Loving Dallas (2 page)

2 | Robyn

I
T IS DAYS
LIKE THIS THAT MAKE
ME THANKFUL PEOPLE
ASSUME
I am a bitch. Something about my red hair, I guess. Usually I’m pretty chill, actually. But incompetence irritates the ever-loving shit out of me. And I’ve been dealing with it all morning. There isn’t enough coffee in the world to make this day run smoothly.

Ignoring the pinch of pain my Louboutins cause and the dull ache in my calves, I stomp over to where two muscle-covered men are setting up the Midnight Bay blue line display.

“What part of ‘forward facing’ is unclear?” Reaching toward the LED-lit shelf, I turn the bottles so that the labels can be seen. Both men give me their what-do-you-want-from-us-lady face. Once I have the bottles positioned correctly, I force a smile at them. “There. See? Now it actually makes sense to spend several thousand dollars on this display.”

The younger of the two rolls his eyes so I narrow mine.

My blood pressure skyrockets as he hops down from the ladder and smirks at me. “Think you can do it better, Red? Knock yourself out.”

He’s cocky in a way that reminds me of a southern boy who made me a woman. Taking a deep breath, I glance at the older gentleman still arranging the display. With the labels turned every which way.

“You know what? Why don’t you fellas take a break?”

“Gladly,” the one glaring at me says before walking away in a huff.

“Don’t worry about me. I got this,” I call out after him, causing several people in the Midnight Bay Bourbon Distillery to turn and look at me.

“My apologies, ma’am,” the older man tells me, scratching his beard as he climbs down from the ladder himself. His gray T-shirt has “Sanderson & Sons Convention Services” stamped on the pocket. “This is the family business, and believe me, not his first choice.” There’s heavy regret in his voice and I can see the resemblance. Junior is his son, apparently, and I just made an already tense situation worse.

Well now I feel like an asshole.

Sighing, I give him a genuine smile instead of my usual resting bitch face. “It’s okay. I’m just really particular. Y’all did great on this setup. I can handle arranging the bottles from here.”

He nods, but tense lines of worry are etched into his aging face. “We need this job, ma’am. The last thing we need is to lose Midnight Bay’s business because of an attitude problem. Please—”

“It’s Robyn,” I say, reaching out a hand and realizing I never introduced myself. I greeted them when they arrived by giving orders. Maybe bitchy has become my default setting. Damn fiery hair. “And no worries, Mr. Sanderson. It looks great.” I glance up at the nine-foot tower of bourbon bottles. It does look pretty fantastic, minus some hidden labels that can easily be fixed.

“I’ll just go, um, deal with—” He gestures toward the direction where his son stalked off.

“Good idea. Sorry if I was a little snappy. I’ve only recently been promoted to the head of this huge campaign and the stress must be getting to me.”

“Just doing your job, ma’am. Can’t fault you for that.” He winks, giving me a tired grin before following after his son.

The real reason I’m stretched within centimeters of my breaking point is the meeting I had with my boss this morning.

“This is huge for Midnight Bay. There is no safety net, no acceptable margin of error where this tour is concerned. Is that clear, Miss Breeland?
”

I’d “yes, sir’d” my way through the half-hour meeting that detailed just how high the stakes were. It was made abundantly clear that my career would either rise or fall based on my performance heading up this campaign. For nine months I’d planned the pre-release, launch luncheons, and post-party events down to every last infinitesimal detail.

I got this. I fought for this opportunity and I’m not going to screw it up just because this particular client makes me a little twitchy. The promotion to public relations specialist is as good as mine.

But every other week it seems the king of country music wants a change. Two of his opening acts have been replaced within weeks of each other for undisclosed reasons, so that meant all new print materials. He didn’t like his picture on the life-size cutout for the display so it had to be reshot several times. He also didn’t care for the original placement of Midnight Bay’s logo on the art for the entourage of eighteen-wheelers that hauls his tour equipment, and I’m pretty sure he’s here today to discuss the shirts and hats he’s supposed to wear on the tour to promote the company.

I get heartburn just thinking about his next request.

I used to have plants in my apartment. They all died. Because I was never home to water them.

But that’s okay. It will all be worth it eventually. And if you want something done your way, you have to do it yourself, as my dad was fond of reminding me. Which reminds me of the display towering beside me.

The ladder dares me to climb up and gift everyone in the reception area a flash of my lace panties. My OCD brain tells me to get over myself and get my ass up there and fix those labels. Slipping out of my stilettos and tugging my skirt down, I grip the metal rails and make my way up several rungs. No one seems to be paying much attention to me, so I continue my ascent.

My equilibrium dances out of my reach for a split second, but I compose myself and angle the top two rows as they should be before taking a step down. Once I’ve completed the top four rows, I breathe a little easier.

There. The hard part is over.

I step down a rung, but I must’ve misjudged the distance because my foot slips and I see myself fall through the air before it happens.

As every muscle in my body tenses, the air whooshes out of my lungs and I flail hopelessly in an attempt to grab something solid.

Surprisingly, I don’t hear the crack of my skull on the slate floor. What I do hear is a man grunt out a noise on impact when I land in his arms.

“Whoa there, darlin’,” my knight in shining denim drawls. “Not that I wasn’t enjoying the view, but I’d leave the stunts to the professionals.”

From underneath a black Stetson, crystal-clear green eyes gleam with a twinkle of mischief and flirtation.

I close my eyes and attempt to make myself disappear like that chick did in
Bewitched
.

No such luck.

When I open them, I’m still in the arms of Jase Wade, last year’s Country Music Artist of the Year and Midnight Bay’s biggest client. We’re sponsoring his upcoming tour and I’m in charge of the promotional campaign. He’s walking temptation in tight jeans and I’ve vowed to keep it professional where he’s concerned.

Professional as in not swooning in his arms. Like I am right this very second.

Awesome.

My face probably matches my crimson lip stain right about now.

“Um, Mr. Wade, now would probably be an excellent time to put me down.” I chuckle nervously.

“You got it, Red.” He complies just in time for my boss to round the corner.

“Mr. Martin,” I say breathlessly. “I was just going to show Mr. Wade the new display. We’ll have a scaled version at each show in the VIP meet-and-greet area and I thought it would be a good idea to—”

“Sure. Great,” Alexander Martin cuts me off, as he tends to do. His uncle Bennett is the original founder of Midnight Bay, but Alex took over around the time I was hired for my internship. He’s barely thirty years old, but he’s a “time is money” type of guy and I can count on one hand the number of sentences I’ve actually finished in his presence. Jase Wade’s hand still resting on the small of my back is not something I ever intended to happen in my boss’s presence, however. “There’s been a few adjustments to the tour and I want to be sure that we’re prepared. New print materials will be sent to your office this week, Miss Breeland. I just spoke with . . .”

Mr. Martin is still talking. His squared, clean-shaven jaw is still moving, as is his mouth. But I have no idea what he’s saying because despite the fact that I’ve taken an entire step to my left, I’m still within Wade’s reach. I know this because his fingertips are still lightly brushing my lower back. Feels like he’s turned my spine into a lightning rod, so that’s a tad distracting. Glancing over at his chiseled face, I see that he’s showing no signs of being nearly as affected as I am by the contact. Clearly I need to get laid. It’s been . . . a while.

I take a deep breath and press my lips together, nodding so that Mr. Martin doesn’t realize I’ve completely lost my grip on reality.

“ . . . Walker has a solid social media presence and is fairly well-known here in Texas. So you’ll need to plan meet-and-greets for him as well. Nothing as extensive as Mr. Wade’s, of course.” Mr. Martin finishes and winks at Jase.

“You got it. I’m on it.”

I have no idea what I’m on.

“Great.” My boss grins at me with approval, then turns to Jase Wade. “Come on, Jase. I’ll introduce you to my uncle; he’s retired but he’s visiting the distillery today, and we’ll get my assistant to organize that fishing trip.”

Oh, the good ol’ boys network. How nice it must be to have a penis working in your favor. I can’t remember the last time one did
me
any favors. My gaze dips involuntarily to the bulge in Wade’s Wranglers.

Dear God. Stop yourself, Breeland.

But I stop myself a split second too late because when I look up, Jase’s eyes are on mine. He quirks his mouth and raises a brow. I can practically hear him asking if I see something I like.

“I’ll see you in Denver next week,” I say quickly, hoping to dispel the awkwardness of my flushed cheeks.

“Yes, ma’am,” he says with a tip of his hat. “And by the way, I really enjoyed the display.” He nods to the tower of liquor bottles behind me but I’m pretty sure that’s not all he’s referring to.

He walks away leaving me speechless in his wake. Sweet mother he’s doing those damn jeans a favor. If my boss ever catches me losing my composure like this around such a high-profile person we’re partnering with, I have been told in no uncertain terms, I will be fired before I can wipe the drool from my chin. Since my dad passed when I was in high school, my mom and I have been on our own. She took out a second mortgage to help me get through college, and I am not going to screw up a chance at my dream career for sex in tight jeans.

I repeat: I am not going to throw away my amazing job for orgasms. No matter how long it’s been since I’ve had one that involved another person being in the vicinity.

So I take a deep breath and ignore the fact that Jase Wade just had his arms around me, that he smelled like expensive sins and whiskey, and that I haven’t been held by anyone in over a year. Paying no attention to my still-racing pulse and sweaty palms, I return my attention to the display and use my phone to snap a few shots of it for the company website.

I’ve got this. I’m cool, calm, collected. Totally together. The picture of professionalism.

That is, until Jase Wade gives me a lingering look full of dark promises before winking at me on his way out. I force a completely awkward smile and give him two thumbs up.

I just gave Jase freaking Wade two thumbs up. Once he’s out of sight, I cover my face with my hands, including my two humiliating thumbs, and groan.

I have so got to get laid. Preferably by someone who won’t cost me my job.

3 | Dallas

“
H
EY,
S
UPERSTAR,” MY
MANAGER GREETS ME AT THE
F
AIRMONT
hotel. She lowers the phone she was texting on when the car I was in pulled up. “Just got the official word from your agent. He heard back from Midnight Bay. We’re all set for a meet-and-greet in Denver. You ready for this, baby? You’re about to be the next big thing.”

I still bristle a little at her overly familiar terms of endearment, but I’ve heard her on the phone with her other clients and I know I’m not the only one she uses them on.

“Sounds great.”

The Kickin’ Up Crazy tour is kicking off in Denver, but we’re doing some press first in Nashville. From there we’ll zigzag across the country—Wade on his luxury bus and the rest of us on something a little more modest. Some of the guys in the band grumbled about it, but I couldn’t care less. It’s sure the hell a step up from EmmyLou, the Chevy Express van that me, my sister, Dixie, and my best friend, Gavin, hauled our equipment and ourselves in.

My chest constricts just thinking about Leaving Amarillo. Not the physical act of actually leaving it—that part I was ready for. I just didn’t expect to leave without the other two members of my band.

“You seem a little off, Dallas,” Mandy says as we head to the hotel restaurant where we’re having a quick meeting before I get to crash in my room. “You need to focus on why you’re here. This is about you and
your
dream. Whatever else is on your mind, you need to have it handled before tomorrow morning.”

“Got it. I’m good. Just a little tired. Nothing a good night’s sleep won’t fix.”
And a good thorough fucking
would help,
I think but don’t say out loud. It feels like it’s been a lifetime since I’ve gotten laid. In reality it’s only been a few weeks since my wild night with Deidre or maybe it was Debra, a waitress I hooked up with in Atlanta. I’m kind of pissed that I was drunk at the time and can’t exactly remember if I was worth a shit or not. Ah well. One-offs are kind of like cold pizza. Not spectacular or worth writing home about, but still enjoyable so not a total waste of time.

While we eat, Mandy says something else about the meeting with the tour sponsors tomorrow and staying focused, but I keep checking my phone to see if Dixie has texted an update on her location and I’m so exhausted my vision is blurring. My manager has a consistent habit of reminding me to keep my eyes on the prize and stop stressing out over what my little sister is up to.

The check comes and Mandy slips a shiny black credit card inside the padfolio before handing it back to the waiter. Before I can thank her, or her management company, I suppose, for dinner, my phone buzzes in my pocket. Retrieving it, I see a photo my sister sent from some cheese monument in God knows where. After that comes one of her grinning like a maniac beside a giant ball of twine. The fuck?

I’m mildly concerned that she’s having some sort of weird grief-induced breakdown, but every time I talk to her she assures me that she’s fine.

I start to text her a message to call me and let me know her exact coordinates—yes, I’m serious—when Mandy reaches out and places her perfectly manicured nails over the screen of my phone.

Glancing up, I can see that I’ve offended her by texting during out meeting. Pretty ironic since she probably texts in her sleep.

“My sister is on a road trip. She’s alone and I can’t help but—”

“Dallas. Please,
please
do not make me remind you once again how huge this opportunity is. Wade’s album is number one on every outlet right now. The tour is sold out. And you are on it. Do you even have any idea how hard Neil and I have worked for this? For you?”

I nod, being careful to keep my mouth shut. I know that she and my agent have both worked hard. I’ve worked pretty fucking hard, too, but that rarely gets mentioned or even acknowledged.

“It’s been a long day. I’m good. Tired. But good. Promise.” Basically a bus and then a tiny hotel room in Nashville have been home for the past few weeks. And I’m about to hop my ass right back on the road tomorrow night. Thank fuck my sister is ending her little excursion just as this tour is beginning. I really don’t think I could handle this and worrying about her, too.

“Well, get some sleep then. The car will be waiting out front at nine
A.M.
sharp to take you to the airport.”

I nod while standing up from the table. “Got it. See you in the morning.”

“You’re not walking me to my room?” Mandy pouts. “And here I thought you were a gentleman.”

I swallow the uneasy feeling that rises in my throat. It’s not the first time she’s hinted at crossing the professional line with me and I can’t ever tell just how serious she is.

“I am a gentleman, Miss Lantram. That’s why it’s better if I don’t. Have a good night now.” I grin and make my way quickly out of the room.

There. Maybe she’ll feel flattered.

For as much as Mandy Lantram keeps reminding me to stay focused and keep my eyes on the prize, I’ve noticed her focus and her eyes wandering a bit. To my mouth, across the expanse of my chest, and down to my cock.

More than once.

E
ither my alarm is going off or the building is on fire.

I roll over and groan, throwing an arm over my face when sunlight hits me square in the face. Stretching as far as my back will allow, I yawn before my hand drops to my morning wood.

Sorry, buddy.

My schedule is so fucking tight I don’t even have time to jerk off these days. A cold shower and a cold breakfast and then I’m dressed and sliding into a black Lincoln beside my manager.

“Good morning, Superstar,” Mandy purrs while lowering the cell phone that seems permanently attached to her palm. A thick curtain of black hair sweeps over her left shoulder.

How she manages to look this hot at nine in the morning is beyond me, but I’m trying damn hard not to notice. She smells like expensive shampoo and flowers—it’s almost overwhelming but my dick has no sense of smell so he twitches to inquire about whether or not she’s available.

Not to us, big guy.

If there is one thing I don’t want to fuck up, literally, it’s my relationship with anyone who has power over my career. So there’s a line, whether Mandy’s wandering eyes realize it or not, and it’s one I won’t cross. No matter how interested my dick is when she stretches her mile-long legs.

Thankfully the airport isn’t far from the hotel and I’m free from the suffocating confines of the backseat.

As we make our way through security checkpoints, Mandy hands out tips as if I haven’t just finished one tour.

“Be sure you’re tweeting and posting on Facebook about how excited and honored you are to be on this tour. Tag Jase and Midnight Bay Bourbon when you do. Hashtag KickinUpCrazy.”

I grumble a little under my breath. Dixie typically handled the social media bullshit for Leaving Amarillo. Pulling out my phone, I try to fire off a quick text to my sister to see if she’s heard from Gavin yet, but I have no service.

Mandy scoffs at me. “I didn’t mean right this second. I just meant later tonight. You need to put your phone on airplane mode anyway.”

I don’t bother informing her of what I was actually up to.

Mandy stops walking down the aisle. “Oh. This is me,” she says halfway through the first-class cabin.

I glance down at my ticket. I’m in coach. I chuckle under my breath. Of course she wouldn’t lower her standards even though Capitol has yet to consider me worthy of a first-class upgrade.

“See ya in Denver,” I call out as I pass. I’m actually relieved to have a break from her.

A few drinks in and the exclusive mile-high club might become a little too accessible.