A knock.
“Ten minutes!” someone calls. “Scene with the backup dancers!”
Zane bristles.
Backup dancers means other men.
Other men means jealousy.
Fantastic.
We return to set.
A male extra, hot, tattooed and shirtless, takes his mark beside me and I grimace even before he smiles politely and offers a hand. “Hey, you must be Ruby. I’m?—”
Zane appears between us like a demon spawned from hellfire.
“She doesn’t need to know your name,” he snarls. “And she doesn’t shake hands.”
“Uh—” the guy stutters.
“Back up,” Zane snaps, making shooing signs with his hands. “Further. Further. Try the parking lot.”
The guy stumbles away and the director sighs a loud, theatrical sigh. “Draven, please, I’m begging you from the bottom of my Tom Fords to behave for five minutes.”
“Then don’t put another man two feet from my girl,” Zane fires back.
“YOUR girl?” I hiss.
“Yes! My girl,” he repeats, eyes flashing, daring me to refute it. “Mine.”
And the worst part?
The part that should embarrass me, infuriate me, terrify me?
It sends a hot, liquid tremor straight down my spine.
This is bad.
This isvery, verybad.
9
VEGAS TOUR MADNESS
RUBY
Zane is glued to me backstage.
We arrived in Vegas last night and it feels like someone has turned the manic levels up to a million.
Fans scream like they’re being exorcised when he steps out.
SAINT SIN!
SAINT SIN!
The noise is deafening, electric, terrifying, everything all at once. But his forehead is pressed urgently to mine and I’m humming for him.
