Page 17 of Dirty Rock

“Now, your shirt.”

I tried to smirk in response, but my face wasn’t cooperating, and Jules stared at me as though she was looking right through me. No smartass comebacks were going to get me out of this. My dear publicist was turning into our manager. I already had Dicky on my case twenty-four-seven. I didn’t need another version of him with tits and a vagina in my life. Still, I found myself doing whatever she told me to do because that’s the kind of power she had over me.

Which was… weird.

Removing my shirt, I let it slide to the floor until I was standing there staring at her, wearing nothing but the wounds on my skin, and my dark jeans and boots.

Julia’s attention raked over every inch of me. She saw the wreckage before I did. Feeling it was enough for me, but from the way her eyes bulged, and those valleys of worry between her brows deepened, it was obviously bad.

“We need to get you some medical attention,” she said, her voice a sweet whisper while my head pounded with angry injustice. “And no, Rhett, I don’t mean I’m going to suck your dick. Or that I’m going to grab a woman from the foyer downstairs and ask her to suck your dick either,” she clarified, looking up at me through long lashes and with an unamused glare.

“Always the party pooper.”

She reached up, the tips of her fingers grazing the edge of my rib. I hissed and pulled in on myself, my face scrunching up tightly.

“Want to tell me what happened?”

“Not really.

“That bad?”

“No, but everyone wants your story until you tell it and they realise they don’t like the way it goes.”

“I don’t have to like it to want to fix it.”

“You going to rescue me, princess?”

“Unfortunately, I can’t save someone who seems determined to run themselves over with their own ego.” Julia’s fingertips rose up my chest, across my tattooed left pec where I’d also been kicked, before drifting up to my shoulder. When I glanced up at her, she was focused, her attention following the tender touches she was leaving on my marred skin. “Let me guess. You fucked someone you shouldn’t. Their boyfriend found out. He didn’t know who you were, and he proceeded to use you as a chew toy.”

“You have an exceptionally low opinion of me.”

“Yet, you haven’t corrected me.”

“What’s the point? People will think what they want to think.”

“Rhett…”

“Fine,” I sighed. “I convinced Finn to take me to a strip club. A woman danced for me. She seemed interested. I liked it. My ego was stroked. She asked to meet me outside. I went. She came—not in the good way. I was getting to that. The next thing I knew, some prick has got a gun pressed to my head. They’re asking me how much money I have. A camera is flashing. And then I find out this dude threatening to kill me is called Benji. Fucking Benji, Jules—”

“Who had the camera?” she cut me off.

“No idea, but my guess wasBenji… did you hear what he’s called? Well, yeah, my guess is Benji took a picture of me, you know…”

“What?”

“You…know.”

“Did you have your trousers around your ankles?” Julia scowled.

I frowned. “What? No. The fuck?”

“Was your penis out?”

“Mypenis?” I laughed roughly, despite that pain. “What are we? Seven? Don’t call my penis a penis. Call it a cock. A dick. An aubergine. A fucking baguette.”

She found the only spot on my chest that didn’t hurt, and her palm splayed against my skin as she stepped closer, no humour on her face despite me thinking baguette was a damn good word for a dick.

“Listen to me,” she whispered. “Your shit jokes and teenage boy dramas do not belong here in New Orleans tonight. You are Rhett Ryan,” she said softly, but that softness wasn’t soft at all. It felt hard, the quiet threats trapped within it unmissable. “Right now, you’ve forgotten who you are. You’ve forgotten your worth and what you mean to a lot of people. You’ve messed up. I can take care of damage control in the media, but I cannot sort out your body or face. You may not think those things matter, but they do. You matter, Rhett. So, I’m going to get the tour’s doctor here. You’re not going to be rude. You’re not going to make any lame jokes. If he wants to check your balls, you let him. If he wants to stick an iceberg lettuce on your face to get that bruising down, you let him, and you do not moan about it for one tiny second. You don’t take matters into your own hands. You don’t tell him to go away when he gets here. You’re not going to do anything unless I’ve told you to do it. Do you understand me?”

---