Chapter 7

“Shit.” He put his hand on her arm to steady her. “Sorry about that.”

She smiled at him, trying to see past the long, black hair falling over half of his face. “That’s all right. Are you waiting for someone?”

He shook his head. “No, I…have to go in.”

“For…?” She bit back a smile as he ducked his head. He was tall, with broad shoulders and a presence she’d noticed in some of the most talented actors she’d come across in the business. The ones the camera loved, who you wanted to be near, but whose art meant more to them than all the glamour, fame, and money.

His hands were rough for an actor though. She noticed them as he held one up, showing her nails with chipped black polish. His fingertips were strangely calloused. He worked hard, whatever he did.

He pushed enough hair away from his face for her to see his sheepish smile. “Tate usually does them for me—I suck at it. I’m kinda avoiding him today, so I got to find another way to fix ‘em. They look like shit.” His brow furrowed. “Sorry. I swear too much.”

“You’re fine.” She noticed he had something clenched tight in his other hand. “Did you bring your own polish?”

“Paint.” He laughed when she arched a brow at him. Opening his hand, he showed her the bottle, which had the words ‘ManGlaze’ and ‘Matte is Murder’ on the label. “My brother calls it ‘nail paint’. Supposed to be more manly or something.”

She shrugged. “So I’m guessing you’re not comfortable going to a salon. Not manly?”

“It’s not that, it’s just…” He shook his head and grinned. Damn, he had a nice smile. A quick flash of white teeth, with warmth that reached all the way to his dark brown eyes. “Okay, it’s that. My manager has these rules and I’m not sure if I’m breaking them by getting a manicure.”

“I completely understand. How about you don’t take a chance and come with me.” She continued up the sidewalk, glancing over when he hurried to keep up. “I keep an emergency nail kit in my car. Not enough to help me with a broken acrylic wrap, but I can take care of your nails if you want.”

He didn’t speak until they reached her car. Bracing his hip on the hood, he waited while she fetched her small kit from the backseat. “I appreciate this, but it wasn’t really smart of you to bring some strange guy to your car. What if I was dangerous?”

Chuckling, she hopped up on the hood and pulled at his hand until he let her set it on her knee. Pulling on a pair of disposable gloves to protect her nails, she wet a cotton ball with some acetone and went to work on cleaning the thick layer of polish.

“If you’re a dangerous guy using your nails to get me alone, props for creativity.” She laughed and peeked up at him. “I’m armed and my grandpa taught me how to defend myself. There’s no way he’d let me come down to Vegas otherwise.”

“So you’re not from here?”

“No, I grew up near Bay Mills, Michigan.” She held her tongue between her teeth as she finished with his pinkie. “My grandfather owns some land right off the reservation.”

“Oh…” The man looked confused. “I didn’t think many… Fuck, I don’t know enough to say shit. Never mind.”

She put the cotton balls in a small waste bag in her kit, then took the ‘nail paint’ from him. “He inherited it from a man he worked for since he was a teen. An opportunity not many have, but there are good people out there.”

“I know.” He held still as she began painting his nails. “You just hear a lot about land disputes with the…Native Americans?”

She cocked her head, not sure why she couldn’t stop smiling at this guy. “You’re really caught up in being PC, aren’t you? Yes, you can call us that and there are issues. I’m luckier than most. My grandfather raised me, made sure I got a good education and still experienced traditional stuff. I even know some Ojibwe, but I’m not as fluent as I’d like to be. I take classes when I’m home long enough.”

“He didn’t teach you?”

“He couldn’t. He went to boarding school.” She swallowed as her throat tightened. They needed to change the subject. Grandpa’s stories of his education weren’t pleasant. “What about you? You mentioned a manager. Are you an actor?”

“Something like that.” He watched her carefully stroking the brush over his nails. “Is it shitty of me to not want to tell you much? Talking to you like a normal person is kinda nice.”

Letting out a soft laugh, she nodded. “I get it. I’m usually just a pretty face.”

“Really?”

Her eyes widened. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Withdrawing his hands, he held them up. Which was funny considering how careful he was with them. “I’m not saying you’re not pretty. You’re gorgeous. Stunning. I’ve never met a more beautiful woman in—”

Smacking his arm, she reached for his wrist so she could get started on the second coat. “Shut up. I don’t believe a fucking word.”

“I meant you’re easy to talk to. And nice. And smart.” His smile was all charm now. “Forgive me?”

“I’ll think about it.” She realized they were smiling at each other like a couple of idiots and turned her focus back to his nails. Being near him, touching him, didn’t trigger the instincts she had fine-tuned to men who were just looking to get laid. There was no stupid-making spark between them either, which would have brought her guard up. She felt light. Happy. She could imagine drawing out these moments with him to hours, even days, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Except she was here for work and she didn’t have days to make new friends. Or even hours today. Her last runway job had made her enough to buy her some time, but she needed to land a decent contract before she could allow for any distractions.

Finishing his last nail, she closed the bottle and handed it back to him, checking the time on her phone. “I’ve got tickets to a concert, so I have to go. Let your nails dry for about twenty minutes and you should be fine.”

“Thanks.” He leaned over to look at her phone. “Shit. The concert’s in less than an hour?”

“Yeah?” She studied his face, which was drawn with worry. “Are you going too?”

“Yep.”

“Hard Rock?”

He nodded. “And I kinda walked here. I’ll never make it in time.”

She smirked. “Need a lift?”

Exhaling noisily, he grinned at her. “I owe you. When my nails are dry, I’ll give you my number. You can text me when you’ve got time to go out? Maybe get a coffee or something?”

“Maybe.” She hopped off the hood and opened the passenger side door for him. Once she was behind the wheel, she caught him awkwardly trying to put on his seatbelt and chuckled. “Let me get that.”

Leaning over him, she had to fight not to press closer. He was solid, all muscle under his black t-shirt. He held very, very still as she drew the strap over his chest. She forced herself to start the car without teasing him for acting all nervous. They were both in a hurry. If he was going to the same concert, maybe he’d be at the after party. She wasn’t supposed to be ‘seen with’ actors—especially those she didn’t recognize, putting them on the same undistinguished level as her—but she’d like to spend more time with him.

“You mind if I put on some music?” She cursed herself as the words left her mouth. Since when did she ask? Unless her grandfather was in the car, she played whatever she wanted. Which, for the longest time, was modern country music.

He lifted his shoulder in a distracted shrug. “Go ahead.”

At a red light, she plugged in her iPod, starting over the last song she’d been listening to. She bopped her head to the music, checking once to see if the heavy sound bothered the man. His face reddened, and the second their eyes met, he turned to stare out the window.

As soon as she pulled into the parking by the hotel, the man reached for his pocket, then gave her a questioning look. She nodded. His nails should be dry.

“Damn it.” As soon as he had his phone out, his face lost all color. “I gotta go, but…maybe I’ll see you inside?”

“I hope so.” Not at all what she’d wanted to say, but he’d already taken off running. She rested her hip on the side of her car, giving herself a minute to regain her composure.

She’d met hotter guys. Men who graced the covers of magazines. Fitness models with bulging muscles and athletes doing their first centerfold. Many of them had hit on her, but she rarely got involved because this was her career and she wasn’t about to fuck it up with all the drama involved in relationships with men whose egos were their first love.

Come to think of it, she hadn’t gone on a real date in almost two years. Which meant she hadn’t been enjoying much down and dirty fun since…ugh, no way was she going to start thinking about her first boyfriend. They’d been high school sweethearts. He’d gotten a scholarship to play football. Been drafted before he graduated. Having a pretty girl on his arm—AKA her—had been great until he gained a few fans. Then Danica was in the way.

He’d been her first and her last. She’d been heartbroken for a while, but Grandpa had set her straight. No boy was worth losing all she’d worked for. The distraction had lost her a few auditions. She’d gotten drunk once and that was the only time Grandpa had ever lost patience with her.

Understandable, considering he’d lost his daughter, Danica’s mother, to alcohol poisoning when Danica was just a baby. And it wasn’t a secret that many on the reserve turned to alcohol when life seemed hopeless.

Not that Danica didn’t drink, but never when she was stressed or depressed. And she refused to let herself forget all her grandfather had done for her. She wouldn’t risk her future for anything or anyone.

About twenty minutes later, she handed over her ticket and made her way to the front of the stage. Since she had a VIP ticket, there was a gated off area that she had access to, but the pressing crowd made her nervous, so she stuck close to the edge where she could clearly see the security in their yellow shirts.

The first band didn’t seem to excite anyone, even though she thought they were pretty good. A few feet away from her some teenage girls wearing Winter’s Wrath t-shirts took selfies and flirted with security, each loudly trying to one-up the other with their knowledge of heavy metal bands. One pulled down the collar of her shirt to show off a tattooed signature. She swore Randy Taylor had signed her boob after fucking her. Her exact words.

Randy Taylor was in his forties. The girl might be sixteen. Danica doubted very much the well-known singer and author would even go there. She’d seen some of his interviews while getting familiar with the metal scene and he seemed like a smart guy. Messed up, but smart.

Considering how many guys had claimed to have fucked her, Danica didn’t give the girl’s claims any credit. Actually, she felt a little sick listening to some of these chicks talk about the guys. Two of the teens mentioned wanting to ‘rape’ Brave Trousseau. Because, yeah, that was cool.

Danica had never felt more out of place. She moved closer to a group of ladies that looked to be in their thirties. They weren’t that much more into the opening band than the rest of the crowd, but they seemed normal enough. One looked over at Danica and smiled.

“Hey, sweetie. Are you here alone?”

Danica nodded, her cheeks heating as the five older women surrounded her. “I was in the area, and I’ve heard some of Horizon’s music, so I figured I’d check it out.”

“Nice! And they put on an awesome show.” The woman glanced around at the others. “Drinks on me! Hurry up, because I don’t want to miss our boys!” She took orders from all the ladies, then turned to Danica. “Do you want something?”

“A rum and coke would be great.” Danica reached into her purse for her wallet.

The woman shook her head. “It’s on me. We’re all authors, except for a couple of amazing readers that came to hang out.” She pointed at two of the women. “After a few, we may start telling you crazy stories about the people in our heads. If you can put up with us, you deserve a drink or two.”

Being around these women put Danica at ease. Her face was hot from blushing as the authors gave her a few details about their books when the band took a short break, but she’d taken a few names down in the notes on her phone to look up later. She’d never read the kind of books these ladies wrote, but she had a feeling she was missing out.

The author buying all the drinks, whose name she learned was Melanie Marchande, wrote about sexy billionaires. She was wearing an emerald corset and a long black skirt and had such a confident presence Danica found herself hanging on to her every word.

Until Winter’s Wrath took the stage. The first strum of the guitar and the screams around her became deafening. All chatter stopped. Every head turned to the stage.

Danica let herself be pushed in tight with the crowd. Everyone else was throwing up devil horns, so she followed their lead.

But once her eyes hit the stage, she dropped her arm and pressed a hand over her mouth. The guitarist, the one starting the riff for a song she’d listened to for the first time today, whipped his head back to throw his long black hair over one shoulder. His fingers, with freshly painted black nails, moved in a blur over the fret board.

No wonder they’d been such a mess.

The woman at her side nudged her. Melanie grinned and pointed at the guitarist, practically shouting to be heard over the music. “Alder Trousseau. One of the best guitarists in the business. I’m trying to get in touch with his people to get him on a cover.”

Danica nodded, not sure what to say. She tried to let the music absorb her, but she couldn’t take her eyes off Alder. He’d changed since they’d sat together on the hood of her car, now wearing tight black jeans and a black dress shirt with the sleeves ripped off. The buttons weren’t going to make it through the show. The second he’d picked up his guitar, a few had popped open, baring half his chest.

She would have been fine with their encounter being nothing but a fond memory. Granted, she might have wondered what would have happened if she hadn’t brushed him off. If she’d given him her number and told him to call. But life would have gone on.

This changed everything. He was one of the very people she was supposed to be seen with. There was no way she could avoid him at the after party. Not that she wanted to.

But she couldn’t be all casual now. Flirting and hoping for a photo opp. He’d become a real person. He’d treated her like one. When she saw him at the after party, could she play fast and loose and treat him like a complete stranger? The alternative was letting the photographers catch her with him. Which she wouldn’t do.

Not without telling him why she was really here.