Getting Lucky (Jail Bait #4) Read online

  He drops his smoke and grinds it out with the heel of his biker boot, then pulls a pack of Dentyne Fire from his pocket and offers me the open end. I slide out a stick and fold it into my mouth.

  He does the same then shoves the pack back into his pocket. “C’mon.”

  I slide to the edge of the crate. “Where we going?”

  “Somewhere that’s not here,” he says, holding out his hand to me.

  A wave of nostalgia makes me shudder. This feels like something me and Lilah would have done back in the day. I know it sounds backward, but I miss no one giving a shit about me. I miss doing whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted. Now that I’m everybody’s paycheck, they monitor everything I do. Image is everything, after all.

  I hop down and take his hand, feeling more than a little dangerous as he leads me toward a door at the back of the sound room. He glances over his shoulder at the crew scrambling around the fringes of the set before punching the panic bar.

  “No alarm. That’s good,” he says, stepping through.

  “Shiloh!” I hear Billie call from somewhere backstage. “You’re on in three!”

  Tro tows me through the door into a dimly lit storeroom without slowing down. Course, he has no clue that Billie was calling for me. Tro’s supposed to be out there too for our segment, and if I didn’t know he’s probably going to catch more shit than me for this, I’d be shaking.

  “What’s your name?” he asks as he strides past racks of props and stage gear, my hand still in his.

  “Lo.”

  “I’m Trotte.” He glances back at me, where he’s towing me along like a dingy. “Don’t ask.”

  “Tell me about your name,” I say with a smirk when he ducks behind the shelves in the back of the room.

  He spins me up against the wall and pins me there by the upper arms. “I’ll give you the whole story only if you trade me something for it.”

  “Trade you something…?” I repeat, wondering what I’ve gotten myself into.

  He’s not quite a foot taller than my five-foot-three and probably outweighs me by a hundred pounds, but I’m not afraid. I learned how to defend myself against perverts and creeps on the streets of San Francisco before I was ten. If he turns out to be one of those, he’s going down.

  He nods and lets go of my arms, but doesn’t back away. “A story for a story. I want to know how someone as hot as you ended up a stage rat. They’ve got you hauling sound equipment or whatever when you should be on the other end of the camera.”

  “Why are you so sure I’m a stage rat?”

  He shrugs and leans a shoulder into the wall next to me. “Who else would be hiding in the sound crates?”

  “Someone who was trying to pull her shit together.”

  “Boyfriend shit?” he asks with a questioning raise of one dark eyebrow.

  I shake my head. “Don’t have time for that.”

  His wicked smile is back. “Knew I liked you.”

  “How? You’ve known me for thirty seconds.”

  “Call it a sixth sense,” he says, leaning closer.

  His breath feathers across my cheek and I force myself to keep my cool. I refuse to give him the reaction he’s looking for. I’m sure he’s shocked I haven’t dropped to my knees and unzipped his jeans yet. “So, you knowing you like me before you have a single fucking clue what I’m all about has nothing to do with me being hot, then?”

  “I never said that.” He rolls off the wall and plants a hand on either side of my head. “You are scorching, by the way. Feel like I’m standing five inches from the fucking sun right now. But I also like your attitude. Most people wouldn’t just walk out on their job because a stranger asked them to. Which means we must not be strangers.”

  I shove him away, ignoring how solid his biceps feel under my hands. “We are definitely strangers.”

  He shakes his head as a smile ghosts over his face. “I know your name, and that you’re tough and tenacious and you know what you want and aren’t afraid to do what it takes to get it.”

  “Why would you think that?” I ask, suddenly wary he really does know who I am and he’s playing the same game with me that I am with him.

  “Because you’re young, but you’ve managed to land a job at one of the biggest studios in New York,” he says with a shrug of his shoulder at the door we came through. “This is the big time, little girl.”

  “Tell me about your name and I’ll tell you what I was doing backstage,” I say.

  He leans wearily against the wall next to me. “My mom was the hometown rodeo queen. Guess she thought Trotte was clever.”

  “You’re a country boy?” I ask, my eyes raking over the open plaid button down hanging loose over a black T-shirt, torn black jeans, and black biker boots. “Never would have guessed.”

  “Nope,” he says with a stiff shake of his head. “Left that behind years ago.”

  “Your family?” My heart lodges in my throat at the thought of having a family and walking away. “Why would you do that?”

  His voice drops lower and something dark clouds his face. “Sometimes, family’s not all it’s cracked up to be.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” I say, my irritation coming through loud and clear. All these fucking people who bitch about their families just piss me off.

  “You’re better off.” He leans a shoulder heavily against the wall. “Course, you end up with my gig,” he adds, waving an arm at the door we came through, “every fucking person in the world wants to be your family.”

  He stops talking and his eyebrows shoot up when he realizes he just blew his cover.

  “So why do you go by Tro?” I ask.

  His smile turns skeptical. “You knew who I was this whole time.”

  It’s not a question, so I don’t answer.

  His eyes flick over my face, catching for a moment on my lips. He licks his. “And here I thought we were connecting like normal people do.”

  “Huh,” I say, scratching my head. “That’s what we were doing? Connecting? ‘Cause it felt more like hooking up.”

  “I’m all for hooking up, but…” His eyes darken as they lift to mine. “Yeah. Seemed like there might have been something clicking.”

  “You could tell that in thirty seconds?”

  He leans closer and traps me in his gaze. “I could tell that in three.”

  “Shiloh!” Billie’s frantic voice from the other side of the door shakes me out of his spell.

  “Got to get back to work,” I say, pushing past him. I round the corner of the shelves and march toward the door just as it opens.

  “What the hell are you—” Billie’s eyes widen when they shift over my shoulder, and that’s how I know Tro is following me. I brush past her into the studio and she holds the door after I pass. “Mr. Gunnison,” she says behind me. “I’m Billie Sinclair, Shiloh’s manager.”

  She’s still talking as I head for the set, but I don’t slow down to listen.

  The producer I met in the Green Room when we came in stops me at the stage curtain. “Thought we lost you,” he says with a tight smile.

  “Sorry,” I say. “Was in the bathroom.”

  His smile softens. “It happens. That’s the beauty of taping. We won’t miss a beat when the show airs tonight.” He holds his hand up over my shoulder just as I catch the scent of cinnamon. “Ready, Tro?”

  “Yeah, Pete.” Tro’s thick hand knuckle bumps him from over my shoulder. “Good to go, man.”

  “Head on out and take the seat next to Jimmy’s desk,” Pete tells him, pulling a tissue from his pocket and holding it out. At first I’m confused, but when Tro deposits his gum into it, I do the same. “When Shiloh comes out, you move one seat to the right and she’ll take the seat between you and Jimmy.”

  I look over my shoulder at Tro as Pete jump shots the tissue in the trash can in the corner. He gives me a shake of his head and that devil’s smile. “Got it, boss.”

  He steps through the curtain and strides toward the indicat
ed seat to squeals of “I want to have your babies, Tro!” from the girls in the audience.

  The sound guys get both of us wired, and after a quick mic check, Pete says, “All set back here, Jimmy,” into his headset.

  Up front, Jimmy introduces me and Pete pulls open the curtain. I walk out and wave at the audience like I totally belong here. I ignore the applause and the girls still screaming for Tro. I ignore the hundreds of prying eyes just waiting for me to fuck up. I ignore the hottest man I’ve ever met, standing near Jimmy’s desk, watching me with wolf’s eyes. I might make him feel like he’s standing five inches from the sun, but he’s got his own gravitational pull. My heart pounds harder with every step closer to him I take.

  His fingertips glide over my waist as he moves to the side and makes room for me to sit between him and Jimmy. I fight the shudder as I shake Jimmy’s hand, then Tro’s. We all settle into seats and it takes another minute for the stage managers, now holding up their “quiet” signs, to get the girls in the audience to stop their declarations of undying love for Tro.

  Jimmy’s first few questions are predictable, mostly about my path from orphan to recording phenom and how it’s changed my life. They play of clip of me singing my final song on The Voice finale, then cut to the moment I won. I’m crying a little and my mascara is all running down my face.

  I hate that clip.

  The whole time, I can’t help sneaking glances at Tro. I’m just now realizing his presence is impossible to ignore. His eyes are on the screen and his crooked smile is making my insides fizzle like a lit fuse. When his gaze slips to mine, it’s like a nuclear bomb goes off in my chest.

  The clip finishes and Jimmy looks past me to Tro. “So, what do you think about the whole Voice thing?”

  The smoky timbre of Tro’s chuckle causes a tingle to ripple up my spine and tightens my nipples. “I’m thinking about doing it just to get pointers from Adam Levine.”

  “We had Maroon 5 on earlier this season,” Jimmy says. “So talented—like your opening act.” He turns his gaze back to me. “Your first single, the one we just heard a snippet of from the finals of The Voice, spent seventeen weeks in Billboard’s top ten, and everything you’ve released since has debuted in the top five. That’s got to be pretty exciting.”

  I want to sound all kickass and confident, but I hate those last two singles. Course, I can’t say that without pissing off everyone at my label, so I nod. “My whole team has been really amazing, and Universal’s done a great job with promotion, so…”

  God, that was a stupid answer.

  “But I’m nothing like Roadkill,” I add to deflect the attention from me. “Their first CD went double platinum in like a week.”

  “Uh-uh,” Tro says with a shake of his head. “Our first CD was recorded in the basement of a crack house in Louisiana when I was seventeen. No one’s ever heard that ‘cept a few drunks at the seedy bars we played who we persuaded to part with ten bucks. That was Roadkill’s first three years.”

  “You mean, this one?” Jimmy says, and when I turn to him, he’s holding up a CD with a picture of three mangy guys on the cover. The one in the middle is a much younger Tro. He’s probably close to my age in that picture.

  “Well, fuck me,” Tro says with a shake of his head. “Where’d you find that?”

  “Apparently, one of those drunks was selling it on eBay,” Jimmy answers with a grin. “There’s not a whole lot we can play off this, but here’s a clip of the title track.”

  The music’s mostly drums and bass but Tro’s voice is no less incredible. He slouches back and scratches his nose as the clip finishes. “Wow…”

  “That was something, all right,” Jimmy says, tapping his finger on the CD case.

  “Something that should be put out of its misery and buried in the back yard,” Tro says with a shake of his head.

  “It wasn’t horrible,” I say, and Tro’s eyes snap to mine. “I mean, with a remix and a decent guitar line, that could be really good.”

  Tro leans his elbow onto the arm of my chair and raises an eyebrow. “Maybe you can help me with that.”

  “An original duet,” Jimmy says with a grin.

  At the word duet, my stomach cramps. My head’s already shaking when I say, “Not gonna happen,” at the same time as Tro says, “You bet your sweet ass.”

  Jimmy grins. “This should be quite the tour.”

  Tro smiles at me again—this cocky, crooked thing that should not be causing everything between my legs to ache. “I just met her for the first time backstage, but there’s definite chemistry. We’re going to crush it on tour for the next nine weeks...” He reaches for my hand and I’m so shocked when he scoops it off my knee that I don’t have the presence of mind to pull it out of his grasp. “…and get to know each other a whole lot better.”

  Jimmy looks at our hands and raises his eyebrows at Tro. “Careful there, Tro. You might not want to rock that cradle too hard, if you catch my meaning.”

  Chapter 3

  Tro

  It takes me a sec to get what Jimmy’s saying, and the instant it clicks my gut tightens. But I keep the shock off my face. Always. Cool as a fucking cucumber.

  But this chick I’m all hard for is under-fucking-age.

  Fuck.

  I look at her again and there’s nothing innocent about her. She’s tiny, but totally fuckable: all legs and curves topped with a heart shaped face and flawless skin the color of caramel. Her shiny red lips are wearing a smirk that makes my cock take notice, and there’s a demon with all kinds of depraved ideas shining out through whiskey-colored eyes that don’t miss much.

  A fucking succubus.

  But she’s just a kid.

  I feel the southern gentleman that I’ve spent the last six years burying beneath countless women and truckloads of booze tugging at my gut. But I didn’t get where I am by doing the right thing. I got here by doing exactly what I wanted, and the more outrageous the better. The supermarket rags call me player, man-whore, lady killer. Industry rags call me rebel, pioneer, visionary. They all think I’m some kind of genius and I’m good with that. The only one who’s ever called me shit-for-brains is my old man.

  “Guess I’ll just have to wait till the tour hits Kentucky then,” I say with a wink.

  “Or until hell freezes over,” comes one of the sexiest voices I’ve ever heard. It’s all gravel and fire. My cock, which has been hard as a fucking rock since I had her pressed up against the storeroom wall, threatens to bust clean through the zipper of my ripped jeans.

  The truth is, I don’t pay much attention to the supermarket rags, or any of the rest of it, which is why I didn’t know this little succubus was my tour opener. But I can’t say I’m disappointed. How did they introduce her? Shiloh Luck? Then I plan on spending the next two months before we leave our U.S. opener behind and head to Europe getting Lucky.

  “We’ll see,” I say directly to her, ignoring the audience’s blend of gasps and snickers.

  “Hey Pete!” Jimmy calls toward backstage. “Can we get someone to change the marquis on the street to The Dating Game?”

  There’s a drum roll from the band, but I don’t let Lucky’s eyes go. She doesn’t melt under my gaze the way every other woman before her has. She holds my eyes, and if anything, hers harden and become more determined.

  “No,” she says defiantly. “You’ll see. We aren’t doing anything.”

  I send her every watt of my charm. “Nine weeks is a long time, Lucky.”

  “Take us through the schedule,” Jimmy says to Lucky, bringing me back to the room. I’d been so lost in those whiskey eyes I’d forgotten where we were.

  She blinks as if to clear her head then takes him through the next week of shows. I’m so wrapped up in watching her mouth, the way it puckers on certain words, and the way just the tip of her pink tongue slips over her lower lip with others, that I don’t hear a word she says.

  “Well,” Jimmy says, “this is going to be an explosive tour, that muc
h is clear.”

  “We’re going to blow it off the hinges,” I say as Lucky’s scorching gaze burns a hole through me.

  Jimmy turns to the audience. “Be sure to look for Tro Gunnison and Roadkill, featuring The Voice winner, Shiloh Luck in a city near you this summer. Stick around. We’ll be back after the break with Channing Tatum.

  They cut, and before Jimmy can even stand and hold out his hand for a shake, Lucky is gone. She storms off the stage the way we came in.

  “Guess she’s a little pissed,” I tell Jimmy as I shake his hand.

  His eyebrows go up. “You think?”

  “Thanks, man. And send me a link to that schoolroom tape.” I grin. “Might want to take some of that shit on the road.”

  I head backstage and poke my head into the Green Room. There’s some actor I’ve seen in some stuff back there with his entourage, but no Lucky.

  “Great take, Tro.”

  I turn and find Pete coming up the hall toward me. “Yeah, thanks,” I say, looking over his shoulder toward the elevators.

  “Can we get you back here after your next release?” he asks.

  “Sure, man,” I say, taking his outstretched hand and shaking. “Hey, you know where Lucky went?”

  He cracks a grin. “Lucky?”

  “Yeah, the girl who’s—”

  “I know who you mean, dude, and she slammed out the door and was on an elevator less than a second after we cut.”

  “Guess I might have pissed her off a little.”

  He cracks up. “A little maybe.”

  I turn for the elevators and give him a wave over my shoulder. “Guess I’ll just have to find a way to make it up to her.”

  The one I’m thinking of at the moment involves pinning her up against a backstage wall again. And with just the thought, I’m hard as stone for her.

  I can’t even remember the last time I had blue balls, but fucking Lucky is giving me the worst case I’ve ever had, and we just fucking met.

  Chapter 4

  Shiloh

  I yank open the door to the waiting limo and dive in the back before the driver can even react. I find out Billie is right behind me when I start to slam the door and it jerks out of my grasp.