Bach

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As I strolled through the open-air garden of the gala, I strained to tell if people were whispering behind my back. A woman in a low-cut gold dress swayed close, a tray balanced on her left hand. “Champagne?” she asked.

“Sure.” I took a glass, noting how she lingered even after I slipped her a tip. She’d recognized me, and she was trying to work up an excuse to stay and talk. Normally, I’d have embraced such a brazen act. Tonight, my heart was on something else.

Someone else.

“I won’t need a refill soon,” I said, gesturing with the glass. “Take care of the rest of the room before everyone thinks I’m as greedy as the magazines say.”

“Of course, Mr. Devine.” Her smile was weak. After one more second of hoping I’d change my mind, she wandered off. I watched myself from a distance, noting how weird I was acting.

Taking a deep drink of the tart champagne, I went back to wandering. It was all I could do to keep myself from going crazy as I waited for news about Amina and Violet. Last I’d heard, they were getting something for Amina to wear. Would it be revealing? Tight?

Could she possibly look any sexier than she already did in plain clothes?

Fuck, get a hold on yourself. I headed toward the flower arrangement near the chocolate fountain. Do your damn job. Network, asshole. There were powerful people at this gala. Many of them were pleasant enough. But there were sharks in the water, too. Rich companies who were delighted over how mine was crumbling more each day.

With that in mind, I still wasn't prepared to see the tall, broad-shouldered man laughing near the chocolate fountain. He was surrounded by a few beautiful women... and a guy I didn't want to lay my eyes on again.

Santino Fresh. That bastard. Why was he here, and why was he making conversation with one of my father's closest friends, Sherman Proud?

Approaching the group, I waited until both men caught my eye. Their joy faded into seriousness. “Sherman?” I asked as I closed the distance.

“Bach,” he replied, looking me up and down. “I wasn’t sure you’d come tonight.”

“What are you doing getting cozy with him?” I jerked my head at Santino, who was smirking behind his glass of champagne. The women were watching eagerly; this was gossip fuel. They were probably praying someone would throw a punch or break something.

Sherman's expression remained neutral. “I'm helping to make sure his talent isn't wasted.”

Ice bloomed in my chest. “You mean you’re working with Danny Eckland?”

“Don't be so shocked.”

I shook my head in disgust. “You were furious my father didn't leave his company to you, but I never thought you'd sink this low. How much money did Eckland give you for your consultation?”

Something close to guilt flicked through his blue eyes. “They offered a partnership.”

Fuck. It was worse than I thought. “So, you're siphoning off my musicians to help my rivals? Dad would think you're a piece of shit for that.”

“Your father,” he growled, coming closer, his voice hot and low, “Would be aghast to see how you're screwing up what he built! If you'd just listened to me months ago...”

“I did listen, Sherman. You made it crystal clear you wanted Beats and Blast signed over to you.”

“It would have been better for everyone.”

“Don't talk like my empire has already been bled dry,” I said, shooting another quick glare at Santino. “There's still time to see how this all turns out.”

Not waiting for any response, I spun away from the group. The girls started to talk in hushed voices—nothing I could make out. I'd hear about it later once Violet threw the online rumor-mill in my face.

My phone vibrated. I lifted it high, seeing Violet's number flashing. “Hello?” I asked, then added, “Are you both here?”

“We're backstage,” Violet said. “The stagehands are giving us hell, making us get ready in some shadowy corner instead of a proper room. They’re a little upset you dropped this performance on them so last minute.”

“Please, it's free entertainment for the crowd.”

“Bach, we need to talk about your spontaneous decisions. This kind of stuff can't—”

“How is she doing?” I asked, lowering my voice. I'd started walking towards the stage in the distance. The white floor was raised six feet off the ground, and huge curtains of sparkling gold hid the production crew from sight. There were many shows planned for this fundraising event, I hoped Violet had managed to wiggle Amina in at a prime slot.

Violet didn't answer for a minute. “She's nervous.”

“Of course she is.”

She paused again. “Bach... I don't think you should see her before she performs.”

I pulled up short. “Excuse me?”

“You give off an intimidating vibe.”

“You're saying I scare her.”

“To put it mildly.”

Paranoia wriggled through my guts. “Did she ask you to keep me away from her?”

“Just give her space, I've got her slotted to go on third, it won't be long.”

My eyes flew to the stage. Amina was back there, preparing to sing.

And avoiding me.

“Fine,” I snapped, ending the call. I crushed my phone in my grip, hearing the plastic case creak. I was on the verge of breaking the device and I didn’t care. She’s scared of me? God, that rubbed me wrong. Sure, I could be a bit much, but frightening?

The old me was a monster. Amina didn’t know that person.

But she’s scared of me anyway.

Running my thumb over my phone’s screen, I began pacing through the crowd. I’d told Violet I was fine with staying away from Amina. It was an utter lie. What I wanted more than anything was to run behind the stage curtains and touch that woman’s dimples.

I wondered how soft her hair felt.

Had she done it up? Left it loose? What would a properly done-up Amina Richards look like? I ached to be a part of her every experience, being told to keep away was agony. It’s because her success means everything, I told myself, trying to rationalize it.

I should be back there, making sure she was ready. I should be involved in every step of this process. What, do you not trust Violet? I asked myself. No—that wasn’t the problem. Of course I trusted my VP. She’d had her hands all over my father’s company long before I’d ever bothered to get involved.

It was just...

This thing with Amina was different.

I wasn’t used to being told no. Especially not when it came to something I wanted.

Fuck, I thought, pulling up short. That’s it, then. I’m as bad as Violet said; I wanted to drag Amina into a corner and tear off whatever fancy outfit she’s been stuffed in. Finishing my champagne, I shook myself. Violet was right, I needed to keep away from that girl. The last thing she needed was me distracting her with my wicked attraction.

And what about after she performs? I wondered. Will I be able to do what I promised; keep my hands off of her, when she’s not on the verge of going on stage? It was a good question. One I had no answer for.

“Hey, Bach,” a voice called.

I spun around just in time to catch a small piece of metal. Baffled, I studied the circular bottle opener, then eyed the man who’d thrown it at me—Santino. He was sneering, two girls—different from earlier—leaning on him. “What the hell is this?” I asked.

“Like it?” he chuckled dryly. “It’s part of my swag pack for my new tour.”

“Tour?” I hesitated, studying the bottle opener closer. It read FRESH in big letters.

“That’s right.” Santino ran a hand through his wavy blonde hair. “Eckland booked me a music tour. Ten cities, starting in Vegas in four weeks. It's called the All-American Fresh Tour. Danny’s an ace with this stuff, man.”

Clutching the bottle opener, I scowled. “How appropriate for you to be selling your name on pathetic shit made in some abusive sweatshop.”

His face fell. “Excuse me?”

I threw the bottle opener back at him. “Made in China. What an authentic way to begin your All-American tour, Fresh.” I turned away and began to walk. His voice brought me back.

“Laugh all you want, man. At least Eckland isn’t digging up any random pretty face that’s naïve enough to hop onto a sinking ship.”

I froze on the spot. “What did you say?”

“I saw your girl backstage. The hell are you playing at, huh? She was so pale she was see-through, ready to puke from terror.” Santino grinned smugly. “She’s cute, though. Maybe when your company collapses I’ll give her a spot on my tour. I’ll show her how good I can treat a roadie, bet she sings even better with a dick in her—”

He never finished his crude comment. He couldn’t when I’d grabbed him by the throat, throwing him into one of the chocolate fountains. The girls screamed, jumping out of the way as Santino floundered in the thick syrup. “Say it again,” I growled, looming over him as he wiped at his sticky face. “Just try and fucking say that again.”

“What the fuck, man?” he coughed, looking up at me in disbelief. The crowd chattered loudly, people rushing away, others rushing close to take photos with their phones. Three guys in black security garb hurried to help Santino to his feet.

One of them eyed me, unsure what to do. “What happened here?” he asked.

Santino shoved the men away and pointed at me. “This fucking psycho knocked me into the fountain!”

“Mr. Devine,” a guard said, “Is that true?”

Lowering my eyebrows, I glared down my nose at Santino. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

“Are you serious?” Santino asked, his face red where the brown-coating wasn’t hiding it. “That dick-head threw me in!”

I squared my shoulders in his direction quickly, like I was going to take another swing. He jumped backwards, slippery shoes going out from under him so that he landed back in the fountain. I loved how freaked out he looked as I bent low, my heel on the edge of the fountain. “Are you sure I pushed you?” I asked coolly. “Or did you mean to say you tripped and fell?”

The guards scrambled to get Santino back up. He was simmering with humiliated rage, but he bit his tongue. I knew what he was thinking; better to be a klutz than to admit to being scared of me. “I guess I slipped,” he hissed through tight teeth.

Adjusting my jacket, I walked away from the scene without looking back. I would have liked to knock out some of Santino’s perfect teeth after what he said about touching Amina, but I had something more pressing to get to. He said she looked terrified.

When I got near the stage, I slowed down. Will seeing me make that worse? I didn’t know what to do. Fuck, I hated not having an easy answer.

“Mr. Devine?” It was the woman from before with the champagne. “Did you want another glass? The performances will be starting soon, I thought I’d check if you needed a pick me up.”

I waved my hand, starting to tell her to go away. Then I pulled up short. “I don’t need a pick me up,” I said, “But I know someone who does.”