Page 81 of Hollow Heart

Lou doesn’t get up, but he nods at us as I continue my tour.

“This is the living room, or one of the four living rooms, technically, where all the producers hang,” I say, pointing out Palo and the other studio producers.

I gesture to the area of the room I occupied previously, pointing out Geo, Dare, and Jinger. The only one missing from the bunch isMage Of Mercy’s lead singer, Mateo Starr, aka Matty, but he’s always been reclusive, even for a rockstar of his caliber.

I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s holed off somewhere on one of the top floors, where no one else is, just so he can avoid the rest of us.

“And what about up there?” Duncan points to the grand staircase, to the balcony that overlooks everything.

“Four bathrooms, a game room, and of course, guest bedrooms. Third floor has the master, plus a conservatory, and a music studio. That’s probably where Mateo is.”

I watch as Duncan slides his hand up the staircase banister, my gaze falling on his perfect, round ass as he slowly ascends the stairs.

He turns his head to look at me over his shoulder, raising an eyebrow. “Well, are you coming or what?”

I sigh, knowing I’m sealing my doom.

Of course, I will go wherever this man wants me to go. I’d rather be around him than Jinger and Dare.

Geo’s okay... but his straight edge former Christian rock shit gets on my nerves. The guy is about as pure as Colombian cocaine, despite his aesthetic.

I skip ahead of him, if only so I can illustrate dramatically the beauty of the main feature of this damn staircase.

The gigantic crystal chandelier.

“And of course, we can’t miss thePhantom Of The Opera,” I say sarcastically as Duncan looks up. I find a spot on the landing, over the railing, watching as Duncan slowly makes his way upward, his eyes as wide as saucers.

“We didn’t do press anywhere like this, in my day,” he states absentmindedly.

“Yeah, well, in your day, I’m sure you walked barefoot uphill in the snow both ways to the radio station.”

Duncan shoots me a glare, and I bite my lip.

Sometimes I wish I had a filter.

But alas, if I thought about everything before I said it, I wouldn’t have four Grammy’s.

That’s the beauty of being a singer slash songwriter. Sometimes, the lack of filter is best when it comes to writing songs.

Duncan makes his way over to where I stand, and suddenly, I feel hot. This close, I can smell his heavenly Old Spice scent mixed with cologne, and it makes my mouth water. Combined with his gold shirt and the sparse gray and brown chest hairs poking through his collar opening, I can’t deny I am attracted to the man.

Why do I always want what I can’t fucking have?

His expression changes, hardening, and a tension breeds between us.

“Is there somewhere we can... talk?” he inquires, swallowing harshly.

Panic floods me as he adds, “Privately, I mean? You know, before the press junket. Get some things, uh... straight?”

My heart sinks at his words. Get thingsstraight.

Like, where we fucking stand before the cameras start flashing.

I nod toward one of the rooms on the other end of the hall, the opposite side of where the press is starting to gather. It usually takes a bit for them to trickle in, which is why we all arrive so bloody early.

“Yeah, of course,” I reply as nonchalantly as possible, trying not to betray the fact I feel like I’m walking to my doom.

Maybe he’snotstaying. Maybe this is why he came. To tell me he’s leaving.

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