Cassius

I thought I was gonna fly off the rails about ten times today, and I’ve only just got to KMG headquarters. This should be the start of the rest of my fucking life; instead Chad and Gina come here like they’re my fucking entourage, determined to make a name for themselves riding my coattails.

It’s been three weeks since the show where KMG offered me a deal. Three weeks since I found out my brother’s been fucking my girlfriend.

Ex-girlfriend.

This morning, when I was getting ready to leave in the private car KMG sent to the apartment complex to pick me up, the two of them walked out of their room. Chad was in a suit and high gloss shoes. Gina wore pants that, yes, were hella tight, but she also wore a blazer. They looked professional. Well, like they wanted to be seen as professional—seen as something besides the broke jokes we all are.

And if I was a bigger ass, I’d have told them hell no, but I don’t want to make any waves. Not today. Right now I just need to fucking keep my head on straight.

But damn, they’ve been all up in my business—while I signed my contract, took some headshots, reviewed the tour schedule. I can’t handle watching them together; I need to get the fuck out of this building.

They’re still here, looking over the photos from the shoot I just had, deciding which images to use for some promotional material. As my manager, Chad told the art director we were working with that he could cover the rest of the decisions on my behalf, and then he dismissed me. Like I couldn’t fucking pick out a glossy 8x10.

But fuck, I could care less about the headshots. I just need to breathe. I need out of the space Chad and Gina fill.

The worst part is that they know how much I depend on them. I’ve relied on them since the day I got out of prison. And somehow my safety net has become the one thing I despise most.

I need to figure out a way to separate myself from them, maybe schedule a meeting with the head guy around here. Marshal. He launched Elle Camino’s career, and I’ve certainly never seen her East Heights posse hanging around her, trying to bring her down.

Maybe that’s the part that needs to motherfucking change. Maybe it’s time for me to be my own man without my brother signing off on it. I can get a manager on my own terms, one with my best interest at heart. Because it wouldn’t surprise me to find Chad selling me out if it means more cash in his pockets.

Though … shit, the idea of cutting ties with him would mean saying good-bye to the only brother I’ve got, and he’s also the one who’s helped me keep my head low, helped me stay away from the guys who let me go to prison, when I wasn’t the only one committing crimes that night three years ago. Dad left before I knew him, Mom is a mess, and Gina…. Fuck, Gina’s just more baggage I need to let go of.

That’s heavy shit to deal with before I’ve had lunch.

I head to the bank of elevators, slip my hand through a door just before it slides closed. I can’t wait for another one to arrive. I need out of this building, now.

“Shit, that was close,” I say under my breath.

I step into the elevator; there’s only one person in here, and it’s a girl. Well, a woman. My age, probably. Dark-haired, and dressed the part of an uptight rich girl. A hot-as-fuck rich girl.

But one glance at her red-rimmed eyes and trembling lips, and it’s clear she’s on the verge of a breakdown—and fuck it, if there’s one thing I’m well-versed in besides music, it’s falling apart.

“You going to the lobby?” she asks. Her gaze seems to flit over mine, ever so briefly, and then she’s staring intently at the wall of buttons.

She sucks in a large gust of air, and I wonder how someone so petite could have lungs so large. And how someone so small can take up so much space in a nearly empty elevator.

Everything about her, though, demands my attention.

I nod, mesmerized by the way her emotions are splayed across her naked face—her upturned nose, her soft cheekbones, and her lashes wet with tears. She’s what muses are made of, and I’ve only had my eyes on her for five seconds flat.

“Yeah, the lobby.”

It’s as if the bullshit photo shoot I just left never happened. Or it’s like it did, but entering this elevator is some alternate reality.

Whatever was fucking with my head earlier no longer matters.

“Then we’re good,” she says, her voice soft, hushed. Like she doesn’t trust it—her words or her strength.

The L is lit, and the elevator starts its descent from the eightieth.

“You sure you’re good?” I ask. I can’t help it. I’m a rescuer. A saver. A fixer.

Why the fuck else did I stay with Gina so damn long? Because I thought if I left she’d fall apart.

Instead, we were what fell apart.

I stayed for nothing.

Believing the best in people is a fucking double-edged sword that I’ve fallen on way too many times.

But, damn—in one minute I know I’d fall for this girl, too.

She has gray eyes, with dark lashes, and the tears welling up in them make her look like she’s going to break. Like any moment everything inside her is going to crash and fall.

I can’t take my eyes off of her.

She doesn’t notice. Her eyes are focused on the rows of buttons that will take us to the ground level, plant our feet on something solid.

But what I really want to do is pick her up and carry her somewhere safe, because I have a bad feeling she’s about to get hurt.

“Do you need something?” I step toward her, and I swear her body leans in to me, as if my words are exactly what she needs.

“I need to get outside.” Her words are spoken softly, breathlessly. “I think I’m having a panic attack.”

“This isn’t a panic attack.” Looking her over, I resist pulling her hair back and pressing my mouth against her pink, parted lips. Damn, I’ve never felt like this before—instant attraction and an absolute need to save the girl in front of me.

“It isn’t?” she asks, deflated. “Well, I’m really angry right now.”

She may be falling apart, but she isn’t overcome with anxiety. I try and explain that to her.

“You aren’t shaking or hyperventilating or freaking out.” But even as I say it I wonder who the hell I think I am to tell her how she feels?

She huffs, dejected. “Actually, this is me freaking out.”

I look at the light over the elevator door. We’re falling quickly, passing the sixtieth, the fortieth floor.

I suppress a smile. When Gina’s upset, she’s a fucking force to be reckoned with. It’s all smashed windows and words thrown harder than a punch.

This, though, is a meltdown, which in my experience is a lot easier to handle.

“I wouldn’t call this a panic attack or angry episode.”

“Oh yeah?” she questions. “What would you call it?”

Floor twenty.

“You’re a mess,” I tell her. “Maybe you’re having a shitty day or an existential crisis, but angry? I wouldn’t have guessed that.”

She wipes her eyes, brushing her tears away, looking at me more closely. “What are you, a therapist?”

I bite my lip. Shit, I’m certainly no shrink. I had to learn that shit in the slammer, when they made me take anger management classes as part of “rehabilitation” or something like that.

Who am I to tell this girl anything?

But I swear, she wants me to. She wants me to tell her what to do next. She swallows, looking up at me with those cloudy eyes, practically begging to be swept away into some blue-sky day.

Oh, I’ll fucking give this girl the sun if she wants it.

The elevator stops.

We’re at the lobby. The door rushes open, and we step out as people crowd in.

I glance over at her, and she’s looking out across the lobby, eyeing the glass doors two hundred feet away. I don’t think she can make it that far on her own.

She looks over at me, pulls in her lips like a lost girl wanting to be found.

I grab her hand.

“Let’s go get some fresh air,” I tell her.

She doesn’t hesitate.