Franco and I drop our bags and Franco walks over to sit on one of the numerous leather sofas with Robbie and Jamie. I walk over to the bar and pour myself a glass of whiskey. Three gulps and the glass is drained. I fill it up again and take it with me to sit with the guys.
I must have started to drift off, because minutes later I'm roused from near sleep by a cute blond in tight jeans and a black tank top. "Come with me, Gustov." Her voice is hypnotic. Or maybe it's her ass. Or her small but unbelievably perfect breasts.
"Gladly," I respond. And just like that the two of us are behind closed doors and she's pulling my clothes off.
"We don't have much time," she says.
Damn right we don't. I need you right fucking now.
She hands me a pair of black jeans. "Put these on."
I'm confused. "Wait. You want me to put these on?"
She blinks her doe-like brown eyes at me. "That's what I said. Hurry up, we need to do something with your hair before they come in to do your makeup."
Dammit. She really does want me to get dressed. I thought shit was about to go down. Now I'm standing here in my underwear, hard, and she wants to fix my hair.
I don't miss the fact that her eyes flit down to my manhood standing at full attention before she turns her back on me to sort through a pile of shirts on the bed.
I slip into the jeans. They fit well, despite the bulge.
"I'm Lindsey, by the way," she says as she turns toward me again. She shakes my hand before handing me a shirt.
Now I feel like an idiot because she seems pretty cool. "And I'm an asshole, by the way."
She laughs at my admission.
"Sorry about that." I wouldn't usually apologize for something like this, because she didn't seem offended and I still have the feeling that we might hook up later, but she just seems ... nice.
"No worries. I've done this job for ten years. I've heard and seen it all." She looks older than I am, but I never would've guessed that she's been doing this job for a whole decade.
It's my turn to laugh and it feels like a weight's been lifted off my chest. I shrug on the shirt.
"Sit here, please," she says, gesturing toward a chair. After tugging the elastic band out of my hair, she rakes her fingers through it a few times. It's tangled.
"Hmm." She's thinking.
I look back at her over my shoulder. "It's a fucking rat's nest. I didn't know a photo shoot was in the plans today. Sorry." I'm apologizing again. I feel bad, like I'm making her job harder.
She smiles and it's friendly. It makes me want to stay in this room forever. "Never doubt me," she says. "There's a product for everything." She starts finger combing my hair again. "Even this."
Five minutes later, my hair looks better than it has in months. I guess I shouldn't have doubted her.
Lindsey hangs up the shirts and folds the jeans that weren't used while someone applies makeup to my face. Usually I hate it when they put this shit on me, but I'm not paying attention because I can't take my eyes off Lindsey.
When the makeup artist (I didn't look to see if it was a man or woman) leaves the room, I blurt out, "Are you going to our show tonight?"
She laughs again and it's like music to my ears. "No. Though I've heard some of your songs on the radio. You're good."
"You should come. I can get you in." I sound ridiculous. And desperate. Of course I can get her in; I'm in the fucking band.
"I can't. Have to catch a flight back to Seattle tonight. Thanks anyway, Gustov."
"How about dinner? Before you leave?" Goddamn, it's almost embarrassing how hard I'm trying here. And it's not even about the potential of sex with her that's got me so wound up. It's just ... her.
She blinks a few times and I already know she's going to turn me down. "Gustov, I'm flattered. Truly." She smiles to soften the rejection, I suppose. "And you're not an asshole," she adds quickly. "But I have a boyfriend."
I nod. Understood. And if it's possible, I have even more respect for her. I don't get in the middle of other people's relationships. End of story.
Someone clears her throat behind us. I turn and there's a woman standing just inside the doorway. Her stance tells me she'd rather be anywhere but here. For the most part, her attention is focused on the doorframe in front of her. I can only see the left side of her face, and it looks tight, not friendly. I wonder how long she's been standing there. Judging by her posture, it's been a while. She shifts her weight to her right side, and she's holding a legal pad of paper tightly in her hand. She looks impatient. Impatient, like it's her middle name. Like she eats, sleeps, and breathes impatience. I already don't like her.
"Gustov, if you're done here ... " Her voice is quiet, and her eyes flit in our direction without turning to face us. The hasty eye contact tells me she heard everything. She's judging me. "They're ready for you." The tone of her voice is total annoyance.
Without taking my eyes off Lindsey, I hold up a finger in Impatient's direction asking her to give us a minute. She turns and quickly disappears.
Closing the gap between me and Lindsey, I offer my hand again. I'm nervous. I hate being nervous.
She shakes it. She's calm. The calm bleeds in through the contact and I welcome it.
Meeting her eyes, I say, "He's a lucky man, Lindsey." I mean it.