McKenna

“THANK YOU.” I close the door to the Uber and rush into Mom’s house. Well, my house again, since I sold my condo and moved back in so I could afford a day nurse for her. The flowerbeds under the window could use some TLC, not to mention the grass needs to be cut. At least it’s green. Mostly. I never seem to have enough time to keep up with everything.

Opening the welcoming red door, I wheel my luggage into the living room. Mom’s rocking chair is still and the television is off. Well, it is four in the morning. Not seeing her up is a good sign.

I roll my bag into my room and go to check on her. Quietly, I open her bedroom door. The light from the hallway illuminates her sleeping form. With a smile, I exhale, close the door and make my way back to my room.

Changing into my nightshirt—a concert T from one of Cole’s shows—I go into the bathroom to clean up from the flight. Tears mingle with the water as I wash off the wedding makeup.

I can’t get my final payment until the project is completed, and it won’t be done until I create the graphics for Ozzy’s new stuff. Of course, now he’s not speaking to me, which is awfully convenient for him and his dearth of songs. Why can’t anything be easy?

Toweling dry my face, I look at myself in the mirror. Thirty. I’m thirty-years-old, live with my mother, don’t have a husband or boyfriend. I emit a humorless laugh—Matt quashed those ideas. He broke me. I clearly have really bad judgment when it comes to men, so staying away from all of them is best. Besides, Mom is now my number-one priority.

While I put on moisturizer, I continue the litany of my failures. My career is hanging by a thread. It could be much better if only that asshole Ozzy Martinez would get off his ass—rather, get his cock out of some bimbo long enough—to actually do some work. I know the Project’s graphics I’ve put together for the other artists are better than most of the routine stuff I’ve been doing for my other clients lately. Working on Rose’s wedding stationery boosted my creativity. I was banking on Ozzy’s new songs to level me up, dammit.

Brushing my hair, my mind drifts to Mom. Her medical bills are piling up. I need my submission to the Project to carry me into the national competition so I can forge a name for myself. One-off paydays doing casino graphics won’t cut it much longer. Which means I need to jumpstart Ozzy into writing more songs. Damn. I hate having my career in someone else’s hands. Even if his hands still make my panties wet.

Hanging my towel back over the bar, I trek back down the hall and face-plant into my pillow. Maybe things will look better in the morning, like Daddy always used to tell me.

Yelling wakes me from a deep sleep. I jump up, only to find Mom screaming from my open doorway. Maybe things won’t look better. Ever. I take a deep breath and regulate my voice. “Mom, it’s me, McKenna.”

She quiets but wraps her fingers around the doorway. In a calm voice, I continue, “I got home last night but didn’t want to wake you up. You were sleeping.”

Her hands drop to her sides. “I was sleeping. Oh, right. I was sleeping.”

Like I was minutes earlier. “Yes, you were.” I drag my tired body out of bed and shuffle over to her, slipping my feet into my slippers as I move. “How are you doing today?”

Cloudy brown eyes greet me. “I’m fine. I think.” She looks down to the floor, then her head pops up. “McKenna.” Her eyes clear.

I smile and open my arms for her. “Yes, Mom, it’s me.”

She gives me a hug. “Want me to make breakfast for you? I could make French Toast. I know it’s your favorite.”

“Nah, I’m still a little tired.” I check the clock. It’s only eight o’clock. “I think I’m going to go back to bed for a while, okay?”

“Sure thing. Come out when you’re ready.”

She leaves me and I return to bed. Getting back under the blankets, I try to fall asleep. After tossing and turning for an hour or so, I give up. I need to light a fire under Ozzy, and pronto. Sleeping in won’t get me a much-needed paycheck.

I ENTER THE Jade’s lobby, one of the newest casinos in Las Vegas. Although it’s barely after noon, the place is jumping with tourists and gamblers trying their luck. A huge crystal chandelier tinted green watches over everyone from high. I take the escalator past a mammoth digital billboard advertising a male strip show featured at one of the theaters here. I would’ve used a more legible font.

As I go up, the photo changes from a group of hot men, their ripped chests oiled up, to a close-up of Ozzy. His eyes are closed and he’s singing directly into a microphone, sweat beading around his forehead. My stomach clenches with want, but my brain engages right away to shut that down. No. More.

Crossing the expanse of the upper lobby to the concierge, I hope Shelia’s on duty. She and I went to high school together, and she’s often given me the inside scoop around here. Nothing to get her into trouble, but tidbits of info that make my life easier.

Two other people are at the desk, so I take my place in line. Shelia nods at me—thankfully, she’s here—and I wave. Good. I’m sure I’ll be up in Ozzy’s grill in no time.

While I wait, I pull out my cell phone and see I missed a text from Rose.

I can’t thank you enough for all of your help yesterday! It truly was the best day of my life, and you are one of the main reasons. I couldn’t have asked for a better maid-of-honor, or best friend, than you! I promise to call you when we get back from our honeymoon. I love you so much!! ~ Rose Manchester (couldn’t resist! ) PS-saw you with Ozzy last night. Don’t think that got past me.

Rose’s joy practically jumps off the text. She’s such a sweet person, and I’m so happy she found her happily-ever-after. I reply by wishing her a wonderful honeymoon and ignore her reference to Ozzy.

“McKenna, come on over! What brings you to the Jade?”

Dropping my cell back into my bag, and leaving all improper thoughts of Ozzy with it, I walk toward the desk. Injecting my voice with a layer of positivity, I reply, “Hi, Shelia! I’m so happy you’re here!” I run around to the side and give her a quick hug.

“What’s up?” she asks as she returns my hug.

Back at the front, I put my elbows onto the counter and lean in. “I need a tiny favor.” I raise my hands up, close together, indicating how small.

She laughs. “Sure thing. Do you want a dinner reservation at our sold-out restaurant? Or theatre tickets to Men Gone Wild? I wouldn’t judge you.”

I lick my lips. “Well, have you met any of those guys? I’m sure they could make an afternoon go by really quickly.” I throw in a wink for good measure.

She shakes her head. “I wish. They stay in the back of the house. I caught their show a couple of times, though.” She fans her face.

I laugh. It’s my first real laugh in a long time, and I almost forgot how good it feels. “Nah. Nothing like that. I only need to know where Ozzy Martinez practices. I’m working on a submission for the Artist Avenue Adventure Project and I’ve been waiting on him for months.”

“Well, he’s got his own wild thing going on, if you know what I mean.” She waggles her eyebrows.

Yes, I do know. Intimately. I give her a fake scowl. “I’m here for business, Shelia.”

“Right.” She types on her computer. “He’s such a monster on the eyes.”

“If you like the Latin type.”

She continues typing so she doesn’t see my hands flex into fists. I open them out before she catches my reaction. The Latin type is what got me into the position I’m in now and I can’t revisit it. Won’t.

Shelia stops typing and looks at me over her computer monitor. She motions me forward. In a whisper, she says, “He practices in the conference room off the back of the stage where he performs. He also has a suite for the duration of his show, Penthouse Room 8H.”

“Conference room and 8H. Got it.”

“You won’t be able to get onto his floor without an elevator pass, though. And I can’t give one to you. I wish I could.”

“I totally understand. I’ll go check out the practice room. Hopefully, he’ll be there. What time is his show tonight?”

“Starts at eight.”

“Thanks so much. I really appreciate your help. When do you have a break for lunch? Maybe we can grab something.”

“I just started, so I don’t get my break until four.”

“Oh. I’ll probably be done well before then. Let’s do dinner, soon. Text me.”

“Will do.”

I reach over and give her another quick hug, then scurry away toward Ozzy’s conference room. He has a penthouse here. Must be nice never to have to worry about money.

After cutting through the casino, I walk past a beautiful display of humongous origami of all different shapes in shades of green. The color reminds me of Daddy’s eyes—such a distinctive shade. I smile picturing his face, and continue my trek. Finally, I end up at the hallway that leads to Ozzy’s stage. I try the main doors but they’re locked, so I wander down another hallway that appears to mirror the stage area.

Stopping in front of double doors, I reach out but the handle doesn’t budge. Shit. I look around and go down a smaller hallway and it dead ends with another door. I try it, but it’s locked too. I press my ear against the door and don’t hear anything, which means Ozzy’s not there. Turning, a tall guy with glasses and a clipboard walks toward me. Maybe he can help?

I meet him at the set of double doors I tried before. He has a key in his hand. “Hi!” I shout before he can slip through.

He looks at me, a smattering of freckles covering his nose. Pushing up his glasses, he returns my greeting in a wary voice.

I stick my hand out. “I’m McKenna James. I’m working on a project with Ozzy Martinez. Are you with him?”

He places the key into his back pocket and shakes my hand, eyeing me up and down. “Hi, Miss James.” He chuckles. “That’s a very good introduction you got there. Much more creative than most.”

I place my hand over my heart. “Goodness, what you must think of me. But you’ve got it wrong, I can assure you.” Been there, done that. Wouldn’t mind the T-shirt. I shake my head. “No, I’m with the Artist Avenue Adventure Project and I need to start collaborating with Ozzy about his part.”

“Oh.” He runs his hand through his ginger hair. He’s kinda cute, in an overworked sort of way. “Sorry. I didn’t mean anything by what I said before.”

I wave my hand. “No worries. I bet you dodge this kind of thing all the time. Now, you’re with him, right?”

He pulls out the key, opens the doors and ushers me inside. “Yes, I’m his personal assistant. He was out of state yesterday, so he hasn’t arrived quite yet.”

I don’t feel the need to share that I was with him yesterday—this morning, actually. “This is where he practices, though, am I correct?”

He nods. “Yes, but I don’t expect him here until closer to showtime today.”

I sigh. “Really? I have to start working on the project with him and was hoping to do some prelims today.”

“Give me your card and I’ll pass it along to him.”

In other words, time to get rid of you. Needing to play this to my advantage, I raise my chin. “I didn’t catch your name?”

“It’s Aiden. Aiden MacQuade.”

“Well, Aiden, as his assistant you must know the Project’s deadline is next month. Is he here in the hotel somewhere? I only need a couple minutes with him. No biggie.”

He looks around as if the answer is written somewhere on the four walls. Giving up, he says, “He’s not at the Jade.”

“But I understand he keeps a penthouse here?”

He rubs his hands up and down his jeans. “He does, but that’s not where he sleeps.”

Okay, I’m going to process this statement later. Right now, I need to talk with Ozzy. “Alright, I’ll bite. If he doesn’t sleep here, where does he sleep?” I nudge him in the ribs. “He’s not a vampire or anything, is he? I never noticed sparkles around him.” I smile broadly.

He chuckles. “I haven’t seen any coffins around, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Oh, Aiden.” I tap his shoulder. “C’mon, help a girl out. I promise not to tell him how I found his lair.” I cross my fingers over my heart.

He runs his hand through his hair again. I’m winning. He’s going to cave any moment now. “I can’t give out his home address.”

“It’s not like I’m some groupie or anything. I only need a few minutes with him.” I drop my voice. “He told me he doesn’t have any new songs yet, and I’m hoping to help him out.”

His shoulders dip. Bingo! He gives me another once-over. “Don’t tell him I gave you his address, alright.”

He walks over to a desk and writes something down on a scrap of paper, then hands it to me. I kiss it. “Thanks, Aiden. You’re the best!” I turn and scamper out the door before he changes his mind.

I walk double-time through the expanse of the Jade, and hop into my car. Opening the crumpled piece of paper, I plug the address into my phone’s GPS and drive away from the Strip. The directions lead me to an upscale residential neighborhood, but it doesn’t scream “celebrity.” The lawns here are well-manicured and lead up to sprawling contemporary houses, which are modest for millionaire-plus-status. This is a place someone would live if they wanted to hide.

I pull to a stop in front of number 1785. This is it. Ozzy’s somewhere inside. All I need to do is talk with him about the status of his new songs. He must’ve been overstating things on the plane—I’m sure he has several written. His prior songs were megahits. He couldn’t have lost the ability to write them simply because he was banging every groupie who came his way. If anything, that should have given him even more creative inspiration.

Because there’s no fencing, I pull into his driveaway, next to a shiny motorcycle. Of course he has a bike. Taking a deep breath, I march up to the huge wooden front door and ring the bell.

Nothing.

I ring it again and wait. Still no response.

He has to be in there somewhere. I peer through a window but don’t see any movement. Perhaps he’s in the backyard?

Heading off toward the fenced in backyard, I curse myself for wearing my strappy, high-heeled sandals. They complemented my skirt and top so well, though. Oh well, the price of fashion.

At the gate, I raise my face toward the sky. “Please let this be unlocked.” Other than cameras by the front door, I haven’t noticed any security, so maybe I’ll get lucky. I test the latch and it opens. Score!

I slip into the expansive backyard, taking in the grassy area and pavers, leading to an outdoor kitchen and Olympic-sized swimming pool. Ozzy has it so hard. He probably wouldn’t know a money problem if it bit him on his nice, tight ass.

Stop! I’m not thinking about any of his amazing body parts.

All of a sudden, Ozzy’s head pops up of the pool—he must’ve been underwater when I came in—and he hoists himself out, muscles flexing on his arms and legs. The top of his curly hair is wet and slicked back.

The sun catches on his pierced nipples. Black ink all over his body stands in relief to the water rivulets coursing down his toned abs. I follow their path down his naked body. His entirely naked body. Complete with a pierced cock.

Oh. My. God. His Prince Albert is new. Saliva pools in my mouth.

And a gasp escapes my lips.