Page 51 of Darcy
“I can do that online with my own money,” I insist. “Besides, Arlo said he didn’t like my new clothes.”
Slate brushes off my concern. “Let us pamper you,mi reina. Dodger makes far too much money for one person with his boring stocks as it is.”
“Hey, that’s nothing compared to what Prophet gets paid to write four-line-wonders for overpaid, whiny pop stars,” Dodger says.
I press the heel of my palm into my forehead. “Stop it. This money talk is making me uncomfortable. I’m more than capable of taking care of myself.”
Although the news that Prophet is writing pop music in his spare time has me looking at him in a different light. Sure, I know a lot of artists can’t write music—even Elvis didn’t write most of his stuff—but I had no idea the drummer of a metal band would be the brain behind a lot of popular artists.
I take a sip of my coffee, thankful that Dodger made me a fresh cup.
“Fine. If I’m staying, then I’d like answers. Who trashed my room last night, and why?”
I doubt they’re going to answer me honestly, but if I can get more information on how they’re being blackmailed, then this won’t be a total waste of time.
All three men share a look, but they’re spared from answering as Arlo returns, almost running straight into Prophet’s back as he steps out of the elevator.
“I brought breakfast!” he announces, stepping around the drummer to deposit a pastel-coloured box of heaven on the table. “Orange muffins!”
The guitarist opens the box and passes me a soft, fluffy piece of citrusy goodness with a flourish. “I remembered you said your sister made you some on your birthday last year. I’m not sure if they’re as good...”
They probably have less of a chance of killing me, but I don’t mention that. Hopefully, California’s bakeries have fewer assassins working in their kitchen than the manor does.
Reluctantly relinquishing my coffee, I take a bite and groan. “Yes! Oh my God, they’re almost as good as Karma’s.”
I quietly resolve to never, ever mention that to my sister. I value my life.
“When the tour is over, I’ll cook for you,” Slate promises, unexpectedly. “I’m pretty sure I can make you a pizza you love more than the abomination that is pepperoni and pineapple.”
I roll my eyes, but don’t comment. “I’m still waiting for an answer.”
Arlo looks blank, but the others have no such excuse.
“I’m not dumb,” I press, taking another bite. “People don’t trash technicians’ rooms and write bloody messages on their walls for no reason. I haven’t pissed anyone off—that I’m aware of—and none of you seemed surprised by any of it.”
“Would you accept a rain check?” Dodger hedges. “It’s not an easy thing to explain.”
“All you have to know is that we’ll keep you safe,” Slate says, brushing over the subject with too much calculated ease. “Stay with us, and you’ll never have to worry about them again.”
I frown, wondering if he honestly thinks such a bullshit line will work on me, but luckily for him, Arlo comes in with a sneak attack. He takes his sunglasses off, hitting me with a guileless baby blue stare as he twirls the frames around and around.
“We’ll tell you everything, Dark. Just give us a chance to figure out how.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, wondering how much of a show of token resistance I need to give. I’ll let them get away with not explaining, because I already know that the cartel is responsible. While I’d like to understand how they got mixed up with a cartel, it’s not necessary for my mission.
“And in the meantime,” Slate continues, effortlessly shepherding the conversation. “Let us show you how good things could be between us.”
I have to stifle a snort. He may as well have said: “Ignore the huge danger, Darcy, and while you’re at it, fancy a turn on my pogo stick?”
“Slate.” Prophet’s tone is full of warning.
“You put your keys in the bowl,” his band mate replies evenly.
I snort, because I know that doesn’t mean anything. “Do any of you know a single living man who wouldn’t put his hat in the ring if sex was on the table?”
Those mismatched eyes pierce me, flickering with emotion that I still just don’t understand.
“If you can’t tell me why I’ve been targeted, you can at least tell me how you expect a relationship to work,” I continue.
