Page 43 of Tracing Holland (The Hold Me NSB #2)

Hannah has always been my favorite of Holland’s sisters.

She has an edge the others lack, a coarse wit that can grind through any bullshit, and heaven knows I’m caked in it.

Holland has a similar quality, but she’s softer somehow, too giving for a leech like me.

Thankfully, we figured that out before locking ourselves into a marriage.

But Hannah was never afraid to yank me off and toss me into the flames when I crossed a line she didn’t like.

A line like trying to fuck things up between her sister and her sister’s boyfriend.

I’d expected a slap, not a hug, the first time I saw her after the fall tour disaster.

We’ll chalk that one up to shock and her relief that it’s Friday.

My phone buzzes. It’s our manager, Jacob, again. Dammit. I ignore the call and drop it back on the bar.

“Ex-girlfriend?”

A polished woman stands too close not to be interested.

Mid-forties, maybe. I look for a ring. No, thank god.

I’m not into drama—except when it’s necessary to protect the people I love.

Which, let’s be honest, is Holland Drake.

She was my world for twenty years. Luke Craven better keep his shit together or I will kill him.

“Ex-girlfriend? I wish.”

“Ex-wife, then?”

I grunt. “Definitely not.”

“Current girlfriend?”

“Except I ignored the call.”

“You could be a jerk.”

I almost laugh and narrow my eyes for a fresh appraisal. “It’s possible. Probably why I don’t have a girlfriend.”

“I’m Miranda.”

“Wes.”

She takes the seat beside me.

“What are you drinking?” she asks.

“Way more than I should be.”

She signals the bartender. Gin and tonic for her. Another of what I’m having for me.

“You’re buying me a drink?” I ask, eyeing her with renewed interest.

“You didn’t stop me.”

I shake my head, this time with a grin. “No, I guess I didn’t.”

“You have a nice smile. You should use it more often.”

“Thanks. You have a nice ass.”

She leans closer, fishing with bait even a teenage boy could recognize.

“What is it that you do, Wes?” she asks as the bartender slides her a glass. The stir stick raises to dark red lips, her tongue outlining the tip with enough aggression to hold my attention.

“I’m a musician.” My game doesn’t require more than that. My tattoos, the rigid definition pressing through lazy jeans and a fitted t-shirt. The air of not giving a fuck—which I don’t. It’s not even a game anymore.

“Oh, really? Do you play anywhere local?”

Now, that’s always a fun question. Well, more specifically, their reaction to my answer.

“Sure, sometimes. We played the A.C.C. recently.”

And there it is: the startled awe. The visions of ripping my clothes off in my posh rock god penthouse. Unabated lust to gush to her friends about the tryst with… She doesn’t know who I am but it doesn’t matter. I still haven’t decided if she’s going to find out.

“The A.C.C.? Really, wow.”

I nod and drain my glass.

She wants to ask which band. It’s all over her face but she’s afraid of offending me, of hurting her chances at finding out what I look like stripped, sweaty, and pushing over her.

I wait to see if she’ll excuse herself to the bathroom to attempt an internet search.

Yes, that’s happened. Yes, it’s always painfully obvious.

I have a website, fan group, a few periodical covers, hundreds of images and promo shots. It’s not hard.

Wes Alton, Tracing Holland. Well, formerly of Tracing Holland, but she won’t discover that part yet. If Jacob has his way, no one will ever know because it’s not happening. Over his dead body are we parting ways. For someone who’s represented us for years, he still doesn’t understand me at all.

“Hey, we’re taking off,” I hear behind me as a hand attaches to my shoulder. I turn and catch Hannah’s grin. “I’d invite you, but I know lawyers aren’t your thing.” Her gaze flickers to Miranda before resting on me again.

“No, they’re not. Just the one,” I tease, enjoying her playful grimace.

“Sure, whatever. Hey, it was good to see you. You’ve still got my number, right? Stay in touch.”

“Yeah. Same here.”

Her fingers graze my neck before she disappears into the crowd behind her friends.

“She was cute.”

She is, but describing Hannah Drake as “cute” feels wrong. She’s my sister. Practically.

“Old friend.”

“Really.” The skepticism drips from her tone.

“Really.”

Miranda studies the door, and my mood shifts. Defensive. It’s been a quick transition for me lately.

“Girls don’t look at ‘friends’ that way,” she says, and now I’m just annoyed. All I know about this woman is her name and that she likes gin and chasing younger men.

I decide against being rude. She did buy me a drink after all. Two, I realize when the bartender shoves another beer toward me.

“What do you do?”

She adjusts closer at my renewed interest. “I’m an executive.”

Hell yeah. I see it now. The power suit, the confidence.

An attractive, experienced woman who knows what she wants never fails to get me hard.

Her phone rattles on the bar, and my dick curses right along with her.

She answers with an apologetic look. It’s executive business stuff. Urgent. She’s important.

Damn. Could have been an epic lay.

I’m fully prepared for her goodbye when she hangs up and asks for her check.

“I’m sorry, Wes. I have to run, but it was great to meet you.”

I nod, watching her expression buckle at missing out on the opportunity to bed a rock god.

But she’ll get over it. The truth is Executive Miranda will probably be more interested in the fact that my father is Frederick Alton of Alton Media when she looks me up.

Yep, that’s out there for public consumption too. Wes Alton: poor rich boy.

“Here’s my number, though. I’d love for you to use it,” she says, scribbling on a napkin. Thick, dark eyelashes pound her message home.

“Thanks. Have a great night, Miranda,” I say, studying her as she bites her lip and hesitates. I must be on point this evening if I’m giving Ms. Important Executive reason to pause when the office calls. Hannah would be proud.

Hannah.

Shit. Now I’m relieved that Miranda chose work over play. So not a rock god move. Classic schlub.

I go home alone. No bartender, no horny executives, just me and my infuriating list of missed calls. I stretch out on the couch and finally return one, a terrible idea after a night of drinking, but that’s my brand.

“Dammit, Wes. How long were you planning on ignoring me?”

“Thirteen days, apparently.”

“Smartass. Wait, are you drunk?”

“Yes.”

“Shit. I really need to talk to you.”

I close my eyes but reopen them when the spinning makes my stomach churn. “So talk.”

“But—”

“Talk, Jacob.”

“Holland wants to negotiate. Work something out.”

Silence.

“You there?”

“Huh?”

“I said Holland wants to negotiate.”

Negotiate. That’s what coworkers do. Business associates. Exes. Not lifelong best friends. I wouldn’t have been able to respond to that sober.

“Hey, Wes. Hello?”

“Yeah?”

“Okay, so?”

“So, what?”

“I just told you Holland wants to keep the band together.”

“Um, yeah. I heard you.”

“You heard me? Dammit. Stop being a dick and just fix this already.”

“Fix what?”

“Seriously? Unbelievable.”

“She kicked me out. What am I supposed to do?”

“She didn’t kick you out. She said she wants a different arrangement and formal contract between the two of you before you continue. You’re on hiatus until you work it out, so let’s do that and get you back on track.”

My muscles contract, grip clenched on the phone until I fear for its warranty. Maybe it’s the alcohol but this rage feels more universal.

“Come on every band goes through these growing pains. We’ll?—”

“ Every band ?”

“You know what I mean. It’s a spat. It’s?—”

“You’re talking about my best friend, Jacob!

A band we started when we were teenagers.

You’re talking about something I gave up everything for.

This is not some fucking business deal. This is my entire existence, everything that’s important to me.

So quit making it sound like a real estate transaction. ”

I gladly accept the silence on the other end. He doesn’t get it. How could he? How could any of them? No one would except Holland, and she’s done with me. I’m contract fodder now.

His voice is too calm for my temper when he continues. “You assaulted her boyfriend. You’re lucky they didn’t press charges and she’s still willing to work anything out with you.”

“Fuck you, Jacob,” I say because he’s absolutely right.

I hang up and turn off my phone so I don’t have to ignore any more calls.

I study the ceiling, letting my blurry mind take me to the moment I threw it all away.

The moment my need to protect Holland shattered everything we’d built together.

Was it stupid? Yes. Do I look like a jackass now that Luke’s turning out to be a decent human being?

Yes. Would I have done anything differently if I could go back? Hell no.

The nausea is beginning to climb from my stomach to my throat, and I force myself off the couch and stagger toward the bathroom. Four full meters. Impossible. Who designed this condo layout? I have to grip the wall for support as I inch toward safety.

New contract equals dissolved relationship.

I don’t make it to the bathroom.