“I don’t like taking your money.”
A grunt of disapproval. “You didn’t take it, I gave it to you.”
“It feels the same.”
“Fine. Okay.” His hands cupped my ass, fingers massaging. “I don’t want you feeling weird about this. And relationships are about compromise, right?”
“Ri-i-ght.” Suspicion was my middle name.
“Tomorrow we go shopping and put all the shit you need on my card.”
“That’s not compromise!”
“You don’t like touching that money I put in your account, so don’t. In fact, you don’t have to touch any of my money at all. I’ll deal with it.”
“Ben.”
“Liz. Fact is, you’re probably never going to have the kind of money I’ve got. Since the band started earning, pretty much all I’ve done is invest it. I’m not like Jim with the flashy suits or Mal with the massive beach house and parties. I don’t need much, live pretty simply. Drive the same old truck. I’ve got one expense, but it’s under control.” Dark eyes drew me in. “You’ve made your point. There’s nothing in me thinking you’re into me for the money, okay? Now, I’m not having this discussion with you every time you need something. You and Bean are mine, and I look after what’s mine.”
I took a deep breath.
“We good?” he asked.
“I’ll try.”
“Do more than try. Rely on me. It’s what I’m here for.”
“That was a really sweet thing to say.” My eyes misted up. Crazy-ass hormones. “I guess because I didn’t grow up with much it just … it feels weird even having it there but not having worked for it. Like I stole it or something.”
“Sweetheart, you didn’t steal the money. You stole me. The money comes with me. Okay?”
“Okay.” A tear trickled down my cheek. “I really like you, Ben. So damn much.”
“Christ, what are you crying for? Come here, give me that mouth.”
I did as told. After that, there was more coming than crying that day.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Ben was gone again when I woke up the next morning, in New York. Due to the three scheduled concerts, we’d be in the city for nearly a week. The thing about being on tour was the endless possibilities for late mornings. I’d be part sloth by the time we got home. There’d been a band dinner the night before, despite Jimmy’s complaint about everyone living on top of each other. I think his eternal bad mood secretly hid one hell of a soft inside. And yes, that was my professional opinion. I’d caught him stroking his chin while giving Lena a thoughtful look, more than once. Wouldn’t surprise me if we had another beard on board in the near future.
With my sloth side in mind, I met Anne at the gym and we took up residence on a pair of exercise bikes for half an hour. The last gyno I saw a few days back had said light exercise was fine and dandy. Despite the occasional fetish for some weird food, and Lena’s pastry party yesterday, I hadn’t been indulging too much. Lots of salad and vegetables and the occasional trip to the dark side of decadent desserts. Total denial didn’t suit me. At the end of the day, a healthy Bean and happy me was more important than the size of my butt.
The menfolk had gone off for a sound check, followed by various TV appearances before they hit the stage. Maternity shopping could fall by the wayside for a while, no biggie. A reporter from some big-name music magazine had taken to tagging along with the band, adding to the busy. Apparently an in-depth Stage Dive on Tour: The Real Story Behind the Public Facade article was in the making. Ben had seemed singularly unimpressed with the whole thing. But then, little moved him. He tended to take the bulk of things in his stride.
Which was great.
I could, I know, become rather strung out at times. Overthink things a little. Though with the gene pool Anne and I came from, it was probably a wonder we hadn’t both become crazy cat ladies at the age of eighteen or something. Not that I was making excuses or suggesting that passing on blame for a person’s personal behavior was a go. But for me, I think Ben’s aura of calm and direct was a good thing. People with low self-esteem fear love. (Yep. Psychology degree rears its head again.) They doubt another person’s ability to appreciate them, because they don’t see the worth in themselves. I knew I deserved good things. Or at the very least, I wouldn’t settle for less than a good thing.
In my rolled-down yoga pants, tank top slightly too small to contain the boobs and belly, and sweaty ponytail, I wandered back into our suite. Charcoal gray with features of slate this time. Awesome view of Manhattan. Very nice.
What was waiting inside for me, not so much.
“You are fucking kidding me,” the stranger snarled, glaring at my baby belly.
I put a hand to my middle, stopping cold.
The woman was tall, brunette, slick beyond belief. Around thirty maybe. It was hard to tell, the way her sneer warped her model-like face and cherry red lips. Guess she was Ben’s hookup in New York or something. How awkward. Also, how the hell had she gotten in here?
“And you would be?” I asked, with an edge to my voice.
“If you think you’re getting a fucking dime out of him without a paternity test you are dreaming. And even then, he will fight you for custody.”
Interesting. She seemed to believe she knew a hell of a lot about my boyfriend without actually knowing anything at all.
“Your name, please?” I asked.
“You’re not the first little cunt to try this shit with one of them, and you sure as hell won’t be the last.” The woman, henceforth known as “the bitch,” stared down at me from her stiletto-aided superior height. “Why Adrian didn’t let me know I have no idea.”
She was pals with Adrian? Not a good sign. Everything I’d seen and heard about the band’s manager led me to believe he was one of the great douches of our time.
“Was Ben expecting you?” He sure as hell hadn’t mentioned any visitors to me.
“I’m welcome here.”
“Yeah? How did you get in, just out of interest?”
“Security knows me.” A defiant flip of the hair. Christ, the woman was just like every mean girl I had ever encountered in high school. Amazing how some people just stopped developing beyond a certain age and got stuck.
Outside I did my best to look calm and cool, but inside I was one riled-up, unhappy camper. What the hell was she doing in our room? I guess Ben hadn’t had a chance to break it off with this chick. Awesome. “Would you like a juice? I’m dying for a juice.”