Blue Shoes #1: New Adult Rock Star Erotic Romance (Morris Music Book 6) (8 page)

Chet turns to me, the phone still at his ear. “We’ve got time. Sure, let’s take the scenic route.”

“Show us your city,” I say to the driver.

He gives me some more flirty eyebrow raises. “As you wish,
bellissima
.”

He turns off the busy road, and we begin winding our way through Rome. The driver explains that the early morning traffic is still light, so our timing is perfect.

I can see why Dylan loves Rome. There are statues everywhere, and the old buildings are beautiful. Many have apartments on the upper levels, and the first floors are lined with the wide windows of shops and boutiques. They show off the most stunning dresses, shoes and bags I’ve ever seen. I’m no fashion expert, but something tells me these are the new designs we’ll see in L.A. next year.

I take a few photos for Amanda and Riley to go crazy over.

“Your hotel is down this way,” the driver says. He steers the car onto a narrow road that’s packed with people walking up and down. The pedestrians are everywhere, and don’t even stick to the sidewalks.

Even more surprising, our driver doesn’t stick to the road. He pulls two wheels up onto the curb. The car tilts, and I nearly fall onto Chet. The driver keeps going, half on the sidewalk and half off. The crowd of people casually parts to let him through.

We turn a corner and nearly crash into another car, also a taxi. The street is too narrow for us to pass each other, so our driver backs up, speeding in reverse, back the way we came.

He mutters about a shortcut and veers onto another, even narrower street.

When we finally stop at our destination, my heart is pounding. I can’t believe the car is still in one piece.

I look up at our hotel, which looks tiny from the outside, and nothing like I expected.

I reach for my door’s handle, but before I can get out, the driver stops me. He gives us a speech about pickpockets, and staying safe in Rome.

I look at Chet to see if this is true. Something tells me the driver is playing up the danger, to earn a bigger tip.

“If you see someone smile at you,” the driver explains, “he is a pickpocket. They will charm you while they take everything.”

I pull my purse tight against my side and promise the driver I’ll be careful.

We step out of the car, and Chet helps the driver unload our suitcases. I stand by the hotel entrance and take out my phone. I need to get a picture of the flirty, fifty-year-old cab driver so I can send it to Dylan and tease him that I’ve met someone new.

I type out a message:
This is my new Italian friend. Don’t worry, though. I only have eyes for you! Can’t wait to see you here. Just checking into the hotel.

I start to giggle, imagining Dylan getting this message and laughing.

There’s a gentle tug on my shoulder, and I step to the side to let some other people into the hotel.

I finish on the phone, and go to put it away. I reach down to my purse, but it’s gone. The strap is still over my shoulder, but the straps have been severed. I stare at the jagged leather ends in shock. Someone must have walked past and cut the straps when I wasn’t looking.

“Chet, my purse!”

He runs over to me.

I hold up the cut strap. “I was just looking at my phone. For a minute. I was being careful, I swear.”

We look around the small road, but I can’t see my bag or anyone running away. There’s just the steady flow of people.

Chet curses, and the driver shakes his head, making me feel like an idiot.

“Did you have anything important in there?” Chet asks.

I have to think for a minute. I keep checking the strap in disbelief, half-expecting my purse to reappear as suddenly as it disappeared. “Mostly makeup, and those glossy photos of Dylan I carry everywhere.”

Chet pats his chest, where his secret travel pocket is. He put our passports and wallets in there after we came through customs. “We can replace that stuff,” he says. “And everything else is safe in here, so take a deep breath and relax.”

I grit my teeth together. I feel so stupid, like a dumb country girl. I’m angry, too, but mostly at myself.

“You’re okay,” he says. “I know you, Jess. You really are tougher than you look. The purse thing can happen to anyone. Why do you think I have my dorky travel pouch? It’s because I had everything stolen the first time I went abroad.”

I keep gritting my teeth. I nod to let him know I hear him, and I’ll be fine. I just need a minute.

He puts his arm around my shoulder to comfort me. “I’ll have the office overnight us more pictures of Dylan, if that’ll make you happy.”

I let out a short laugh. I can live without the stuff in my purse. It was mostly makeup and toiletries, plus some personal items my boss doesn’t need to know about.

The driver calls out from his taxi window, “Ciao! Ciao!”

We both wave goodbye as he drives the car away, two wheels on the sidewalk again.

Chet takes the broken leather strap from my hands. “Now you have an excuse to buy a new purse. Let’s get through our meetings quickly today, so we can hit the shops before they close.”

“Sure.”

I check my phone to see if Dylan has responded to my message about the taxi driver. There’s nothing.

Rome is nine hours ahead of L.A., which means he could be sleeping. Then again, Dylan Wolf is a rock star. He could be doing anything.

My hotel room is beautiful. I’m far from home, but there are some nice touches to put me at ease, like fresh flowers and a bowl of fruit.

“Hey, your room is nicer than mine,” Chet says. “And way bigger.”

“Blame whoever booked the rooms.”

He stays in the doorway, not coming all the way into my space. “My assistant must have given you this one for when Dylan shows up.”

“Or maybe she likes me better,” I tease. The bed is not as big as my bed at home, but it’s plenty big for when Dylan arrives. Then again, if I know him, he’ll probably sweep me away to some fancier hotel.

“You have about an hour,” Chet says. “Then we go to Deluca and show those old farts how irrelevant they are.”

“Ouch.” I pull a face. “Let’s start by not calling them old farts.”

“Sure. We’ll save that for day two.”

He pulls my door closed and leaves, going back to his own room next door.

Alone now, I take a picture of the room before I mess it up, and send the picture to the girls. It’s a strikingly attractive room. The carpet is a light cream color, the furniture is all dark wood, and the upholstery is rich shades of burgundy and gold.

The bathroom is bright white and modern. It’s compact, but has all the essentials. The air smells wonderful, like the perfume of an elegant, older woman.

I quickly try out the shower, which is lined with endless small octagonal tiles. I’d linger, but we have to get to our first meeting.

I change into a suit and meet my boss in the lobby. We take another taxi to Deluca Distribuzione, the European distributor that’s going to expand the reach of Morris Music here.

Our first meeting is long, and Chet restrains himself. He doesn’t call anyone an old fart, even though most of the Italian executives are old enough to be our parents.

Talking to these guys today, I understand why Chet wanted me to come to Rome. Deluca Distribuzione might be good at getting product from one point to another, but they’re clueless about marketing. These guys aren’t like the clothing designers in Rome, with their cutting-edge visions. They’re all so old and out of touch, using artwork that might have been good twenty years ago.

They probably think it’s odd that I’m only twenty-three, and an executive. I can’t blame them. Some days I’m just as shocked as anyone.

It’s evening here when our meetings finish. There’ll be no purse shopping today.

Chet and I talk privately in a hallway at the Deluca offices.

“You should be tired,” Chet says. “It must be exhausting to have all those Italian men staring at your chest for hours and hours.”

“I just hope they were listening to what I was saying.”

He gives me a look to let me know he doubts that. I groan and shake my head. “They think I’m Eye Candy.”

Chet grins. “You are Eye Candy.”

“I was. Briefly. Don’t tease me about that. We’ve all done things we’re not proud of.”

He looks away, down the hall. “How about dinner, tonight? Mr. Deluca himself has invited us to a restaurant he owns. Come along and be
friendly
with him.”

I know Chet is just teasing me, but the idea of going along as Eye Candy fills me with disgust.

When I first started at Morris Music, I was working in the basement archives. Then a woman named Stephanie offered me an assignment as Eye Candy. That’s not the most descriptive term for the job, but they can’t really call it what it truly is.

That was how I first got close to Dylan, and how I betrayed him. The pain of nearly losing him is still too vivid in my memory. That’s why Chet’s jokes don’t seem that funny to me.

“Count me out tonight,” I say firmly. “I’m too jittery and wired to be charming.”

“Just have five or six more of those tiny Italian coffees.”

I rub my stomach, which is feeling acidic at the mention of more coffee. “All I want to do is put on yoga pants in my hotel room and talk to Dylan on the phone.”

Chet says he completely understands, and he arranges for a taxi to drive me over.

Back in my hotel room, I put in the call to Dylan before I’m even changed into my yoga pants. The call rings and rings. The connection sounds weak and staticky, like we’re a world away from each other. He doesn’t pick up.

Italy is nine hours ahead of Los Angeles. It’s eight-thirty in the evening here, so it’s eleven-thirty in the morning there. Maybe Dylan’s sleeping in because he stayed up late working on his music.

The call goes to voicemail.

I hang up without leaving a message, then phone the number for our land line. We don’t use that number much, and we keep it mainly for running the fax machine.

That phone has a loud ringer, and could wake the dead. If Dylan’s home, he’ll hear it.

That call goes to voicemail as well. It annoys me to hear my own chirpy voice on the message.

I try his cell phone again and go straight to voicemail. My heart jumps up. He must be trying to call me right now. I leave him a short message and then clear the line so he can call me back.

Fifteen minutes pass, and neither my cell phone nor the hotel room phone ring.

My stomach growls. I’m actually glad I’m hungry. It almost makes me feel normal.

I call down to the front desk and order the most familiar-looking item from the room service menu. The girl sounds disappointed that I just want simple pasta, and not anything with truffle oils.

The food arrives, and Dylan still hasn’t called.

At least there are some messages coming in from Amanda and Riley, telling me how they wish they were in Rome right now with me.

I flip through the television stations while I eat. All the stations are in Italian. Finally I see some familiar CW network shows and stop. All the voices are dubbed in Italian. It’s actually disconcerting. Some of the actors sound similar to the Americans, but some are completely wrong.

Dylan still hasn’t called. It’s late. I should sleep, but I’m too wired. Part of me is hoping he’s quiet because he’s at LAX, boarding a plane so he can be here in the morning.

I walk out onto the balcony. The city below me is lit up with lights. I can hear cars and horns as hundreds of people drive by. Rome seems huge, bigger even than Los Angeles. I use my phone to do a trivia check and discover L.A. is bigger by about a million people.

I’m in another city full of
millions
of people.

And I’m alone.

The sky is dark except for a thin crescent moon. Are the millions of people in L.A. seeing the same thing? No, it’s almost two o’clock in the afternoon back home.

I go back into the room, close the doors, and crawl into bed. I try calling him again, but just get his voicemail. He sounds so far away.

I set the phone on the pillow next to me and try to get comfortable. A minute later, the phone lets out a ding I haven’t heard before.

I turn on the screen and see a message.

Alert: New article about Dylan Wolf.

I don’t remember turning on alerts for articles about Dylan. I get enough of these things without going looking for them. I used to have alerts, so maybe some settings reverted when my phone downloaded updates.

My hotel room is dark and quiet. I shouldn’t click this link if I want to sleep tonight.

“Oh, what the hell,” I mutter to myself.

I click the link. A popular trend blog, Music Mayhem, pops up. The headline reads,
Wolf Is Bad Boy In Sheep’s Clothing
.

There’s a photo of Dylan. The picture is grainy, because it’s been taken in the dark, but it’s definitely him. He’s backstage somewhere, by the looks of the equipment around him. The caption says he’s at the Avalon Hollywood.

I smile at the picture. It’s a good one of him, capturing his rebellious bad boy attitude, with just enough of a smile to draw you in. Now I miss him even more.

I start reading the article, expecting it to be another fluff piece about him. I wouldn’t be surprised if Morris was behind this publicity.

I scroll down the page, and everything shifts around on the screen. There was another photo at the top that didn’t load right away. I guess my internet connection is slow here at the hotel.

At the top of the page is a different lead photo.

It’s Dylan, at the Avalon, and he’s kissing a girl.

I’m so shocked and horrified, I drop the phone and jump out of the bed.

My first night in Rome is a sleepless nightmare. I wish I had one of Riley’s pills to calm me down.

It’s a long night, but when the sun rises and fills the room with golden light, I do feel better.

I try not to worry about the Music Mayhem pictures of Dylan.

Fans are always throwing themselves at him. This chick probably ambushed him and stuck her lips on his cheek before he could shove her away.