Page 97 of Serving the Maestro

I left before she could say anything else, but it didn’t ease this strange, sick uneasiness that washed over me.

She’d given me a smug look as I walked out, filled with confidence.

Ask Trent. I knew how to tell when somebody was bluffing. It was crucial in my line of work—women in tech have to know when to call a bluff and know when to walk away.

She hadn’t been bluffing.

THIRTY-FIVE

TRENT

“I’d like to leave, Trent.” Jazz cut around me from behind, catching me off guard.

Rising, I studied her pale face, the sharp glitter in her eyes, and reached out to touch her.

She’d already turned away, picking up a lacy scrap of material that passed as her wrap and tossing it over her shoulders.

The music had picked up when she turned around to face me. She was so pale, her eyes too dark, and worry settled in my gut, but there wasn’t any way to have a private conversation here.

“Alright.” I tapped the small electronic tablet built into the table, closing out my tab for the night, and went over to her arm.

I was about ten seconds too late. Jazz was already halfway to the stairs across the floor and taking the first step by the time I caught up.

“Are you sick?” I asked, resting a hand at the base of her spine as we stepped outside. My driver caught sight of us almost immediately, judging by the way he flashed his lights, then pulled out from his spot halfway down the block.

Jazz was staring off in the distance. “No. I’ve just got a headache.”

I cupped my hand over the back of her neck. “I could maybe help—”

“The car’s here,” she said, voice cool. Stepping away from me toward the curb, she opened the door and ducked inside, gripping the top of the door to balance on her mile-high heels instead of letting me help.

What the fuck?

* * *

I wouldn’t have been surprised to find I had frostbite by the time we reached my place. After a few awkward attempts to get Jazz to talk to me, I’d lapsed into silence and figured it would be better to wait until we were home anyway. She sat across from me rather than next to me and kept rubbing her temple so she might have a headache, but that wasn’t the main problem.

She was pissed.

Once we were inside my place, I touched her shoulder. “Are you going to talk to me? Tell me what’s going on?”

“Nothing’s going on, Trent. I just have a headache, and I’m tired,” she said, still not looking at me. “I’m going to sleep in the guest room.”

She shrugged my hand off her shoulder and walked off.

We hadn’t had eye contact for more than ten seconds since she’d returned from the bathroom at the club, and now she was shutting me out of her bed.

Or shutting herself out of mine.

“What the hell?”

I wanted to storm after her and demand she talk to me, but the way she’d shut down had me off-balance. Should I give her some time to cool down over whatever had her angry?

What was the right way to handle it when your girlfriend was pissed?

And how the fuck did I figure that out since I’d never really had a girlfriend?

Swearing, I made a beeline for the bar and poured myself a healthy serving of scotch.

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