Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 105665 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105665 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
“I’m not yours to fix.” She grunted, trying without success to free herself from the weight of his body.
Ian rested his cheek on the backside of her shoulder. “I never said you were broken.”
She wasn’t broken, just really damaged.
“Here’s how this will go … I’m going to let you out from under me. You’re going to walk out that door, shower, and wait for me in the hallway—on time. And we’re not going to speak of this again. And it’s not going to ever happen again. Understood?”
Jersey moved her head into a tiny nod. Ian released her arm and eased off her one inch at a time, readying himself for her to lose it again. He lumbered to standing, and so did she. They faced each other, both bloodied and bruised.
“When’s the last time you spoke to your family?” Her question gave him whiplash.
“When’s the last time you spoke to yours?”
Jersey’s mouth turned downward. “What makes you think I have a family?”
“What makes you think I have one?”
“You’re an asshole.” She pivoted and retreated to the door.
“Yeah, well, so are you.” He didn’t wait for her to respond, leave his room, or figure out how to open her hotel room door with the key card. Ian closed and locked the bathroom door, removed the rest of his clothes, and stepped into the hot shower.
CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
Just as Jersey unplugged the hair dryer, Max opened the door to the hotel room. She paused, blinking several times at Jersey’s reflection in the mirror—the unmistakable cut by her eye and red bruise along her jaw.
“Ian’s going to fire me.” Max stepped the rest of the way inside of the room, and the door shut behind her. “He’s going to fire me and keep you. Which is insane!” Max tossed her purse onto the desk. “Because I do everything for him so he can focus on the one thing he loves most in life. I am the keeper of schedules, the fixer of catastrophes, the right brand of crackers, the two-dozen room-temperature, glass bottles of spring water neatly lined up and ready to go before he even realizes he’s thirsty.”
She tore open the blinds to the room and sighed while staring out the window. “And I do it because I love my job. I do it because he loves his job. I do it because I respect him. I genuinely respect him and how he chooses to run his business. I respect the way he treats his employees, his fans, and other musicians.”
Jersey shut off the bathroom light and slid around the corner, unable to make eye contact with Max.
“But here’s the issue … I don’t know why a man worth millions of dollars picked up a stranger off the street, clothed her, fed her, employed her, did whatever it was he did to or with her in a private jet last night, then allowed her to assault him, and still … refuses to let her go or explain to anyone around him his reasoning for keeping her. I … I … I just can’t wrap my head around this.
“But he just kicked me out of his hotel room for caring about him. Have you seen him? Have you taken a good look at him? The hickey is the least offensive thing he has going for him at the moment. I just stood in the hallway canceling his appearances for today. The silver lining is he doesn’t have to perform for two more days, and hopefully makeup will do the trick by then—unless you decide to take out your anger on him again!”
Jersey rubbed her bruised knuckles. If Ian killed Dena and Charles, she knew death would never be enough. People like Max held him too high on an unreachable pedestal. One blow, one cut … it would never be enough. Jersey would bring down his whole world, killing him slowly, so slowly he wouldn’t even realize the end was near.
But … if he didn’t kill them, then the man down the hallway genuinely cared for her and her needs. Either way, she had to dig deeper and find that truth.
“I’m sorry.” Jersey turned and opened the door.
“For what?” Max asked on a chuckle.
“I’m not sure yet.” Jersey let the door close behind her and took the ten steps to Ian’s door, slapping it several times to save her knuckles from more misery.
When he didn’t answer, she slapped it several more times. He opened the door, holding a glass tumbler in his hand and a vacant look in his eyes—the good one and the slightly swollen eye.
No shirt.
No shoes.
Dark jeans.
Wet hair.
“Nice hickey.”
Ian stared at her, maybe trying to lift his eyebrow in disbelief, but the swelling prevented his attempt. He turned, letting the door begin to close.
Jersey shoved her foot into the space before it clicked and followed him inside the room. The knocked over barstools and displaced coffee table were back in their spots. Ian collapsed onto his bed, leaning against the turquoise padded headboard, gaze locked to the basketball game on the television.