Except Quentin wasn’t done. “And, in case your manager failed to tell you, there should be absolutely no substances of any kind here. No alcohol, no drugs—including pharmaceutical shit.”
Oh…he must’ve read about the Xanax.
“And no visitors. I choose who’s here and when.”
Jesus. As much as Raine would have liked to have a friend or two visit…she hadn’t had any close friends in a long time. Despite that, it was pretty rude of him to be such a dick about it. But the only person she could think of who might want to visit would be Mal—and she was more than happy to deny him the pleasure.
“Also, my bedroom is the room next to the studio. I expect you to respect my privacy—and I’ll do the same for you. I suspect you know a little about me as I do you, but from here on out, I think we need to take each other at face value.”
She didn’t hate that.
“And clean up your own messes. I’m not your housekeeper or your babysitter. And if there’s something you need that you can’t find, ask. I have Wi-Fi, and you’re welcome to use it appropriately when we’re not working.”
Raine could barely stop herself from rolling her eyes. These rules assumed she was a stupid little kid. “I’m here to work…not to be told how to spend every waking hour.”
“Good. If you focus on work, then you won’t have to worry about anything else.”
Clearly, this man didn’t know shit about her. From the get go after walking in this place, she’d felt stifled and couldn’t help bristling at every single order he’d laid down.
“Questions?”
“No. But, just for the record, I’m not sixteen and you’re not my father.” After that, she pursed her lips because she didn’t trust her tongue.
“True, but you’re my guest and my rules are non-negotiable. Can you deal with them?”
Raine gave a simple nod of her head, allowing herself to finally roll her eyes.
“Why did you move here of all places? It’s like you’re hiding from something.”
His voice had an edge when he spoke. “You’re here to work, not speculate who I am or what I’m doing.”
Jesus. This guy should’ve come with a Beware of Dog sign. Fuck. She’d try to keep that in mind. Raising her eyebrows, she gave a short nod. “Fair enough.”
“Dinner will be at six if you want to join me.” Unlike the defiant nod she’d given him, he gave her a brief one of understanding, and she took that as an invitation to leave.
A minute later, she was in her room—but she wasn’t ready to unpack, because she wasn’t sure if she was going to stay. Here she was in BFE away from everything—and given a list of rules she might have to obey—as if she were an inmate or a child. Would this work out?
But if she wanted to save her career, did she really have a choice?
Cracking open one of the suitcases, she pulled out her notebook and sat on the bed, needing to write down her feelings. Getting it all out on paper would help her process and calm—and deal with all the emotions around this move.
Not long after she’d started writing, she heard something. It took a few seconds for her to recognize that it was music wafting down the hall. It was so quiet, she finally got up off the bed and walked to the door so she could hear it better. But it was still impossible to make out, so she opened the door and walked down the hallway to the foot of the stairs.
It was hard rock, a song she’d never heard before…but, as she strained, she was able to make out some lyrics:
* * *
Dead air, dead eyes, dead skin,
But you put on a good show.
Flat hair, flat voice, flat face,
You’re someone I don’t know.
* * *
Walking back to the bed, she typed in some of the lyrics she could remember…and discovered that the song was “Dead Air” by none other than Quentin Russo. She’d never tell him to his face, but this song was pretty good.
