My eyes narrow warily. “Yeah?”
His eyes burn into mine, feral and unflinching.
“Whatever you want, I’ll triple it.”
3
THE SIREN
ZANE
“Whatever you want, I’ll triple it.”
The words are out before I can stop them.
I grew up poor in the shittiest trailer park known to man, but with a God-given talent I was lucky enough to make real before the worst happened.
I recognized early in life that words fucking matter. So, on a normal day to day? I don’t say stupid shit I don’t mean. Not on stage and not in life.
As one of the very few artists who writes every single lyric I sing, words are fucking priceless to me.
So this?
This is insane.
I’ve thrown money at a thousand things—lawyers to scrub my record clean, rehab centers I never intended to finish, doctors to keep my voice intact when I should’ve burned it out years ago. I’ve bought cars I never drove, mansions I never lived in, people I never loved.
I’ve felt rage and euphoria and oblivion at the bottom of a bottle.
But I’ve never feltthis.
One look at this curvy barista with eyes that say she sees right through me, and I’m burning in places I thought were long dead.
Ruby Lane.
Forget that she’s fucking stunning. Her name tastes like smoke and jazz and a thousand platinum albums.
And she’s standing there, skeptical as hell, glaring at me like I’m a circus act she never bought tickets for but is being forced to watch.
I would laugh, if my chest wasn’t thumping like a fuckingdjembedrum summoning a raging occult.
“Triple it?” she says slowly, dry as desert bone. “For what? You want me to follow you around and pour you coffee?”
I rise and step closer.
She smells insanely delicious. I want to grab her, kiss her, taste her on my tongue. I want to throw her over my shoulder again and walk around with her for the next decade. But I hold back. Barely.
And the effort it’s taking is driving me insane. But what I can’t do with my hands, I can say with my mouth.
“For starters?” My voice is a rasp. “I want to kiss you. “Then I want a whole lot more. But I’ll give you five hundred thousand dollars for three months on the road with the band.”
Her brows lift, sharp and disbelieving. “Five hundredgrand?”
“Cash. Up front.” If I remember, Freddie was planning on paying one hundred. So I just quintupled it.
She snorts. And fuck, I would too in her shoes. “Cute. But I’m not exactly groupie material.”
My lips curl. “Good. I don’t want a groupie. And those three months?” I lean in, dropping my voice. “They’re for shooting the music video. And I think you’ll be perfect for it. Let’s prove it if you don’t believe me.”
