Page 44 of Something Like Sugar (Pine Forest Something #2)

LEMON

L isten up, bitches, this is my story, and I’ll break the fourth wall whenever I want, thank you very much.

I’m Lemon. Yes, I’ll allow time for that to sink in. Lemon.

Laugh it up. It’s fine. I’ve heard it all: Lemonade, Lemon Cakes, Lemon Pie, Lemony Snicket.

But the worst one I ever heard was…

“Sour Patch!”

When said by my arch nemesis and brown-nosing, Daddy Wannabe, O.L. Nashville.

I snort. It doesn’t even sound like a real name. It’s more like a stage cover…a stripper name. And with that little nugget of brilliance sure to fire him up in all the ways I love, I saunter over to Mr. Mad-Eyes and cock my hip to the side, swinging my VIP pass around to fuck with him.

He likes things orderly, and I am the opposite of order.

“I’ll pretend you didn’t call me that little pet name again, since you’re in control of the tour and obsessed with me and all, but don’t think for one second I’m letting up on my quest to learn your full name and exploit it seven ways to Sunday, Nash.”

I call him by his nickname. The name only the men call him, my father and the other stupidly rich goons he lines his boardrooms with.

Most of the women at Perkins Global Records, usually assistants or interns unsurprisingly—if you know my father—offer a much simpler, sanctimonious title to Agent Tight-Ass, and that one’s even worse. A breathy, lustful, submissive, Mr. Nashville.

Like he’s important or something.

I roll my eyes as I hear it now, yes, Mr. Nashville ; right away, Mr. Nashville, and the most gag-inducing of them all, anything you say, Mr. Nashville, through lash-fluttering eyes.

Well, fuck that.

I raise a brow in challenge when he doesn’t respond, driving in the accusation of his inadequacy with one smirk, something men like him despise.

And damn, do I love being despised by men.

Like, okay , so you have balls and a ding-a-ling, whoop de do. Nobody cares. We could use your parts for reproduction and put you in cryo-sleep for the rest of the year, surviving just fine without you. We only need your sperm. Men.

I don’t want Mr. Nashville’s sperm, as it happens.

And I have a theory he’s a bit salty by that fact, seeing as how I just swallowed throatfuls from the band he’s managing on the bus, and he hasn’t stopped scraping my body with his icy blue irises all week, licking those thick lips, permanently turned down in a scowl of disapproval.

I may or may not be sleeping with them. The band that is.

Yes, all of them . And don’t judge, either. Ever heard of a why-choose romance? Women can have entire harems these days.

Anyway, I’m dumping them. It’s day six, and that means what it always does for me.

It’s in the past.

The record label will have brand-new talent to strut soon, and who knows? With my last job being caput and no prospects lined up to replace it, maybe I’ll go on tour with them, too.

I don’t do it just for the sex. My endless VIP passes to these tours are my escape. Always have been. Musicians, new cities, another chance to fall in love and feel the electricity that brings? I’m in every time.

I like it this way. Don’t get me wrong, I more than anyone, love love.

My friends would say I’m a matchmaker of sorts.

Find me a couple pining over lost time and missed connections, and I’m there for it.

I will alter the elements themselves for a happily ever after.

That’s why I became an officiant, one of my three hundred and two jobs since I was seventeen, none of which I’ve stuck with, but that’s beside the point.

I love falling in love, not necessarily staying in love. Much like my jobs, it’s about the unknown…the chase, the catch and reward. The high you get when you willingly enter the storm.

But once it’s all said and done, it’s like everything else…over. And the high fades right along with it.

I don’t need money.

We have lifetimes of it. So much so that my father doesn’t even notice I give every scent I’ve earned since high school to those in need.

It’s sickening enough the thousands of dollars missing each month hardly moves the line graph his accountant keeps on my vault, but for me to simply hoard it away among piles of wealth when my neighbor’s kid can’t afford his epi pen?

I hate the rich, even if I am one.

I used to think my last job would be the one, a live-in care tech for a hospice patient, someone I knew on a personal level.

I was serving my community.

And unlike my other jobs, where I felt bumpered and boxed in by the oblivion of sameness, giving my attention to someone I grew to love like a second father, gave me purpose.

He died, as patients in hospice tend to do, and I grieved him right alongside his daughter.

Randall Holiday was his name. I can hardly say it aloud without breaking.

Regardless of whether I knew he was dying, preparing for it with the rest of his team and understanding the inherent biology behind his terminal illness, none of that mattered.

I was torn and broken by his absence in my life. I became part of his world, and then he was no longer in it.

Even if my own father is disappointed I didn’t stick with a job this time , I can’t do that to myself again.

I can’t love and lose.

I need change like I need my next breath, something he will never understand being a self-made billionaire—structure and work ethic being his core values.

But when you grow up with unlimited money and zero boundaries like me, you learn what takes most people a lifetime to realize.

Life is moment to moment.

There is no up or down or right or wrong. It’s just a bunch of beings, strung together by societal standards and reason; governed by self-inflicted constraints.

But why?

There’s so much out there to experience. And being tied down by jobs or projects…or people, isn’t worth it when you only get one chance to make your mark.

To truly live.

Jobs will replace you. People will leave you.

But adventures? You can keep them forever.

Besides, who wants one dick for the rest of their life if they can have a variety?

Does it make me a ho?

Some would say.

But some are patriarchal asshats, so I mean, meh .

I enjoy life, I love sex, and I live for my next thrill. And with more money in my trust fund than I can spend in three lifetimes, who the fuck cares if that’s how I live?

Nash does apparently. He growls, a deep rumble that’d probably feel good on your clit if he didn’t look so mad. With nostrils flared, he stares at me, as if he can read the dirty thoughts that strip him bare inside my mind, and he sets his jaw like he’s gearing up for a fight.

With me.

On second thought, I think I like him mad.

But ew , it’s Nash . I’ve known him half my life.

He’s attractive.

Incredibly fit.

Okay, he’s flat-out eye candy, but he’s so stiff. And not in the pelvic kinda way, if that’s what you’re thinking.

He’s closer to my father’s age than mine.

He is a father.

I won’t linger on why I’m suddenly hyperaware of that fact.

“Did you hear a word I said?” Nash snaps, irritated as always. Usually at me. “The band needs to get some writing in this stretch of the tour. From now until Centerville, they are on strict orders: no groupies .”

His eyes flick down my body, assessing my slashed-up band tee and fishnets, shoved tightly into knee high, leather, zip-up stilettos because they’re sexy as fuck and I do not apologize for that.

“Oh, Nash,” I offer, earning an irritated groan, “You seem to have forgotten I’m not a groupie.” I wave my VIP pass in the air, emblazoned with a bright blue stamp reading, Quality Assurance . “I was appointed to be here.”

“Self-appointed,” he grumbles. “I need them focused, Miss Perkins. Your father will—

I smile widely as I encroach on his big important man space and cut him off. “ My father will be pleased to learn how smoothly you run his events when I tell him what an amazing time everyone had with absolutely zero hiccups, all thanks to his number one tour manager.”

His eyes narrow as I reach my tip toes and whisper in his ear. “Don’t worry, Daddy. When I’m done playing with my toys, I always put them back where they belong.”

“Jesus, Sour Patch. If he knew the way you speak—”

“You gonna tell on me? I might be cursed to look young, but I’m twenty-eight you know.”

“I’m aware.”

I bristle with those words.

“Well, then you’re aware I can speak to, and fuck, whomever I want. An entire band. Or two. Or three even. And despite what you might think, Nashy-Poo, it doesn’t make a woman a slut for loving her body and enjoying life.”

“I didn’t say it did, I said —”

“You implied that I shouldn’t talk sexy.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Yeah, you did Papa Bear. I said stuff about boy toys, you said don’t talk like that, threw in some Daddy kink, and—”

“Daddy what ?”

“Daddy kink.” I blink at him. He can’t be serious, right? “You know the routine: bad girl needs punished, sugar daddy gives her the spankin’ she never got, and everyone gets a happily ever after.”

His mouth hangs open like I’ve grown three heads.

“Have you seriously never watched porn?”

“What? Of course I haven’t watched porn!”

“Bullshit.”

“Excuse me?” Nash’s voice drops low and menacing. “What did you say?”

Yeah, I definitely like him mad.

“I said bullshit . There is not a single man in this country who hasn’t scrolled some tits or ass at least once. I mean, at the very least you’ve watched a few casting couches, right?”

“Casting… couches ?” He seems truly stumped.

Maybe this man isn’t lying.

Maybe he really is just a silver fox, single dude who enjoys work and doesn’t want to fuck anything with legs.

Is it bad if that makes me want to play with him more?

Maybe that’s why I plant my seed, crossing my arms over my chest so my boobs peek out the top of the cut-up band tee. His eyes immediately fall there, as predicted, and I let a smile steal my face as I clear my throat and they snap back to mine.

I like it when Nash stares.

He’s done it this entire tour. And the last. And the one before that. Different bands then, of course, but each time, I wonder when he’ll finally crack. At which point will he stop watching and join in?

Or would he take me all for himself, his salt-andpepper beard brushing along my slick center, tasting me like I know he wants?

“I’ll compromise with you,” I say. “Let me ride the bus to Centerville. I have some friends I can visit.

“Do these friends have couches you’ll be cast on?”

I don’t miss the air of annoyance behind his inquiry. As if he has any right to judge what I do in my spare time.

“Maybe,” I challenge. “Does that bother you?”

“That? No, that doesn’t bother me, Sour Patch.” His gaze scrapes down my body with a scowl that ignites my core. “It’s everything else about you that does.”