Page 22 of Beyond the Bright Lights

Lana frowns in thought, maybe considering asking me what I mean by that. She doesn’t, though, and instead gets back to work, setting the full glass of beer in front of Gary. She turns around and taps away at the cash register’s digital screen. It gives me the perfect view of her plump ass. Tonight, she’s wearing faux leather black pants that might as well have been painted on. Her entire back is exposed because of the shimmery purple halter top she’s wearing. Besides the sleeve of tattoos along one arm that pours over the top of her left shoulder, tattoos also line her spine, from the nape of her neck to the small of her back. Before I can focus on each symbol—small minimalist designs—she whips around.

I avert my gaze but not quick enough.

“Mylan,” she warns.

“What? You said not to flirt, but you didn’t say anything about looking.”

She rolls her eyes and this time she truly smiles.

Fuck.

That smile is as smooth as Tennessee whiskey and my dick is thirsty for those soft lips. Great. I'm hard again. I fucked my fist last night back at the hotel, then again, this morning in the shower, and once more after getting her number and returning to my sad little room.

This is only day two, and she’s already consuming my thoughts day and night and wreaking havoc on my body. I desperately hope she lets me in. I hope that wall she built to keep me out cracks more every day.

I hope she lets it fall.

Before heading to Lana’s, I have my driver stop by a local donut shop—the only one in town. Eloise, being she’s my assistant, was supposed to wake up and take care of this, but she declined all my calls and texts and refused to answer her hotel door. That means she’s either sleeping off a hangover or she met someone and is still in bed with them.

Don’t get me wrong, Eloise is an excellent assistant. I’m lucky she stayed my assistant after this last stint. So, I don’t mind her blowing off steam to forget why I’m a horrible boss.

Despite not helping me with the donuts, Eloise still managed to wake long enough to send me links to all the articles about my past two nights at a bar, fresh out of rehab. I didn’t read them. I'm sure there were plenty of pictures. I'm sure they painted me in the worst light imaginable.

Bruno goes inside Daisy’s Donuts alone to avoid me getting bombarded by fans, and picks up a box, returning to the car with a confused look on his face.

“Ich glaub mein Schwein pfeift.”

“Translation?”

“I think my pig is whistling.”

“Try again.”

“I . . . I cannot believe it. They had donuts I did not know existed. Donuts with cereal, Oreos, and bacon. There was an egg sandwich but with two donuts as buns.” He blanches as he hands me the box with two black coffees in a tray on top.

I laugh at my European friend who, despite living in America for six years, still can’t believe some of our overindulgent customs.

“Will Ginger be there?” he asks, hopefully.

“I don’t think so, B.”

He frowns.

“You like her?”

My massive, “tough guy” bodyguard blushes like the teddy bear that he is and the corner of his lip tilts up. “She makes my nerves sizzle like a frying pan. My stomach gets all twisty when she smiles and winks at me.”

Bruno shrugs a broad shoulder.

“I know exactly how you feel, buddy.”

I open the lid to the box of donuts and my mouth waters. Bruno got every single pastry he named off (minus the donut egg sandwich) and then some. Crème filled, glazed, cake donuts. I don't treat myself like this often, but as I was saying goodbye to Ginger and Lana last night, Ginger stood on her tiptoes and whispered in my ear to show up with donuts and coffee for our first meet-up about becoming Tyler Taylor.

Is Lana’s best friend playing matchmaker?

We pull into the empty parking lot of Lilies, passing one of those huge backlit white signs near the road. Black letters spell out drink specials and promote Friday night bands and Saturday night Rock Star Karaoke. Paparazzi are camped on the sidewalk, hovering on the edge before it turns into Lana’s private property. They yell my name as we drive past, clicking away. The sound of the shutter from the dozens of pictures they take can be heard through my closed window.

Lana’s bar is rustic—two stories with a triangular roof and brown siding with darker trimmings. It looks like a luxurious cabin someone built in the woods to escape the world. Medium-sized bushes line the front with a few red and yellow flowers mixed in along the ground. The landscape is professionally kept, not only along the front, but in the back as well.

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