Page 32 of Out of the Blue

Because I don’t have any other excuse, I force myself closer to the man I’d left sleeping in his bed last night. Although there’s no room, I insinuate myself between Joey and Maurice, at an angle where I can’t see Trent. About as good as I can get.

Joey examines his phone and raves, “Guys. You have to check out these photos. And Cordelia even did a cool video from ‘Let Me Give You a Sweet.’” He passes his phone to Maurice, who swipes through and gives it to Dwight. The drummer gives me a thumbs up and hands the phone to Trent. The guys all praise me and gush over the short video.

Dwight points at Trent. “There you are! Check you out, flirting with those chicks in the front row. Man, I’m so happy to have you back.”

For his part, Trent’s gaze lowers to the floor. “Been working on finding him again.”

Dwight smacks him on the back. “Keep it up, dude, and we’re going to be opening for Hunte through the rest of their tour.”

I take an imperceptible step backward. Then another. And one more. Until I’m free of the lovefest going on. It belongs to the band, and I most certainly do not. My job here is done.

Standing at the table gathering my things, I don’t hear anyone approach until Trent’s tenor makes me freeze. “The fuck is this?”

I squeeze my eyes shut and count to ten. “I’m leaving. Another big show tomorrow—”

“Don’t give a rat’s ass about tomorrow.” He shoves a cell phone under my nose. “What. The. Fuck?”

I glance down to see the last photo I took staring back at me. “Um. You and Braxton?” What could possibly be wrong with this pix? Or the post?

He grabs my arm, none too gently. “Get your shit and come with me.”

I yank away from his grasp. Now I want to stay here. “You can’t order me around.”

He bares his teeth, like a feral animal. “Don’t cross me,” he utters in a menacing tone.

I don’t like being told what to do on a good day. Ihatehis ordering me around. Yet, I stuff my camera into its bag and shove the strap over my shoulder. With my head held high, I lead the way out of the room. He doesn’t say a word, but I know he’s behind me when he palms the center of my lower back.

We walk like this throughout the bowels of the arena until we reach the exit. I stop in front of it. Crossing my arms, I take my final stance. “I’m not leaving here.”

He grits out, “You. Are. There is something you need to see, and it’s not here.”

My curiosity piques, lowering my defenses a smidge. He shoves the door open and drags me out, toward the car that brought us here. The driver hops out and opens the door for us, then returns to the arena. Ten minutes later, Trent’s ushering me inside his suite.

“Sit.”

What am I, a dog? I toss my bag onto the coffee table, my foot tapping, while he disappears into the bedroom. Who does this asshole think he is? Why did I allow myself to leave the safety of the green room—and people who were actually praising me? My hand returns to my bag when Trent reappears in the room, holding a book. What the fuck? He wants me to read abook?

“Sit,” he repeats, staring at the couch behind me.

With half-closed eyes, I frown at him. Trent, however, clearly didn’t get the message to stay the fuck away, as he crosses the room, clamps his hands on my shoulders, physically moves me to the couch, and presses downward.

I thump on the navy-blue upholstery with a huff. Seriously? I prepare to stand when the book he was carrying plops next to me. Against my better judgment, my eyes stray to the cover. And widen. It’s not a book. The frilly pink cover reads, “Diary.”

I focus on the man towering over me. He’s pinching the bridge of his nose.

Which one of his women’s diaries does he want me to read? Is he nuts? Like I give a shit about his female problems. Unless he wants me to fix something, as his marketing person. I bite the inside of my cheek.

He bends down and flips the diary open to some page near the end, and shoves it at me. “Read.”

I inhale. Yes. He needs me to act as his fixer. To do my job. Fine. Let me see what shit he’s been up to. I pluck the book from his hands and focus on the girlie handwriting. He must like them young. Obviously, I’m way too old for him.

My eyes focus on the top of the page, and Trent disappears into the kitchen. Before I begin reading, I flip to the front of the book and Lorinda Washington’s signature stares at me. Isn’t that his mother’s name? I return to the spot he pointed out and take in the words. My stomach sinks.

“A drink, please,” I beg.

He hands me a glass of water. After a sip, I continue reading.

After my one night—really just an hour—I return home with Gloria. The days pass, and I keep the fact I had sex withtheBraxton Hunte to myself, although everyone comments on how upbeat I’ve been. Yeah, well not everyone gets their lives rocked by that sexy man. No one ever will surpass him.

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