Page 19 of Killer Notes

“You got it bad,” John whispers, before a grin more evil than Lucifer’s spreads across his face. “Just remember the rule. No fucking around with the clients. Look but don’t touch.”

I glare at John, knowing that rule. Instead of reminding him that same rule applies for his eye-fucking of the drummer, I keep my trap shut, and grab more coffee.

However, he’s right. That’s the number one tenet in Harper’s guidelines for engaging with clients. Aside from keeping them safe. We don’t sleep with them. Ever.

Sure enough, around eleven a.m. the rest of the band gets up in a groggy haze. After another round of coffee and some food Ron brought in, we’re on our way to the studio. All uneventful.

Or so I thought until I run right into Danny as he’s leaving the studio’s bathroom and I’m going in.

“Sorry,” he says, keeping his head bowed to his chin and his eyes averted from mine. Damn, his dark, thick, long lashes flutter against his pink cheeks.

Danny’s silky hair is up in a messy bun at the back of his head. My fingers itch to touch the loose strands around his face.

His delicate appearance doesn’t begin to convey the strength he has behind his voice. Danny is a powerhouse when he opens his mouth. I’m kind of looking forward to hearing him sing on stage.

“I’m sorry,” I finally say, getting my head out of my ass.

He tries to sidestep me, but with my body twice the size of his, my hand automatically goes to his bicep before we collide into each other.

“Umm… Thanks.” Danny tries to brush past me; embarrassment is written all over his face. Why?

Oh, shit. He knows what I saw yesterday.

“Wait. Danny.” It’s the first time I’ve used his real name, which has him motionless. I slide my hand to his wrist and wrap my fingers around it. I want to talk—no, ask him if he did see me in the bedroom, but nothing comes out of my mouth.

The pulse point on his wrist jumps under my thumb. When I brush the pad of my finger along his skin, he gulps audibly. Jesus, I can smell the gloss on his lips. Cherry, maybe.

“I have to go,” Danny says as he turns away from me, but he doesn’t pull out of my hold.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, not loosening my grip.

There’s electricity coursing between our hands, and a strong impulse to pull his lithe frame to mine. I crave to taste those irresistible cherry flavored lips, which is overpowering my sense of duty.

“Nothing’s wrong,” he says stiltedly, but the flush of pink blooms into crimson across his cheeks and down his neck. A pretty blush, I wouldn’t mind—Stop!

I drop my hand immediately and let him go, not saying anything else. Confusion crests in Danny’s eyes before he hurries off.

What the hell is wrong with me?

Think, damn it.

Abruptly feeling his absence, I shut that emotion down and head into the bathroom. When I get back, John levels me with hard glare.

“What?” I’m on instant alert, scanning the room, where all of the band members are crowding around Danny now.

“The singer got another letter.” John extends a gloved hand with an open envelope between his fingers.

He hands me a glove and I put it on. I take the note and carefully open it up, scanning the words on the paper.

Dear Danny,

I told you there will be repercussions for your actions.

Stop fucking around on me with that drummer.

That shot was a warning. Next time, I won’t miss.

Also, keep that muscled meathead of a bodyguard