Page 49 of The Fix

Which makes me difficult to diagnose.

I chose not to follow through with the back and forth appointments, instead having thrown myself into my work and the reason I chose this profession.

“Two options,” Toby murmurs, his sight trained on my lips as he speaks. “Eat the chili, or I eat you. Take your pick, Mama.”

“But you just—”

“Mm,” he growls and sinks his teeth into his bottom lip. “I could eat that pussy all night long, Mama. Try me.”

My face burns with the embarrassment and arousal, and it’s all I can do to just wrap my fingers around his wrists. “That won’t be necessary.”

“Then let’s get you something to eat.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

It’s the fist heard ’round the world!

Picture it—a simple grocery trip in the middle of blizzard ends in meeting a rock star. That would be a feat all on its own, right? But what if that same rock star—known for his aggressive and chaotic behavior—punched you in the face?

That’s right, ladies and gents.

Toby Jeffers, bassist for As Above, was photographed assaulting a fan just this evening.

Come back in just a few for the full article on this crazed man and his wild exploits.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Toby

If I’d know that a trip to the grocery would end up on the front page news of every tabloid known to the industry, I would have done it sooner.

Because not only is the asshole with the ugly mug that got too close to Anna on the front page but so is the swing I took at him.

Serves him right. Little bitch.

It has, however, put a damper in the evening because the woman I’d rather have my hands on is the one who’s currently pacing around the living room with her phone braced between her head and shoulder as she taps away at a tablet.

Guess you can’t take me anywhere.

I have no idea what she’s doing, why it’s taking so long, and I’m only listening to every other word she says into the phone.

Instead, I’m imagining those same lips around my dick, making me come again.

It’s the only thing stopping me from reaching for the whiskey in the cabinet above the fridge. I wanna be sober for the feel. I wanna be clear for the touch. I wanna be here, on this planet, for the taste.

If only my trembling hands would get the memo.

“This would be less boring with some Jack. Or Coke. Possibly both, maybe one of each.” I smooth my hands over the flat surface of the countertop I’m perched against, where I’ve been ignored for the last several hours.

Dinner went just fine, where I caught a few sneaking glances from Ms. Prune who was pretending not to enjoy the attention and the food, but that disappeared the moment her damn phone rang.

Since then, she’s been strictly professional. Almost overly so with how much she’s pretending I’m not here. Including the scowl she’s throwing my way for the comment I shrug against.

Fine.

Let’s see how well that phone call fares against a few rounds of practice riffs.

Anna’s back is to me when I land my ass back in the stool, my six string in my grip, and a pick pinched between my teeth.

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