Dirty Like Zane: A Dirty Rockstar Romance (Dirty, Book 6)

by Jaine Diamond

  The next one wasn’t so smooth.

  It was a Kick in the Balls—Jack Daniels, Yukon Jack and tequila.

  As soon as it went down her throat and Maggie fucking shuddered, she glared at me again.

  Totally worth it. The shots did their job, taking the edge off. Maggie’s shoulders softened a bit and her mannerisms got more fluid, her body language infinitesimally looser as she chatted with Talia.

  She even shed her jacket.

  For the next round, I asked the now-attentive waitress to bring whatever was the dirtiest, sexiest shit they had. She made some suggestions—while bent over, her tits in my face. Was her shirt yanked that low the first time she came over? I passed on the Red Headed Sluts; she had red hair, and this wasn’t my first rodeo.

  But a round of Slippery Nipples sounded good to me.

  They definitely went down a little smoother than the whiskey. This time, when Maggie glared at me, there was a little flicker of relief in her eyes.

  Thank you for not being a douche, that look said.

  I winked.

  Next up was a round of Blow Jobs.

  They came in tall, curved shooter glasses with a wad of whipped cream on top. “Proper way to do them,” the waitress informed us, “is to stick the shot in-between the guy’s thighs—” she pointed at my lap, “—and the girl picks it up with her mouth and shoots it back without using her hands.”

  Fine by me. I was already seated, so we were good to go. Seth, however, flatly refused to participate.

  Pussy.

  So it was me and fucking Lex, who mysteriously materialized out of the shadows to pull up a chair on my other side. We stuck the shooters between our thighs as I beckoned Maggie and Talia over. They came around the table—or Jesse and Dylan pretty much propelled them—as the waitress cleared out of the way, obviously disappointed she wasn’t offered a lap.

  By the time Maggie was on her knees in front of me, a small crowd had formed. Amber had come off the dance floor, and because there was definitely some sort of god who occasionally looked out for me, she’d brought her camera with her. People were yelling and clapping as she aimed the giant lens at us and started taking photos.

  Yeah. There was definitely a god.

  And he or she wanted me to get Maggie drunk.

  Maggie’s gray eyes peered up at me, a combo of irritated, embarrassed, and inebriated. I was pretty sure she’d only been nursing one beer since we’d arrived, but those three shooters were sinking in. And sure, she was annoyed as shit I was making her play this game in front of everyone.

  I just sipped my granddad cocktail and smirked at her. She really didn’t have to be on her knees in front of me. She could’ve chosen Lex’s lap.

  I know, babe, I told her with my smirk. No way you wanted Talia sucking that Blow Job out of my lap.

  Lex had put his shooter close to his knees, being a gentleman about it. He even held Talia’s hair back for her as she leaned in, picked up the shooter with her mouth and tossed it back. Everyone cheered, Amber took photos, and as Talia plucked the shot glass from her mouth, she smiled halfway at Lex.

  He flashed her his pearly whites and those badass silver canines of his.

  Myself, I’d been a dick about it and put the shot glass up near my crotch. Maggie’s nose bumped my dick when she picked it up. She shot it back to more cheers, then slammed the empty glass on the table.

  “You can’t get me drunk,” she informed me, wiping whipped cream off her mouth.

  Challenge accepted.

  “And even if you do, it won’t matter. You. Won’t. Win.”

  “Win what?” I stared at her, and I wasn’t even gonna lie to myself and pretend that when she gazed up at me like she was doing now, kneeling in front of me with that soft, boozy look on her face, I didn’t want to dive right into it. Smash my mouth down on hers and melt the fuck into her… the taste of her mouth, her tongue coated in booze. Make out with her right on this table and drink everything the bar could pour, get loaded with Maggie and fuck her brains out and fall the fuck apart.

  And pay for all of it later. Whatever it cost me and my sobriety.

  Maybe just for a moment, looking down at her face, I didn’t care what it would cost.

  The desire was strong.

  The urge.

  The motherfucking temptation.

  The desire to fuck Maggie so hard she’d feel it for a week, right here and now, was stronger than the desire to drink. This girl was temptation and everything I’d ever wanted late in the night, fucking tossing and turning and aching in my bed.

  Never wanted a girl like I wanted this girl on her knees in front of me.

  Add some booze to the mix and that soft look in her eyes… that fucking itch starting to quiver at the back of my brain as the blood pumped to my cock… and this was all starting to seem like a bad idea. Getting Maggie drunk was a bad, bad idea.

  But I really wasn’t a man to quit what I’d started.

  Not where Maggie was concerned.

  She put her hands on the arms of my chair and pushed herself up, wobbling a little, and my muscles tensed. I had to fight every instinct I had not to reach out and grab her, haul her into my lap and kiss the shit out of her.

  I let my eyes wander from her face to her tits, then all the way down to her crotch in her short black dress. I could almost see her panties. I could see the curves of her thighs and her soft bare skin through the holes in the diamond pattern of her tights.

  She never did answer me, but her gray eyes narrowed as I palmed my swollen dick and adjusted it in my jeans. I didn’t even care who else saw me do it.

  So they’d know I’d just sprung massive, throbbing wood for Maggie. How could I not, with her looking like that and sucking shots out of my lap?

  No one would exactly be shocked.

  She wasn’t shocked. Her eyes widened when she noticed my obvious hard-on, but not with shock.

  Then she turned her back to me.

  She looked good from this angle, too… Jesus fuck, that dress was short. I could just glimpse the start of the curve of her sweet little ass cheeks… Until she seemed to feel my stare and wiggled her dress down to cover up.

  “Hey.” Seth gave my shoulder a little shove. “You probably wanna reel it in, before she slips in it.”

  “Huh?”

  “Your tongue,” he said, and I tried to focus on his eyes. “You’re drooling all over the floor.”

  I just stared at him. Seth knew about my marriage to Maggie—as in he knew I’d married her in Vegas, though he didn’t know much more—so in his way, he was probably looking out for me. And maybe I was being a royal douche staring at her ass like that, like I wanted to be all up in it.

  I knew Maggie didn’t want me giving our shit away, but what the fuck was I supposed to do when she was right in my face looking sexy as hell?

  Seth’s mouth twitched in a tiny, pitying smile. Great. Now Seth felt sorry for me. “Heads-up,” he said, and nodded at the waitress, who was hovering, waiting on our next order.

  I blinked at her, at her rack, which was bursting out of her shirt. What did she do, stuff half a roll of toilet paper down there since we walked in? I tried to remember how to speak about normal shit, hyper-fucking-aware that I was sitting in the middle of some random bar with a hard-on, and Maggie’s pussy three feet from my face, and I couldn’t touch her.

  How the fuck did this become my life?

  I was a rock star, last time I checked.

  I had women, literally and on a daily basis, throwing pussy at me like fucking confetti… Offering me booze, drugs, gifts… Asking me to marry them. Offering me their bodies, their hearts, their fucking bank accounts and their wombs… And I couldn’t get Maggie Omura to look me in the eye in public and smile.

  I glanced at our table. Katie was shouting something at me. The other girls wanted in on the next round of shooters, so fuck it. I ordered up a shit-ton of Legspreaders, then some Orgasms, then some Screaming Orgasms. Then something called
a Passed Out Naked on the Bathroom Floor, which the guys decided they needed a few rounds of themselves.

  Then our merch girl, Sophie, arrived. Sophie was fucking cool, with sleeve tattoos and a retro pinup girl hairdo. She was kinda chubby, in a sexy way, with big tits and a big laugh, and the guys fucking loved her. When she started helping the cocktail waitresses pour Upside-Down Margaritas down the guys’ throats, things really got sloppy.

  Somewhere between the Legspreaders and the first round of Orgasms, Maggie hit the dance floor with Katie.

  I watched her dance, my eyes fucking glued to her as she tore it up to “California Love.” They seemed to be having fun. Laughing and spinning each other around and bumping their asses together. Maggie in her little black dress and sexy tights and high-heeled boots. And her tight, round ass cheeks almost showing… but not quite.

  It was good to see her loosen the fuck up like that. Even as uneasy as I felt sitting here in this bar right now, surrounded by booze and chicks and everyone drinking… and my dick fucking splitting in half watching her dance… it felt good to see her like that.

  Sometime after that, she disappeared.

  She’d just downed her second Screaming Orgasm when she grabbed Talia’s arm and said to her, “Get me out of here before I do something stupid.” She said it right in front of me and on stupid, she slapped her hand on the table and gave me a look that was half-angry and half-victorious.

  How long are you gonna play this game? that look said.

  As long as it takes, beautiful.

  I watched her lace her fingers through Talia’s, like the girl was some sort of security blanket. Then they left the bar with Lex on their tail.

  I left right afterwards.

  I knew Lex would get them back to the hotel safe.

  I also knew Maggie probably didn’t want me to follow her.

  And since she was drunk, I didn’t.

  Chapter Three

  Maggie

  I had a headache.

  It was mild, fortunately, and nothing a few Tylenol couldn’t fix. So I pounded those back and tried to do some work. I couldn’t sleep anyway, and I’d rallied myself out of the hotel a little early, skipping breakfast.

  After all the shooters last night, I miraculously didn’t feel sick, but I didn’t feel very hungry either.

  With a little luck, I’d tire myself out and I could take a little nap on the road, then grab a late breakfast when my appetite came back.

  It was raining and the Lady Bus was quiet on the way to Portland, everyone tucked away, playing on their phones or listening to music in their headphones. Resting up.

  I made a few calls, worked quietly on my laptop at one of the tables in the lounge.

  Then, inevitably, I went over last night in my head… trying to figure out what the hell had gone wrong. At the show… and afterward.

  And why it felt like Zane had won some small, fucked-up victory because he’d gotten me drunk.

  From a business standpoint, the night had gone perfectly. The show was sold out, we sold a shit-ton of merchandise, we got plenty of local media support, and many, many happy fans left the concert with autographed stuff and smiles on their faces.

  It was the first show Steel Trap had ever opened for Dirty, and they were a great fit. We’d all miss the Penny Pushers on this tour, for sure; we’d toured with them so often. But Steel Trap was joining us for almost every show on the North American leg of this tour and if last night was any indication, it was gonna rock.

  Brody had flown down for the show, and he seemed really happy with everything.

  Security was tight and Jude seemed pleased with his crew, which consisted of several regulars and some new guys he’d brought on for the tour. His new girlfriend, Roni, had also flown down; she’d be traveling with us for the first few shows, and Jude looked pretty damn happy holding her hand backstage.

  Clearly, the band was happy, too.

  Dylan was adorably thrilled that his girlfriend, Amber, was on the road with us. I’d never seen Dylan Cope so lost over a girl; not even close. The way he looked at her, the way he listened when she spoke, the way he was always fetching her a drink or pulling her onto his lap. For her part, Amber was already working her ass off as our tour photographer. And seeing her take photos of Dylan in his kilt at last night’s show, watching him sit her down at sound check and try to teach her how to play? Nauseatingly cute.

  Elle definitely wasn’t happy that she wasn’t playing bass on this tour, but she did have that pregnant glow about her. And when she watched her man onstage, reunited with Dirty, I could see how proud she was. Seth fit right back in with the band, almost as if he’d never left, but even better; there was a fresh sense of excitement, respect, and appreciation between all the band members. The members of Dirty were as glad to have Seth Brothers back as rhythm guitarist, backup vocalist and songwriter as he was to be back.

  Plus, Seth sizzled onstage. With his short beard and aviator sunglasses, he was all soulful artist wrapped up in mystery wrapped up in sexy man, and the fangirls fucking loved him.

  As for Jesse, I’d never seen him happier or in better form than when his wife, Katie, was backstage, dancing and singing along to every song. Which was saying something; with his leather pants, wavy dark hair and dazzling grin, Jesse was always in great form. He kissed Katie every time he went onstage, every time he came off, every time he switched guitars, every time he had any excuse to do it. Marriage suited him. Katie suited him. And every one of us would reap the benefits of his good mood on this tour. When the sun shone on Jesse Mayes, you just had to smile.

  And all of us were definitely happy with our newest member, Matty Brohmer.

  Matt was a maniac on the bass and he brought something fresh, exciting, and enjoyably unpredictable to the stage and to Dirty’s performance. He was filling in for Elle on this tour, and I’d be the first to say we made the right choice with him. He’d rehearsed his ass off and knew all the songs inside-out. Plus, he was a nice guy. Matt was an old friend of Dirty’s, had played with Zane on-and-off in his supergroup side project band, Wet Blanket, and really, we were lucky to have him.

  And then there was Zane.

  Zane Traynor was, to put it mildly, an integral part of Dirty. And there was no denying that I cared about what happened to every member of this band on the road. Every show, from the moment they all stepped onstage until they stepped back off, I cared. I cared if they were having an off night, if things weren’t going well, if something didn’t go as planned. I cared how it affected them, and how that would end up affecting us all.

  We were a team and a family, and I cared.

  But it had been so long since we’d been on tour—since before Zane and I were married—that I’d kind of forgotten, until they were onstage last night, how much I would care.

  How much it would bother me when I saw Zane out there, struggling, and something wasn’t right.

  My gut was in knots for the entire show.

  I’d never felt that way before at a Dirty show. Well… other than at the very last show of the last tour, the night after Zane and I were married. Although, to be fair, I’d missed half of that show, since I was drunk; apparently, I didn’t take the whole discovery that we were actually, legally married, and Zane presenting me with a massive diamond ring, all too well.

  At last night’s show, I was fully-present and sober and I was watching everything from backstage. I saw and heard it when Zane’s mic cut out during “Dirty Like Me.”

  Really, it wasn’t that big a deal. I’d seen pretty much every type of screw-up there was, and not just at Dirty shows. I’d seen band members crash into each other, fall off the stage, forget the words to their own songs.

  Shit happened.

  Even to practiced, polished, professional musicians.

  But I knew the mic thing would upset Zane. Despite whatever chaos the man wreaked in his personal life, when it came to his voice and his onstage performance, Zane was a consummate professional. />
  And he was a perfectionist.

  He did not like shit going wrong.

  I knew it would bother him even more when, in the very next song, he smashed Seth in the face with his mic. The both of them went right on with the song like nothing happened, because that’s what professionals did.

  But when Zane screwed up, it stayed with him. And I knew he’d blame himself for the whole thing.

  After the show, I didn’t approach him. I gave him space and time to cool off. I knew I should probably check on him. As management, it was pretty much my duty. I knew Brody had talked to him, but I should’ve made sure he was alright.

  The truth was, putting aside all our marriage bullshit… I felt for him. The show was fantastic, overall, and everyone else was happy—but Zane just wasn’t himself. Brody and I both saw it. We both heard it.

  I felt it.

  Zane was often a little tense before a show, right before he went onstage, and we all knew that.

  But once he took the stage, he owned it. He owned the room.

  I’d rarely seen a frontman do what Zane could do—which was saying a hell of a lot. Over the years I’d seen a lot of incredible bands play live. A lot of musicians who made magic onstage.

  Zane was the magic.

  Usually.

  Last night… not so much. At least, not as much as usual.

  And at the bar after the show… he was definitely on-edge. About the show, probably, and about me. I knew he was frustrated with me, and he was trying to push my buttons.

  Nothing new.

  Zane had always treated us like some giant game; like chasing me was some sort of blood sport he’d just keep playing, no matter what it cost him, until he won.

  And maybe he could afford to just keep chasing me, indefinitely.

  When we weren’t on tour.

  But being in the spotlight all the time, under the media microscope? That was different than being at home, cutting an album and just generally living life.

  I’d realized that last night.

  And now I was worried about him. Worried that his performance would suffer on this tour. That he would suffer.