displeasure, but a promise of payback as well.
They wouldn’t have done this to Ross.
I counted to ten. Took a couple of deep breaths. And still felt like cursing.
“How can you lose two grown men?” I asked irritably, rubbing between my eyes with a knuckle now. “And not just two grown men, but two of the most well-known faces in music?”
My mind ran rampant with possibilities, the implications of which were staggering. Tomorrow was still hours away, and it was already hanging over my head like a dark storm cloud.
“So, it’s like this,” Ted began, and I braced myself for another roundabout series of bullshit.
Was it too much to ask to just answer a question succinctly and honestly? Maybe if I asked him to hang up and text me, we’d get there quicker.
The microwave dinged as Ted continued his rambling monologue. I diligently lifted the plastic covering to stir like the directions demanded, giving myself a baby steam burn in the process. Re-covered the tray. Restarted the microwave. And Ted was still talking.
Eventually, Ted finally managed to convey that he’d left the men in a special VIP room at the back of the Pussycat Club, and while he was distracted, they’d disappeared.
I groaned. Jace and Kurt loose in the Pussycat Club? That was like sending a succulent feast into a room of fasting, hormonal women. Note: I refused to count myself among those desperate ladies, the day’s physical reactions notwithstanding.
After assuring Ted that they were grown men—even older than me, for God’s sake—and probably just pulling a prank, I suggested he hang out in the lobby of the hotel where the band was staying, on the assumption that they’d return eventually. I concluded the conversation by telling Ted not to call me again unless a dead body surfaced.
It probably wasn’t the best response, I knew, but I was tired and cranky and hungry and frustrated, thanks to Jace Logan and his damn pheromones and sexy confidence.
Gah. What had my life become? I used to be wild and free and rebellious and fun. Well, for about a year anyway.
Now, what was I? The voice of reason. A responsible adult. And mature. Wasn’t that the term Jace had used in the office? Calling a woman “mature” was like saying someone had “a great personality,” which was a kind way of saying they weren’t attractive or desirable.
I allowed myself exactly two minutes and forty-two seconds of self-pity, which was the time remaining on the microwave countdown. My ex, Ian, was still living the rock-and-roll life. Parties. Sex. Booze. Sex. Drugs. Sex. Music. Sex. He had been for the last twenty years, give or take, fighting the inevitable and encroaching twilight of his career.
Me? I had a job. Granted, it was a lucrative, fast-paced job that I loved, but it was still something I had to show up for every day. Plus, I had the sole responsibility of raising twin boys who had their father’s heart-melting good looks and an abundance of musical talent.
And, oh yeah, nothing even remotely close to sex in my life.
If there was an upside to my bygone wild days, it was that I hadn’t had much time to become accustomed to them. Ian had been my first love. My only lover. And for all his faults, he had been amazing when it came to sex.
I’d been so naive, believing ours was a love to last the ages.
I could have spared myself a lot of hurt and humiliation.
I could have walked away before witnessing Ian’s callous and insensitive need to bone every twat who showed him her boobs while I was hunched over the toilet in the back of the tour bus with morning sickness that lasted all day.
The microwave dinged, and right on cue, my pity party ended. For a little while, it had been a great ride. And yeah, I’d made some mistakes, but what great mistakes they were. Because of them, I had two wonderful sons, a big house, and a great job most people could only dream of.
If I’d never left home, never snuck away in the middle of the night, where would I be now? Most likely, married to a balding accountant, waking up every morning at four a.m. to start mixing dough in the family bakery. I’d be pink and plump with a houseful of kids, a closet alcoholic, and always dreaming of the what-ifs.
If I hadn’t gotten pregnant, I probably would have remained on tour for a while longer, but Ian and I wouldn’t