Behind the Lyrics by Melissa Riddell

Chapter 8

Viktor Farrow

I’d never been so insulted in my entire life. Not once could I remember being flat out denied what I wanted.

Wait, what am I saying? That I want that little demon? I pushed the handle on the glass door leading to the parking area, and stormed outside.

My bodyguard caught up and opened the back door of the SUV, and I slid inside.

Andy, my overzealous terrier sitting in the passenger’s seat, glanced up with wide eyes. He switched off the screen of the mobile he held.

Clive started the motor.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” I growled while keeping my stare locked on the shit-stained walls of the station. What had I been thinking? Women jumped at the chance to snuggle with Viktor Farrow, so why in God’s name had I set my sights on such a pain-in-the-ass little devil?

“I listened to the interview.” Andy darted a quick glance over his shoulder.

Clive put the vehicle in Reverse, backed out, then steered the Escalade onto the long, deserted highway leading the few miles back to Mesa Palms and the private home the recording studio provided.

“Yeah, you two sounded, um…” Licking his lips, Andy briefly glanced into the sideview mirror then cut his stare straight ahead.

“We sounded what, Andy? Spit it out.” I retrieved my mobile from a pocket and Googled Angela Morales and K-ROC. Hmm, well, well. According to her social media sites, she was married but single now as far as I can tell. Wait, why in the hell was I interested in her love life? I sideswiped the screen and stuffed the device into my pocket, my irritation reaching a critical level.

“It’s just, it sounded like you were having fun trading insults.”

I watched the ancient Saguaros, tall and erect standing guard over the desert, fly past the window. The setting sun painted glorious fire across the sky, the streaks shooting against a few high clouds, creating a living portrait of the world in flames. Closer to the horizon, deep purples contrasted with the blazing rays. Though harsh, the desert carried a breathtaking beauty amid the desolation. For some reason, its outer loveliness and inner toughness reminded me of Angela.

I gritted my teeth. Stop thinking about that woman, Viktor. It was as plain as the nose on my face she found me disgusting, nothing more than rubbish on the bottom of her shoe.

But what if she didn’t?What if she saw you as more than the broken rock star she thinks you are? I frowned in annoyance at the voice in my head. Why would I care? Because you felt something back there—something more than the solitude or helplessness that usually eats at your soul.

Andy kept glancing at me, as if waiting for me to say something. I shoved the voice away, unwilling to deal with my emotions for the moment.

“If you call being told in front of the station’s three listeners that I’m a coke-addled, rehab-hopping, past-my-prime rock star, then yeah, Andy, I guess I did have fun.” I gave him the finger, closed my eyes, and pressed the back of my head into the seat. “Nice fucking job arranging that interview. If my career wasn’t already headed down the loo, it will be after that little enlightening piece of publicity.”

I really need to fire the little prick and find a new PA.