Page 4 of Dirty Like Zane
My dude-free safe haven, as indicated by the NO DUDESsign.
There was also a large pink neon sign in the shape of the female symbol that I’d hung on the wall of the lounge (overkill much?), and an overabundance of fresh flowers to welcome the other ladiesonboard.
Whatever.
I surveyed my work and I was pleased. The Lady Bus was warm and welcoming, cozy and comfortable. For the next four months, it would feel like home. We’d have girl talk and peace and quiet, a dude-free zone where we could escape all the madness oftouring…
I sighed with satisfaction and turned toward thedoor.
And Zane wasthere.
I froze. My entire body immediately broke out in goosebumps, and not because he’d startledme.
My nipples actuallyhardened.
He stood at the top of the steps, all six-foot-whatever of his tall, built, Viking body filling the entrance to thelounge.
I crossed my arms over my chest as his ice-blue eyes wandered over me, and a hot-cold flush skittered through my body; I was starting to sweatagain.
He’d let himself right onto my bus. Did he not see my sparklysign?
Yeah. He sawit.
“I thought you were Talia,” I said stupidly, as if to explain mystaring.
“Nope,” hesaid.
Then he just stoodthere.
And I juststared.
Shit.Where the hell were myladies?
Through the front window, I could see Bobbi over with some of the other drivers, chatting, drinking coffee. But the rest of thegirls?
Fucking late, that’s where theywere.
I glanced at mywatch.
When I looked up again, Zane had cocked his evil-gorgeous pierced eyebrow at me. He definitely hadn’t missed that I was wearing the watch he’d given me for my last birthday—when he was in hardcore trying-to-win-her-overmode.
With Zane, there were exactly three modes—where I wasconcerned.
Trying-to-win-her-overmode.
Trying-to-fuck-hermode.
And pissed-off-at-her-and-fucking-other-womenmode.
All equally devastating for differentreasons.
I would’ve given the watch right back, but since it was the only ridiculously lavish gift he’d ever tried to give me—other than the engagement ring he’d tossed my way the morning after we got spontaneously, stupidly married—and it was actually practical, I kept it. It was Cartier, definitely worth more than my car, and perfect for me; silver with a touch of pink gold on the face and a subtle ring ofdiamonds.
But mainly, it would be useful ontour.
Or so I’d toldmyself.
“Fuck,” I muttered, starting to panic as he took a step deeper into the lounge—and every hair on my body stood on end. “Everyone’slate.”
