"The band?" Hudson prompted after it became apparent that I had disappeared into my own little cleaning-fueled world. I snapped out of it and turned to listen to him. The car beneath me hummed and rumbled as he switched gears. His long, strong-fingered hand gripped and moved the k.n.o.b of the stick shift with grace and ease. He had musician's hands.

Suddenly I was intensely aware of the way the sensitive s.p.a.ce between my legs pressed and rubbed against the fine, b.u.t.tery Italian leather seats, and the way his muscles of his thighs shifted beneath the fabric of his fine, expensive trousers as he changed gears. It took great strength of will for me to drag my eyes back to his face, and when I did I saw he had a faint smile on his face. He had been watching me check him out.

Humiliated, I whipped my head around and stared out the window. The silence in the car was deafening. Where were we? Oh, yes. "Yeah, um," I said. "Right. About the band... what band?"

He chuckled, and the dark sound dragged over my raw, exposed nerves like black velvet. I shivered in pleasure. "Have you ever heard of a band called 'The Lonely Kings of Lifeless Things?'"

Had I? Had I ever. Only a few months ago they had burst onto the music scene with dark, grungy melodies and a female vocalist with the voice of an angel, singing beautiful songs with complicated lyrics written by the band's guitarist, Carter Hudson...

Hudson.

My mouth dropped. Humiliation forgotten, I whipped back around and stared at Hudson. He was watching the road, his pouty lips parted in a pearly grin. "You're..." I groped for words. But the guitarist was Carter. This man had said his name was Kent. "You're a relative of Carter?"

"His brother, actually. Also the ba.s.sist and the band manager." He seemed incredibly pleased with himself, and he should be. The Lonely Kings were blowing up all over the charts, their songs showing up in a thousand and one teen flicks, their concerts sold out within minutes of tickets going on sale. And here I was, sitting in the car with the band's ba.s.sist.

"Wow," I said. "That's... I had no idea."

"Hmph," he said. "I think I actually believe you."

"You should," I told him. "I'm a terrible liar. I seriously... I thought I was applying for a housekeeping job."

"And the pool of strictly-business applicants didn't somehow tip you off?"

"I've been awake since Sunday morning," I said defensively. "I'm not at my sharpest."

"Obviously."

He gunned the car as we neared the highway, and the force of momentum slammed me back in my seat. A thrill bolted through me, and I sucked air through my teeth in appreciation. I'd never been in a car this nice in my life. The car seemed to fly low along the ground as we slipped up the on ramp and slithered into traffic. Traffic in LA is always atrocious, but Kent Hudson was blessed by the G.o.d of automobiles with hair-trigger timing, and I had to grab the door to keep myself from flipping out as he wove the car in and out of traffic at almost seventy miles an hour. Jesus.

"It will be interesting to see if the other candidates make it to the airport in time," Hudson said. He seemed amused by the idea. "I'd meant for this to be a part of the test-if you can get from point A to point B in time, but since you don't have a car I can't test you on that. Should you win the job, what methods of conveyance do you have at your disposal?"

I pressed my lips together. "None," I answered truthfully. "My last car... yeah. I had to sell it quickly."

"Oh?" The car swerved around a semi, and my whole body tensed. The rumble of the engine through the seat had me on edge, sending little ripples of something that could almost be called pleasure through my limbs, and it was hard to ignore. "May I ask why you had to sell it?"

"You can," I said. But I didn't want to think about it. Parting with my car, poor Sir Percival, had been a terrible wrench, especially since he had been worth only a thousand dollars. It had barely covered the debts I had to my name, and the guy I'd had to sell it to... I didn't even want to think about him. "But, um. It's touchy for me."

"I see." His voice took on a slight tension. "Was it trouble?"

I bristled. "Not trouble with the law, if that's what you're asking," I snapped at him. "Just personal trouble. I don't want to talk about it."

"You ran up debts?"

"I didn't!" I exclaimed, then clammed up. "It's complicated."

"Mm," he said.

"So tell me about this job," I said, desperate for a change of subject. "You said I'd be a personal a.s.sistant for the band?"

Hudson laughed, but it was without humor. "I said that, yes, but I'll be honest with you, Rebecca." The way he said my name was like a caress running over my throat and down my body, leaving me breathless. "I am looking for someone who will babysit the band with me. There are three other members besides me. There's Carter, whom you already know of, doubtless because he's the most trouble. Then there's our vocalist, Sonya Kyle, and our drummer, Manny Reyes. Neither of them are going to win an award for responsibility, but Carter is the worst.

"What I'm really looking for is someone to watch over Carter the most. He manages to give his personal a.s.sistants the slip easily, hence why we are headed to Vegas. His current a.s.sistant called me just before interviews were to begin and quit because he'd lost Carter yet again. I knew it was coming, don't get me wrong, but it's always bad when a well-compensated employee tells you they won't put up with their employer any longer because it's not worth the money. I made a few calls, found Carter in Vegas, and here we are. That is the gist of things. So prepare yourself. I'll be throwing you to the lions in a few hours."

The lions. I tossed my head. I'd heard of Carter Hudson, sure, but he couldn't be much worse than most of my terrible friends back in San Diego. They were all shiftless drug addicts or lazy artists always trying to break into the biz while smoking enough juanita to kill an elephant. Which is a lot, because marijuana can't kill you. Those guys were sure trying, though.

"Okay," I said. "I think I can handle it. I've handled a lot of stuff. No big."

"No big?" I glanced over and saw his face take on a hard expression. "It is big. Carter is a handful. I can handle the other two, but I need someone on Carter's a.s.s twenty-four seven. In fact, it might be good that you don't have a car..."

"It is?" I said.

But he shook his head. "Never mind. Just a stray thought." He cleared his throat and gunned the engine again. I felt my blood rise in response to the raw expression of power. His long fingers wrapped around the stick shift and moved the car into high gear. He wore silver rings on most of his fingers, and the tattoos on his wrists were bright flashes of color against his monochrome businessman's uniform. I swallowed and forced myself to look at the road. An exit sign for LAX was coming up. How was it that we were already here?

"You say you think you can handle this job?" he said suddenly.

"What? Oh. Yeah, I bet I can. I worked as a bartender for years and I hung out with some people that were basically walking drama bombs. They all went off like clockwork, too."

"I see," he said, but he sounded as though he didn't believe me. Suddenly he reached forward and turned on the radio player. It roared to life, right in the middle of a song I recognized.

High, beautiful vocals soared over a hard, grinding beat.

'You came from nothing, nothing came to me, I missed your face as we pa.s.sed by, in the boundless dark of the sky...'

"A Dark Moment," one of the singles off the first alb.u.m by The Lonely Kings. I recognized it because it wouldn't stop playing everywhere.

Then Kent Hudson put his hand on my thigh and all my thoughts flew out the window.

Everything in the world funneled down to that hand. It was huge and warm, splayed across my raggedy jeans, the heat of his palm leaking through the denim and spreading across my skin. He hadn't even bothered to put his hand on my knee. Instead he'd left it on the inside of my leg, mere inches from my suddenly red-hot arousal. My mouth went dry and my body was suddenly paralyzed. What the h.e.l.l does he think he's doing? my brain demanded.

My body, of course, didn't care what it was he thought he was doing as long as he kept doing it. The car swerved off the road and down the exit ramp as Kent Hudson slipped his fingers down the swell of my thigh to the hot valley between my legs. I tensed, clamping my legs together, and he chuckled over the pounding din of the music.

"You see?" he said. "Anything can and will happen to you in this industry. You will be expected to rise to meet the occasion each time."

But what occasion did he want me to rise to? I wondered. The occasion where a top man in the music industry made an unwanted advance on me, or the occasion where that advance was very much wanted?

I shot him a glare and saw the smug look on his face. He was trying to scare me.

My cheeks flared, but I wasn't going to let this bully push me around. I wanted to make him as off-balance and uncertain as I was.

"I don't understand," I said. "Are you trying to s.e.xually hara.s.s me?"

"I am s.e.xually hara.s.sing you."

"And what do you think you're going to get out of it?" I asked. I forced myself to relax, to set my elbow on the sill of the door, letting my thighs loosen and fall open. The hot private s.p.a.ce at the apex of my legs heated intensely, flooded with moisture as Hudson's fingers stuttered and stalled in their bold exploration. "I'm not sure what you're looking for from me."

I lifted my chin and watched as he pulled up to the airport, still pedal to the medal as he pushed and weaved through the thick, snarled traffic. The hand on my leg grew tense. "I expect you to respond appropriately," he said at last.

I might as well come out with it, I decided. "Appropriately how? You want me to come over there and make out with you, or do you want me to fight you off?"

He s.n.a.t.c.hed his hand away. "What?"

"You've got me all hot and bothered now," I said. "You want to finish that off, or am I supposed to hate it? I can hate it if you want. Just tell me the right response and I'll do it."

He s.n.a.t.c.hed his hand away, and though I felt an oozing satisfaction at winning, my body did not feel the same. The loss of his touch was an ache.

Returning both hands to the steering wheel, Hudson gripped it with white knuckles and kept his eyes on the road, studying it intently. "I wouldn't be paying you to be a wh.o.r.e," he said, bluntly.

I forced myself to laugh. "Yeah, but you aren't paying me yet," I told him. G.o.d, what was I doing? I was being so forward with him, as if I could go head to head with this kind of guy.

But he p.i.s.sed me off and turned me on at the same time, and I wanted him to know that. I wasn't going to let him push me around, like everyone else had always done. I was through being the person who rolled over and begged for more when someone made me feel bad or confused or upset. If the past four years hadn't made me a stronger person, nothing would.

Hudson swerved into the short term parking garage and swung the car into the nearest spot. "I expect you to act like a professional," he said stiffly, turning off the car. The engine shuddered to a halt, but my engine was still going a hundred miles an hour. "I only wanted to underscore the fact that you'd have to deal with people who are rude and possibly want to harm you."

"I've been harmed," I said. "I can handle myself. Don't try to teach me any lessons, by the way, unless you're sure I haven't already learned them." Unbuckling my seat belt I opened the car door and got out.

G.o.d, it felt good to tell a jerk off. He may have been very pretty and I may be aching between my legs to f.u.c.k him with abandon, but that didn't mean I had to put up with bulls.h.i.t. I'd thrown him off balance, just like I wanted, and when he got out of the car with me he wouldn't meet my eye. That was good, because my face was probably as red as stoplight.

"Let's go," he said, his voice clipped. "We'll be late." And he took off at a pace even more brisk than before.

I ran a hand through my hair and hurried behind him toward the check-in counter. I wasn't going to let him lose me. I wasn't going to be intimidated. I was going to win this job, and when I got it, maybe I would laugh and rip up his contract and throw it in his face. Yeah. That would feel good.

Setting my jaw, I jogged after him.

Daniel didn't make it to the airport on time, so it was just Randy, me, and Kent boarding the plane to Vegas. Our seats were scattered over the plane, and I scored one right over the wing. I hadn't really planned to go on a plane trip so I didn't have a book with me, and I'd chewed through the money Rose had slapped into my hand already-LA is expensive-so I had to sit in my seat and stare out the window at the jiggling wing as we climbed into the sky. I hate how plane wings jiggle. It always makes me think they are about to fall off. That'd make a great headline, but would be a bad way to go.

Kent Hudson hadn't talked to me the entire time we sat in the boarding area. This was partly because I think I managed to actually shame him somewhat, but mostly because Randy couldn't stop jawing away at him about all his contacts in the industry and how this job would be his big break, thanks for considering him, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.

It was embarra.s.sing. I'm not industry bigwig, but even I could tell that Randy was committing a huge faux pas. Kent sat in his seat scrolling through his phone, clearly bored and annoyed with the entire situation while I surrept.i.tiously looked up information about the band on the internet.

The Lonely Kings of Lifeless Things took their name from the poem Ozymandias. The lead singer, Sonya, came from a cla.s.sical background, their drummer had been a prodigy percussionist, and Kent and Carter Hudson had both grown up in LA under the tutelage of their manager father. Everything he knew about the industry, Kent said-according to Wikipedia, that is-came from their dad. Kent played the ba.s.s and managed the band while Carter was the guitarist. He was the one who actually wrote the songs.

They'd been together for almost five years now, but had only recorded their debut commercial alb.u.m a year ago. They got lucky and it launched into the stratosphere on the first try. The major record label that signed them was rumored to be making bank off their deal, but I suspected that while Kent had a nice car and nice clothes, the rest of the band was like most bands-barely getting by. The most distressing things I found were the revelations of Carter's exploits. Carter, it seemed, could not stay out of trouble. It was an innocuous sort of trouble, nothing like drunk driving or getting into fights, but he did every drug known to man and the band had been forced to cancel more than one show because no one could wake him up from his drug and alcohol induced comas.

After the plane had taken off, I popped my phone open and read the biography on Carter again. This was the person Kent wanted to find a babysitter for? He sounded like a menace. I hadn't had a chance to check them all, but there were about a hundred and one links to celeb gossip sites in my search results, and most of them started with some variation on, Carter Hudson, guitarist and songwriter for the hot new band The Lonely Kings, was seen on the red carpet last night holding a hedgehog and drunkenly p.i.s.sing himself as his hapless date, Interchangeable Starlet, attempted to support his weight on her Jimmy Choo stilettos. Who wore Carter Hudson's drunk a.s.s the best? Let's compare and find out!

I was more certain than ever that I didn't really want this job. I didn't care how much it paid. Putting up with Kent's bullying and babysitting a drunk and a drug addict was not worth it for any amount of money. On the other hand, I had been putting up with it for the last four years for free. I should totally demand a doubled salary for experience.

I shook my head. No, no, no. Don't need that headache any more...

"Ma'am? You don't want anything to drink?"

What? Drink? What?

I looked up to see the stewardess already moving on from me. I wanted to speak up and let her know that yes, I did, in fact, want something to drink, but then I remembered that I had almost no money and any drink worth having today was going to have to be a stiff one. I watched her from the corner of my eye as she strolled on by with the cart and waited for the fasten seatbelt sign to go off. The flight from LA to Vegas was only about an hour-not nearly enough time to drink my troubles away-but if I could just get a little buzz going the rest of the day was going to be a lot easier to deal with.

After about ten minutes the seat belt sign dinged off, and I leaped out of my seat and scrambled across my seatmates. The person in the middle was an older woman with terrible flatulence and the pa.s.senger in the aisle was a businessman who gave me a dirty look as I forced him to move whatever world-changing work he was doing on his laptop so I could get past him.

I felt the familiar blush begin to creep up my face again. I was sick of blushing. Where had my confidence gone? Had I ever had any?

"Pardon me," I told the man, "I just have to go take a s.h.i.t. I could do it in your bag if you don't want me to interrupt you."

Okay, I didn't say that. But I wanted to. Someday, I was going to actually say the things I thought in my head out loud. Someday I was going to own a house with a trampoline room, too.

f.u.c.k everything, I thought. I need a drink. I strode to the back of the cabin, my eyes trained on the restroom. If I knew my cheap value flights, the drinks cart was going to be right next to the bathroom, and I was going to sticky-finger my way to happiness.

I didn't meet anyone's eyes, so intent I was on my goal, and when I reached the restroom I found that my hunch had indeed been right-and just my luck, the stewardesses were off tending to cranky pa.s.sengers. Slipping past the restroom door, I pretended to inspect it and find it occupied. It wasn't, but it was important to maintain the illusion. I lingered outside the door for a moment, then heaved a huge sigh and moved around the corner so I could rest against the wall. And what was this? The drinks cart conveniently located just by my wandering hands? Excellent.

I shook my hand out of my coat pocket and coughed into it, and when I lowered it again I let it slip past the little rows of tiny liquor bottles. Extending my fingers, I snagged two and slipped them into my pocket, looking around to make sure no one had noticed me.

No one had. I could probably sneak a few more.

This time I yawned, covering my mouth and making a huge display of how dreadfully tired I was. I snagged three small vodkas on my way down. I turned to peer down the aisle again, just to make sure no one was watching me.

Unfortunately, I turned straight into Kent Hudson's chest.

Well, s.h.i.t, I thought.

Kent raised an eyebrow and stared down at me. "Why Rebecca, are you waiting for the restroom?"

Mutely, I nodded. Had he seen me take the alcohol? Was he going to rat me out? Was this the end of my ill.u.s.trious career as a babysitter for a grown man? For some reason, I felt a flash of disappointment at the thought. No matter what kind of fresh h.e.l.l Carter Hudson would have put me through, at least it would be something different. Being a personal a.s.sistant to a rock star would have changed my life. And since my life was pretty c.r.a.ppy at the moment, there was nowhere for me to go but up.

He took a step forward, backing me up into the drinks cart.

I felt the heat rolling from his body, and his blue-green eyes burned as he stared down at me. "Mr. Hudson..." I said. I hated the reedy, thin sound of my voice, as though I were pleading with him. I should be demanding. I should be ordering him to back off. Instead I just hoped he would take one more step, and press that body up against mine. He may have been an a.s.shole, but he oozed s.e.x from every pore. I could hardly breathe.

"Please," he said, "call me Kent. And I will call you Rebecca."

I licked my lips. "Kent," I said. I forced myself to stand up straighter, even though it brought me even closer to him. My b.r.e.a.s.t.s, thrust out as I threw my head back and looked him straight in the eye, grazed over his chest. I felt the contact bolt all the way from my nipples down to my c.l.i.t.

"That's better," he said. "So, Rebecca, were you going to share your ill-gotten gains with the rest of the cla.s.s?"

Dammit. Dammit, dammit, dammit. "They never mix drinks right on a plane," I said. "I wanted to do it myself."

"And does it taste better if you don't pay for it?"

s.h.i.t.

On the outside I tried to project an air of calm and confidence, but on the inside I was shrieking at the top of my lungs. He'd seen me. The jig was up. I was doomed. I would be arrested, held for theft of approximately three point three ounces of alcohol, not even enough to get properly toasted from. You always hear about the people who get busted for less than half a joint in their car and you wonder why they just didn't throw it out the window when they were finished with it. Well, that was me. I was the idiot.

"It tastes the same either way," I told him. "But I don't have any money and you are stressing me out."

He tilted his head. His dark locks fell across his forehead, brushing against his strong, dark brows, bringing his blue-green eyes into further focus. "And you drink when you are stressed out?" he asked.

This was a trap. I could feel it. I set my jaw. "Actually no," I told him. "I clean when I get stressed. But since there's nothing for me to clean on an airplane, I thought I'd try to calm my nerves instead."

His eyes widened slightly at this. "You... clean?" he asked me incredulously.