickered in the depths of his pupils, replacing the angry stare with interest—or at least less aggression.
Heat prickled my skin, and I fought an urge to flee. The way his eyes lingered on me, as if he were evaluating a work of art, raised alarm bells in my head.
Keep this professional, Angela. His unending line of women and constant drug and alcohol abuse were well-known when he toured.This thought, more than any others, cooled my heated blood, because it reminded me of my alcoholic ex-husband.
He moved to me and gripped my hand. “Viktor Farrow. It’s a pleasure.” His callused fingertips caressed my palm, creating a spark of heat that shot to my toes.
I tried to pull my fingers from his, but he held fast. A tiny smile twitched at the corners of his mouth.
Exasperated with this little game, I quirked an eyebrow. “I know exactly who you are, Mr. Farrow. The coked-up singer who put his junk in anything that moved.”Oh, no.Sometimes, my mouth spoke before my brain had time to catch up.
Behind me, Terri let out an audible moan then the door clickedshut.
I threw a glance over my shoulder to confirm what I suspected. Terri was nowhere in sight.
Well, it’s true. Everyone knows he’s a druggie.
“Ouch.” He dropped my hand like it was a hot coal. “You really know how to cut a man when he’s trying to build himself back up. Let me guess—you’re a lesbian?”
“What?” I planted my fists on my hips. “What would that have to do—” Shaking my head, I glanced at the monitor.Just over a minute until show time.“Never mind. No, I’m not, not that it matters. But Iampragmatic and have no intention of trying out your community property, so you can put your eyes right back in your head.” Ah, the medicine was kicking in and the jitters fell away. I could handle this swaggering god of rock.
A deep scowl turned his full lips downward. “That was years ago. People change.” He paced to the guest station and sat. “Though I don’t understand why I’m explaining this to you. Hell, I don’t even know why I’m in your dumpy little studio. How many listeners do you have? Three, counting your boss?”
What. A. Jerk.But I had to remember I needed this interview, too, so I reined in my temper. “It’s in K-ROC’s best interest to see this happen. We’re as desperate to make this work as you are to jumpstart your dead career—”
“Wait just a bloody minute.” His face flushed, and he slammed a fist onto the table, the metal and leather bracelets around his wrist clangingagainst the wood. “I amnot—”
“Sorry, poor choice of words.” I inhaled and cleared my mind, which wasn’t a good thing because worn leather and smoky vetiver assaulted my nose, reminding me of happier days as a teenager in the woods camping under the stars with a blazing campfire nearby.
Damn, it should be a sin for him to smell so good when he’s such an obvious jackass.I refocused. “In a few moments, we’re going to need to work together whether we want to or not.”
“Lady, people still fall at my feet and worship me. I amnota has-been.” Those half-lidded eyes opened a bit wider, revealing a darker ring around the tan irises. His lashes were thick, and like his beard, contrasted with his fair hair.
“Whatever you say.” I waved a hand in the air and forced my attention to the next playlist to load once the live interview wrapped.Rock stars. They think if they crook their finger, everyone should come running. Not thischica.
“You have no idea who you’re playing with, Ms. Morales.” He flashed his white teeth at me, but it wasn’t a grin. It was a snarl from an angry—yet beautiful—golden lion.
Shrugging, I broke my stare from his, pulled my mic closer, and turned it on. “Hello, Mesa Palms and all you K-rockers. I have a very special treat for you today. Viktor Farrow of Angry Gods is in the studio with us to talk about an attempt to revive his flailing career.”
I smiled sweetly and found I looked forward to this interview way more than I should’ve.
Chapter 4
Viktor Farrow
Angela was a poor choice of name for the little devil who sat before me with a goading smile. She might’ve looked like an angel with her long, mahogany hair and heart-shaped face, but I searched her forehead, sure I’d find fucking horns—or at least their nubs—poking through the smooth skin.
“So, Mr. Farrow, what have you been doing these past ten years?” Her tone dropped to a husky pitch, and I shifted in my seat. “I don’t remember seeing much about you in the news after your last rehab stint.” Her slanted eyes crinkled slightly at the corners.
