Page 6 of Play the Last Track
I should call Hollie. Tell her what happened, so she’s prepared. If she finds out through some fucking article because this blows up, she’ll kill me in my sleep. She’s barely five foot, but is a forceto be reckoned with, and a loyal friend after all these years. She functions as my manager, agent, and publicist, with an experienced team behind her. I guess she needs it with me. Despite that, she still scares the hell out of me. The fight is a haze of raised voices and unintelligible insults, all but that one comment that made me see red and snap. The bright flash of a camera’s bulb, though? That memory is loud and clear.
Yeah, I need to call Hollie.
I add the task to my mental to-do list for this evening before running my fingers through my damp hair and lifting my chin, letting the water spray over my face. I close my eyes. The image of a woman is so clear, so prominent in my mind, that I feel like I could reach out a hand and touch her.
Blonde hair. Soft curls. Thick, long strands begging me to touch them.
Blue eyes. Sparkling and bright. Shining at me with amusement and wonder, and a little bit of lust.
Firm body, long legs, and curves in all the right places.
I groan and shake my head, but the mental image doesn’t disappear, doesn’t fade. I open my eyes and stare at the white subway tile of my shower wall. Picturing her is a nightly habit. And a morning habit. And afternoon.
Our night in Italy was months ago. Yet, I still remember the soft moans and the way she moved her hips. I still feel the way her nails dragged down my back when I made her come the second time, and the sound of her muffled screams during the third. Katie Murphy is everywhere now.
It doesn’t help that I’ve been frequenting the bar she manages more and more. So much so that I’m running out of excuses as to why I keep coming in to eat alone.
Not that she asks. She communicates in sarcastic comments and eye rolls.
It’s killing me that I don’t know what happened.
One moment, we’re sitting under the stars and sharing secrets. We’re drinking wine. We’re having the night of our lives with multiple orgasms. We even had a snack break and then went back at it. We were laughing, smiling, and flirting. I could tell she liked me. I liked her too. Still do.
The next day, we couldn’t keep our eyes off each other. Then, after dinner that night, I knocked on her door, hoping for a repeat, and she told me fuck off.
I have no idea what I did or what changed, and I cannot let it go. I cannot lethergo.
The water runs hot down my back as I bow my head again. Don’t get me wrong, her sarcastic replies to my consistent pestering get my dick hard, but I want nothing more than to earn back her smile, her laugh.
I want, no, Ineedto know what the hell I did to make her hate me so much.
I shut off the water and take a deep breath. My hand hurts like hell, but I’ll just have to get used to it and get over the pain.
I towel off, drying my hair just enough that it isn’t dripping on the floor anymore, and wrap the towel around my waist. Step by step, I go through my skincare routine. No one can judge me for wanting to look after my skin. I sweat under a helmet and get tackled to the ground, into the mud, on a regular basis. If my wanting to ensure my skin is clean and clear is a crime, someone sue me.
After hanging my towel back on the railing, I walk into my wardrobe and pull on a pair of gray sweats and an old T-shirt fromcollege. I rotate between a few these days. They’re soft, and after a hard day, I just want to be as comfortable as possible.
Like I said, creature of habit.
I head downstairs with a plan to watch something other than game tape while I dig for something to cook for dinner, but barely make it into the kitchen before my phone rings.
Hollie’s name flashes across the screen, and my stomach rolls over.
Oh, fuck.
“Hey, Holl—” I begin.
“You asshat. You absolute fuckwit. What the fuck were you fucking thinking?!” Her voice is high-pitched and screeching down the line.
Shit, shit, shit.
Those pictures I should’ve called her about last night and put off instead have most definitely leaked.
“—in a contract year. Are you stupid? I actually think you must be fucking stupid. No one is this dumb. It was outside a bar you frequent. That Scott frequents. Did you honestly think there wouldn’t be some sort of paparazzi waiting to catch a glimpse? You just gave them the pay day of a fucking lifetime.”
“Hollie, calm down,” I try weakly. I regret it as soon as I say it.
“Oh. Yeah, sure. I’ll forget it.” There’s a pause, and I hold my breath. “I’ll forgetyouin a minute. Are you kidding me, Flynn? A fight? A fucking punch for punch, tackle the guy to the ground, and most definitely do some damage type of fight?”
