Head-Tripped: A Sexy Rock Star Romance (Ad Agency Series Book 2) Page 3
He doubled over and groaned.
She smiled at her sister’s ex best friend. “Looks like you won’t be fucking him tonight.”
Daniel yanked off her black wig. “You bitch.”
Hillary jumped on Effie’s back and tackled her to the ground.
Then they both turned on her like a pack of dogs.
A large shape came out of nowhere and hammered Daniel in the face.
Elvis.
Elvis in a stone-cold rage.
He did some sort of ninja move and knocked both her attackers on their asses. “Hijo de puta.” He kicked Daniel’s leg. “What kind of man beats up a woman?”
Daniel dabbed the blood off his lip with his shirttail. “She hit me first.”
“Guard!” Hillary screamed. “These two just attacked us.”
An overweight rent-a-cop jiggled and jangled toward them with his baton out.
Effie grabbed Elvis’s hand. “Run!”
They bolted out the back entrance and set off the fire alarm.
She ran across the street, bare feet slapping on the asphalt, and just barely missed getting hit by a car.
Horns blared. Middle fingers flew. Swear words sounded.
A block away, she stopped to catch her breath in an alley.
Elvis, not the slightest bit winded, flattened his back against the building. “Did anyone see us?” He peeked around the corner. “Besides that cop?”
She jumped up and punched the air. “That was incredible. You were incredible. The way you laid him out.” She shadowboxed him, giggling like a maniac.
He gripped his forehead and paced the alley. “What the hell? Why did that guy hit you?”
“He thought I was my sister. That guy’s such a dick. I can’t wait to tell her you avenged her honor. My hero.” She clasped her hands and fluttered her eyelashes.
Her hero stared at her like she’d just escaped from the mental hospital. “Estás más loca que la mierda.”
“Was that Spanish?”
“Maybe.”
“Where are you from?”
“Here, but my parents were from Argentina.”
“I’m moving to Argentina.”
The tension eased from his expression. “They have beautiful sheep.”
“Even better.” Why not go for the gusto and humiliate herself a little more? “So where to next, Elvis?”
“Elias, not Elvis. F-bomb was it?” He held out a hand.
She hugged him instead. He was so strong and hard. And he wasn’t hugging her back. She tore herself away and smoothed out her dress. “I’m Effie,” but you can call me yours. “Do you have a girlfriend, Elias?”
“No.”
“Wife?”
“I’m single.”
She tried not to do a split-leap. “Well then, where are you taking me?”
He gestured to the street. “Wherever you go, I’ll follow, mujer salvaje.”
“Does that mean I love you in Spanish?”
“Sort of.”
4
Capriccio
“‘Have I gone mad?’
‘I’m afraid so, but let me tell you something, the best people usually are.’”
Soundtrack “Bad Ideas,” Alle Farben
Soundtrack “Let’s Groove,” Earth Wind & Fire
How in the hell did he end up in a dark alley with this crazy woman? And why was she wearing that wig? Her hair was beautiful—all tangled and wild. He could see her galloping off down the street, naked on a white unicorn, her blonde tresses flowing behind her.
This woman intrigued him. There was something unusual about her, something soulful and spiritual. She excited him and soothed him at the same time.
Also, she was completely loca.
And even crazier, she had no clue who he was. For all she knew, he really was St. James’s unemployed roommate.
“Think we’re safe.” She peered behind the dumpster. “Let’s go.” She pranced out of the alley, barefoot and floating like a butterfly in flight, wearing that tiny blue dress with the word ‘princess’ bejeweled on the front. “I need to get my stuff out of Skip’s car first.”
He hesitated. This was a bad idea. Effie was a walking headline on the front page of TMM. His manager, Gail, would have his ass in a sling if he ended up on the news with her. Bad idea, his voice of reason said, horrible idea.
But, for some reason, he followed her anyway—didn’t even try to fight her, just gave in.
Up ahead, her tiny tight ass bounced underneath the thin fabric of her dress. No panties.
Suddenly, the bad idea seemed like a good idea. A very good idea. A great fucking idea.
He caught up to her, and she jogged across the street in the middle of traffic. He ran behind waving apologies at the drivers.
A line of limos stretched in front of the event’s entrance. She peeked through the tinted windows until she found the car.
“Hi, Alan. I’m just grabbing my stuff. This is Elvis.”
“Elias,” he corrected.
“Sorry, I’m bad with names. But I’m great with voices!”
From her backpack, she pulled out a pair of sandals with bells on the straps and put them on. Then she dug under her dress and peeled off a black-netted thong. So she was wearing underwear, albeit not anymore.
As hot as this chick was, he wasn’t about to do her in a limo after knowing her for an hour—not after that last one-night stand. “Whoa. Whoa! Slow down. Put your clothes back on.” He slid over to the side, covering his eyes.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to flash you. I just can’t handle this torture device any longer.” She shot the thong across the limo and pulled out a pair of underwear from her bag.
“Are those little boy boxer briefs?” He examined them. “Little boy Batman boxer briefs?”
“Not very sexy, I know, but they’re sooo comfortable.” She pulled some crazy maneuver where she took off her bra without taking off her dress, then shot it across the limo, too. Without her bra, her hard nipples poked out, just begging for a suck.
“Sooo much better.” She blew out a sigh. “Skip made me wear that stuff. Said he didn’t want me to go to the show like a braless hippie. My boobs aren’t big enough for a two-hundred-dollar bra. I should return it for cash, but I doubt they’ll take it back.” She braided her hair and tied it with a red ribbon from her bag.
He closed his mouth—it was gaping open.
“Ready?” she asked.
“Wait a minute. Why were you wearing a wig?”
“Long story.” She opened the door. “Let’s go.”
“Where?”
“For a walk.”
“A walk?”
“I haven’t had a chance to see much of the city since I moved here. I figured you could take me on a tour. You live here, right?”
“For the most part.”
She blinked. “What does that mean?”
“I travel a lot.”
“We can just wander. I’m not picky.” She hit a button, and the divider slid down. “Hey, Alan? Can you pop the trunk?”
He nodded, and the glass slid back up.
“One thing before we go.” She gave him the “gimme” gesture. “I’m going to need you to lose those glasses.”
Before he opened his mouth to refuse, she shimmied next to him and tore them off his face. “Wow. Your eyes are really green now. They were brown a while ago.” For a moment, she gazed at him, her blue orbs sparkling.
A throbbing desire to kiss her took hold. Very few people made eye contact with him anymore. Something about fame and fortune made people think he wasn’t real. But not her. No, she was completely comfortable staring right at him.
She licked her lips. “Like a pickle.”
“Huh?”
“Your eyes—they’re the color of a dill pickle.”
“That’s . . . different.”
Her mouth pulled into a little girl’s pout. “I’m sorry. Did I hurt your feelings? I’m not very good with people. I never say t
he right thing.”
“Do you like pickles?”
“I love them.”
“Flaquita, you didn’t hurt my feelings.”
“My name is Effie, not Flaquita.”
“That’s a term of endearment in Spanish.”
“Oh, phew.” She smiled and opened the door. “We better go before Skip gets back.” From the trunk, she heaved out a black case.
“What’s that?”
“My violin.”
“You play?”
Her shoulders slumped. “Not really.”
“Sure you want to haul that around?”
“I don’t go anywhere without it. Skip forced me to leave it here.”
“Forced you?”
“I owed him a favor.”
“What kind of favor?” He tried to take the violin.
She grabbed it back and breezed up the street, the bells on her shoes tinkling. A few times she paused, admired something in a window, then kept moving.
He prepared himself for the exhaustion that typically followed after talking to a woman at length. Chicks were so noisy.
But this one said nothing for several blocks until she halted mid-stride and smacked her forehead. “I forgot to ask what you do. I read somewhere men like it when you ask a lot of questions.”
“Where’d you read that?”
“Some magazine.” She looked so serious.
He tried not to laugh. “I’m a musician.”
Her eyes widened. “Me too.”
“I figured.” He nodded to her case.
“Are you in a band? What do you play? Where do you play?”
“Yes, I’m in a band.” Although lately, they were more like sideshow freaks. “And I play guitar and sing.”
“You look like a rock star.”
He tensed. “I hate that word.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“Will you show me how to play guitar?”
“Sure,” he said, but didn’t mean it. The chances of them hanging out again were nulo.
She bounced on her toes. “I’m trying to learn every instrument. I taught myself how to play trumpet last week.”
“In a week?”
“It’s a lot easier than the violin. I watched a few YouTube lessons.”
In other words, she didn’t have a clue how to play. “What else do you play?” He immediately regretted the question. Small talk—he hated it. But she was making him do crazy things, like stroll aimlessly around New York, making small talk.
“Let’s see”—she ticked off her fingers—“Piano, xylophone, cello, viola, double bass, pretty much all the strings. Trumpet, bassoon. I know quite a few percussion instruments. Oh, and the saxophone. I’m not an expert or anything. But, I’ve got the whole summer to learn.”
This chick was a trip. “No bagpipes or sitar?”
“I’m sticking with orchestra stuff for now.”
“So that’s what you do? Learn instruments?”
“I’m in school. Juilliard. I’m trying to get out of the violin program and into the composer one, but I have to learn music theory first. I figured I might as well learn to play everything I’m composing for.”
A bunch of people in traffic started honking and yelling. She covered her ears and winced. “Can we go somewhere else? The noise bothers me.”
He steered her down a quieter street.
“So where do you work?” she asked.
Didn’t he just tell her he was a musician? “I don’t work.”
“You don’t have a job?”
“No. No job.” He fought a smile.
She gave him a probing glance then shrugged and trotted off down the street.
A few blocks up in front of the wax museum, she examined the fake celebrities. “They’re so life-like.” She pointed to a replica of Angelina Jolie. “Who’s that?”
“Really?”
“I don’t have a TV. Is she a movie star?”
“You could say that.”
“Hey, look in the back.” Her forehead pressed against the window. “That one kinda looks like you.”
Mierda, he forgot about that stupid thing. He grabbed her hand and tugged her down the sidewalk.
She stumbled next to him, eyes still trained on his wax figure.
“Let me show you a cool place,” he said. Five blocks later, he stopped in front of the Diamond Horseshoe. His mouth dried out thinking of himself up onstage there as a teenager. Back then, he couldn’t control his stage fright. It was amazing how far he’d come.
Crazy Woman skipped past a sign in the entrance that said Mazel Tov Mr. & Mrs. Daniel Leibowitz and marched into the private reception as if she’d received an engraved invitation.
“Stop! What are you doing?” he shouted.
She ignored him and floated into the ballroom. “This is so coooool. I’ve never been to a wedding.”
A cover band played fifties’ songs on the stage. And yarmulke-topped old men danced with bridesmaids in bright pink dresses.
He glanced around. “Where can we hide?”
“I’m gonna go cut a rug. Watch this.” She dropped her case at his feet and bounced down to the stage.
For the next few minutes, she busted a groove to Kool & the Gang with a bunch of drunken old women.
He hid behind a planter and watched her dance.
She tossed her hair and twerked against an old man.
He slapped his shades back on his face.
Once in a while, her underwear peeked out from the bottom of her dress. He felt a smile build.
A tiny man, no bigger than her, boogied up next to her, disco-pointing his fingers.
Crazy Woman mimicked his moves, then the guy swung her around and dipped her.
She giggled and squealed.
The Isley Brothers’ “Shout” started playing. Crazy Woman did a breakdance-caterpillar move on the floor in front then twisted and shouted with the bride and groom.
He laughed to himself. She was having so much fun.
The band switched to a slow number. She snap-danced back to him. “I like this song. Know what it’s called?”
“I believe this is Earth, Wind & Fire.”
“Me likie. Wanna dance?”
“I don’t dance.”
She shrugged and bounced off to find another victim.
The next song, much to his horror, was his own. And they played it terribly.
“This song sucks,” she said. “Ready to go?”
Her insult hit him right in the groin. “What’s wrong with it?”
“Ugh, the guitar isn’t tuned. And the lyrics make me want to cry in a corner.”
“The lyrics are sad?”
“‘Skin like the clouds of May, Sweet Grace? Above me you lay, Sweet Grace? Next to you I play, Sweet Grace? Over me you stay, Sweet Grace. Grinding away my days, Sweet Grace.’ Who plays a song about death at a wedding?”
A prick of sorrow hit him. Everyone thought the song was about having sex with a woman named Grace, but he’d written it about his mother.
She touched his hand. “Are you like me? Do you feel everything as deeply as me?”
His heart banged. Yes, he didn’t say. “What planet are you from?”
“Los Angeles.”
He laughed.
“Hey, Love!” A kid shouted.
Elias glanced over his shoulder.
“Holy shit! It is him,” the kid said.
“Time to go.” He grabbed her hand and ran to the exit.
Behind him someone shouted, “Yo, man! Urban’s at the wedding!”
Elias yanked her into an alley and crouched behind a stinking dumpster.
A few feet away, his pre-teen hunters stopped then turned back. “Where’d he go?” a kid said.
“Bet he took off in a cab,” said one of his friends.
“Dumbass.”
“Ow! Why’d you hit me?” his friend shouted.
“Think El Love would take a cab?”
“He
was at your sister’s wedding, wasn’t he?”
“Damn. Wish I would have had my phone. Nobody’ll believe me.”
The boys shut up for a second.
“Grant stole a bottle of booze,” one of them said. “Let’s go get shit-faced and hit on the Rabbi’s hot daughter.”
Effie snorted.
After the kids left, Elias peeked around the dumpster. “Think they’re gone.” He helped her up.
She plugged her nose. “What was that about?”
“Long story.”
“What were they screaming? Urban? Is that a new slang word? I can’t keep track.”
“You hungry? Come on. I’ll buy you dinner.”
They stopped in front of a cash machine. He swiped his card and punched in the numbers. A big red “declined” flashed on the screen. Since his net worth was well over a half-billion, he tried again, but got the same message. “Something’s up.” He pulled out his phone and texted his mother, Annie.
Tomorrow, he was firing his mother.
“My card is expired, and I don’t have a dime on me.” He brushed his hand through his hair. “I’m sorry. Can I make it up to you another time?” Like that would ever happen. She probably thought he was the biggest loser.
“Which way is Grand Central?” She glanced around.
“That way. Why?”
“I’ll get money there.”
Mid-sentence, she sprinted across traffic.
He joined her on the other side, and they strolled in silence for the next few blocks. “Usually, I’m the quiet one,” he said.
“Oh, sorry. I was composing music in my head. Did you want to ask me something?”
Yes. No. “Tell me about yourself. Who are you, Effie? Inquiring minds want to know.”
She paused on the corner, her eyes dimmer. “Is it okay if we don’t talk about personal stuff? I don’t feel like being Effie right now.”
That was a first. Usually, women were dying to tell him their whole life story. “Who do you want to be?”
“Someone else.”
He studied her for a moment, searching for information.
“What?” she asked.
He shook his head. “Nothing.”
Soundtrack “Violin Concerto in D Major, Op 77: 111” Johannes Brahms
Under the sea-blue dome of Grand Central Station, across from the gold clock by the elevators, Effie unpacked her violin.