Page 6 of Extended Bridge (Passionate Beats #2)

Chapter Four

T he car stops in front of a swanky hotel, where the band’s manager stands at the curb with a luggage trolley. “It was a pleasure driving you, Miss. I hope you enjoy your stay.”

“Thank you so much. You made this ride a lot more pleasant than I anticipated.” The driver’s funny stories sure distracted me.

He tips the brim of his New York Yankees baseball cap. “I’ll help unload your bags.”

Luke opens my door as blood pumps through my body at an increasing tempo.

I inhale the distinctive city smell of Manhattan.

I can do this—practice physical therapy like I’ve been trained.

Doesn’t matter if my patient were a schoolteacher from Aroostook or one of the biggest rock stars on the planet.

Heal him, collect my honest fee, and return to my life. Nothing. More.

I step out of the car, watching the two men load my few mismatched bags onto the trolley. My life contained in two large suitcases and a carry-on. The driver wishes me well and drives away, leaving me with Luke. Well, I guess I am the hired help.

Plastering a smile on my face, I say, “Thanks for coming out to meet me, Luke, but I don’t want to be a bother.

” I lift my hand, palm up. “If you could please give me my key, I’ll push my luggage into the room and be out of your hair.

” Which is darker than Bennett’s by a couple of shades, and much longer, touching his shoulders.

“Oh no, B would have my head if he thought I made you push your own luggage.” He waves off the doorman and positions himself behind the trolley. “Besides, you have to check in. They wouldn’t give me your room key.”

His honesty causes me to giggle. My hand slaps across my mouth. “Sorry. Totally not funny.”

Luke pushes the luggage cart in the front door. “I know you’re not laughing at my being your bag boy.” He makes a turn and grabs my carry-on before it hits the floor.

Something about this man dealing with my luggage is giggle worthy. “Absolutely not.” I smother another giggle.

“Well, it is sort of funny. But don’t get used to it. From now on, you’re responsible for getting your luggage in and out of the bus.”

The use of the word “bus” stops me in my tracks. “Will the bus be like last time?”

“Buses,” he clarifies. “The band has two buses, but Bennett usually rides alone. The crew share a few buses among the roadies, sound techs, instrument techs. You’ll be on one of those.”

I relax. I’m not expected to be on Bennett’s bus—I can’t believe he de facto gets one all to himself. I stop myself from wondering why. “Sounds good. I’ll only need one bag at a time, and depending on the schedule, I may be able to get by with only the carry-on.”

We stop and Luke catches said carry-on from falling again. “Sounds like a plan.”

He escorts me to the registration desk where I get my key, and we make our way to the elevators. While we wait, I ask, “Where is Bennett? I need to give him some PT before tonight’s concert.”

“We have a few hours before showtime.” Luke checks his watch. “Impressive. You lasted ten whole minutes before asking about our lead singer. ”

My spine snaps straight. The elevator dings and we enter. “The only reason I’m here at all is to give him physical therapy.”

I swear he mutters, “Have you run that by B?”

“Excuse me?”

“Nothing.” The elevator stops at my floor and we approach my room. After pressing my card against the keypad, the door opens and I let Luke push the cart into the room.

“Thank you. I’ll unpack from here—we’re staying in this hotel two more nights?”

He pulls out his cell. “Yes. I’ll let B know your room number.”

“You don’t have to do that. I noticed the hotel has a gym. Can you ask him to meet me there in thirty?”

“Of course, I live to be his personal secretary.” He smiles to lessen the sting of his words, but message received that I’ll be doing my own scheduling from now on. After sending a text, Luke leaves me alone.

My first order of business is to set my alarm for the gym.

Next, I wander around the sterile hotel room.

Nothing fancy, just a bed, television, closet, bathroom, and a longish counter hosting the television on top and some drawers plus a fridge beneath.

I bet Bennett has the presidential suite, complete with a bedroom complete with an en suite bathroom, a living room, and kitchen.

Not that I’ll ever find out. With efficient movements, I unpack three days’ worth of outfits and change into leggings for the gym.

Someone knocks on my door. Bennett couldn’t wait another ten minutes? I open the door prepared to tell him to meet me in the gym.

Only it’s not Bennett.

Pierce DeLuca stands in the doorway. Darren’s best friend. Bennett nicknamed him 007 because Pierce Brosnan was playing James Bond when he was born, and they have the same coloring. For what it’s worth, I think the nickname fits.

“Hi.” I widen the door, allowing him to enter the room.

“Hello, Jenna.” Controlled anger vibrates off his body, which does nothing to calm my nerves.

Have I made a mistake touring with UC again?

In the middle of the room, which seems to be smaller all of a sudden, he turns and waits for me to close the door.

His fingers rest on the studded belt he’s wearing—my stomach flips when I recognize it as Darren’s favorite.

“I understand you’re touring with us as Bennett’s physical therapist.”

I walk toward the counter with the television, covering my racing heart rate. “I am.”

His jaw tics. Not a good sign. “I’m only going to say this once. I don’t like it. There are plenty of other therapists that don’t have your connection with the band. You should recommend someone—a school friend, close colleague, hell I don’t care, anyone —and leave now. Before things get ugly.”

Get ugly? My head ticks up. “I don’t mean to make things difficult among you guys.

I’m only here because I was tagged to check on Bennett’s injury when it happened and have been his physical therapist for the past two weeks.

” I tighten my ponytail holder, keeping my hair bound.

“It’s my professional duty to see him through his rehab. ”

He turns his back to me and faces the window. “I want to believe you think you’re doing something for his good. But you’re not. We all—except Tris—were here when Darren died. You being on tour with us now reopens these wounds.”

“I don’t mean for that to happen. I only want what’s best for Bennett.”

He whirls to face me, his face a blotchy red. “What’s best for Bennett is to seek treatment from some other physical therapist. I don’t know why he can’t see that. Or why you can’t, for that matter.”

I dissect the words he’s flung at me. “I might agree,” I begin cautiously.

“If I wasn’t the one to diagnose his injury when it happened.

I didn’t go with him to the doctor the first visit, but I was there for the last one.

He needs more time to rehab than the measly two weeks—less than, actually—I’ve been working with him.

I know his routine, his exercises. I can read his tells and know when he can be pushed harder. ”

“Someone else could do the same.”

He’s right. Didn’t I make the same argument to Court?

Am I allowing unprofessional feelings toward Bennett cloud my judgment?

I stew a moment, but the certainty I’m the right therapist for the job is inescapable.

More than that, I need the money to open another clinic.

Bennett and I simply will not cross any more lines.

“You’re right. Someone else could read my files and pick up his therapy. But they won’t have the background I do with him, nor the time in on his rehab. While you may disagree—and I’m wary about being back with UC, believe me—I am the best therapist for him at this juncture.”

“Darren would have something to say about this.”

I take an involuntary step back, as if he’d slapped me across the face.

“This has nothing to do with Darren.” When we were together, I loved him, and he loved me.

He made a series of bad decisions the night he overdosed.

Pierce needs to mourn his passing and move on, as my therapist urged me to do.

I am quite aware how big of an ask this is.

He crosses his arms. “Or have you already decided to hook up with Bennett as a way to stay connected with UC, Miss Black Widow?”

“What? No.” I shake my head. Guilt prods that he’s half-right because we already have hooked up.

However, the reason definitely was not because of Darren.

If anything, the fact Bennett’s in the same band was a real turn off.

I force myself to glare at the band’s bassist. I hope it appears convincing. “I’m only his therapist.”

“Keep telling yourself this, Jenna. Just know I have my eyes on you.” His blazing blue gaze latches onto me. “If he so much as gets a hangnail, your ass will be out. Feel me?”

“I’m only here to help Bennett rehab. So he can perform as your frontman like he used to do.”

His lips form a solid line. “See to it you get this job done. No other.” He breezes by me, tagging my shoulder, as he exits the room. The door remains open .

I sag against the wall. If I had any doubts about where Pierce stands, they’re all gone now. The need to convince him I’m here for Bennett’s physical therapy, and nothing else, reinforces my resolve to keep things strictly professional with the rock star.

My alarm goes off, giving me a five-minute warning. Wonderful. With Pierce’s venom swirling in my head, I close the door behind me and follow the signs to the gym. When I enter, the rest of the band—sans my recent visitor—is working on various machines. Bennett stands by a workout bench.

“Jenna!” the frontman exclaims, and limp-walks to my side. My body buzzes with excitement at seeing him again, which I tamp down when the other band members stop their exercises and encircle me.