Early the next morning, Tyler tiptoed down the hallway in a robe and slippers swiped from Cary’s suite. She kept her head down and her pace brisk, hoping to make it back to her room before any hungover music industry types stumbled in from a night of debauchery.
“Dammit!” she said as the key card reader blinked red. What was she supposed to do? Go to the lobby looking like this? She practically had “sex” written on her forehead.
Two voices—one low, one high—laughed down the hall. Who was up so early on a Saturday morning?
The Pink Panthermusic crept into her head as she shuffled her slippers down the hall until she reached the end.
“Holy shit!” she said. Kim and Vegas stopped dead in their tracks. He was more than two heads taller than her bestie and twice her body width. “Are you two—”
“Dude.” Kim grabbed Vegas’s hand. “He’s the best.”
How long had this been going on? And why were they keeping it a secret? She had a long list of questions, but first things first.
“Cary’s been looking for you,” she told Vegas.
“Is everything okay?” he asked, his voice concerned.
Tyler held out her phone and Kim grabbed it. “What’s this?” She squinted at the screen.
“Last night a photographer, reporter, whatever, took pictures of us at the bar.”
“Dude . . .” Kim zoomed in. “You can barely see your face.”
“That’s not the point,” Vegas said.
“Exactly.” Tyler nodded, taking back her phone. “It could’ve been the paparazzi.”
“In Saskatoon?” Kim arched an eyebrow. “Hardly.”
“Sorry, Tyler. It won’t happen again,” Vegas promised. “Is he in his room?”
She nodded, and Vegas kissed Kim on the cheek before leaving.
“It’s not his fault.” Kim opened her door. “We deserve a night off—just like you and Cary. Vegas is his tour manager, not his security.”
Tyler hesitated, then nodded. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m being overprotective.” She followed Kim inside. “So . . . how long have you and Vegas been—”
“Since last night.”
“Tell meeverything.”
After Yestown’s awards show rehearsal, Tyler returned to the hotel for hair and makeup. The gala wasn’t even televised, but she still wanted to look her best for Cary. These non-broadcast awards were for genres noone listened to and honors no one earned. Some artists won for selling five records, while executives got trophies just for cashing paychecks.
She slipped into a black fitted dress and three-inch stilettos. Cary didn’t care about the height of her shoes—just her happiness. She made her way into the bathroom for one last inspection.
She grimaced at the mirror, wiping away the clownish makeup. No time to fix it—the SDM team was meeting in the hotel bar, and she wouldn’t be late.
When she arrived at the bar she spotted Cary, Sebastien, Tommy, and Bob sitting at a table and having drinks. Then again, they didn’t have to spend an hour getting ready and a hundred dollars on their hair and makeup.
“Wow.” Cary stood as she approached, eyes raking over her. He looked like a million bucks, dressed in a black suit and shirt. Her smile faltered as she shot him a warning look.Not here. “You’re so fucking hot,” he murmured against her ear. “I want to take you apart right here.”
“Likewise,” she whispered back as her muscles contracted against her underwear. Fanny flutters, the English called them. “Hi, guys.” She nodded to the stunned table. They weren’t used to seeing her in high heels, with her hair down, or wearing makeup.
“Hi, doll.” Sebastien raised a flute of champagne. He wore a black suit jacket, two sizes too small, and that goddamn Quebec Nordiques baseball cap. At least he’d trimmed his beard, although it made his jowls more prominent.
“Baby,” Tommy muttered, practically drooling down the front of his tux. “Give ol’ Tommy a hug!”
He reached for her, but she swatted his arm away without hesitation. “That’s enough, Tommaso.” She used his full name like his Italianmother did when he was in trouble. “Sit down. I just had my hair and makeup done.”
