Behind the Lyrics by Melissa Riddell
Chapter 4
Viktor Farrow
Angela was a poor choice of name for the little devil who sat before me with a goading smile. She might’ve looked like an angel with her long, mahogany hair and heart-shaped face, but I searched her forehead, sure I’d find fucking horns—or at least their nubs—poking through the smooth skin.
“So, Mr. Farrow, what have you been doing these past ten years?” Her tone dropped to a husky pitch, and I shifted in my seat. “I don’t remember seeing much about you in the news after your last rehab stint.” Her slanted eyes crinkled slightly at the corners.
The little demon enjoys toying with me. Well, two could play that game.
“Funny, I could say the same. How long has KRAP been on the air?” I flashed my sexiest grin. Yeah, I was being an arse by saying crap instead of K-ROC, but this was a battle and I planned on winning.
She didn’t bat an eyelash. “It’s K-ROC, and we’ve been rocking our listeners for thirty years.”
“Yes, well…” I moved my gaze around the tiny studio, taking in the décor, or lack thereof. Faded promotional T-shirts, caps, and other miscellaneous crap lay heaped in a corner, collecting dust, and two of the five posters hanging on the walls were torn or so faded they belonged in a museum—or trash can. “It bloody looks it.”
Her eyelid spasmed, and I was pretty sure those dark eyes lit with an inner fire. I found I quite enjoyed getting her riled up.
“We’ve lasted longer than your so-called career.” Though she’d used a friendly voice, her mouth curled in a sneer.
“Are you daft?” I leaned my elbows on the counter, pushing my face closer to hers, keeping a meter of space between us. “What are they teaching DJs now? Or did you just start? I’d be happy to give you an education.” Smiling, I leaned closer to the mic. “It seems Ms. Morales is under the impression I’m not quite up to snuff these days. I’d love to hear what the listeners have to say. Give us a call.”
Three seconds later, red lights flashed on the old-fashioned phones.
My little demon’s eyebrows rose, and she darted a quick glance to me. Uncertainty swirled in her chocolate irises. I think she might’ve been trying to decide whether she wanted to take the calls.
I made the decision for her. This wasn’t my first rodeo, either.
Picking up the receiver, I pushed a flashing button. “You’re speaking with Viktor Farrow, Nu Rock’s most famous front man of Angry Gods. Who am I speaking with?”
“Oh my God, it’s really you,” a female gushed. “I-I just wanted to say I love your music. I listen to it every day.”
“Oh, how adorable you are.” I gave Angela a wicked wink. “Tell me your name, love.” Stretching my long legs under the table, I settled into the seat, enjoying myself more than I had in years. “I promise not to bite. Yet.”
Angela shook her head and rolled her eyes.
“Oh, Jesus. I can’t believe I’m actually talking to the lead singer of Angry Gods.” A muffled scream came through the line. “Sorry, I just… My name, right?”
“Yes, dear.” I toyed with the metal and leather bracelets on my wrist, zeroing in on the woman in front of me. What would it be like to have nothing between her body and mine but a hot sheen of sweat?
Wait, what the hell was I thinking?I preferred my women docile and willing to please, not stubborn hellcats who’d make me work for it. Those kinds of women always came with an atrocious headache.
I snapped my gaze from her intriguing face and cleared my mind, refocusing on the caller breathing heavily in my ear. “Let’s have it, then.”
“Mica. M-my name’s Mica.” I was sure she was about to fucking cry, and I ate that shit up. God, I’d missed this over the past few years. Maybe coming to this little shithole studio hadn’t been such a bad idea after all. Maybe Andy would get to keep his job, and maybe I’d enjoy tormenting the little angel-demon who tried so hard to hide her obvious curiosity—and attraction, I daresay—over me.