Ice. “Location’s one of the hardest parts. Not a lot of places to film outside of Florida, Las Vegas, or LA. And even then, people aren’t always open to having a film crew defile their house. Having your own space is smart.”
Ice snorts. “Figured it’ll be less trouble than renting out the house to deadbeat tenants.”
Sure, hire someone to clean the jizz off the walls once a week and you’re all set, Prez.
“I’ve been working on promotion.” She taps her phone. “I’m up to over five hundred thousand Instagram followers.”
Not bad for a chick I’ve never even heard of. Too bad only a small percentage of those followers will be willing to pay actual money for content. Even so, it’s a damn good start.
“I have a few things in the works.” She taps Ice’s chest and purses her lips into a pouty little smile.
I’m sure you do.
Hours later, I’m tucked away in Ice’s office at the back of the clubhouse. I finish placing orders for some of the supplies I need. Tomorrow, I’ll set up accounts on the different platforms we’ll use to upload the videos.
For now, I’m done.
I log off of Ice’s computer and shut it down, tucking the business credit card he’d handed me back into the desk drawer and locking it.
In the main room, music’s pumping. Brothers and club girls fill the place, engaged in various activities.
That whole ATF thing Ice mentioned before our trip to the porn palace is still nagging at me. At some point, I need to discuss it with Jigsaw, see if it gave him the same bad feeling.
I jog upstairs to the room I’m using at the clubhouse and pull Shelby’s schedule out from my pocket. I’d been so focused on Virginia because of our charter here that I missed a closer location.
Baltimore.
A few days apart and I’m missing Shelby more than ever. While there’s plenty to keep me occupied around here, I should be able to slip away for a day.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Shelby
Sweat rolls down my forehead and into my eyes as I finish soundcheck. Another outdoor, open-air pavilion. The sound’s better than the last two places but the air-conditioning is non-existent. Can’t seem to go anywhere to get relief.
The solid click-thump of my boots accompanies me off the stage.
“You all right, Shelby?” Greg’s hand settles on my shoulder, stopping me in the hallway. “You look pale.”
“I’m hot.”
“I’ll see if I can find a fan or something for your room.” He jerks his head toward the stage. “There’s a bit of a breeze out front. Why don’t you stand up there for a minute or two and cool off?”
“All right.” I push past a few people. The scent of fried dough hangs in the air. My stomach growls. When was the last time I ate? Maybe that’s why I’m feeling all sweaty and shaky.
“Miss Shelby? Can I have your autograph please?”
I glance up, seeking the source of the question. A man, probably older than Dawson, on the other side of the waist-high fence thrusts a black marker at me. Something about him seems familiar and I squint, studying him for a second. Tall, round in the middle, graying hair, black polo shirt tucked into neat khaki pants. Brown plush bunny backpack hanging off his shoulder.
Okay, that’s weird. Unless it belongs to his kid. My gaze searches the area behind him. Families, kids, adults, and teenagers. This tour draws fans of all ages.
“Shelby?” he prompts, waving the marker at me again.
“Oh, sorry.” I work some extra Southern charm into my voice. I fan my hand close to my face. “The heat’s gettin’ to me today.”
“We can’t have that. You’re going onstage in a couple hours.” He pulls the plush bunny backpack off his shoulder and unzips it. “Here, take this.” He hands me a miniature, battery-operated neon-green fan.
“Oh! I can’t take that from you. You’re gonna need it.”
“I have another one.” He thrusts it into my hands. “Go on. Take it.”
Easy, Mr. Pushy. I accept it, flicking on the switch and holding it close to my face and then lift my hair and run it over my sweaty neck.
“Better?”
It’s a drop in the bucket but I don’t want to be rude to this stranger who’s been nothin’ but nice. Even if he is a bit odd. “Much. Thank you.” I flick the switch off and hold the fan to him. “Are you sure you don’t need it?”
“Nope.” He pulls a pink T-shirt out of the bunny backpack and pushes it at me. “Would