At his nonchalant announcement, I come unglued. “And you didn’t bother to mention it?” The question comes out as a screech.

He scrubs a hand through his hair, not meeting my eyes. “Fuck, Holly. We’ve been going nonstop today. It slipped my mind.”

“Damn it, Crey. I’ve been dreading this shit all day. You could’ve told me and put me out of my misery.”

I pace the room backstage as I rant. I know I’m overreacting, but Creighton doesn’t understand my mama or the stress that comes along with just thinking about her. He watches me pace, letting me vent, which is probably a smart move on his part. Come near the clawing she-beast and you may lose an important appendage, and wouldn’t that be a shame?

After about twenty trips back and forth across the fifteen-foot-wide room, I’ve calmed down a smidge. I chance a look at where Creighton is leaning against the wall, arms folded over his chest, wondering if he’s holding in a laugh for all he’s worth. As I stare for a minute, I realize he isn’t. But I also can’t read what he’s thinking.

“What?” I snap. Okay, so the she-beast isn’t totally pacified yet. I just need to channel the energy into my performance tonight. That I can do.

“You called me Crey,” he says.

I shake my head. “Is there something wrong with that?”

He nods slowly. “That’s what people close to me call me, but you never have before.”

I bite my lip and consider. “So?”

“Nothing. I was surprised, is all.” He waves a hand. “Feel free to continue the tirade.”

From anyone else it might sound patronizing, but Crey just seems to be letting me get it all out. Which is exactly what I need right now. And that realization right there is all it takes to calm me down.

“I’m all tiraded out,” I say, stopping in front of him.

“Then maybe this is a good time to ask you if you’re up for a flight back to New York after the show next Thursday. I know we haven’t really talked about how things are going to work after the tour is over, but I’ve got some things I need to take care of at home in person that I’ve been putting off, and I’d like to have you with me.”

I’ve been dreading the what’s next for us discussion, so my question is tentative. “You get that I don’t want to stay in New York permanently?”

Creighton’s expression turns serious. “We’ll figure it out, Holly.”

“Okay. I’ll go.”

His smile is wide and genuine. “I’m glad I’m not going to have to kidnap you then. I really didn’t want to go to the gala alone.”

“Gala?”

“A charity thing. At MoMA.”

When I open my mouth to say that I’m not sure what MoMA is, he says, “Come here.”

I cross the room and stand before him, just out of reach. “We don’t have time for anything dirty right about now.”

His eyes turn soft in a way I don’t remember seeing before. His words are soft too.

“That’s not what I want. I just want you in my arms for a minute before the craziness of tonight kicks off.”

I close the distance between us and melt against him. The warmth rushing through me from his words turns to molten need when he whispers into my hair.

“But later? Things are going to get as dirty as you can handle.” His hand slides down my back and cups my ass, his fingers curling into the crease between my cheeks. “We’re going to keep working you up to a bigger plug so I can finally fuck this tight little asshole.”

He pulls me against his groin, and the hard, hot length of his cock sends flares of arousal ripping through me when it grinds against my center. I want to dry hump him until I come.

So I do. It takes all of three minutes, with the pressure of his fingers against my ass. Stepping away on shaky legs, I know my cheeks must be flushed, and my hair has to be a disaster.

“I need to go back to Rochelle and Chris to touch up,” I whisper.

Creighton’s smile is superior, but I’m too content to want to slap it off his face.

“You do that. I’ll see you after the meet and greet.” His gaze turns sharp. “And don’t give Marcus any shit this time about standing so close. He can be out of the picture, but I want him right there in case some fucker tries to make a move on you. Those lips are mine, and I don’t share.”

He snags my hand, tugs me back close, and pulls me into a kiss before steadying me once again.

I gather myself and then salute. “Sir, yes, sir.”

He slaps me on the ass, and I stride out of the room on clicking heels.

I’m watching Holly kill her set in Biloxi from what has become my normal place, leaning against a speaker, stage left. From this vantage point, it’s clear to me that the arenas are filling sooner at each venue, almost in time with the buzz that has continued to grow in the media about Holly. The stories are focusing more on her and her career now, which is as it should be. People come as curiosity seekers, but even I can tell from the rapt look on their faces that they’re leaving as fans.

Right now, Holly has the attention of every single person in the place. People are on their feet, singing along to every single word. Just like every night before, I continue to be in awe of her talent. My wife is a fucking rock star. Well, country star would be more appropriate.

The deep drawl from behind me alerts me to the presence of Boone Thrasher.

“If you keep staring at her like that, you’re going to be handing over the keys to your vault, because that woman will know she owns you.”

“What are you doing out of your little kingdom before your set?” I ask, glancing at him for only a moment, because I don’t want to miss a beat of Holly.

“If you think you’re the only one who knows she’s a hell of a talent when you see it, then you’re wrong. I try to get out here and catch one of her songs every once in a while, but tonight I came out because I had to see for myself that you’re just standing here like a smitten kid. People are talkin’, you know.”

I tear my eyes off Holly to stare him down. “And why would I give a fuck about that?”

“I’m just sayin’, the bitch knows she’s got you by the balls, you’ll have no leverage. And I’m guessing a guy like you is all about leverage.”