Page 11 of Reverb
She ran a hand through her curls, teasing out one stubborn copper strand. “No, he loves this place. Practically begged me to buy it, since it was, as he put it, ‘so me.’”
David didn’t know Mish well enough to assess whether that was correct, but given the length of time Mish and Van Zeller had been bandmates—probably was. Despite its vibrant colors and interesting combination of old and modern furnishings, the place was soothing, and that did describe Mish Sullivan.
She waved at the couch. “Anyway, have a seat. I’m gonna get that glass of something stronger you recommended. Want anything?”
Yeah. An evening off the job with the woman before him, but that wasn’t going to happen. He took a seat on the couch. “Just a glass of water, if it’s not much trouble.”
“None at all.” Her smile was bright and warm, like the golden light filtering in through the windows. He hoped that smile would still appear after he showed her exactly why he was in her living room.
The kitchen was a solace for Mish. She needed to catch her breath and get her head screwed on straight.
That fucking photographer. At least David hadn’t panicked at her being followed, but shehatedit. Hated it so much, even if it was the guy’s job to get photographs of her.
Mish pressed her palms into the marble of the counter and counted to ten, letting the cool, smooth surface ease the jagged edges of her mind.
This was the side of being in Twisted Wishes that made her want to spend her days in bed sometimes. Mostly, people were good. Fans were great—appreciative, respectful, full of life. She lived for those interactions, the ones that mattered.
Sheloathedbeing clickbait.
Her hand still ached from the attack and practicing, and now David Altet was in her living room about to tell her about a fucking internet stalker. She didn’t need this. The only thing that made it remotely okay was that David seemed to have a good head on his shoulders.
And those shoulders weredamnnice, along with the rest of him.
She blew out a breath.Don’t even go there.The trash sites probably already had him listed as her latest fling and the whole “well, maybe she’s straight!” shit would start again. Ever since Ray and Zavier had hooked up and then with Dom’s love affair with Adrian spread around the internet, everyone was into her business and waiting for her to pick a partner.
She rolled out her shoulders and arms, headed to the cabinet that contained her liquor, and pulled out a glass and a bottle of Elijah Craig bourbon. Maybe the shit that was coming wouldn’t throw her that much, but the rest of the day had. A finger of bourbon was enough—being drunk wasn’t on her list of plans for the foreseeable future. Too many bad memories there. Her mother’s exes. Her absent father. Kevin, their former drummer.
She grabbed another glass and filled it with water from a pitcher in the fridge, then headed back in to hear whatever it was that’d dragged David into her living room rather than a perfectly acceptable bar.
When she entered, David was running his elegant finger over the reproduction of a Byzantine mosaic she’d had set into the center of the coffee table, his dark eyes focused on the path his finger took over the bird’s body. His movements were simple, but something about them flipped heat in her stomach and had her body at attention. Maybe the care he took, maybe the intensity. His hands and wrists were thin, almost delicate, despite his height—five-nine wasn’t anything to sneeze at, regardless of her earlier comments.
When the wooden floor creaked beneath her feet, he looked up, a smile gracing his lips.
She liked his smile, that touch of bad-boy coupled with honest warmth. Didn’t do anything to calm her nerves.
Shit, she needed to get laid. Or at least spend some quality time with her vibrator.
“Like the design?”
He nodded. “It’s Byzantine, yes?”
Interesting that he would know that. “Yeah, one that’s on display in a museum in Thessaloniki.”
“You Greek?”
She shook her head. “Just love the art. Zavier nearly stole the table from me the first time he saw it, though.” She eyed David. “You?”
“Part of my family’s from Spain, the other part is Eastern European.” He leaned back on the couch. “I grew up with a love of icons, mosaics, and incense.”
Even though it was expected, she didn’t say anything about her heritage. Half of it she didn’t know, sincedeadbeatwasn’t a nationality. She suspected some Irish because of her hair and her mom’s surname, but who knew? Her mom had been beautiful, blonde, and tall. Dutch, she’d said once.
She handed David his water and set her bourbon on a coaster. “So what do you have for me?”
He grabbed one of the other coasters and set his water down. “There’s been a disturbing pattern of emails and comments. Not from the same IP or email addresses, but those can be spoofed easy. The content, though, is similar.” He played around with his phone, then handed it to her. “Start at the bottom and read up.”
She did. At first, she rolled her eyes, because the comments were merely about what the dude liked and disliked about her clothes. Over time, though, the tone changed and a cold chill rose up Mish’s spine. They—he—became more demanding. Included photos of her, and not ones she’d seen in the press, either. He deemed her dress wrong. She was too loose and free. When she was finally with him, things would change, he said. He knew the kind of girl she was, knew what she needed. Nothingovertlysexual, like the one-offs she used to get from guys wanting her to suck them off or whatever.
Whoever this dude was, he’d homed in on her, and yeah, was following her.
