Chased Sneak Peek

Read on for a sneak peek of Chased.

Montana

Two months ago…

“You guys fucking smashed it,” I yell, raising up my glass of champagne, and the guys of Shadow Phoenix and their wives lift theirs to clink them together. I don’t give two fucks about this place being classy and upscale as hell. Despite being the manager for one of the biggest bands in the world for more than a goddamn decade—yes, that makes me feel old as fuck, by the way—I’m still not used to all the glitz and glamour of Hollywood.

So, I’ll rock the hell out of my sparkly green gown that hugs every curve and shows off way more leg than is decent, but even my attention-grabbing dress can’t make up for my mouth. Ah, well. I consider it one of my many positive attributes. You know, the ones you’re sure someone will love you for someday if you can just find the right person.

Who wouldn’t love a wife who tells her phone to fuck off regularly when it rings at inopportune times? Or who likes to occasionally drink her beer through a Twizzler like a straw? Hey, don’t knock it ‘til you’ve tried it, Judgy McJudgerson. 

My eyes flick across the room to my own personal fantasy—all six feet two of him in his black-on-black suit. I know he’s got a sleeve of tattoos underneath the pressed jacket that’s straining against his biceps. If I let my imagination run away with me, I’d guess others were hidden away in less obvious places I’d like to hunt down with my tongue.

His dark hair is swept neatly to the side, but I’ve seen him often enough to know it’s usually sticking up messy in that way that the hot as fuck guys do that makes it look like they don’t give a shit about how they look when you know it probably took them longer to get ready than you. I let my eyes drop and look my fill, not caring even a little if he catches me eye-fucking him.

Maybe if he does, I’ll get laid.

And with that thought, I give myself the mental smackdown. Not only is Ronin Desai someone I have to work with regularly, but I am so beyond the point of casual hookups it’s not even funny. Sure, there are probably cobwebs in the dark corners of my vagina at this point, but I’m determined, damn it.

I finally tear my eyes off of Ronin, disappointed his dark eyes didn’t find me across the room, and tune back into my clients. They’re so much more than that, though, and their wives are my besties. I’d be lost without them, but I’m also jealous as hell. They’re all married or on their way to that with kids of their own.

Honestly, I never thought I’d be the girl who even wanted that shit. In the past, if someone handed me a baby, I wanted to throw it across the room to get it away from me lest I catch some baby-making dust somehow. Obviously, I would never throw a baby. What am I, new?

Still, somewhere along the way, what I wanted changed. Maybe it’s that stupid biological clock bullshit you always hear about, but whatever it is, I’m done trying to deny that now when I look at my friends and their kids, my stomach twists with jealousy, and there’s this weird empty aching feeling in my chest.

Damn, now that I think about it, I should probably get that looked at just in case.

I pluck my phone out of my bra and send my assistant a text to schedule me a doctor’s appointment. Better safe than sorry or whatever. 

Once that’s done, I tuck it back inside and do a quick spin to see if anyone needs anything. Everyone appears to be occupied, and with the new Shadow Phoenix album blasting over the speakers and the chatter over top of it, my ears are at that point after a concert where they’re simultaneously buzzing and sort of feel like they’re bleeding. I figure it’s a good time to head to the bathroom.

Champagne goes right through me, so I’m practically dancing my way back to the bathroom. Even though this is technically a work function, it’s also my most favorite clients and best friends, so I say fuck doing the stuffy thing I should do and barely sip one drink. I’m well on my way to drunk. At least I’m not the only one dancing, so I don’t look like a schmuck, though I’m the only one doing a pee-pee dance on my way to the bathroom.

Hey, I never said I was classy.

After I do my business and shimmy my dress back into place—seriously, who makes floor-length formal gowns without some sort of plan for when a girl has to pee?—I decide to check my lipstick in the mirror. 

Okay, so tonight, I might’ve gone all out knowing that Connor and his security guys would be here as guests instead of security for once. Ronin’s been my secret crush for way too long. While I’m not usually one of those girls who’s shy, I’m also not exactly excited to do my own version of the walk of shame every time I see him. That doesn’t mean I don’t want to make a lasting impression and maybe leave him wanting more. A girl can plot and plan, right?

Sure enough, my lipstick looks like I just finished blowing the entire Seattle Coyotes football team. Like, how the fuck does that even happen? I was just drinking my champagne, and yet there’s red smeared all over the place. Jesus.

I grab a paper towel—no wait, that’s cloth, fancy bathroom-having motherfuckers—and wipe off the mess, grabbing my lipstick out of my bra to reapply. 

Yes, my bra is basically the female equivalent of a tool belt, but since my dress doesn’t have pockets, I resort to this bullshit whenever I’m forced to forgo my usual badass boss bitch wear and class it up.

The door creaks open, but I don’t bother looking at whoever’s just coming into the bathroom. That’s not exactly a comfortable thing when you need to pee, and every chick in the place turns to look at you squeezing your legs together and hurrying toward the stall. 

My lips are sufficiently painted in red again, and I grin, checking my teeth for rogue lipstick. Once I’m sure I don’t look like a clown, I pop the lid on and slip it back into the side of my bra, wiggling the girls a bit to make sure everything’s even in there and my cleavage is on point. 

A statuesque brunette saunters up beside me in that way that screams old money—you know, like she’s actually floating across the ground rather than daring to step foot down onto the floor like some fucking peasant—and looks down her nose at me, sneering like she’s smelled something bad.

Though, maybe that’s just her face. Her admittedly stunningly gorgeous face. 

Bitch.

“Can I help you with something?” I ask in my sweetest voice that’s also super snotty. I really hope it’s coming through how much I want to tell her to go ram her vibrator up her desert-dry cooch and relax. Hopefully, it’s the kind that has the rabbit ears because I’m not a heathen and even bitchy girls deserve clit stimulation sometimes.

“Yeah, you can stop staring at my date.” Her voice is nice and icy, and I almost want to high-five her for how well she’s pulling off this whole Cruella de Ville vibe right now. 

I make a whole show of looking around the entire bathroom, noting we’re the only two in here. “Did you happen to take yourself to this little soiree or…?”

She rolls her eyes like I’m dense, and I’m seriously tempted to kick her shin with my Louboutin’s. That four-inch heel is quite the weapon when pissed off enough to wield it. “I came here with Ronin. I saw you practically undressing him with your eyes.”

Oh, honey. If she only knew I was also imagining using my tongue to explore all the uncharted territory of his muscular physique, her head might actually fly off her body. 

“Yeah, and?” I tap my fingernails on the marble counter beyond over this conversation. 

She grits her teeth, the perfect pearly white expanse of them showing too much, so her smile comes off just a touch psychotic. Really, it fits her perfectly. “Considering he’s my boyfriend, I’m going to go ahead and say he’s not interested. Stay away.”

Without giving me a chance to claw her eyes out or anything, she spins, and I curse as I have to duck out of the way of her epic hair flip as she exits the room. I’m not going to acknowledge the way my stomach dropped at her words or the way I want to punch the wall or, you know, her stupid face.

Nope. I’m not going to admit that shit is disappointing, even though I’m definitely not looking for a hookup and also definitely not trying to get underneath—or on top of—a guy I have to regularly see at work. Doesn’t matter that he’s perfect and sinfully hot, the kind that has me drenched and panting the second I’m in his presence. 

Does. Not. Matter.

Because it’s gotta be easy to find more than one of those, right? They say there’s one person out there for everyone, but who’s they that they get to be in charge of something like that? Whoever they are, fuck them, and I refuse to buy into that because if it’s true…

What am I supposed to do now?