One Wicked Lick from the Drummer (The One Book 3) Read online

  Always dress for the job you wanted. That worked as much now when she didn’t want to make a statement with her clothes as it did in her groupie days when she did. The impression she wanted to give was neutral, safe, competent, trustworthy. Ethical with a capital E. A world away from sexy, slutty, do me.

  He’d never know she was wearing her most risqué underwear, her own private joke and a concession to the weirdness of the situation. Fifteen years ago, she wasn’t wearing any underwear when they met, so this was a radical improvement in the modesty stakes.

  “Nice to see you again.” She gestured to the helmet. “What happened to the truck?” It was her first question of the session and she hoped to put him at ease.

  “I gave it to a friend.”

  She double blinked. She’d expected him to talk about all the other vehicles he owned or say something about the joy of feeling the wind in his hair and choosing the bike to ride.

  “I hope that friend was grateful.” That was a $90,000 gift when you considered depreciation.

  “Friend was in need.”

  How different their lives were. He knew someone who needed a monster truck.

  “They wouldn’t accept money. Told them I was having trouble shifting the truck and it would be a favor to me if they took it off my hands to sell. We both know that’s a lie but it’s something they can live with.”

  It shouldn’t have surprised her. A sizable portion of MG Holdings was given over to charitable causes and donations.

  He didn’t look any more at ease for having told her that. It wouldn’t do. He had to relax so she could get a solid read on what was going on inside his head and his heart.

  The choice of a smaller room wasn’t enough. And she should’ve worn something less corporate. She unbuttoned her jacket and then realized that made no difference at all and took it off and draped it over the chair beside her. Her arms were bare now, which was generally not the done thing, but he wasn’t your average client and he’d hardly swoon over naked elbows and wrists.

  “Did you keep the number plate?” It was genius.

  He grinned. “Nah, I let it go. It was made for that truck.”

  That was genius too. Mark Grippen was not a wanker, though given his profession, he could well have been a terrible egomaniac and a full-time tosser. It would’ve been incredibly distressing to conclude her instincts about him all those years ago had been wrong. A real fantasy killer.

  When he smiled, a low wattage version of his knock-you-on-your-arse grin, some of the tension in him dropped away. “I’m ready,” he said. He’d declined a hot beverage and his water glass was full. “Whatever you’ve got, lay it on me. I can take it.”

  “Mark, I promise it won’t be too painful.” Saying his name out loud over and over while doing meal preparation during the week had paid off.

  “Grip. No one calls me Mark, except the relatives. Go on, read me the riot act. I know I messed up with my money.”

  “Grip.” She took a breath. That felt so much better. “You’ve had some losses, some less than profitable investments, but I’m not here to judge you. That’s not my role.”

  He frowned. “You’re not mad with me for the plantation that has no trees or the horse that’s farting up a global climate crisis?”

  She smiled at that. “I’m not mad with you. I’ll never be mad with you.” He blew out a hard breath, brows drawn down, hand ranking through his hair. “It seems like you want me to be.” And wasn’t that a little close to fantasyland.

  “My other advisors let me do whatever I wanted and that’s why I’m here. I don’t want to be one of those rich bastards who doesn’t trickle down.”

  “Trickle down?” She closed her eyes because they’d been on his hands, those scarred knuckles, the blunt nails, and his hands were what he’d used in her mind to make her trickle down.

  “That’s the theory, right. Jokers who get lucky and make a lot of money have an obligation to use it to help other people. Trickle their wealth down. We still have senseless wars, hunger, and the planet is burning.”

  Snap out of it. “That is a theory. It tends not to hold true.”

  He tapped the tabletop. Stars alight. She loved his hands. Her body conjuring memories of his electrifying touch.

  “That’s what I read, which is why I need someone who’s not going to let me get away with being a douchebag who drives a fricking monster truck.”

  His tone felt like the slap she deserved. He was frustrated with her and that shouldn’t make her want to smile, but it did. She’d put him on her hit list because she’d studied twenty-year-old Grip, read every word written about him, watched him interact with fans at meet and greets and on chatboards. He was boisterous, funny and kind. And he’d been the same in person. In the last week, she’d spend time catching up on her research, watching him interact with fans on Facebook. Same energetic, fully-committed, funny, kind guy who just happened to be a multimillionaire now.

  “This is an important conversation, but let’s back up a little bit,” she said. “My job is to find out what you want to spend your wealth on, what inspires and interests you, and to help you make the best use of your money toward that aim.”

  He closed one eye, scrunched his face. Not a wink, a grimace. “Exactly what does that mean?”

  “It means if you wanted to collect monster trucks then I’ll find the most valuable ones, build the right garage for them, get the best price on insurance and help you come up with other noteworthy names for plates. That last bit isn’t really what I do, but it would be fun.”

  He laughed. But he didn’t yet understand.

  “It also means that if you want to give away every cent you make, I’ll help you find ways to use your money to make more money so you have more to give away to make the most impact.”

  “Fuck yeah.” He slapped his palm on the table, twice, grinning at her. Now he got it. “I want that.”

  “We can do that. We need to create a direction because you’re not Jeff Bezos rich yet and we need to ensure that you have the right amount of money preserved for your own use.”

  “How do we start?” He used his stylus to tap his water glass, making it ring like a stock market starting bell.

  None of her other clients were this hyper. He made them seem dull and dreary. “I learn what makes you happy.”

  “Happy?” He said that as if it was the first time he’d heard the word. “The thing is I’m a happy guy. Most things make me happy. Except having this money. It makes me tense. I spend half my time trying to forget it’s there and the other half getting rid of it.”

  “Now that’s just wrong.” She shook her head in mock annoyance. “What we need to do is understand in broad terms what you really like to do, then drill down into some opportunities that fit that profile.”

  “You want to drill down.”

  She could’ve chosen a less sex-oriented word because he ran with the inuendo, making eye contact and raising a single brow when he said the word drill.

  “You’re going to profile me like I’m a serial killer.”

  She folded her arms to cover the shiver that zipped up her spine. Was he flirting or just being himself? “I’m going to profile you like a man who is kind-hearted and wants his money to make a difference for others, but not at the expensive of his own desires.”

  What is wrong with you? She should’ve said requirements or uses, but no, she had to go with desires.

  His brow shot up. “You want to know about my desires.” His voice had dropped down low into a kind of growl before he laughed and that answered the main question; he was just being his playful self. Disappointment was like metal in her mouth.

  “Keep this up and I’ll start to think you actually like me, Mena Grady.”

  Or not. She wasn’t supposed to be the one confused about what was happening here.

  He drummed his fingers on the tabletop and considered her. “I was worried there for a bit. But this is going to work. You and me. You’ll make me think
and that’s what I need.”

  Like a muse. Oh stars.

  “But not like this. In all the steel and glass and fake air. I can’t tell you what makes me happy in here. I have to show you.”

  “We don’t really need to do a field trip. We have a questionnaire that will help.” What she needed was to spend the next two hours taking him through the questions and completing the process and then all further interaction could be done on email. Given how he affected her, that was the most sensible course of action.

  “You think you can get to know my desires though a questionnaire? Mena, honey,” he spread his arms in a what gives gesture. “I’ve been asked every question under the sun and you have no idea how invasive that can be. You start firing questions at me, I’ve got prepared defensive answers for all of them.”

  She gave him a not-buying look and he came back at her with, “You want to try me?”

  Galaxies above, she did. “Do you want a family of your own one day?” That would help set his budget requirements.

  “I’ve got all the family I need right now. Who knows what’s in the future?”

  Hmm, he’d blocked her. “Who are you dating? Is there a wedding in your future?” Oh shit. That wasn’t a question she needed answered for any reason but her own selfish, prurient needs. “Because celebrity weddings can be expensive, so we should plan for that.” Shut up, Philomena Elizabeth Grady. You’re his investment advisor, not his matchmaker.

  He studied her for a moment. She tried to school her face, so it didn’t show her panic, but she could feel the heat in her cheeks.

  “I’m happily single right now and it’s difficult holding a relationship down when I’m on the road so often. One day, maybe I’ll want to settle down.”

  “That doesn’t really answer the question.”

  “It keeps the fans happy and it’s not a question that needs answering, unless you really do like me, Mena Grady?”

  The act of swallowing was difficult because her heart was in her throat. “I thought I was the one who was supposed to challenge you.”

  “I might be a basically nice guy who likes to bang out a song or two, but I’m not a fucking pushover. No questionnaire. Come on, Mena, you want to do your best for me you have to loosen up a little, be flexible.”

  She uncrossed her arms. Someone had poked a ruler up her neck it was so stiff. “I can be flexible.” To keep a client happy. To ensure her partnership. If only he knew how flexible her morals were regarding him.

  “I promise not to call you honey again, that kinda slipped out, and I didn’t mean to disrespect you,” he said, standing. “Does that thing in the back of your head come out?”

  She put her hand to the back of her head. She hadn’t disliked the honey as much as she should have and why was he standing? “Why are you asking?” She was supposed to be running this meeting and it had gotten way off track.

  He planted both big talented hands on the table, fingers spread, and leaned towards her. She had to look up at him, her pulse rate going from pop beat to dramatic drum solo when he said, “It’s not going to fit under your helmet.”

  SIX

  Grip was convinced Mena would call his bluff and insist on her boring old questionnaire. He was also convinced she enjoyed sparring with him in spite of herself.

  “I’m not dressed for riding a bike,” she said, chin angled up.

  “Pants, sensible shoes,” he replied, looking down on her. “If you’d been wearing a skirt and heels, I wouldn’t have suggested it. Safety first.”

  He’d made her blush again, made her breath catch, and that was curious. Up close, he’d noticed her skin was pale, like his gran’s fine bone china cups that looked translucent if you held them up to the light. Her eyes were surprisingly dark, a rich chocolate brown, surrounded by lashes and brows she darkened. She might blush easily, or he was still doing the equivalent of looking down her shirt.

  He backed off, taking his hands off the table, putting distance between them. She wanted to know if he was single. Was there a sensible reason for that or was she—what? What could she possibly need to know that for? Women were obvious when they wanted something from him: attention, backstage passes, sex. Or they were like Evie, mates, no lines crossed, no misunderstandings, called you on your shit.

  He needed Mena to be like Evie but with money witchery.

  He had to quit making her blush and enjoying it.

  “We need to bond.” He looked around the room, smaller than the one they’d first met in but still lots of glass and steel and a table sturdy enough to stomp around on, to fold someone over and—never mind. He had to get out of here. “I feel like I’m in a record company exec’s office without my manager to argue my case for me.”

  “I’m on your side, Grip.”

  He liked the way she said his name. As if she really did want to know him. He liked the edge between them, though he didn’t understand it, or why he was haunted by the idea they’d met before even when that was an impossibility. She’d said she wouldn’t judge. And she wasn’t trying to push an agenda at him, like almost everyone who wanted a slice of his money did.

  “The thing about me is that I’m mostly an open book but this is about money. It’s different. I got burnt. Fucked it up. More than once. You want me to open up. I get it but it’s making me wiggy.”

  She put her hands on the table and pushed her chair back. “That’s the last thing I want and I’m sorry I made you feel that way.” She stood and collected her gear. “Give me a moment to clear my calendar and we’ll play hooky.”

  He watched her leave, jacket slung over her shoulder. She had a very, very fine arse in those suit pants. She was the kind of woman who could pull off a tux and look hot. She was the kind of woman who’d look good in nothing.

  Once the door shut on him, he smacked his forehead. “Do not develop a thing for your advisor, you dickhead. You will fuck this up. Again.”

  Too late, the thing was already floating in developing fluid, but since it was a long way from clear what he felt about Mena Grady, he was content to keep it in the dark and follow the money.

  It was a kind of thrill when Mena threw her leg over his bike and her weight landed on the seat behind him. He’d fully expected her to pike. Tell him bikes were dangerous, and men who rode them were traffic accidents waiting to happen. She probably knew the stats.

  Her hands were on his hips the whole way to Bronte Beach and now she sat on the promenade wall in the late afternoon shade beside him, sipping a takeaway coffee. They both had their shoes and jackets off. He’d given Mena his sunglasses so she didn’t have to squint. This could be a massive mistake, but if she was serious about wanting to know what made him tick, she had to trust him. And he had to trust her.

  Still wiggy.

  “You don’t get mobbed,” she said, after a long time of neither of them saying anything much, just taking in the waning day and soaking up the smell of the ocean on the breeze.

  “Drummer.” He pointed at himself. “Back of the stage. I’m not that visible when I’m not with the guys. It’s a pack thing. And Abel and Isaac get all the attention.” He made a dismissive gesture, “Singers.”

  “You sing, and you have your own fans.”

  He gave her a sideways glance. “How do you know I sing?”

  “I told you I was a fan once.”

  “Tell me more.” He flashed a devious smile at her. When she’d said that the first time, he’d read it as a professional must have. You couldn’t very well tell your semi-famous client you didn’t know how they’d made their money.

  “Back in your Property of Paradise days.”

  He scoffed. “You were a Jay Endicott fan.” It was no surprise he’d made it so big. Oozed talent and yet unlike the rest of them he was self-taught. They didn’t become Lost Property until Jay quit. It was a joke rebrand that stuck.

  She made the same throwaway gesture he’d made, “Singers.”

  “That was a long time ago.” Told him Mena was
around his age. “We were scrappy then.” They threatened to break up just about every other week.

  “You had potential.”

  She said that with such conviction he knew she wasn’t just trying this being a fan thing on for size. “Well, listen to you, fangirl.”

  She laughed and there might’ve been a blush, but it was warm, and it might’ve just been her perfect skin absorbing the heat. He’d made sure they were in shade because she’d burn terribly.

  “Are you disappointed it’s just you and me sitting here undisturbed?”

  “I saw you do the chin lift, nod thing.”

  She was observant. He had done the chin lift, nod thing. The thing where when someone recognizes you, you acknowledge that recognition without encouraging more interaction. Worked half the time.

  “Did you always want to manage money?” he asked.

  “I always loved numbers, the patterns, the absolute answers and clarity of math, but no, for a long time I didn’t want to be ordinary, but this is my talent, so I ended up . . .” she shrugged, and he finished her sentence.

  “Extraordinary.”

  She flinched, but it was probably because a seagull swooped in, squawking to see if they had chips to share. Grip stared it down and it turned its back to them.

  “You don’t think I’m extraordinary,” Mena said. “You think I’m, I don’t know, serious.”

  “Ice princess. Stick up your bum.”

  “What? Really?” She glared at him.

  He could only see himself, twin reflections in polaroid sunglass lenses, but he knew a glare when it was aimed at him. “Little bit.” He showed her a small space between his thumb and first finger. “But then you got on the back of my bike and you changed my mind.”

  She looked at the sky. “I hate to think.”

  “Now I’m going with smart and—”

  “If you say cold, I’ll do something unprofessional, like kick sand at you.”

  Beach play, tempting. He went with, “Frosty, you know like when you take something out of the freezer, and it has that layer of frost on it that melts on contact with your hand.” He liked that description, because out of the office all the coolness of Mena had burned off and he was left with a person he liked, as if this warmer version was her natural state.