“Well, no…uh…” She lowers her voice. “Ice took care of him.” She raises her eyebrows in a catch-my-drift sort of way.
So, stepdaddy’s six-feet under somewhere. I’m certainly not losing sleep over the information.
Her gaze drops to my VP patch. “You’re a brother. I can tell you that, right?”
“Of course.” On second thought, Ice might not appreciate her sharing that with anyone, brother or not. “But let’s pretend you didn’t.”
She snaps her mouth shut.
“Go on,” I encourage her. “You got those videos down?”
“Yeah. They still pop up from time to time. I get sick of chasing them, though.”
I stare at her, trying hard not to ask the obvious question.
“A boyfriend posted some clips without telling me maybe a year later.” She lifts her shoulders. “I figured the whole world’s seen me anyway. Might as well profit off it myself.”
Christ, that’s fucking sad.
I’m overcome with the urge to bang my head against the desk. For fuck’s sake, I’m a fucking biker who really shouldn’t give a shit about any of this.
I struggle to keep my face neutral. Seems as if life’s given her one shitty choice after another. I don’t want to make her feel bad about the decisions she’s made.
“Is there anything else you ever wanted to do?” I tap my pen against the desk, debating my words. “You know it might be hard to find a different line of work later on.”
“I think that ship has sailed.” She flashes a pained smile. “Ice is letting me keep fifty percent ownership of all my content. That’s better than the five hundred a scene I used to get paid and own nothing after.”
“True.” I’d gone over the contracts and paperwork setting up the corporation. Honestly, I’m shocked Ice was so generous. Is he using club funds or personal for this business?
Doesn’t matter. Not your business.
“Maybe counseling or something,” she says. “Ice made me finish my associates in psychology.”
I guess that’s something.
Chapter Forty-Six
Shelby
Dawson has been true to his word. Bane’s like superglue. Can’t pry him off my ass. I swore up and down I wouldn’t leave my room but I bet if I opened that door, I’d find him sittin’ out in the hallway.
The hum of the hotel’s air conditioner blunts the city noises drifting into my room.
I center myself in the middle of the bed and clutch the crystal around my neck. The nominations for the Country Music Awards are coming soon. Afraid to let anyone know how much I secretly long for at least a nomination, I haven’t breathed a word.
I don’t need to win. But just a nod would be nice. So maybe people would stop writing headlines like the one posted on Sippin’ on Secrets this afternoon.
Buxom blonde songbird parts ways with biker
I mean, what the heck? Now I don’t even get a name? Deeper down, in a place I don’t feel like acknowledging, it prickles at my insecurity about being so far away from Rooster.
You’re going to see him in a couple days. You’ve talked to him every day. Quit being a baby.
The corners of my mouth tug up. At least that article will keep my mother off my back about Rooster. Maybe I should send Sippin’ on Secrets a thank you note.
Ha! Talk about puttin’ a positive spin on something negative.
Feeling a bit better, I shuffle my tarot cards through my hands and close my eyes.
What do I need to do right now to be taken seriously in this business?
The cards flow through my hands, one after the other. I open my eyes and stare down at them as I shuffle.
One card pops out, landing facedown in front of me.
Huh. I’m not the best shuffler in the world, but even so, I don’t usually have jumper cards.
Card on the floor means check your door. Momma says that all the time. Jumper cards are serious business—something happening soon the universe really wants you to know about. She usually says to treat it as a special card outside of the message of the spread and sets it aside.
Resisting the urge to turn it over, I pick it up and set it next to my knee.
A chill runs down my spine.
I flick my gaze to the air conditioner.
The negative energy surrounding me from missing Rooster is gonna throw off my reading. And if that doesn’t do it, the stress of receiving another creepy letter last night sure will. Same black paper. Same silver ink. It was shorter than the last one but creepier than midnight at