Between Us (The Renegade Saints #3) (5 page)

So while Ty is right, and I completely agree about it being better for us to control the message, it’s still bizarre that he in particular is willing to do any of this. My intention at this point is to keep an eye on it and make sure it doesn’t fuck with him. The rest of the guys and I have already agreed that if he suddenly decides he can’t do it, its done. We’ll end the whole thing without a second thought—and that was written explicitly into the contracts of the biographer and the documentary director. They’d still get paid regardless, but the footage and all notes would revert back to us, never to see the light of day. I hope it doesn’t come to that, but you never know. Ty’s had enough shit in his life and he doesn’t need more.

There’s no traffic, so we arrive at the sushi place a little early. When we get to the hostess station, I’m pleasantly surprised to be told the biographer has been seated and is waiting for us. I figured we might have to wait on him since we’re early, and I hate waiting. When the hostess guides us to our table, I grin when six foot two inches of pure California surfer boy stands up and introduces himself as our biographer, Ian Monroe.

He blushes when I shake his hand, so I hold on to it a few seconds longer than necessary. The look on his face suggests he’s attracted but not happy about it, so I’m pretty sure he doesn’t identify as gay or bi. Whether he sees himself as such or not, the flush on his cheeks makes my dick hard. I watch him with interest as we sit across from one another at the table.

“How does this work?” I ask. “What’s your process?”

Ian gestures to the notepad and voice recorder on the table. “In some cases, yeah, I’ll have specific questions. For the most part, though, what I like to do is get a conversation going and see what happens from there. I want it to be authentic and natural. I’ll be tagging along with all of you at different points and meeting up with your friends and families, which will be a huge help. I’m really excited about it.”

“It’s different than the stuff we’ve done in the past, so we’re excited for it, too. I can’t wait to get started,” I say with a grin. “We’ll be spending a lot of time together.”

A blush creeps up Ian’s neck and across his face. Looking away from me, he picks up his glass of ice water and takes a few large sips.

“Sure,” he answers in an uncertain sounding voice. “That should be great.”

I can’t contain my smirk. I’d bet money Ian’s never fucked around with a man before. I’m looking forward to introducing him to a whole new world.

I’m surprised when Tyson leans forward and starts peppering Ian with questions. Figuring this is something Ty needs to do in order to feel comfortable, I sit back while he takes over. For all intents and purposes, Ty ends up interviewing Ian, which is how I find out that he’s twenty-three years old.

Twenty-three. Fuck. I get that’s young, for sure. Not all twenty-three-year-olds are the same, though. When I was that age, I’d fucked my way through probably hundreds of people and had traveled the world. And when Ty was twenty-three, he died and then got brought back to life. So, yeah. There are all different types.

I feel like whatever the male version of a cougar is for wanting Ian’s mouth on my dick, but the dude is pretty fucking accomplished. He graduated from high school at fifteen and completed a degree at UCLA by the time he was nineteen, so it’s not like he’s some fresh-faced, know nothing kid.

Ian’s nervousness around me reminds me of how I’d been around Kyle, the guy who introduced me to what good head feels like. I enjoy the challenge of getting a guy who thinks he’s perfectly straight down on his knees, and Ian is exactly the kind of guy I find attractive. I’m suddenly overcome with the desire to find a beautiful girl and work her over with Ian at my side. There’s something about letting loose and going hard that hits all the right chords for me. When you get a guy who wants to work with you to make a girl feel good, it’s a fucking great night.

I’m already wondering what it’s going to take to get this guy to play.

I’ve had to rethink my game because over the course of the past few meetings, I’ve figured out that Ian is actually shy. From what I hear, he’s fairly chill around everyone else, but when I’m in the room, he’s all thumbs. Normally, by now I’d be actively trying to get him ready to play, but I’m not because he seems kind of reserved. Where Ian’s concerned, I would definitely need a third party firmly in place in order for the lines to stay clear. No room for gray.

I don’t want to hurt anyone and I get the impression that if it were only the two of us, he would think it was more than it really is. He definitely doesn’t come across as a player. Women—and even some men—flirt with him shamelessly. For a lot of people, such attention would be a reason for cocky behavior. Not the case with Ian. He’s either the most cerebral and disinterested motherfucker alive, or he wants a real relationship. My one rock-solid rule is never to have sex with anyone who wants something deeper. It ain’t broke, so I’m not trying to fix it.

I’m still trying to decide what, if anything, to pursue with him. There’s plenty of time to figure it out since I’ll be seeing him regularly over the coming months. Today is the band meeting with Ian, our management and the documentarian. It’s happening now, and Flynn and I barely managed to get here on time because we were coming from breakfast with Gram and Pop.

As we’re being led into the meeting room, Flynn’s still yapping about his latest scheme.

“You know how Gram said she wants my dad to sign up with an online dating service? I don’t see it being a good idea, but maybe we could get the celebrity matchmaker lady?”

Looking over my shoulder, I roll my eyes as I laugh at him. Todd would
not
be down with Flynn putting some helmet-haired celebrity matchmaker up his ass, and Flynn damn well knows it. I’m mid laugh as I turn around and catch Ian in my peripheral vision. Turning my gaze his way, I catch him staring at me longingly. Instead of being able to think about it, my attention is soon pulled to someone else. Looking to the person sitting at his side, I feel my world tilt on its axis as our eyes connect.

I forget about Flynn and what he was saying, forget about the reason for the meeting, forget about Ian and everything else on earth because suddenly there’s only
her
. I’m mentally knocked on my ass trying to find my bearings. And if the widening of her eyes and the look on her face is anything to go by, she feels it too.

Whatever the fuck
it
is.

My eyes run over her hungrily. I can’t see her entire body since she’s seated, but what I do see of her is fucking incredible. Long black hair hangs in waves around her heart-shaped face. Her eyes are a wild green and her lips are plump and ripe, fucking begging to be kissed. It takes a few seconds for me to clue in to the fact that she’s the director for the documentary. I’ve seen her before, when I watched her documentary short, but never did I feel the way I do now—like her body is a compass and my dick is looking to go true north down in her southern region.

The reaction I’m having to her is deep, cellular level shit. I’ve never felt such a visceral pull to someone in my life. What the fuck is going on?

T
he first day of my new job—my new life—is really bringing the anxiety out of me. Fidgeting nervously in front of the mirror, I assess my appearance with a critical eye. Having spent ten days searching for the perfect outfit, I’m still not as confident as I want to be in my choice.

What does one wear on the biggest day of their career? My options are complicated due to the nature of my job. My newest gig is all about rock ‘n’ roll. I’ll be spending the next year affixed to one of the most successful bands of all time, which means traditional business attire is out.

It should have been easy to dress for this, but my nerves hit me hard and early. It is, after all, the first day I’ll be meeting most of the strangers I’m spending the next year with. Thus, my anxiety is completely natural. I hope.

I finally settle on a navy blue maxi dress paired with a coral-colored shrug and some cute coral ballet flats. My normal style is a bit less cute, not to mention more form fitting, but that’s no way to dress for the first day of a new job. After taking a fortifying breath and nodding at myself in the mirror, I’m ready to go.

I left an hour earlier than the Mapquest
directions I printed
indicated
I should. For once, my GPS agrees with what Mapquest said, which is a relief. All too often they don’t align and it makes me super anxious. I’ve got kind of an OCD thing about making a solid first impression, and being late just won’t do.

The decision to leave early served me well, because traffic has been backed up for almost eight miles. Normally, I’d be okay with spending a little extra time in my car, since it gives me the opportunity to listen to the
Howard Stern Show
. Today, I’ve barely noticed the show is on.

By the time I finally pull into the hotel parking lot, I’m a mere fifteen minutes early. I’d counted on having the opportunity to watch everyone arrive, but that plan is out the window. Cursing the LA traffic gods, I scold myself for not leaving another full hour earlier than I did.

It’s too late to cry over spilt milk—or, in this case bumper-to-bumper traffic—so I force my focus back where it needs to be. Picking up the pace, I haul ass from the parking garage to the front desk. Scurrying along, I give myself a mental high five for not wearing heeled shoes. The last thing I need is to be trying to run in the death traps I like to wear. With my luck, I’d eat pavement in front of the band or something equally as embarrassing.

I’m only slightly out of breath when I reach the lobby. I immediately spot the gold stand holding a display board indicating the meeting rooms are down the hall and to the left. Turning the corner, I know I’m in the correct spot, due to the obvious security presence.

Three people are ahead of me at the makeshift check-in center. I surreptitiously assess the wardrobe choices my peers have made. Seeing their style is really no different than mine lifts a weight from my shoulders. The stress I’ve felt at the idea of breaking some bizarre wardrobe code was for naught. I fit in well.

When I reach the check-in kiosk, a tall man wearing a shirt with a security badge hanging around his neck looks me over from head to toe. It feels an awful lot like a visual threat assessment. Swallowing nervously, I glance at his name tag—Morris, it says—while I wait for him to say something.

“Name?”

I have to clear my throat in order to answer. “Devon Bannister. I’m a director,” I mumble stupidly.

Morris’ brow arches as he looks from me and down to his clipboard. I watch as he scrolls the page for my name. As I wait, the horrifying thought this whole thing could be some kind of joke takes hold. A trickle of sweat slides down my back and I force myself not to fidget. The silence drags on and on while I wait for him to confirm whether or not he sees my name.

“I’ve got you here,” he says after what feels like an eternity.

The relief is staggering. My reaction is to giggle nervously. Instantly, I want to die because I sound so vapid. My nerves are completely out of control and I know I need to check myself before I wreck myself. I’m damn lucky Morris either didn’t hear me, didn’t care, or has already written me off as an airhead. He doesn’t so much as blink as he hands me a large notecard.