Page 22 of Save Me

Fuck. Is that what I've been waiting for all along? For him to finally be gone so I felt like I was free? So I could finally breathe?

It's a grim thought. But…I think maybe it's accurate too.

I barely make it into my office before Daniel strolls in, massive arms crossed and a scowl on his face. He plants his big ass in the chair across from me, kicking one booted heel up on the corner of my desk.

"You didn't check in last night, motherfucker."

"Shit." I grimace, dropping the stack of bills I picked up from my mother. "I forgot."

He eyes me silently, his disapproval coming across loud and clear. It's impossible to operate in this business without spending time in bars and clubs. It comes with the territory when you're in music. But he and I have a longstanding agreement. If I have to do business in a bar, I check in with him afterwards. In the beginning, he went with me. It helped keep my head on straight. I'm past needing a constant babysitter most days, but checking in ensures I don't fuck up. It's accountability to someone other than myself because I've never trusted myself not to slide over the edge if left to my own devices. Self-destruction was a hell of a lure when I spent every day working beside the man who still haunted my fucking nightmares.

"You forgot," Daniel says levelly.

"Isla was there. I had to take her home."

"Ah." He smirks, understanding dawning in his eyes. "You had to take her home, huh?"

"It's too early for your bullshit, Daniel."

"Too bad. It's what you pay me for."

"I pay you to answer phones and manage my schedule. Neither of which you're particularly good at, might I remind you."

He scoffs at me. "You like her."

"Your point?"

"You've never let yourself get close to a woman."

"Still not hearing a point." I don't want to talk to him about Isla. Matter of fact, he's the last person I want to discuss herwith. He pulls no punches, and I don't feel entirely rational about her.

"It's about goddamn time you decided to live a little, Brantley," he says, pegging me with a hard look. "But if this is you feelin' guilty about her sister, I'm stickin' my boot up your ass."

"Her sister has nothing to do with the way I feel about her."

He grins. And goddammit, I know he just played me. He's good at that—getting me to reveal more than I meant to reveal with his bullshit mind tricks. He plays the part of the devil may care, foul-mouthed cowboy well, but he's smart as hell. Too fucking smart, actually. It's infuriating.

"Let's talk about how you feel then," he suggests, leaning back in his chair with that shit-eating grin. "Because I'm dyin' to hear this."

"Get out of my office."

"No can do," he says cheerfully. "Like you said, I'm not particularly good at answerin' your phones or managin' your schedule, but I am damn good at psychoanalyzin' the fuck out of you. And you need some of that right now. You've got a look."

"I do not have a look," I growl. Jesus Christ. How'd I end up with the only sponsor in this state determined to drive me to drink?

"Yeah, you do. Cut the shit. What's goin' on?"

I glower at him. He just stares at me. It's the usual damn standoff. And, like always, he wins. The bastard.

"We slept together," I growl.

His eyes widen. "Jesus, Brantley."

"Yeah."

"How was it?" He holds up a hand. "And I'm not askin' for details. I'm askin' how you felt about being that close to someone when you don't even like bein' touched."

"It's different with her," I mutter.

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