Chapter 40: (Even) Bad Girls Gag Sometimes

Mac

I underestimated Street.

I forgot, this kid is a del Marco.

I should have known he was sneaking off with his lap girl to find a private place to fuck.

And maybe So-Cal cool Street doesn't have the Matt and Trace total bad-assery thing going on, but he has enough balls to commandeer a storage closet near the main bar, pick the lock and take his girl in there. So now I'm waiting at the bar, keeping an eye out for him to emerge, before I pounce.

It's actually perfect. He'll be so fuck-drunk, I'm sure I'll be able to get the information I want out of him. Unless Adam scares him away, like he's scaring every other dick-carrying member of the species away from me at the moment. He literally just growled at my ex-movie star that passed by, barely waving a hello.

Growled. Over a wave.

What the fuck is Adam thinking?

Growling is my job. I'm the man-eater, right?

"Baby," I rub his back as he leans backwards on his elbows and nurses his second bourbon, side-eying two handsome randoms down the bar that are apparently coming to an awareness not only am I a looker, I'm a looker they recognize from TV. "This is why I asked you to stay in VIP."

"So these LA fuckers can all take a shot at you?" he hisses.

I laugh at him. "No, so you didn't get worked up like this. Come on, lover, you know this scene. You're an LA fucker, too. How many women have you picked up just like this?"

He narrows his eyes at me, but then he softens. He puts a hand on my upper thigh as he leans in and whispers in my ear. "I couldn't tell you. Somewhere between you saying 'I love you' and you throwing Plan B in the ocean, my memory of other women went to shit. All I know is you. Now, and forever."

I close my eyes and let the impression of his words shiver up and down my spine. "Goddamn the wonderful things you say, Adam. They are utterly distracting in a situation like this." I grab his jaw, and kiss him hard, mindless of my makeup, then I pull back and whisper."No other fucker has a chance. Not in LA. Not in hell. Only you. Like you said...you know...the very last thing...you said..." I stammer.

"Now and forever?" he whispers.

"Yeah. That."

He grasps my hand, puts it to his hip. I feel a small square protrusion in his pocket. "I wish you'd wear my ring, so that everyone knows it. We don't have to get married anytime soon, you know. Think of it as a promise, while we figure out how to make forever perfect..." he wheedles.

I kiss his sexy stubbly jaw and growl, "You asking me to marry you again?"

He pulls back. The look in his eyes is hard, like he knows the answer already, but he owns it anyway. "Yeah, I guess I am."

I lay my head on his shoulder. Last time, he infuriated me with his proposal. This time, he makes me sad. Does he really think I need to wear his ring just to ward off other men? That I have so little resistance? That I can't form the words "Fuck off" and give the chin tip to Mason the security guy over there if some hopeful doesn't take the brush-off?

I grab his head, pulling his ear down to me as I rasp harshly. "You give the shittiest proposals, Preacher." I shove at his hip, pressing the ring box away. "Put that fucking thing away before you hurt yourself. And get gone. When Street comes out of that closet shoving his dick in his pants, the last thing I need beside me is Trace's best friend with a shit-eating grin on his face. He's sees you, he automatically thinks he's taking shit from Trace over the nasty closet-fuck. Then it's mission fail. He'll either clam up shit-cool, which being a del Marco is a distinct possibility, or he'll freak the fuck out and tell us only what he thinks we want to hear, you know? You're a liability to this mission, Heartley." I cast around my eyes. "Don't you know that producer over there? Go talk shop," I suggest. "Mason's got me."

Adam smiles bitterly, then leans into my ear again, which is the only way we can hear anything for the music. "Second proposal, second rejection. That's alright. You know what they say about the third time, Shortcake..."

We exchange ears and lips. "Three strikes and you're out?" I tease.

He puts his hands between my ass and the barstool lifting me up against him. "Third time's a charm."

"Owwww!" I screech as he drops me hard on the stool and saunters off with a head jerk to Mason to keep eyes on me.

Adam melts away into the crowd. I turn down drinks from two guys while I twirl on my stool.

I text Trace: Street is not on your girl.

Immediately, Trace: You sure?

Me: He's balls deep in a surfer chic in a closet off the bar. He picked the lock.

Trace: Da fuck?

Me: I shit you not.

Trace: Damn. That's fucking great. Good for him. So Kat is good? You talk to her?

Me: Not yet.  I will before we go. There's a minor thing...

I change my mind and decide not to tell him about the Double Agent yet. Could be nothing. Instead I feel the need to vent.

Me: Adam proposed. Again. Please tell him to quit that shit.

Trace: Oh shit. We're oversharing, I see. Ok. Was is he serious?

Me: As always. I turned him down. As always. Why can't he just be happy with the way things are?

Trace: Priestess, that's on you. I can't help it if the wine in your Magic Chalice is that sweet.

Me: Shut-up before I tell Adam you are talking about my va-jay-jay.

Trace: Jesus, can we please stay metaphorical?

Me: Fine. My Chalice will run dry if your boy doesn't stop with the fucking marriage proposals.

Trace: Hmmmmm...I think the Priestess maketh smoke and lies.

Me: Jesus. Have a drink. Smoke a blunt. Go be a rock star. You are too sober. Your metaphors suck right now.

Trace: Fuck it. Imma about to play some GTA with Andy while I wait for Kat to text me she's home...

Me: Love has made you a loser, TG

Trace:  I'm in love...at least I'm not up shit-creek swimming in marriage proposals, Mrs. Heartley.

Me: Fuck you.

Trace: Back at ya, Macaroni. And thanks.

Done with Trace for the moment, I place my hands on the bar and capture a bartender's attention at once. Before I can speak my order, a hand at my back makes me arch away.

"What are you drinking, love?" The voice is unfamiliar, but as I turn to my right to make my refusal, the piercings on his lips are unfortunately and horrifically familiar.

DevBlu worries his the left piercings on his lip as I stare at them. I look away. Fucking Christ, he thinks I like them.

I don't. I don't like them worth a damn, but that doesn't mean I have to lose my shit. I looked at his picture a thousand times. DevBlu is not the man who hurt me. He looks nothing like the man that hurt me. I take a deep breath. I shoot my eyes to Mason and give him a down by my thigh upside down peace sign which is the signal I use with John to keep eyes-on, just in case. I hope Mason knows it. He's never been my guy.

I take another deep breath and raise my eyes to Dev's, before I turn to the bartender. "I'm not really. Not tonight. Just a grapefruit juice and tonic is fine."

"Ah. That sounds refreshing," Dev says in his West-End London Accent. "Make it two. And that bottle of Blue Magic." He nods behind the bar. He grins at me. "I'm not drinking either, but a splash of gin in juice hardly counts."

I snort. "To a Londoner, I guess not."

We don't say anything while we wait on the drinks. The bartender brings the juices and the bottle of gin. Dev swallows half his juice and pours his drink. I take a small sip and accept a replacement splash.

"Gonna spill this one on me?" he asks as he raises he glass.

"Try not." I clink glasses with him.

"Thanks for the new shoes," he grins. "Why do I suddenly wish I were wearing them?"

"I have no idea," I retort but then, I feel guilty because Dev has hardly given me reason to be rude. His barely-there flirtation is standard protocol in the industry. I force a smile and tame my evil. "You don't need fancy shoes, you have talent. I listened to your tracks. I really like your style, Dev," I reply, twirling on my stool and looking for Adam. I can't see him anymore, but I can see Mason.

"I feel quite the same about you," Dev offers nonchalantly. He leans in conspiratorially, "In fact, I'm not even here to hit on you, I truly came to talk about that collab, that's all."

My eyes are on his lip rings again. I swallow, and my choker necklace suddenly feels binding. Dev notices me unable to take my eyes off his mouth. He flicks his piercings with his tongue. "Fuck...unless...you want to talk about something different?"

I fold my lips into a tight smile. "I'm not really looking to take it to the outside, right now. I'm happy in Soundcrush. Pass on the collab."

Dev's dark eyes show a little honest surprise. "Your man says different. Says you've been shopping."

"Dawes isn't my man. He works for the label. Same label as you, right?"

"Yeah. Convenient, but not about that. Not to me," he shrugs. "Seven Minutes is brilliant pop. You're just what I need to smooth my hard edges for American Top 40. I reached out for your songwriting style and your voice, not because somebody at the label suggested it." Dev's smile is blue-white under the club lights.

I try to concentrate on his eyes, but those teeth draw me, and  those piercings. My hand goes to my choker necklace. He takes another drink while he watches me take the sequined choker off and slap it on the bar.

"You all right, love?"

"Stop calling me that, okay? If you are even remotely serious about a future collaboration..."

He puts his hands up. "Sorry, sorry. It's gotten to be a bad habit of mine. American girls fancy it. Didn't mean to offend you, MacKenna."

I wave it away. "It works for you. Just not on me."

He knocks back his gin and juice and pours straight gin over ice. "Got it. Crystal. Saw your Instagram—you and the bass player. Probably for a lot longer than your Instagram shows, yeah?"

"Since the beginning," I say automatically. I blink. Why am I telling a stranger things Marcy hasn't even released publically? Without thinking, I take a huge gulp of my drink and gag at once. God, I hate gin.

I'm trying not to vomit, but it comes back up and then I swallow the wrong way and now I'm spluttering, choking on the nasty ass gin vomit that I'm trying to hold in. I tip forward, hand clamping over my mouth and my throat. Suddenly my throat is burning with vomit and I'm struggling to breathe.

No. Fuck no. I refuse to let this happen. This guy is not the guy. No. No. No. Breathe. Actually. Swallow the vomit, then breathe.

I swallow. I gasp.

"Christ, are you alright?" Dev grabs my shoulders, tipping down, trying to make eye contact with me.

Breathe in. Slow. One, two three. Hold. Breathe out.

I look at him. I see him clearly—DevBlu—not the guy that hurt me. My back is not against the wall. But I need to walk away while I still can.

"Fine," I manage to say. I spin off the stool and away from Dev's touch. I look to Mason, but he's not there. I whirl around, but I can't see a face I know...Adam's or Mason's.

"Gotta go," I mutter, lurching away from Dev.

He grabs my arm, and he says something but I'm no longer close enough to hear him. I'm trying to pull away, but he's holding on, and I shout, "Let go!" loud enough so that he and everyone around me can hear.

Before the second syllable is even out of my mouth, Adam's face resolves from the press of people around the bar. He grabs Dev's wrist, pulling it off my arm, whirls Dev around and shoves him hard.

Dev falls back against the bar, but he pushes himself back up, automatically rushing at Adam.

So before Dev can respond, Adam smashes a fist right into those pierced lips.

Dammit Adam. Never hit in the mouth. You'll break your hand before you'll break his teeth, baby.

Drinks crash. Girls scream. Camera's flash. I curse. Dev does not spring back from the bar so easily this time.

Adam moves toward me, but before he reaches me, a burly dude with a military cut grabs him, whirls him back around and smashes Adam's face to the bar, pinning an arm behind his back and twisting up. Fuck, of course Dev would have security with him. I see Adam trying to push off the bar, but the guy pinning him slams a fist down beside Adam's face. He's holding something I can't see, and Adam suddenly stops fighting.

Scared that the asshole security guy is about to pepper spray Adam, I cry out. "Let him go, you motherfucker!" I surge forward but someone grabs me back by the arms. I thrash.

Mason's voice says urgently in my ear, "Stand down, Ms. Lawson. That's an undercover cop. Fucking bad luck."

The bar is swarming with in-house security and someone is now holding back a bleeding Dev from trying to get to Adam. Adam and Dev both are swiftly hustled down the length of the bar, disappearing into the throng as Mason keeps me from following.

"Goddammit, let go!" I stomp down hard on Mason's foot, surprising him just enough to jerk free from his grasp. Then I turn on him and point in the direction where the troupe of assholes just ran away with my man. "Where the fuck are they taking him?"

"Best guess—club manager's office. To wait on the squad car to take him downtown."

"You've got to be fucking kidding me," I moan. "Are you telling me Preacher is going to jail?"

Man, Mac and Adam cannot catch a break today! What do you think will happen next?

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