However, though the man is positively anal retentive when it comes to music, Colin—his former manager—had been so completely at his disposal that he’d been as much Drew's personal assistant as anything.
I knew all this when I signed on. After all, I interned with Colin Smith. I'd heard about Drew's behavior first hand.
I still can't believe he thought I was a groupie. The idea pisses me off. I take my job very seriously, and in no world would I ever jeopardize it by sleeping around with a mess of a man like Drew Avery.
I stand on the edge of the stage, watching him strum a six string and make small adjustments. There are several guitars set up for him to fiddle with because he insists on checking each one personally, show instruments and backups alike. He goes through each one then does a few vocal warm ups. He’s methodical, and that kind of attention to detail is rare.
I’m impressed with his focus. Then again, the fact that he can fill out a pair of jeans so well doesn’t hurt either. His ass is perfection as he bends over to check an amp. No one should have an ass that firm, that delectable. There’s a reason he has such a huge following, so many of those groupies he’s mistaken me for. He reaches to adjust a cord, causing his shirt to rise for a delicious peek at his tan, toned stomach.
My heart thuds violently. I'm not ready for it, or for how warm my face gets. Why are the jerks always the hot ones?
As his backup band finally arrives, Drew nods their way. “‘Next time, wait,” he says shortly. “Now let’s go through ‘Haunted Eyes’ and ‘Desperate Moment,’ then we should be good."
It’s been years since I’ve seen Drew Avery live on stage, not since Fever Dream had just made it big—long before his band broke up.
I was a senior in high school with stars in my eyes, going to my first concert with my friends. I'd been ready to bang my head to ear-splitting music and the thrill of hundreds of bodies swaying around me. Drew had owned the stage, the music, becoming a hypnotic vision.
Suddenly I recall more about that night, how I'd grown so hot and excited that I'd fingered myself wildly in my bed for hours. Drew's voice and wicked smile had controlled my mind that night.
And now, seeing him on stage again, right in front of me, thinking about how I'd fantasized about him . . . it's almost too much. I wish I could chug a cold bottle of water, maybe jump in an ice bath.
As he strums the quiet acoustic beginning of “Haunted Eyes,” as he walks the stage, he has presence, even during something as mundane as a sound check. The stage is his, and my eyes can’t help but follow him.
Yes, there’s definitely a reason why the man sells millions of records.
Drew continues the song and catches my eye, winking my way as he croons about a woman in black. Several years of entitled celebrities flirting with me have inoculated me against their charms . . . or I thought so. I roll my eyes but inside, I'm a hot mess.
Get a grip, I think in a panic. As his manager, he has to respect me or this isn’t going to work. This is my chance to rise above taking orders from a pack of good ol’ boys in slick suits, the type of overblown assholes who see every woman in the office as their personal secretary.
I realize respect has to be earned, and to say we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot is a gross understatement. My work is clearly cut out for me.
They finish the song and move to the next, and I’m struck by how seamless the transition is even for something as informal as a sound check. Whatever else he might be, Avery is a true musician.
The second song is a rocker, and if his command of the stage was impressive in the ballad, it’s downright lethal here. His energy is raw and unbridled as he belts out rage and sex together, and a shiver runs down my spine that reminds me of my high school years as he looks my way again, eyes smoldering. I can’t stop the way the song, his voice, his dark, heated gaze make me feel.
I force my attention to my smartphone and answer a stray text, not lifting my gaze again until the music stops. I hear footsteps approaching, then Drew clears his throat. “Gimme a sec,” I say, and in truth I’m done, but it’s important I establish that I’ll do things in my own time and on my own terms. He's the type of guy who will try to rule me like he did his former manager. I won't let him.
I have to create a boundary . . . especially because he's making my mouth water and my heart dance.
Drew makes an irritated noise, and thirty seconds later, I lift my eyes. “There,” I say, meeting his narrowed gaze. “Can’t start too soon making sure I’m on top of handling your career. Do you want to talk here, or do you prefer the dressing room?”
“Dressing room,” he says gruffly.
The grit on his tongue strokes between my thighs. Even when he's angry he's intoxicating. “Yes, that probably is for the best,” I agree with a fake smile. “Shall we?”
He doesn’t answer, just starts walking, so I follow, stilettos clacking against the wood of the floor. As much as I hate how such high heels feel, they give me height, and I’ve always believed the sound they make with every firm step of my feet lends me authority. I make sure the click is extra audible; I’m going to need all the authority I can muster.
It doesn’t take us long to reach his dressing room. It’s stuffed with Victorian style furniture, including an oversized wooden dressing table and mirror on one wall. The space suits the venue, an early twentieth century theater in one of the oldest hotels in Vegas. Drew looks like a king as he relaxes in one of the velvet chairs set off in one corner.
I immediately sit in the other, so still and poised that I must look like I'm made of stone. “So, Mr. Avery,” I begin, and his smirk appears—like he's mocking me. Oh, yes, this is going well. “I was thinking I’d like to get some basics about your expectations—what you want me to handle—and then we can set some ground rules, if you find that acceptable?”
He crosses one knee, his hand cupping his mouth. The silence is painful but worse is how his dark stare is slipping over my body, undressing me. "How did you like the show?" he asks.
"The sound check?" I stiffen and he catches it; I see his smirk even outside the edges of where his long fingers try to hide it. Did he notice me staring at him like an animal in heat? "It was good." It's the safest thing I can think to say.
Again there's silence, but that's not as bad as how he's rubbing his bottom lip with his thumb. It's erotic, his elegant fingers curling as if to remind me of his skill on the guitar—his skill in other areas. Smooth as a cat he unfurls from the chair, approaching me. I blurt out, "Let's get on topic, ah, um—I asked what you want me to handle?"
I'm eye level with
the front of his jeans and I regret my words; poor phrasing. We both know he's doing this intentionally but I don't know why. Does he just want to mess with me? Is it because I made him wait a damn second while I played on my phone?
Before I can look up, he’s lifting my chin with his finger. “Actually,” he drawls, his voice low and husky, “how about you tell me what you intend to handle, and I’ll tell you if there’s anything else I need.” His tone is provocative and intimidating.
Slowly, he rubs his thumb across my lips and I’m momentarily stunned. It’s all I can do not to suck him into my mouth. My coherent thoughts vanish. I need to say something, anything—I need to get control back.
“We, ah, I mean I will be in charge of . . .” I rack my brain, even though this is what I’ve been doing for years. Having him so close to me is distracting. “You know—bookings, handling media, mediating with venues, that kind of—ah!"
He pulls my lower lip down, wetting his thumb-pad on my saliva. “That all sounds good, but what about my other needs? How far are you willing to go to keep me happy, Lucy?”
He says my name like it's an insult. Instead, it's a reminder of who I am and why I'm here. Narrowing my eyes, I push his hand away from me. His grin is all teeth—he's enjoying this. "Mr. Avery, I'm a professional. Not some toy for you to play with."
Chuckling, he leans away from me. My courage cracks when I spot the bulge of his hard cock through his jeans. "That's a shame," he sighs, clearly not done toying with me.
I’ve got to get my mind off of his body and back to my job. “I’ll be overseeing the important aspects of your tours, since you prefer to have your manager act as your road manager as well, Mr. Avery.”
The eye roll I don’t expect. “You can stick to Drew.”
“Alright, Drew, if you prefer.”
“I do, Lucy.” He says my name like he's whispering a song lyric. I love the way it sounds.