snorting mad and picking up steam. “What was Greg thinking? You shouldn’t have to lower yourself to answering bullshit questions and sleazy innuendos from disrespectful dicks.”
“It comes with the territory.”
“That’s fucking bullshit.”
“Rooster, it’s my job. You can’t—”
“You need to understand something.” He pauses until I meet his eyes. “No matter how much I hated it, I wouldn’t butt into the business end of your career and complicate things for you.” He stares down at his fists. “But once that fucker touched you, he made it personal. And I will not tolerate anyone putting their hands on you. End of story.”
I’ve tolerated with that kind of behavior my whole life, waiting tables, tending bar, and singing. Hell, just existing. It hadn’t occurred to me until more recently that men aren’t entitled to grab a handful of my ass whenever they feel the urge. “Thank you.”
“You nailed him in the groin pretty good, Shelby. Turns out, you didn’t need me.” He shakes his head. “Real fuckin’ proud of you.”
“Must be years of built-up rage from putting up with that crap. I wasn’t even thinking. My body reacted without my brain’s permission.” I glance at the building. “Guess that’ll be the last airplay I get on mainstream radio.”
Finally, he cracks a hint of a smile. “Nah, I warned him I’d be back if he tried fucking with you in any way.”
“You did?”
“Fucking right I did.” He starts the truck without looking at me.
My phone buzzes and I groan. Greg’s probably calling to scold me.
It’s just a text though.
Greg: Interview sounded great. Are you on your way here now?
“Guess your threat stuck. Greg doesn’t seem to know anything went wrong.”
“Good.” His tone suggests he really doesn’t give a hoot about Greg’s opinion. “Look up a place to grab breakfast.”
“What are you in the mood for?”
He slides his gaze my way. “Whatever you’re comfortable eating on a concert day.”
That’s a short list. I scroll through a bunch of places and finally choose a diner only a few miles from the arena.
He’s quiet, so I continue fiddling with my phone, looking up the Scotty and Junior show to see if they’ve posted anything about my appearance yet.
Ugh. Someone had the nerve to upload a picture taken about two seconds before Scotty tweaked my nipple. His fat fingers straining toward my boob and a slimy smirk on his face. There’s no way anyone can claim that was an accident.
I take a screenshot of the photo just in case it “disappears” later and anyone tries to sue me or Rooster.
“What are you looking at?” he asks.
“Oh, they posted a photo. Right before he tried to honk my boob.”
“Son of a bitch.”
“No, it’s fine. I saved it. Just in case.”
He glances over with a half-smile. “Smart girl. Forward it to me, please.”
I send it to his phone, smiling when I hear the distinctive chirp. “Do I have my own personal ringtone on your phone?”
“Sure do.”
I continue absently scrolling through the radio station’s website, stopping on a familiar face. The caption above it reads: Scotty and Junior go deep with porn princess Anya Regal.
After the awful way the interview ended, I’d forgotten how it all started. That and I’d chalked up Scotty’s comment about “porn stars and pop tarts” as an exaggeration of how he viewed all women.
But there she is—the girl Rooster’s been spending all week helping do some project that he claimed he couldn’t explain because it was “club business.” Her bright, pretty face smack between Junior and Scotty.
“Anya—the girl I met this morning—she’s a…porn star? That’s why she was on their show?”
“I don’t know about star, but she creates adult films, yes,” he answers carefully.
Sweet Jesus. Blood thunders through my veins drowning out all the other sounds around us. “You’ve been ‘working’ with her all week? On a project? Doing what exactly?”
A hot flood of uncontrollable fear churns my stomach. I knew I fell too hard and too fast for Rooster. Were the cards right? Is this the breakup and infidelity coming? Am I a few clicks away from finding videos of the man who’s stolen my heart fucking Chesapeake Bay Barbie online?
I’m going to be sick.
Rooster flips on the turn signal and veers the truck to the right. The tires bounce onto the wide shoulder, stopping so fast I’m jerked forward.
“What are you doing?” I gasp, bracing myself with a hand on the dashboard. “Drop me off at the arena. I don’t want breakfast anymore.” No, I’m about to puke up my guts all over the