I am a bitch.
I can’t bring myself to look at Tom or anyone.
Then, I hear Tom’s deep voice say, “Lyla…a word.”
I glance at him just in time to see him striding past me, his long legs eating up the floor space, as he heads for the exit of the bus.
Avoiding the eyes of the guys, I swivel on my heel and follow Tom in his angry path.
When his feet hit gravel, he doesn’t stop. He just keeps on walking. So, I follow, my gut churning the whole time.
This day is really starting off badly. First, Jake’s call, and now, my inability to keep my mouth shut in front of Tom.
Tom might be a mut, but in the last five minutes, he’s done nothing wrong to me. I shouldn’t have said what I did.
Tom stops about fifty feet from the bus and turns to me. I halt in my stride, nearly tripping in doing so.
His body is tense. He folds his arms over his chest, staring down at me. I try not to look at the straining muscles of his biceps. It’s surprisingly hard.
I look up at his face. He seems even taller out here.
I decide to speak first, and I quickly say, “I’m really sorry for what I said back there.” I run a nervous hand through my blonde hair.
He lets out a sigh and scratches his beard. “Look, Lyla, I get it. I know why you don’t want me staying on your bus—because of our history.”
“We don’t have history.”
“We so have history,” he enforces with a raised brow.
“Um…no, we don’t. History would involve something happening between us. And nothing has ever happened,” I say, punctuating the words to drive the point home.
“Yeah, well, it would have if you hadn’t been so fucking—” He cuts himself off.
My arms fold over my chest, my eyes narrowing. “If I hadn’t been so fucking, what?”
There’s a moment of heated pause.
Then, he shakes his head. “Nothing. We’re getting off the point.”
I decide to let it go. I have an idea of what he was going to say, and if he did, that would have set off an explosion of epic proportions.
That’s definitely not needed right now.
My hands go to my hips. “Fine. So, let’s get to the point.”
“I’m trying to say, what happened in the past happened, and I can’t change it. I’d say I’m sorry for hitting on you, but I’m not. Back then, I didn’t know we’d be working together, especially not this close. If I had, I wouldn’t have made a move. Believe it or not, I don’t mix business with pleasure.”
“Pleasure’s only with groupies, right?”
He gives me a chastising look.
“Sorry.” I bite my tongue.
He sighs. “Lyla, I’m not here to try to get you in the sack. I’m here to work. You don’t need to feel uncomfortable around me.”
“I don’t feel uncomfortable around you.” I straighten my spine, needing to appear taller in this moment.
He smirks down at me. “Yeah, you do.”
“No, I don’t.”
“So, why the bitch act?”
I raise a brow at the comment, but he’s got me there on the bitch act. I was a bitch to him. And I’m about to be again.
“You want the truth?”
Unfurling his arms, his lips press into a tight line. “Sure. Hit me with it.”
“Well, basically, I don’t think you’re the right person to be our tour manager.”
His expression doesn’t change. “Not the right person to be your tour manager,” he echoes.
“Yes. You’re not serious enough.”
“Not serious enough.”
Why does he keep repeating everything I say? Does he have a mental problem?
He scratches his cheek and steps up in my space in one swift move.
A little startled and a lot fired-up at his nearness, I blink up at him.
He brings his head down, his mouth close to my ear. “One thing you need to learn about me, Lyla, is that I’m really, really serious about the things I want.”
A shiver runs through me, heading straight for my virginia. The smell of his clean, crisp aftershave is befuddling my brain along with my bra and panties.
Then, I kick some female sense into myself.
Tom straightens up, and he is now looking down at me, his eyes burning into mine. He’s still standing way too close.
Tilting my head back, I let out a condescending laugh. “You? Serious? I didn’t know Tom ‘The Man-Whore’ Carter could be serious.”
His face hardens.
Whoops. Too far maybe?
Like I care.
He steps back. I exhale.
“Jesus Christ, woman. I hit on you ages ago. Get the hell over it. I’ve hit on hundreds of women, and I’ve fucked and dropped every single one of them—”
“God, you are disgusting.”
“Thanks.” He smirks. “And because I’m disgusting—as you put it—to the women I fuck, that gives them good reason to give me a frosty reception if they ever have to see me again. Considering we haven’t fucked and I haven’t been disgusting to you, I don’t expect the shitty attitude I’m getting. So, why don’t you get over it? Just try to think of me as your new manager, not as the hot guy who hit on you an eon ago. And I’ll try not to think of you as the ball-busting lesbian—”
“I’m not a lesbian!” I splutter. There’s not anything wrong with being a lesbian. I’m just not one.