Taryn Belle - In For Keeps

Remembering that night with Kiki had been so much more pleasant—even if it did fill his entire body with frustrated, overheated longing.

“Sure,” Dev said to the waiter, trying not to look over his shoulder as he slid his bottle across the table. Because that was where the bar was, which also happened to be where Kiki worked. Not that she was here today—ever since their night together three weeks ago, she seemed to have developed the magical power of avoidance. And on a three-square-mile island that they both called home, that was nothing short of miraculous.

“Hey,” Alex said, working his thumbnail under his beer label. “Did I tell you Brissoli’s being sued? By one of your party guests—the son of the judge, I think.”

“Good for him,” Dev said dully. It wasn’t the first time he’d wondered if things might have turned out differently with Kiki if Brissoli had never happened. It should have been a perfect night—a gathering of Dev’s friends, along with Alex and his girlfriend Nicola, to celebrate his thirty-sixth birthday. The same night he’d been with Kiki. That part had been a dream, but the next morning they’d all been pitched into a cold and dark reality. John Brissoli, hungry for fodder for his celebrity-chasing website, had found the perfect target with Moretta. This tiny island of only ninety-two estates was where celebrities came to get away from the spotlight, and they paid dearly for that privacy, but occasionally the bottom-feeders still crawled onto land. Brissoli had not only crashed Dev’s party, he’d managed to get photos of several of the guests in compromising situations. Drugs, sloppy drunkenness, sex in risky places—he caught all of it that night, including footage of Dev and Kiki’s encounter in the studio. In the end he, Kiki and Alex had managed to head the disaster off, but it had taken a serious toll on all of them. Dev didn’t think it was any coincidence that he’d barely laid eyes on Kiki since.

“Just in time. I ordered you a margarita,” Alex said, looking up to greet Nicola. She kissed him passionately on the mouth and sank down into a chair between the two men. Dev gave her a quick grin to hide his irritation, which had nothing to do with Nicola herself. A month ago Alex had come to Moretta on business and ended up meeting his dream girl. It wasn’t that Dev wasn’t happy for them, it was just that things were so damned simple for Alex: meet a woman, decide she was the one, cue happily-ever-after.

Things could never be that easy for Dev. Being the fifth-bestselling recording artist of all time had always made relationships complex. In the beginning the female fans had done the trick, but he’d left that scene behind a while ago. Sure, he still let them hang around, but it was more out of habit—and loneliness, if he was completely honest with himself—than anything else. A stretch of celibacy had followed after that, when he found himself less willing to spend time with anyone he saw as temporary. Ready for a real relationship but without the right woman to fill the role, and that mostly came down to a matter of trust. Finding someone he wanted to go to bed with every night was one thing, but in his experience, finding a woman who wouldn’t fuck with either his head or his money was an even bigger problem.

Until Kiki. The girl who’d handled the sex-tape scandal like a pro, who clearly had no interest in fame or fast money, who’d been in his corner every step of the way. The girl he’d broken his year of celibacy for, who drove him to obsessive, cock-stiffening thoughts every night when he tried to sleep.

It was torturous.

“Alex tells me you’re off on tour in a few days,” Nicola said, plucking the menu from between the salt and pepper shakers.

Dev felt himself crash down to earth yet again. The tour. His heart slammed once, twice in his chest. “Yep,” he said with simulated lightness. “Back to the grind.”

“We’ll miss you.”

“Speak for yourself.” Alex grinned.

“Aren’t you supposed to be gone?” Dev asked his brother in annoyance.

“Nicola keeps asking me the same thing,” Alex said, cupping a hand around her face. “I’m still trying to convince her to move back to LA with me.”

Dev’s beer had arrived. He took a long swig and set the bottle back on the table, aiming his gaze at the view beyond the patio to calm his roiling gut. The clear Caribbean Sea lapped gently at the sandy white shore. Palm trees swayed to the mellow reggae music coming from the bar’s speakers. It should have been enough to soothe anyone’s frayed nerves, but none of it worked on Dev. He may have lived in paradise, but his mind was in hell.

His phone started vibrating on the table. He glanced down at the screen and almost laughed out loud. Bix Jenner. The guy’s timing was uncanny. Flipping his overgrown dark hair out of his face, Dev grabbed his phone and stood up. “Bix. Give me some good news,” he said as he strode toward the end of the deck.

“I didn’t need Viagra to bang my wife last night” was Bix’s gravelly response.

“Not quite what I had in mind,” Dev replied with a grimace. Bix had managed Dev’s career since the day he’d called him up seventeen years ago and congratulated him for attracting the interest of the best manager in the business. Despite his immodesty, Bix’s claim wasn’t without truth, and Dev trusted him with his life. But Bix’s crass manner came with the territory, and even on a good day it grated on Dev’s nerves.

“You never did appreciate real humor, Stone.”

“It’s not that you’re not funny, it’s that I don’t believe you,” Dev responded dryly, hooking a flip-flop over the railing.

“You’re goddamn killing me. How about this, then—Jerry Farr’s guy is looking to move on. Said he’d take on the assistant job.”

Dev nearly dropped his phone. “What the fuck are you talking about? Vanessa’s got it covered,” he said, referring to his assistant of two years.

A beat. “You’re kidding me. She hasn’t told you?”

“Told me what ?”

“She quit. Sent her notice in three days ago. She really didn’t—?”

“ Quit? Why the hell would she do that?”

“Wouldn’t give a reason. But between you and me, I heard she’s moving to France with her boyfriend.”

Dev slapped a hand to his forehead. Vanessa was the best assistant he’d had in a long time, and with their high burnout rate they were hard to come by. “Nice of her to clue me in. We kick off rehearsals in two days!”

“You don’t have to tell me. Lucky for you, your fairy godfather found you a solution before you even knew you had a problem.”

“I’ve met Jerry’s guy—he’s a wet freaking noodle.”

“A noodle’s better than jack shit.”

“Is that what your wife says, too?”

“Screw you, Stone. He’ll get the job done.”

Dev shook his head tiredly. “I’ll have to think about it.” He paused, considering his next question. When it came to his career, offers went one way—they came to him. But it was making him crazy that a producer had recently dangled a carrot and then never followed through. “Listen, you ever hear from Larry Weatherby again? He seemed pretty hot for me to write for a few of his artists a couple months ago.”

“Nah. Reality probably kicked in—someone as big as you, he had to know it was a long shot. Besides, you’ve got the tour to focus on now.”

Dev suppressed a sigh. He’d started his career by writing songs for other artists until Bix had taken him under his wing and brought him into the spotlight, insisting that Dev was way too talented and easy on the eyes to keep hidden. Bix’s promises of fame and fortune had all delivered, but sometimes Dev wondered if he would have been better off staying where he’d been. Even a platinum album at the age of twenty hadn’t settled the beast of anxiety he tangled with onstage each night. The voracious crowds he’d dreamed of as a kid had turned out to be the stuff of nightmares. It wasn’t always like that, of course. When he managed to control his nerves, the adrenaline high from a great show could leave him buzzed for hours afterward, better than any drug. But more often than not, touring meant sleepless nights of worry, a hammering heartbeat and cold shakes as bad as any junkie’s.