4
EPIPHANY
“My phone’s not working. What backass country hovel are you taking me to?”
I slump against the backseat and throw my phone on top of my bag. Crossing my arms over my chest, I glare at Lee through the rear-view mirror. We’ve been driving forever, or so it seems, and I’m restless. I’m used to traveling all over the world, so it’s not the time in the car that’s driving me crazy. It’s the big, sexy, broody man who refuses to entertain me, and, without my phone, I’m at a complete loss.
“You told the world you were taking a long-needed break. Sit back, relax, and pretend like you’re on vacation.”
I narrow my eyes at his reflection and stick out my bottom lip.
His gaze rests on me for a long minute before they return to the road, but it’s when his eyes flick back to me that I get an idea of how to entertain myself. I dig through my bag, find my AirPods, and put them in. Then I bring up my music app and find my playlist.
Dancing in my seat, I close my eyes and let the music take me over, gyrating my hips against the leather interior. I bring my arms up, run my fingers through my hair, and pile it high on my head as I sing softly to the chorus. My tongue darts out of my mouth between verses, and then I suck in my bottom lip, and even though I’m putting on a show, grinding my pussy against the seat makes my shorts ride up and rub against my clit, which is a whole new vibe to work with.
I open my eyes and catch his gaze in the mirror. Even so, he says nothing.
Dammit. Now I’m bored and turned on, and this guy is giving me nada.
I’ve been partying with people older than me since I was fourteen. I know it sounds terrible—and now, as a twenty-two-year-old, I think so, too—but back then I learned how to get my way through any means necessary. My father’s money saved me from some of the seedier experiences in life. Thechaperoneshe hired for me did the bare minimum to keep me from being violated or put in jail. Otherwise, they were sitting next to me, down to party with the who’s who of the rich and famous.
I’ve hopped on an Arab prince’s jet to an exotic location and then came back two weeks later to party on a yacht docked off the beach in San Diego. I’ve attended red carpet events on the arm of some up-and-coming actor one weekend and then drank champagne with a senator’s son the next. I’ve been proposed to by a half-dozen men twenty to forty years older than me, and if money and stability could satiate this need burning deep within my belly, I would have taken one of them up on it just to cut that last remaining tie to my father.
But none of those men could give me what I craved most—control. Every single one of them allowed me to do whatever I wanted, no matter how outlandish the idea. They wanted to cage me, but by marriage and money, not by love and affection. They would have viewed me as a possession or a challenge, nothing more. I know if we had married, they would have placed me on a pedestal to be admired, but not truly played with—which is what I desperately want.
There’s a difference between being viewed as a trophy versus treasured as a prize.
I’m tired of people handing me things.
I’m tired of being the center of attention and yet utterly ignored.
None of my fans or entourage, as Case called them, really know me.
But the real me wouldn’t keep my ravenous fans glued to their phones, clicking my Buy Now links.
And so, when facing my public, I’m the fun, ultimate party girl. Down for anything reasonable and pseudo-responsible. Unlike the epic party girls before me—Lindsay, Paris, Brittney and Kim—I have no intention of becoming notorious, although I’ve been advised on more than one occasion that flashing the paparazzi my bare pussy might gain me a few million more followers.
I’m good with my followers. Most of them are young girls learning about makeup and fashion. I don’t want to employ a full-time security team, which the next level of fame will require. I’m comfortably on the cusp of said event, but a kidnapping scandal will definitely put a million more eyes on me. The kind of eyes I don’t want.
I meet Lee’s gaze in the mirror, my lips curling up in triumph as I pull my AirPods out of my ears. “Do you like what you see?”
The lines around his eyes tighten, but again, he says nothing.
I slump forward and whine, “I’m bored. Can’t I come sit in the front seat with you?”
“Absolutely not.”
I unbuckle my seat belt and lean in between the two front chairs. “Are you going to be a stick in the mud all weekend?”
He glances over at me, his gaze trailing over my face and down to my cleavage on full display in this loose shirt. Then he turns back to face the road, the muscles in his jaw flexing as he speaks. “Sit back and put your seatbelt on.”
“If I don’t?”
His hands tighten on the steering wheel, and I swear I hear his teeth grinding.
“Why don’t you tell me a story or something?”
“Sure,” he quips. “One time, there was a woman in trouble, but instead of thankfully accepting the help provided to her, she tormented her would-be saviors, giving them ideas about taking her into the woods and tying her to a tree.”