The corner of his mouth quirks as he gazes around at the framed watercolors of ballet dancers. The white and yellow bunting crisscrossing the ceiling. The stuffed animals on my bed and the bookshelves. “Your room is pretty cute.”
I feel my face flush, seeing it through his eyes. Hopelessly naïve and little-girly. Maybe if I had a twenty-one-year-old’s bedroom, I would be able to navigate my life properly instead of floundering from one disaster to the next. “I know. It’s stupid.”
“Did I say it was stupid?”
He puts the tea and toast on my bedside table and I get into bed. I take a bite of the toast and watch him examine a yellow and white rabbit and then place it on the bed next to me.
“I’m fine now,” I say around a mouthful. “Honestly. You don’t have to waste anymore of your day here.”
Instead of leaving, he pulls a chair over to the bed and sits down. “Do you mind if I talk to you for a few minutes? There’s something I want to say.”
I stop chewing, eyes wide. This is it. I’m fired.
“I’m sorry for how I behaved last night.”
For a second I wonder if there’s something I’ve forgotten, until I realize he means the way he invited me up to the VIP section. “Oh, that. It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine. Stop saying shit’s fine when it isn’t.”
I take a sip of my tea, eyebrows raised. God, he’s snippy.
“I acted like I thought I was shit-hot and you were a…not an employee.”
He was going to say “groupie.” He was acting like I was a groupie. I take a sip of my tea. “Maybe you tried. But I didn’t let you, did I?”
He stares at me for a second, and then he smiles. “No. You didn’t. I don’t do that sort of thing anymore, by the way. The groupie thing.”
I feel my cheeks start to burn again, but I shrug. “It’s got nothing to do with me.”
“Well, I don’t.”
I stare into my mug. Awk. Ward. It’s how rock stars have been having casual sex for decades, and it’s not my business how he chooses to get off.
“I’ll leave you to sleep. Just one more thing.”
“Yes?”
Rush leans closer. “Who put ketamine in your drink, Dree?”
“Nope. Sorry. Goodbye.” I shake my head and stare straight ahead.
“You don’t need to go to the police, but I need to know.”
“Why? There’s nothing you can do.”
His eyes glitter dangerously. “Oh, I can think of a few things.”
Didn’t he glass Striker Jones in the face a few years ago? Or was it the other way around? I can’t remember. “You thug. Now I really can’t tell you. You couldn’t touch him, anyway.”
“Why? Who is he?”
I hesitate. “I haven’t signed your contract. If you lose it, then I won’t. You have to promise you’re not going to do anything.”
He makes a non-committal noise. That wasn’t anything close to a promise, but I have the contract over him. If he wants me to choreograph his video as much as he says he does, he needs to listen to me. “Do you know what’s especially attractive about working for you?”
“What?”
“You hate Palatine even more than I do.”
He sits back and folds his arms, scowling. “Well, they’re not on my fucking Christmas card list.”
He can’t fool me. Something dark slammed down behind his eyes as soon as I mentioned the band’s name. “You never asked me if anything that was written about me is true.”
“I don’t need to ask. I know it’s bullshit.”
“Then let’s leave last night alone. It was just another moment of bullshit.”
He frowns, confused. “I don’t think I understand.”
I take a mouthful of tea and just look at him.
“Why are you talking about Palatine? Wait.” Suddenly, his face suffuses with anger and he leaps to his feet. “Striker fucking Jones put ketamine in your drink? He was there last night? I’ll fucking kill him.” He strides for the door.
“Rush,” I moan, watching him. “Please sit down.”
He whirls back to me. “I should have been looking out for you properly. Something like this was bound to happen.”
“I don’t think he knows about me working for you. He was just…” I make a helpless gesture. Being an asshole. Being Striker. “Please calm down. You promised you wouldn’t do anything.”
He glares at me. “I hate that he’s getting away with this. Why didn’t you tell me at the hospital it was him?”
“Because you would have dragged me straight to the police station.”
Rush gives me a look like he’s thinking about doing exactly that right now. It’s soothing to see my own fury with Striker circulating through Rush’s six-foot-four frame.
“Thank you for being angry for me.”
He sits back down in the chair and takes my hands. “Tell me how it happened.”
I sigh, and then give him the briefest sketch of what happened after I was texting with him. A lethal expression suffuses his face.