“Griff Greyson.”
The sharp words have him peeling his eyes open. A red-faced cop stands outside the bars of the jail cell.
Griff stretches and yawns, the cold cement bench beneath him better than any bed he’s slept in over the last two months. “Damn, man, can’t a guy get a little extra shut-eye? You’re interruptin’ my beauty sleep.” He keeps his drawl long and languid, wanting to piss off the cop, wanting to stay here a little longer. He already knows he’s in for a world-class ass chewing from his manager. Every single person who’s ever invested time, money, and energy into him is probably waiting outside the station with pitchforks.
Hell, if he knew he was gonna end up in a jail cell anyway, he would have stayed in Clover.
The cop bangs his baton against the bars. Griff grimaces. The clanging sound rattles his teeth, his hangover.
“Your bail’s been paid.”
Griff frowns. By who? He didn’t think he had that many friends left. With a groan, he sits up, swings his legs off the bench and stands. He tenses his hand, makes a fist. Hopes the guy he took a swing at is feeling worse than him.
There’s the heavy slide of the cell door, and then he’s out. Silently, he follows the cop down the hall to Booking to collect his belongings.
He peers into the box, taking back what’s his. Aviator shades. A flask. Two condoms. The rings he wears on every single one of his fingers. He slides a signet ring on his middle digit, his chest tightening as he gives the box a quick once-over. He doesn’t see it. “Where’s the penny?”
The officer narrows his eyes. “The what?”
“The penny.” Griff rips a hand through his lank blond hair. He slaps at his pockets, making sure he didn’t miss it. “I had a goddamn penny—” He breaks off, spying the rusted coin at the bottom of the box. He snatches it up, tucks it safely in his palm and tosses the officer a wild grin as he slips on his sunglasses. “Lucky, you know.”
Then he’s outside, wincing at the harsh early morning sunlight. He takes the steps two at a time, ready to get the hell away from the Nashville Police Department. He’s nearly to the parking lot when he freezes in his boots and groans.
Fuck.
Nikki. She’s leaning against a trash can, blond hair teased to high hell, looking like she wants to eat him alive.
Nikki’s a mistake. A bad mistake that won’t leave him alone. He slept with her last year after a show in Petaluma. He’d had a few and she looked just right. He’d regretted it in the morning when she wouldn’t leave his side, but after that, Nikki was like a dog with a bone. She had a taste and she wasn’t letting go. She’s still hanging around, ever the loyal, doe-eyed groupie. Ever the constant pain in his ass.
Griff almost walks himself back into the jail cell. But she’s on him like honey. She reaches out and grabs his hand, her thin face rabid with excitement. “Oh my God, Griff! I can’t believe they kept you in there all night!”
“Whoa. Easy, darlin’.” He winces at the shrillness of her voice. “You think you can crank it down a few decibels?”
She snaps a bubble in his face, the sound like a gunshot. “Whatever you need me to do, Griff, baby. You know that.”
He slings an arm around her shoulders as they trudge across the parking lot. Maybe Nikki can get him a hot meal, some coffee, a stiff drink. Give him a ride home. Hell, he’s betting even her bed could rival that cold bench back in the jail cell.
“Shit.” He stops in his tracks when he sees the car.
The black Mercedes-Benz circles the lot like a shark. Griff drops his arm from Nikki, who makes a little mewling noise of protest. “Griffy.”
“I gotta deal with this.”
Leaving Nikki to pout, he approaches the car and leans into the rolled-down window. “Bailing me out, Freddie? I didn’t think you had an ounce of humanity left in that soulless skeleton of yours.”
Freddie Gladstone, his ruthless bulldog of a business manager, shoots him a dagger of a death glare. “Griff,” she says, her British accent chillier than the November morning. “Get in the bloody car.”
“You toss in an ice-cold beer and you got a deal.”
Freddie revs the engine. Her knuckles, white on the wheel, tell Griff she’s one second away from running him down. “Now.”
He slips into the car, glancing over his shoulder for a brief second to see Brian, his cousin and tour manager, sitting in the back seat, reading a magazine. No doubt he and Freddie are in cahoots for Griff’s come-to-Jesus moment.
Griff reclines the seat as far as it can go. “Breakfast first. Then we talk.”
Without words, Freddie punches the gas, burning rubber as she peels out of the lot. Ten minutes later, she’s squealing through the McDonald’s drive-through to park at the outskirts of the parking lot in the shade of a sycamore tree.
Freddie drops the sack in Griff’s lap, her angular face contorted in disgust at the greasy deliciousness about to fill his stomach.