She clearly didn’t like whatever implication she heard in that ellipsis, however. “Like what, Myles? How am I acting? Like I don’t appreciate being restrained?”
I felt this building into a blowup, and figured I’d take the easy, if cowardly way out. “I’m sorry, Lex. I won’t do that again.” I knew I’d just let her avoid something much deeper, but had no clue what or how to unearth it from beneath the miles of wall and layers of defenses I’d just witnessed. “I’m gonna shower.”
I went into the bathroom and took a shower, taking my time.
When I got out, Lexie was dressed in a minuscule denim skirt with an aged, frayed hem, so short and so tight the bottom curve of her ass cheeks slid out from under the hem when she moved, revealing occasional glimpses of the lacy purple of her thong. Above the skirt, a white button-down shirt was tied up underneath her breasts, all the buttons open to leave her breasts spilling out—only somewhat shielded from being completely exposed by a gauzy, lacy, sort-of-translucent but not quite opaque…camisole, I think it was called. The camisole did nothing to support or constrain, and only served to highlight the size and natural movement of her cleavage with every step.
Her hair was swept to the left, messy and artfully tangled. No makeup except a hint of shiny pale pink stuff on her lips. Oh my—and some sparkles all over her cleavage.
“Fuckin’ hell, Lex.”
She smiled at me brightly. “You like?”
“The skirt, the cleavage, or the titty sparkles?”
She shook her chest at me. “You noticed, huh?”
“You realize I’m going to try to lick that off, later?”
This made her frown. “I wonder if they make edible titty glitter?”
I laughed. “If they do, I volunteer to try it.”
“Feed me, then we can discuss the logistics of edible titty glitter.”
And it was as if nothing had happened.
But down in the pit of my stomach, something was unsettled. I’d gotten a glimpse of something dark in her evasiveness and fight picking. The girl had secrets.
I already knew about her affair with the professor, and her subsequent expulsion from the university, revocation of her scholarship, and the abortion.
Which just begged the question…what else could she be hiding?
3
Lexie
Myles had really rolled out the red carpet for me, for this trip to Ketchikan. I’d have been fine with plain old first-class commercial from Dallas to Seattle and a pond-hopper prop plane to Ketchikan. But, no. Not Myles. He wanted to butter me up so I’d make cozy with my mom and Charlie and Cassie. It was, clearly, very important to him. He had no family, so he was going out of his way to make sure I preserved mine. I got that. But I resented the interference.
What I didn’t resent was the Mercedes S-Class with a tuxedo-clad driver to take us to the airport, where we parked right on the tarmac next to a sleek, low-slung black jet—like I was a movie star or some shit. This was out of a fucking movie. No onereallydid this. Yet here I was, my chunky, calf-high combat boots clomping up the movable staircase, wind whipping my hair around and tugging at the open front of my button-down.
Up, into the interior of Myles’sprivate jet, which he’d literally just purchased. For this trip. For me. An eight-million-dollar jet.
My head spun.
If it was spinning already, when my eyes adjusted to the darkened interior of the jet, it damn well popped right off my neck when I took a look around. Whereas the exterior was glossy black with tinted windows, the interior was all soft gray and muted ivory shades, with a pop of crimson in certain bits of trim. A deep leather couch ran the entire length of one side, and a row of deep leather captain’s chairs, in pairs, that faced the built-in tables. The rear wall was entirely dominated by a massive flat screen TV, and I saw evidence throughout the cabin of surround sound speakers. A bar occupied the front wall near the entrance to the cockpit, and it featured bottles of top-shelf alcohol, mostly expensive scotches and whiskeys. Underneath the front of the bar was a cooler with sliding glass doors, revealing rows of beer arranged by brand—clearly preselected based on band member preferences. Behind the bar, rocks glasses for whiskey and pint glasses for beer, a select assortment of wines along with appropriate wineglasses. There were cabinets along the wall perpendicular to the bar that probably contained various snacks and other supplies.
The carpet underfoot was deep and plush, vacuumed in neat lines—I felt an urge to take off my boots and socks and dig my toes into the carpet. Each pair of chairs with their attendant table framed a window. The whole interior was elegant, yet comfortable and understated…just like Myles.
I boggled. “And I thought your tour bus was luxurious. This is insane, Myles.”
He moved in beside me, whistled as he took in the interior. “Damn, no kidding.” He went to the nearest chair and sat down, leaned back—the chair went all the way back, a footrest extended so the chair turned into a small cot. The table folded down and out of the way as needed. “Not quite the same as my suite on the bus, but I guess the idea is the time we save driving gets us to the next city sooner, and we just stay in a real hotel.”
I plopped down on the couch and took off my boots and socks, dug my toes in, and it felt every bit as good as I’d imagined. “Worth eight million dollars?”
“For what will be my home away from home? No stops for gas, no nosy fans peeking in the windows at stoplights? Yeah, I’d say so.”
“No private suite where you can take groupies after the show.” I eyed him, watching his reaction.
