Page 7 of Crimson Desires

Maybe I should have realized that Aster was different after she refused to accept my attempts at flirting. Or maybe when she told me to my face that she wasn’t going to kiss me.

But fuck, what can I say? I love girls that play hard to get. When you’re a celebrity like I am, it’s a breath of fresh air for someone to put up a little bit of resistance against you.

I tapped on Aster’s window again, this time gesturing for her to roll it down.

Aster narrowed her eyes at me but obliged.

“What the fuck could you possibly want?”

I whistled lowly. “Wow. Aggressive, much?”

“What, are you going to lecture me about being ladylike or something? News flash—it’s the twenty-first century. Women can swear.”

“Swear all you want. Honestly, I like it way more than that bullshit customer service voice you were putting on for us earlier.”

“Oh, fuck you.” Aster began to roll up her window again.

“Aster, come on. I wanted to apologize,” I said.

Aster stopped rolling up her window. She cut me a glare that could have put Medusa to shame.

“I didn’t mean to get you in hot water with your boss. That was shitty of me. I’m sorry.”

“Aren’t you a prince? Where’s your stallion, white knight?” Aster laughed sharply. Even though she meant for it to hurt me, I couldn’t help but notice how nice her laugh was. I wondered what it would sound like if I got her to laugh for real.

“We should go out tomorrow,” I offered. “Let me make this up to you. We can get some dinner. Hang out. Maybe spend some time in my hotel room-,”

Aster opened her car door. I barely managed to step out of the way before the hulking metal door could take out my knees. Aster stepped out onto the parking lot and jabbed a finger into my chest. Her blue eyes were hot with anger.

“You’ve got a lot of fucking nerve, you know that? I just lost my fucking job because of you, and all you can think about is sleeping with me? Are you a fucking psychopath or something?” Aster took a breath, waving her hands erratically around her head. “Look, I get that you’re a famous musician or whatever, and you’re probably not used to being told no—so let me be as clear as possible when I say that I would rather stick my hand in a vat of hot oil than go on a date with you.”

I didn’t register her insult. My throat dried.

“You lost your job?” I asked.

My stomach twinged with guilt. I tried to suppress it. It wasn’t my fault that Aster had gotten fired. I didn’t ask her to lose her temper.

And yet, I was still partially to blame for it.

“Don’t act like you give a shit, Jack Maverick,” Aster said. She said my name as if it was something vile and bitter—like she was desperate to get it off her tongue.

Before I could muster up the courage to say something, a familiar voice called my name.

“Jack? Is everything okay over here?”

I didn’t want to take my eyes away from Aster. Unfortunately, I had no choice.

Turning, I saw Ava Lang walking toward me. Ava was Wicked Crimson’s tour manager and producer. She was five-foot-two, ninety-six pounds, and the last person on earth I’d ever want to get into a fight with.

“Everything’s fine,” I told Ava. “How’s that roadie doing?”

Ava grimaced. “He’s out. Apparently, he’s a recovering alcoholic. After tonight, he no longer trusts himself to be around alcohol.” Ava glanced down at her trusty tablet. She tapped a few buttons on her screen. “We’ll survive for now, but we need someone to replace him ASAP.”

A genius idea popped into my head.

“I think I have someone who could do the job.” I gestured to Aster. “Ava, this is Aster. Aster, meet Ava.”

Ava frowned. “The waitress? Jack, this isn’t fucking funny-,”

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