Dirty Lyrics Read online

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Dirty Lyrics

  by Lana Sky

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  ©2014 Dirty Lyrics by Lana Sky

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the author.

  No part of this book may be produced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including copying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express permission from the author.

  Dedication

  To everyone who encouraged me from the first word.

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks to the amazing Jilly P. for always being the Batman to my Robin and honing each character in a way that I never could on my own. Thanks so much to the amazing Erica Russikoff for perfectly polishing this novella, and another thanks to Eri O. for your lovely input and advice. Last, but certainly not least, thank you so much to formatting extoirdinaire Lisa for your patience and incredible talent.

  Chapter 1

  Jason Daniels made me want to kick a puppy—if only so that I could cuddle it afterwards.

  His heartfelt country music could inspire someone through a shitty day, when every meeting was cancelled and a cruel boss kept them virtually chained to a desk overloaded with paperwork; the story of my life.

  It was common knowledge that a saint like him would never last long in this business—at least not my sordid corner of it. He was too nice. Too clean. My agency handled diamonds in the rough and, as far as I was concerned, the man was a delicate snowflake. So I couldn’t fathom why his manager was so damn persistent to hire me.

  Five messages within a two-month span, four business lunch requests and two sets of tickets to two different concerts had flooded my inbox, one right after the other. I was good, but I wasn’t that good—and with chart-toppers entitled ‘Holding You,’ and ‘White Picket Fences,’ Jason Daniels certainly didn’t seem to require an image clean-up.

  “Just grant them one fucking meeting, Abby,” Bret snapped while I stood in the doorway of his office.

  I couldn’t help but notice that he was wearing his tight, black ‘blow me’ pants and reeked of cologne. He even seemed to be clean-shaven, for once. Business must have been good on his end and I would bet my paycheck that tonight he’d prowl the bars in search of a twenty-something bimbo to have a celebratory one night stand with.

  “Who cares if the man has a higher approval rating than the Pope!” he added in a snarl. “They’re willing to pay, and he’ll only speak to you.”

  I frowned and wondered just why that was.

  “Why me?” I prodded, unsurprised when I received the door slammed in my face rather than an answer.

  “I don’t care why,” Bret snapped from behind the frosted-glass. “Just go to one Goddamn meeting, Abby. Or you’re fired.”

  He was bluffing, of course.

  While I might not have been the best of his ‘crisis managers,’ I brought in the most press and the most sought-after clients—namely the ones who paid for his vacations to Acapulco and those crocodile-skin loafers he loved so much. Though, even if he didn’t fire me, I knew that Bret certainly would make my life a living hell should I dare disobey him. His agency, METRO, may have been one of the most successful publicity agencies in the country, but Bret Donovan didn’t have a reputation for being easy to work with.

  In fact, among the uninitiated, METRO stood for: Mostly Everyone Turns and Runs Out.

  Newbies received a potted plant and a complimentary gift card just for surviving a full week. Only after a month into their employment did they obtain the keys to the office. Last a full year, and that warranted a personal invitation to lunch from Bret himself.

  The man was a dick, but he knew his shit, and any celebrity worth their salt came to METRO whenever they needed a mess ‘handled’—which, in this business, was pretty damn often.

  “I mean it, Abby,” he grumbled. I could hear the thwack of his designer loafers striking the floor as he retreated to his desk. “Just meet with the man once. He’s sent you tickets to a concert tonight. Pick them up from Widget at the front desk.”

  “You mean Bridget?” I corrected halfheartedly.

  These days, Bret rarely gave a damn if he got his own wife’s name correct. Such was the ego of a multi-million dollar business owner. I supposed that he only remembered mine because it was on the biggest checks he cashed.

  “Whatever,” he snapped and I could hear the rustle of paperwork being shuffled, marking my dismissal.

  “I’ll read over the proposal,” I conceded. “But I’m not making any promises.”

  “I want his contract on my desk by tomorrow, Abby, or you’re fired.” Bret replied as if I’d never spoken. “And that’s a fucking promise.”

  Ah, Bret Donovan. The man was a genius, and I had learned more from him during my first year in the office than I had from a pile of college textbooks. Some days, I almost admired him—though I could only hope that my head never got so far shoved up my ass that my own shit started to smell better than fresh air.

  With a sigh, I turned on my heel and marched down a short hallway that opened onto a brightly lit lobby. There, I found Bridget cowering behind the reception desk like a refugee caught in the middle of a bombing raid. Considering that I could hear the sounds of Bret furiously pounding on his keyboard from here, I supposed that our argument hadn’t exactly been confidential.

  “Here are the tickets,” Bridget stammered as she fished an envelope from the overflowing stack of documents on her desk. Her brown eyes were wide behind the frames of her wire-rimmed glasses and I wouldn’t have been surprised if part of the color on her paisley blouse came from a bit of nervous puke.

  Poor kid.

  She was a brand new intern, fresh out of college, with no clue as to what she’d stepped into by signing on with METRO. Bret was putting her through hell this week, and I had a feeling that she wouldn’t even finish out the day at the rate he was going.

  As if on cue, he bellowed from his office, “Widget, get me that latte now, or you’re fired!”

  “Just finish out the week and you’ll get your plant,” I told her while scooping up the envelope with one hand and a letter opener with the other. “When you do, make sure you request that your gift card be for Motilda. They have killer food. You’ll thank me later.”

  “Abby?” Bret snapped next, his voice honed like the edge of a blade. “Is that you I hear, not calling Jason Daniels’ wrangler and begging for another meeting?”

  Ignoring him, I headed down the hall and entered my office. It was across from Bret’s and, surprisingly, the bigger of the two—though I knew that he hadn’t let me have it out of respect, considering that the other side of the building just so happened to face the modeling agency next door.

  Regardless, I loved the roomy corner office.

  The walls were a deep shade of red and sported the framed posters of some of my most high-profile clients—at least the few I could stand to look at without wanting to put a dart through. My desk was a simple metal affair, painted black. The only other decoration came from a potted Ficus plant in the corner; the same one I'd earned for surviving my own first week at METRO fo
ur years ago.

  Closing the door behind me, I headed for my desk and threw myself into the leather chair behind it. Heedless of the way my black mini skirt rode up on my hips, I kicked my legs over the metal surface and tore open the envelope.

  Surprisingly, the note—written on cheerful, beige letterhead—had been penned by Jason Daniels himself.

  Ms. Newman, he’d written in enviably neat handwriting, I’m eager to meet you and perhaps discuss business. Enclosed, you’ll find two tickets for my concert tonight, at the Blue Bell Concert Hall. Bring a friend. If you’re willing to attend, I’m more than eager to meet you.

  Yours kindly,

  Jason Daniels

  I could almost hear the ‘good, ol’ boy’ country twang rolling off every written word.

  For the briefest of moments, I considered ignoring Bret and denying this latest meeting, just as I had consistently for the past two months. There was no way in hell that I could work with someone like Jason Daniels.

  I dealt with rock stars: man-children with overblown egos who were easily placated with a flash of cleavage and a teeny, tiny miniskirt. Not to mention that poor Jason must not have gotten wind of my reputation; it was an open secret that I slept with most of my clients.

  Adding to my infamy was the fact that pretty much all of my relationships ended…badly.

  So bad, that I kept Bret on retainer to clean up my messes.

  Sometimes I wondered if I was a masochist.

  Or maybe I just liked the sex? I was quite confident in saying that no one threw down in the sack like a rock star—the drummers, especially. Though, it could have been the dry spell talking. I hadn’t been laid, ‘rockingly’ or otherwise, in nearly a year. The few clients I’d had in the meantime had never progressed beyond a strictly business relationship.

  I bit my lower lip and fished Jason Daniels’ concert tickets from the envelope. They were printed on glossy stock and featured the show time beneath the heading, The Heartland Tour.

  Damn, could the name for an album be anymore ‘heart’ felt? I let the tickets slip through my fingers as if afraid the earnest charm might seep into my skin. There was no way in hell that I could step foot in a place like that.

  But…if he wanted to play with the Devil, then who was I to stop him? Especially considering that I had a vicious red number in my closet, dying to be worn for just this occasion.

  “Okay, Jason Daniels,” I murmured out loud as I lifted one of the tickets from my desk for a second glance. “You want to do business with Abigail Newman, then…I’ll bite. Hard.”

  “How do I look?”

  “Like a filthy slut,” Perry replied as I twirled before him. “In fact, if you sat down beside me, I’d probably get tested for STDs just for breathing the same air.”

  The outfit in question was a sinfully cut red dress, short enough to make walking two feet an exercise in not getting an indecent exposure charge. And because Perry was completely OCD about panty lines, I wasn’t wearing any.

  To make matters deliciously worse, a triangular cutout on either side of my hips revealed ample amounts of toned flesh. With a thoughtful frown, I gave the hem a tug up and faced Perry for reinspection.

  “So, this is the one, you think?”

  “Oh, definitely,” he agreed while tying a pink tie beneath the collar of his dress shirt. “You look sinful. I’d have you arrested for visual prostitution right now, if that didn’t mean admitting that you look hotter than me.”

  It was the highest of compliments, coming from him, but I still wasn’t satisfied.

  In the mirror, I appeared sexy and confident enough. My blonde hair had been twisted into an effortless coil on the top of my head, but with a sigh, I reached up and undid the clasp holding it all together, allowing the curls to tumble down my shoulders instead.

  “Daaaamn.” Perry drew out the word. After finishing with his tie, he placed both hands on his hips and whistled. “Are you trying to give the man a heart attack?”

  “That’s the general idea.” I leaned in close to inspect my red lipstick and the streaks of kohl lining my eyes.

  Was it too much makeup?

  Not enough?

  It was so hard to achieve the right balance between hooker and high class with only a few containers of Maybelline. After adding another coat of mascara, I stood back.

  Perry was right; poor Jason Daniels wouldn’t know what the hell hit him. Bret had gotten on my case—again—before I’d left the office, and I was out for blood. If I didn’t end this night with a restraining order or a written citation, then it wouldn't be a night well spent.

  “Who is this guy anyway?” Perry wondered. He moved to the other end of my bedroom and snatched the remote from my dresser. The country channel was on, and Perry turned up the volume. “Don’t tell me this is him,” he exclaimed as the credits for the last music video flashed across the screen. “Stalker.”

  “It’s business,” I replied without a hint of shame.

  Like any publicist worth her salt, I had done a little research on Jason. Luckily for me, barely ten minutes went by without one of his videos playing on the country music channel. The one beginning now had cycled on at least three times while I’d been getting ready. I could visualize the opening without even turning to the television.

  I looked anyway.

  The first shot revealed a man sitting on the porch steps of a white farm-style house, strumming a guitar and gazing soulfully at the camera.

  It shouldn’t have, but that simple scene caught me off guard.

  Damn, he had eyes like fire. It was something my daddy used to say to describe the women he found attractive without resorting to vulgar language around me. To him, a woman in a red miniskirt with cleavage straining against a low-cut tank top would have had “eyes like fire and a soul to match.” Jason Daniels—though his eyes were a brilliant shade of blue—just had one of those rare personalities that seemed to glow right through the damn television screen.

  It was as if he could see into your soul—your heart, even—and all the words dripping from his mouth, in honeyed, southern twang, were the same ones you’d thought to yourself in passing but never had the gall to say out loud.

  Or something sappy like that.

  “Oh my… Well, lasso me and call me a cowboy!” My king-sized mattress squeaked as Perry threw himself across it, rumpling my navy duvet in the process. “That’s Jason Daniels?”

  I returned my attention to my vanity rather than respond.

  “My Lanta, Abs!” Perry gasped. “Why don’t you want to take him on as a client again?”

  I shrugged and rummaged through my makeup case for a tube of lipstick in a bloodier shade of red. “He’s not my type,” I said, in what I hoped passed for a casual tone, while swiping a coat along my bottom lip.

  “Bullshit,” Perry snapped. “Unless you’ve switched teams in the last few seconds, he is so your type. Trust me, I’m gay enough for this family. You think I want to share those covert glances of shame Grandmama sneaks at me from across the table at Thanksgiving?”

  “Not my type of client,” I corrected after smacking my lips together to obtain just the right shade of crimson.

  I would have been lying if I’d claimed not to find pieces of Jason Daniels somewhat attractive. Those eyes. Those lips. That bone structure…

  Pieces.

  “Oh, you just mean he’s not an asshole,” Perry surmised. “Not like those felons you usually fuck. Wasn’t the last guy some drunk punk who’d pissed on a bunch of his fans while performing a concert in Toronto?”

  “Something like that,” I replied breezily and stood back to observe myself one last time. “The concert was in Tampa.”

  “You take the worst of the worst—in your office and in this comfy bed.” He patted my duvet for emphasis.

  It wasn’t exactly a secret that Perry didn’t approve of what I did, men or otherwise. Though his job as a party planner—with clientele mainly consisting of spoiled preteens in a bidding
war with their parents’ cash to have the best birthday bash ever—wasn’t exactly my cup of tea, either.

  “Maybe it’s time to switch it up with someone wholesome and soulful for a change?” he suggested. “Though, if he wants to hire you, then maybe Mr. Daniels isn’t so country-lovin’ after all?”

  “Ouch, Perry.”

  “What?” He waved me off with a flick of his manicured fingers. “You know you love your naughty reputation. Maybe Mr. Daniels has a dark side?”

  I highly doubted that. One thing I had learned from dating musicians—at least the kind who didn’t sing auto-tuned crap written by some hippie songwriter in L.A.—was that a piece of who they were always seeped into their music. Always.

  If a man had a song called “The Black Hole,” composed of lyrics along the lines of “one more sip, and I’m under,” then he was more than likely an alcoholic.

  If his chart topper was entitled “White Snow,” and didn’t happen to center around a certain fairy-tale princess, then it was safe to assume that he was a drug addict.

  If a new album was entitled, “Closeted Desires,” I’d bet my Chanel clutch that he was gay.

  All of this, I had learned from past experience, which was why I sincerely doubted that Jason Daniels, who was currently crooning the words “your love is stronger than any foundation,” had a prominent dark side—professionally or otherwise. Though…I hated the teeny, tiny part of me that was surprisingly curious to find out for myself.

  “I’m ready,” I announced after running a hand through my hair.

  “You look perfect, bitch,” Perry praised after peeling his gaze away from the television.

  “You look better, as always,” I replied, knowing just what to say to stay on his good side.

  With his black, perpetually spiky hair, brown eyes, and olive skin, Perry had always been the yin to my yang. Despite how close we were, I sometimes forgot that we were related when he was the virtual Greek god to my pale, albino-esque self.