I walk outside and watch Aishe get out of the car. She’s different than the put-together, low-key woman I met at the coffeehouse. This is a woman ready for war.
Hair extensions roam her head in black and deep reds, making it look as thick and long as it was in the pictures from her Clown Irruption days. From my position at the door, I register half a dozen red feathers dangling throughout, complete with two longer feathers from her earlobes.
That face: she can’t be needing much help from Maureen. She’s shockingly gorgeous, a Gypsy through and through, with thick golden bangles lacing her arms. Passion and color lathered on with black kohl and green eyeshadow, her lips are a bee-stung scarlet and her cheeks rosy.
She strides toward me, eyes piercing. Hips swaying slowly, she causes the long bell shape of her Gypsy skirt to wave invitingly. Here it is, the uniqueness, the fire Troy can’t forget. She’s flaunting it, with that pride that’s so tempting in a female.
“He’s waiting for you,” I murmur, shaking her hand.
“He knows I’m here?”
“Not yet.”
Her eyes flash dark. “Cool. Troy surprised me once. It’s my turn to surprise him.”
“Sounds good to me. The contract is waiting upstairs.”
In lieu of an answer, she presses past me. She slows down in the hallway, maybe realizing she doesn’t know the way. I open an arm, showing her toward the stairway.
She ascends ahead of me. “Where is he?”
“He’s right below you. The first-floor living room here serves as a studio.”
Her pace slows on the top step while she waits for me to lead her. “Alone?”
“He will be. You came in the nick of time. We hadn’t started filming yet.”
I seat her by the fireplace and lay the contract out on the coffee table. Aishe accepts the pen without hesitation. She starts to read the document, but she’s distracted. Finally, she looks up and says, “You had someone ready for him, then?”
On cue, Belen clacks out of her room in an all-black ensemble, robe open, and in high heels. She’s a hooker ready to become candy, as ready for a fight as Aishe, but in a very different way. Her shoes drag to a halt, and Aishe looks up. For one electric moment, I watch their gazes lock, realization hitting them both before Belen thunders down the stairs.
“That was her, wasn’t it?” Aishe turns to me, rubbing the pen between her fingers.
I nod. “Yes, that was Belen, and she will probably start shouting in a minute when the director tells her she’s being replaced.”
Jealousy ignites and dies as fast as it appeared on Aishe’s face. “That might be for the best. She’s not Troy’s type.”
“No?” This just became a game again. “What’s Troy’s type?”
Hushed murmurs sieve up from the hallway as Gianni leads Belen to the front door.
“He’s more of a…” Confusion crosses Aishe’s features. “I mean, I’m not sure, but I’ve definitely never seen him with someone like that.”
“What? No fucking way. You’re kidding me, right? You’re not fucking replacing me with some—” I’m glad Belen’s next syllables are muffled by Gianni. Although now he’s really done it; he’s going to have a wildcat on his hands, because how dare he muffle the cover face of Lucid Entertainment?
“You’re right,” I say, ignoring Belen’s racket. “His type is you.”
Gianni has muscled Belen outdoors; the door slams shut while she shrieks at him. Snippets float up to us. “What the hell kind of bullshit …not even a professional…. And a fucking Mormon in that skirt.”
“Wow,” Aishe breathes.
“This way. Let’s get you to makeup first,” I say, accepting the signed contract.
This is nice. I’m seated at the front right corner of Troy’s set with Tatiana on the floor in front of me. She’s leaning against my knees. I fold my arms, sending Troy a smile, and he does that small dip of his eyebrows that indicates uncertainty.
I don’t blame him for being wary; Belen just exploded out there, and he probably heard bigger snippets of her tirade than we did. Then, I returned alone. He waited patiently for, what, ten minutes, and all the info he received was, “Sorry, tech problems. We’ll be right back.”
Belen is pissed. Between Maureen and McRoy, they’ll be keeping her under control upstairs until she’s calmed down.
Tatiana elbows me in the calf. I look up and find our Gypsy at the door. She looks like fire with one thing on her mind: to erase every other woman from Troy’s mind. I have no doubt she’ll make that happen.
Lounging on one elbow across the bed, Troy was the human version of a lazy panther until Aishe walked into the room. Now, his whole body tenses and goes still.
I flick a look at Gianni, who has no time for his boss. With subtle signals, he’s setting his whole crew in motion.
“Aishe?” Troy breathes out.
“Got it?” Gianni mouths to the sound guy, who nods.
Troy sits up, biceps tautening as he pushes both palms against the edge of the mattress. Perfect.
“Yeah. It’s me. Is this a bad idea?” Aishe’s expression doesn’t hold a question. She saunters forward in a slow rendition of I’ll-fuck-you-blind.
Troy gets halfway off the mattress before she pushes him back down, skirts thick, scarlet, wide, and fanning out over two-thirds of the bed she climbs. She’s a high-strung cheetah meeting the panther that’s not lazy anymore.
Lava simmers in his gaze. “No. It’s the best fucking idea,” he says, and God I hope it’s loud enough for our soundman to capture.
“You’re not wearing a shirt,” she murmurs, letting her fingers trail his ridges. “You and your drummer’s muscles.”
She bends toward his stomach, and it’s not tender or kind when she hungrily starts to kiss him. She gorges herself on him, upward, until she consumes a nipple.
Mesmerized, Troy watches her, his breath speeding up. He’s entranced, and I know that look; he can’t miss a second of this, because it’s too good to be true.
That skirt, the way she moves in it, she’s a Victorian noblewoman in her saddle. “It’ll be okay,” she purrs. “Aishe’s here to help you, baby.”
Pain travels over his face at her words.
Even for me, this connection feels too intimate. Their history is thick and unsettled, replete with a passion that could be love or hate. It’s like we shouldn’t be here.
Troy knows she’s in control, and he’s allowing it from within his pain-filled bliss. He raises a hand, wanting to cradle her face, but she blocks it gently, leading his touch back to the sheets.
He wrinkles his eyes shut, neck arching while she lowers herself again, scooting down so she can grab his sweatpants with both hands and free him. The man is big. Full-on Lucid big.
“It’s just me, Troy,” she murmurs. “Just me.” Then, she ducks her head down over his cock and lets it slide to the back of her throat in one move.
“Holy shit,” I mutter. Tatiana quietly gets to her feet and settles in beside me.
“You were right. There’s definitely a past there,” she whispers. “Good or bad, I can’t tell though. Both?”
“Whatever happened between them, she’s lighting it up like dynamite.”
Tatiana takes my hand and squeezes it.
“Hope I didn’t overstep, sugar.” Aishe rolls her fingers over the pole she just let go of with her mouth. “Mmm. You taste as good as I imagined.”
“Stop, Aishe,” he murmurs. Why? I exchange a glance with Gianni before we focus back on the bed. Troy’s breathing is ragged, his erection so hard he must be dying for release. She’s still stroking him, stare drilled into his.
“Yeah?” she coos. “Because you don’t want me?”
He closes his eyes in agony. “You know what I mean.”
Suddenly, he pulls himself up by the stomach, grabs her face, and draws her down over him. Troy’s kiss is greedy, taking so much more than her lips.
“Cut the head games if you want me,” he whispers. “Come, baby. Come to me.” He lets go of her face. Rakes through her mane until he reaches her wide drawstring cleavage. Her breasts bob invitingly as he tugs the top down over a shoulder.
She scoots upward, her skirts hiding his cock from view. Aishe’s chest is heaving with heat and emotion, and her eyes have gone black when she says, “Head games was all it was.”
“Let’s— Talk.” He whispers it so low I can only read it on his mouth. He wants to say more, but she’s not interested.
Gianni nods to Ethan, who steps forward with an unwrapped condom. He lays it on the bed, close enough for them to pick up, but they don’t. They don’t?
“Oh, but it was always ‘sorry,’ remember?’” she asks. Then, she lifts her body, shifts forward, and sinks back down. We all know what just happened in the cloak of that silky heap of fabric.
Troy’s eyes fall shut around a moan. He juts upward, but she remains unmoving on top of him. Aishe pants quietly, working to control herself. Majestic in her saddle, she’s the empress and he, her humble servant.
She presses her palms against Troy’s chest and rides him slowly, eyelids dipping with desire and vengeance. The mixture is so hot, my own dick’s begging to spring out of my pants.
I should demand more skin. Have it done right. I’m paying a shitload of money for her to play her part, but at this point I’m not sure what’s “right.”
All we see is clothing, movement, the top swell of a single breast. Not even a nipple escapes her bodice, and yet I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything hotter than the orgasm they share. There are no sexy spills, no sweat, no fucking nothing. Besides a room that’s breathless with love, hate, Aishe’s resentment, and Troy’s apology.
God. Fucking. Damn.
McRoy strides into the room. Even before he gets close, before he opens his mouth, I’m ready. I take him by the arm and step outside. By his expression alone, I know it’s over. “They’re here?”
“Yeah, they’re at the gates.”
“All right.” I slap his shoulder and return to the studio.
“Guys. I hate to do this,” I say, making a dazed Aishe float her eyes to me in confusion. I know Gianni’d love more time for close-ups and reshoots, so I don’t even look at him when I continue. “The Summit management needs us to evacuate the lodge immediately. The sewage is in red-flag status.”
I reach for my phone. McRoy is instantly there, dropping it in my hand. “I’m not supposed to share this, but according to a seismic reading they just received, it could erupt in as little as ten minutes.” I scan the room with my most sincere expression. At this point, I haven’t actually read my messages. They’re from Felix, that much I see, and there’s no way they’ll give me peace of mind.
“Poop everywhere?” I think McRoy’s trying to back my story, but he makes it sound like a question, so with a grave demeanor, I bob my head.
“Full-on explosion.”
“Wow.” Troy is too polite to say out loud what I read on his face. That sounds like a load of crap.
“Let’s get the hell out of here. I’m not about to drown in other people’s excrements,” Tatiana laughs out. She hikes up on her toes, lifting imaginary skirts, the length of Aishe’s, and waddles comically toward the door. This woman has hidden talents, I think while I follow her. I scroll through my texts from Felix. Behind me, the crew is packing up in a hurry.
They’ve got you pegged. Trying for hidden approach first.
Ten minutes later.
Seen. Opening fire.
Another five minutes, a voice message. “Two cars down. One slipped by, but we’ll cut them off higher up.”
“McRoy. Take the van and lead people down the backroad.”
He jerks his head in an affirmative, adrenaline shooting determination to his eyes. “Belen, Maureen, Irene! Chop-chop, or do you want to be covered in poo? We’ve got minutes, here.”
“What the hell?” Belen was already in an awful mood. Now, she’s derailing from drama queen to horrified. She scampers back to her room but is out of there in a minute, max. She all but gallops out to the parking lot with four bags slung over a single shoulder. Who knew she could pack so fast?
“Let’s go! Let’s go!” McRoy shouts, and four more girls haul ass outside. He slides a look from Tatiana to me. “Irene’s got the kitten.”
“Cool.”
Nadia and Bo are still here. Why didn’t I send them off as soon as they were done? They finished filming hours ago! I was too mesmerized by Aishe’s arrival and my hope for Troy’s session. In the meantime, Bo and Nadia enjoyed Jacuzzi time and renewed fucking love out there with a glass of champagne each. What was I thinking?
Aishe comes up to me, looks at me once, and says, “Thank you, Isaias.” Then she waves and starts toward her car. I don’t even think she brought anything inside, so I guess it makes sense that she’s the first one to leave.
“Aishe.” Troy’s is a low, melodious plea.
She turns in the door. Accepts his stare for seconds only, before she gives him a brittle smile. “Be good.”
“You too, beautiful.”
“Geez. They make my heart hurt,” Tatiana whispers into my shoulder. She has her suitcase at her side, following Aishe with her eyes as she leaves.
“I know. Ready?”
“Ready.”
Minutes are hours while I watch people get into cars and vans. McRoy and Tatiana are the only ones who know what’s going on, but anyone looking down the hill can see the subtle flash of fire as guns blast off, destroying enemies, maybe Felix’s men, while I’m host in a play-kingdom that’s minutes away from destruction.
Felix warned me of the Santa Colombini breach ten minutes ago. It’s a goddamn miracle that he’s fended them off for this long.
My commands turn more clipped with each yellow flare I glimpse down the road. There’s no way I’ll let them make casualties out of rockers and porn stars.
The alternative exit isn’t hard to find once my guests are behind the house. In my mind, I’m moving on to the next issue: how to stop Randolfo’s people all together.
The Lucid van is packed and ready to go. But I stand here like a fool, a still-jovial innkeeper with tense jaws, eyes darting to the car and three motorcycles appearing behind the bend, not even half a mile away.
Troy waves, his vehicle rolling into line behind the others, turning the corner, disappearing behind the building. I stare McRoy down and tip my head toward the house in a silent command. He doesn’t think twice. He revs the engine and shoots off with my crew whooping at his abrupt takeoff.
Only Nadia and Bo remain behind. They were in their Volvo, but Nadia’s getting out. Absentminded and still love-hazed, she brushes hair out of her eyes.
“Darling, I’ll get it for you.” Bo opens his door, smiles briefly to me, and explains, “She forgot her perfume in the bathroom.”
Fuck no.
“What type?” Tatiana asks quickly.
“‘Beautiful’ by Estee Lauder,” Nadia says.
“Oh gosh, I sent it with McRoy thinking it was Zoe’s. I’m so sorry,” Tatiana lies. Then, she twists toward me, climbing into our loaner. “Isaias, can we have him deliver it to their house?”
“Of course. I’m sorry about that—I’ll make sure it gets to you,” I say.
As Bo shuts the car door behind his wife, he sends a stray stare down the road. His body stills, and I see the moment he notices. Bo doesn’t say a word. He just shifts his focus back to me, alarm quiet in his gaze.
I nod.
He nods back. Bo Lindgren, the leader of Clown Irruption, just understood that the storm coming to The Summit is made of death.
“Take care,” he says, voice calm. And when they leave, their station wagon careens around the building.
Tatiana and I get into my loaner. I’m pissed that I didn’t send her off with McRoy. Why was I playing host with her until the last minute?
I forgot the contracts!
I rush inside and grab the briefcase, pass the kitchen on the way—it’s complete chaos—and there’s film gear scattered behind in the living room. I’ll be paying The Summit handsomely for the cleanup.
There are three cars and a slew of motorcycles speeding up the hill. I’m not sure which are Felix’s men and which aren’t. One of the bikes tip over, the rider flying through the air and meeting gravity, helmet first.
I exchange a glance with my ice queen before I spin our car behind the lodge, destruction vanishing from sight.
“What the fuck?” I grit out.
From the backside of the lodge, a small army of vehicles appear between the trees. They drive fast and straight toward us.
“Tatiana, grab my cell. Any new messages from Felix?”
She hits buttons, lighting up the screen. “A voice message. Hold on.”
I consider making a U-turn. There’s a back entrance at the lodge, and I could probably fend them off from inside for a while. Just, “a while” isn’t good enough for a woman who deserves a long life.
“Isaias. Felix, here. The Colombinis are hell bent on getting in. I’m sending a crew up the backroad, bikes and a few cars, to trap them in the middle. Make sure to get out of the way, and I’ll try not to shoot up the house.”
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter. Drop my gun to the floor.
My nun starts to snicker. I arch a stern brow at her, which makes her laugh even harder. She lifts one of those pretty little hands of hers and flutters a greeting while we pass Felix’s backroad crew. And in the mirror, I watch them barricade the road behind us.
Fucking. A.