Black Lilith: Book One (Black Lilith #1) (5 page)

“You’re a little shit,” Slate says.

“About roadies and sound technicians,” she interjects before someone gets tackled again. “We’ve got tickets for them too, but Dan—um… the notes I’ve got here says that they’re not coming with us to London?”

“That’s right,” Logan responds. He leans forward and rests his arms on the table, exposing his beautiful tattoos to the light streaming in through the windows. “They don’t have international passports… but we’ve got a couple of locals lined up with the venue.”

“Do you have their contact details?” Mikayla asks. “I’ll touch base with them a week out from the event.”

Logan reaches into his back pocket, arching his back just enough that his T-shirt rides up and exposes a bare inch of skin above his jeans. She catches a glimpse of a dark snail trail before realizing that she’s staring, and turns back to her laptop to cover up her reaction.

It’s just physical
, she tells herself.
You haven’t dated in a while, that’s all.

Logan drags his phone out and pulls up the contacts list. He leans over the table so that she can see the screen as he scrolls through, pausing at a few names and nodding for her to note down the numbers and email addresses. His cologne wraps around her like a warm breeze, and she has to chew her lip, almost painfully, to keep her expression neutral. She’s both relieved and sad when he finally pulls away and sticks his phone back in his pocket.

“Okay,” she says. “Does anyone have anything they want to ask or bring up before we start talking about dietary requirements?”

“Here Mik… have some cake,” says Dash. He opens the plastic container to reveal a misshapen brown mass of icing and a fork.

Tommy shakes his head silently at Mikayla.

While Slate leans forward to stage-whisper, “Mik, please, we love you too much to let you hurt yourself like this.”

“You’re all assholes!” Dash says.

She glances at Logan, wondering if he too was worried about her health. But what she sees brings her up short. Rather than looking concerned—or even indifferent—he’s observing the proceedings with a tender expression. His mouth is curled into a soft smile as his brown eyes flicker between Dash, Slate, and Tommy, and his posture is relaxed in his seat. He reminds Mikayla of a father looking at his bickering family over dinner. Both exasperated by their behavior and unmistakably, unequivocally, fond of them all.

Her breath catches in her throat. It had been one thing to see him grinding against the mic during his performance, or to see him smiling at her when they were alone over a week ago, but the look on his face is so heart-warmingly domestic that for a moment she forgets that she’s supposed to be tasting Dash’s cake. She just stares at the man across from her, wondering what it would be like to see him look at
her
like that, and feeling herself blushing at the thought.

When their eyes meet, his expression falls into guarded amusement and Mikayla’s heart sinks. Of course, she thinks as she picks up the fork to distract herself, Logan won’t be looking at her like that anytime soon. He is her
boss
. She really needs to stop thinking about him as anything more.

She cuts a piece of cake, ignoring Slate and Tommy’s amused-warning looks, and sticks it into her mouth. It’s gritty and dry, but the faint chocolate taste makes it just palatable. The fact that Dash smothered the whole thing in a thick layer of store-bought chocolate icing went a long way to making the whole experience more bearable.

Schooling her expression into something that could be mistaken for enthusiasm, Mikayla speaks around her mouthful, “It’s good.”

Dash beams. Slate and Tommy start booing. Logan just crosses his arms and watches the whole scene with his lips quirked up in the faintest of smiles.

“I don’t understand why you’re even bothering with this… it sounds completely beneath you.”

“It’s good money, Mama,” Mikayla says, trying to keep the sigh out of her voice as she shoves her passport into her purse and double-checks the suitcase which lays open on her bed.

She’s only taking a couple of suits—her research had reassured her that there would be plenty of dry-cleaners on the tour. For the plane, she’s chosen to wear comfortable slacks and a blazer with her hair tied back in a loose ponytail so that she wouldn’t need to worry about it.

“Good money,” her mother’s voice scoffs from her phone speakers. She grabs the phone and slips it down the front of her blouse and into her bra so that she can speak into the microphone and keep her hands free. “You’d be making better money if you actually got a job in events. What’s the point of getting a degree if you’re
not
going to pursue what you studied?”

“I tried Mama, you know that—”

“Obviously not hard enough,” her mother replies dismissively.

Mikayla can picture her mother sitting on the patio of their family home in Vermont, sipping tea and smoking a cigarette, her hair styled in flawless curls and her eyes crusted with makeup as she stares out at the estate her second husband had bought for her. She’d probably be wearing white, Mikayla thinks. Her mother loves white, it’s the color of someone who never needs to worry about soiling their clothes.

Her father had never worn white. He’d preferred dark blues. They kept their color longer.

Mikayla zips up her luggage, grateful to note that there’s a little wiggle room—she wants to buy some souvenirs when she gets to London.

“When I was at college the brightest students
always
walked right out of school and into jobs. If you can’t find work, then you’ve no one to blame but yourself—”

Mikayla triple-checks everything, opening her travel wallet to make sure that her ticket is in there. She’d offered to carry the band’s tickets as well as her own, but Logan had vetoed it, insisting that he’d be responsible for the band’s travel documents. He’d been very cagey with her yesterday when she’d asked for access to the band’s accounts so that she could make sure all the bills were paid for at each venue. As a matter of fact, he’d almost leaped down her throat.

Mikayla had been surprised, to say the least. Events managers always had discretionary access to funds, and she’d assumed that being a personal assistant would be no different. But
Black Lilith
must have its own way of doing things. Logan had sworn that he’d see all of the band’s bills were paid, and she would have to trust him.

She’d discretely check with the hotels when they checked out.

“Mikayla? Are you listening to me?”

“Of course,” she replies smoothly. “I’m lazy, and I should try harder.”

Mikayla wants to say—your generation left the economy in shambles, and now you’re blaming my generation because we have to adjust our lives and expectations to allow for that. But Mikayla’s mother can hold a grudge for decades if necessary, and she doesn’t feel like hearing a lecture every Thanksgiving for the rest of her life.

“I just wish that you’d live up to your potential,” her mother said.

“So do I,” Mikayla mutters with startling sincerity. “Listen, I’ve got to catch a cab. I’ll call you soon, okay?”

“Don’t let that rock band take advantage of you,” her mother warns. “You hear horror stories—”

“Bye, love you!”

Mikayla hangs up before her mother can build up enough steam for a good rant. She’s a little bit disturbed that the rant began with the same words she’d used with Logan over a week ago, and makes the decision not to think too hard about it. She has a plane to catch.

The band is, miraculously, waiting for her at the terminal. Dash looks hungover, but everyone else is wide-eyed and eager. Their instruments are checked in, and everyone gets ready to board. The roadies and techs are already in LA, according to Logan.

“Everyone have their tickets?” she asks.

“Yes,
Mom
,” Dash replies with a sneer.

Logan’s hand whips out and smacks the back of Dash’s head, causing the younger man to stumble a bit.

“Don’t take that tone with her,” he snaps.

Dash groans and rubs his head. “Sorry, sorry.”

“Don’t apologize to
me
.”

“Sorry, Mik,” Dash says, looking genuinely apologetic as he casts his bloodshot eyes up at her.

“It’s okay,” she replies without a second thought.

She hadn’t taken it personally. Dash clearly isn’t in the mood to get on a plane, and she’s not so thin-skinned that she’d let a comment like that bother her. But she is surprised at how quick Logan was to defend her. Surprised and just a little bit pleased, though she did feel bad that Dash’s headache had probably just gotten worse.

“I’ve got some aspirin in my purse?” she offers.

Dash gives her a soft smile, but he shakes his head. “I’ve already had half a bottle.”

“I hope that’s an exaggeration,” she says. “I don’t want to deal with an OD this early in the trip.”

“Don’t worry, Mik,” Tommy says, coming to stand at her side and giving her a serene smile. “We in
Black Lilith
have a very strict ‘No OD’ policy.”

“Excellent.”

They board the plane. The band has first class seats, but Mikayla’s ticket is a last-minute economy seat. Clearly,
Bass Note
wasn’t willing to shell out big money on someone who’d only been working with them for a week. She doesn’t mind, she’s flown coach her whole life. But the band looks annoyed.

“Hold on,” Slate says, eyeing one of the pretty young flight attendants with intent. “I’ll get you a seat.”

“You don’t have to—”

But he’s already gone, sidling up close to the flight attendant and laying the charm on thick. Mikayla is almost fascinated as she watches him work—smiling shyly, dipping his head, looking up at the flight attendant through his eyelashes, and stepping close under the pretense of wanting privacy. In moments, the flight attendant is looking flustered and pleased as she nods along, encouraging him in his behavior.

“I’d feel bad about the way he does that,” Tommy mutters behind Mikayla. “Except the girls never seem upset. After, I mean. When he sends them home. He’s a player, but it’s all above-board. It’s frustrating.”

“He should go into politics,” she replies. “He’d have the whole world eating out of the palm of his hand.”

“Thank goodness for music, then,” says Tommy. “He’s too distracted banging drums and groupies to realize the power he holds.”

Dash is steadily turning green behind them. Mikayla hopes that Slate uses his powers to make sure that Dash has all the sick bags he wants.

Slate returns with the flight attendant in toe, and Mikayla is duly upgraded to first class. She watches as Slate brushes his fingers across the back of the flight attendant’s hand, bringing it up to his lips for a chaste kiss and looking at her with a promise. The girl looks delighted.

The seat she is given is right next to Logan’s. The singer immediately takes out his iPod, so she takes out her laptop. This plane has Wi-Fi, after all. She’d be a fool if she didn’t take this opportunity to send a few emails to the venue and make sure that everything will be ready for their arrival at LAX. Across the aisle, Dash clutches his armrests as the plane takes off, then pulls down his tray table the moment they hit cruising altitude and lays his head down on it. Mikayla reaches over and rubs his back soothingly. He mutters his thanks and relaxes against the table.

“Don’t coddle him,” Logan says from beside her. “It serves him right for getting fucked up the night before a flight.”

“I’ll remind you of that the next time you’re hungover,” Mikayla replies. She keeps rubbing the younger Todd’s back in slow circles. “When you’re begging for a backrub while you try not to vomit everywhere.”

“I don’t beg for backrubs.”

“You’d beg for mine.” And as soon as she says it, her cheeks heat up. “That sounded more innocent in my head.”

“Sure,” Logan says. There’s a slight smirk on his lips. “That sounds unlikely but sure.”

She shoves him. Their seats are close enough together that she can reach him easily, but far enough apart that they could have easily ignored each other for the entire journey.

It’s a good sign that he spoke to her, right?

“Assaulting the band?” Logan asks, rubbing his arm in mock outrage and giving her a grin. “Not a great start to your tenure, Mikayla Strong.”

“Not a single member of the band would blame me, Logan Todd,” she replies.

He snorts at her. Across the aisle, Dash lets out a soft snore and she lets her hand drop.

“That was fast,” she says.

“You’re not the first woman to say that to him,” Logan says.

Mikayla lets out a bark of laughter and quickly covers her mouth, glancing at the sleeping man to make sure that she didn’t wake him. He doesn’t stir. On Dash’s other side, she can see Tommy with his head bent over a notebook, tapping his foot to a silent beat and pausing every now and then to write something down, oblivious to the world around him. Pressed up against the window on the other side of the cabin, Slate is entertaining the flight attendant, who leans her hip against his seat.

When Mikayla turns back to Logan, she can see his eyes light up with quiet amusement. Then something flickers in his eyes and he sobers up.

“Listen,” he says, leaning over so that his fringe falls in his eyes and she can smell his minty breath. “I wanted to apologize for thinking you were a groupie.”

“Oh,” she says. Not terribly eloquent, but the apology had come out of nowhere and she hadn’t been prepared for it. She’s close enough to count the tiny freckles on the bridge of his nose. “That’s okay, really… I’m over it.”

“It wasn’t right,” says Logan. “Probably just wishful thinking on my part.”

And Mikayla had to stop herself from doing a double-take. Did that mean what she thought it meant?

But Logan sighed and kept talking, “Anyway, the four of us agreed that we wouldn’t date the PAs. So I was out of line when I hit on you.”

“You guys have a lot of rules,” she says, grateful to hear that her voice is strong even if her heart is racing. She realizes that there are little flecks of gold in his brown eyes, bursting from the pupil like fireworks. “I’ve noticed.”

“When you’re together for as long as we’ve been, you learn how to keep the peace,” he replies. His eyelashes are almost light-blond. How did she not notice that before? “I know I’ve been kind of an asshole to you… I just wanted you to know that there was a reason for it. I’ll try to be better.”

Mikayla squirms in her seat, aware of the effect his gaze is having on her, and desperately wishing that her mind and her body would accept that Logan’s off-limits. But she’d never thought that
she
would be off-limits to
him
. It was gratifying to see that he seemed at least a little bit regretful about it.

She reminds herself—for what must be the thousandth time—that her body’s response to him is purely physical. He’s handsome and sexy, with gorgeous tattoos and cheekbones that could cut someone, and lips that look like they were made for kissing. She’d have to be blind not to find him attractive. But she doesn’t have to act on that attraction, and that’s the crucial point.

“Well, thanks for clearing that up for me,” she says.

He nods and sticks his headphones back in his ears, leaving Mikayla to reflect in silence.