Page 7 of A Billionaire Rebel

“Starla!” I called out as soon as my boss got out of her car.

She was beautiful. Long white-blonde hair, olive eyes, six feet tall and slender. Supermodel material.

And she was vicious.

Something I’d been extremely grateful for on more than one occasion, none more so than right now. Spencer saw her and backed off immediately. He grinned and winked at me, trying to pretend like he was tucking tail and running because of Starla, but I knew it for what it was. Whatever got him out of there was good for me, though.

“Morning, Jae,” Starla said. “Need me to take out the trash?”

I laughed, pushing the door open to let her inside. “Good morning, Starla. Impeccable timing.”

“I see that.” She locked the door behind her. “Ready to get to work?”

“Always.”

Four

Damon

One of thebiggest reasons I preferred rooms on the top floors of hotels was how much quieter it usually was. Most of the places I stayed were nice enough that their walls weren’t paper-thin, but outside noises leaked in nonetheless, especially traffic noise.

The farther from the street, the less it was an issue. I wasn’t one of those ‘must have complete silence’ sort of people, but when I was working, the fewer extra background sounds interrupting my thoughts, the better.

I could’ve worked back home, but sometimes I liked not having any distractions. Here, I could order food when I wanted it or just go downstairs for a meal. It was easier to shut the world out than it was when people knew I was home.

I had the excuse of mileage to keep me from seeming rude when I turned people down for social engagements. I was all for a good party or hanging out with friends, but when I wanted to focus on my work, I liked not having to make excuses.

Writing was hard enough as it was.

With a sigh, I scratched out the last couple words I’d written. Dammit. I just couldn’t get this stupid lyric the way I wanted it. I knew what I wanted to say, but getting it to fit was impossible.

I stood up, my back cracking as I stretched. I’d been up for a couple hours and hunched over the desk almost as long. My stiff muscles protested the movement, and I walked over to the kitchenette to loosen them up. I was also still working out the kinks from last night. It had been well worth it, though.

Ivy had been insatiable and just the right amount of demanding. What could have been a nice but forgettable half hour or so had turned into almost two hours of athletic and creative fucking. The best part had been that, only a few minutes after we were finally done, she’d asked to use the shower, then left without me needing to sweet-talk her into it.

I was usually pretty good at choosing women who understood that an invitation to my room didn’t mean a relationship. Sure, I’d had a few casual girlfriends over the years, but never anything serious. I wasn’t interested in that. I never led them on, and I always treated them with respect, but every once in a while, there’d be someone who thought I just hadn’t met the right woman yet. Still, considering how many women I’d been with, the number who disliked me was surprisingly small.

My breakfast leftovers were in the fridge, and as I heated them up, I hummed the opening bar of the new song I’d been working on. We were supposed to end our current tour before Thanksgiving, then cut a new album after the first of the year, but I didn’t know if we had enough quality content yet. Everyone contributed something, but the bulk of the work came from me, and I was struggling more than usual.

Maybe that was the problem, I mused as I carried my food back to the desk. Maybe I needed to encourage the others to write more. They’d never expressed any interest in taking on more of this side of the business, but maybe they just hadn’t wanted to speak up. Sometimes, I wondered if, because the band had my last name, the others didn’t feel like they had as much input as they would’ve liked.

I stared at the sheet in front of me as I finished my breakfast. There had to be a way to word what I wanted to say that would fit. I just needed the right words. Song lyrics were like poetry, often appearing simple, but a lot more difficult to write than most imagined. Word choice was key. A word not only had to have the correct denotation and connotation, but also fit the rhythm and rhyme.

I popped the last bagel bite into my mouth and reached for my guitar. I’d bought it in college when I’d decided that this was the career I wanted to pursue, and it was still the one I used when writing, even if I didn’t always use it on stage. Some men babied their cars. For me, it was my guitar.

The chord sounded off, and I frowned. Tuning it was second nature, and I let my mind go to the place where it was just music, my fingers moving as I listened for the right sound. When it was tuned to perfection, I smiled and began playing through what I’d written so far. It was a simple medley, the kind that would stick in people’s heads, but the meaning I wanted to pull from the words would be deeper, more complex.

An alert on my computer told me I had an incoming Skype call, and a glance at the time made me realize I’d forgotten about the conference call with the rest of the band. Our next concert was this Friday, so they’d come back to Vegas on Thursday, but we needed to touch base before then.

“Hey, Damon. You look like shit.” Bair Appleton grinned at me. He was Holden’s drummer, and I’d found him playing in a bar in Austin more than a couple years ago. With his scruffy black beard and multiple tattoos, he looked more like a biker than a former rancher, though I was more than a little glad that he didn’t ride a motorcycle considering how irresponsible he’d gotten with his drinking lately.

“Thanks, Bair,” I said dryly, ignoring the crumpled beer cans I could see all around him. I turned my attention to the blonde in the next screen. “Kalini.”

“Damon.” She was only a couple years younger than me, but tiny. The first member I’d recruited, she could play pretty much anything with strings. “Looks like you got an earlier start than these guys.”

“Hey, I was up early and working too.” Kentucky native Hawk Youngen was called ‘Holden’s Heartbreaker’ because he was good-looking and never dated. Some people speculated that he was just discreet. Some people thought he was gay. I knew he was in love with Kalini. The jury was still out as to whether or not she knew it.

“You were washing your car.” The gruff words came from our bass player, Otis Kritzer. At thirty-three, he was the oldest member of the group and the only one with kids. A former Navy Seal, his wife had divorced him shortly before he’d retired. He didn’t talk about it much, but we all knew it bothered him. At least she worked with him when it came to visitation with their three kids.

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