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

by Jaine Diamond

Then he rolled me over and pulled me right down to the floor. We lost his vest, but the rest of our clothes were still half-on. We kissed and bit and clawed at each other and rolled around in a crazy, dirty, knock-down, drag-out fuck. Me on top of him again and then him on top of me… both of us fucking each other with a vengeance, both of us chasing our own orgasm—and hellbent on making the other one come first.

  “You getting the message, Maggs?” he growled as he pounded into me, almost out of breath. He was on top of me and I was close to orgasm, and he fucking knew it. I was shaking, hyperventilating as I rode him, fast and hard from underneath, meeting every thrust. “You understand who you belong to now? Or do I need to show you some more…?”

  “No,” I gasped, “I am not yours.”

  “Yes. You. Are.” He held me down by my throat and drilled into my G-spot with this fat cockhead, and oh my God…

  But I couldn’t stop fighting it. I just couldn’t stop fighting him.

  “This is the last fuck,” I choked out as I did my best to strangle him with my inner muscles. “This is the last time I’m fucking you, Zane Traynor.”

  His face flushed. He was grunting with the effort as he slammed into me, his hips slapping loudly against my thighs. “Fuck you, Maggie,” he growled, just as I lost the battle and started to come. I cried out and he stiffened. He shouted something obscene, garbled and barely English, and blew into me with a series of low groans, his hips ramming against me. I could feel him bruising me.

  I didn’t care.

  As my body shook with the tremors of pleasure so extreme I actually felt tears of ecstasy running down my face… I couldn’t even fathom it all. I couldn’t fathom how I could love someone so much, could want someone so bad, and be so afraid of my feelings for him at the same time. So afraid, I suddenly wanted to gnaw off my own limbs to get out from under him as he collapsed on top of me.

  And the condom…

  What condom?

  There was no condom. Neither of us had stopped to get one or even mentioned it. Zane just came deep inside me and I didn’t even care.

  Pregnancy, STDs… These vague concepts swirled in my head with the ecstasy and the terror and the strange numbness, as I felt myself detaching from it all… because it was all too much to take.

  Just… fuck.

  Zane was smart enough to use condoms with other women, right? I was pretty sure about that. I was pretty sure no matter what a manwhore he was, he was probably clean.

  And I was pretty sure I was at a point in my cycle when I probably couldn’t get pregnant. Or at least… wouldn’t likely get pregnant.

  Right now, that would have to be enough.

  But it wasn’t enough.

  I swiped the tears from my face before he could see them and shoved his shoulder. “Get off me.”

  He groaned as he pulled out and pushed himself up on his arms above me. He stared at my face, and he looked about as wrecked as I felt. “You can’t have anyone else,” he said, his voice all broken like he was about to cry.

  I shoved at him again and tried to wriggle out from under him. “Why? Why can’t I?”

  “Because it’ll kill me.”

  I pushed him one more time and he rolled to the side, letting me free.

  “What does that mean?” I demanded. “Is that a threat? Are you threatening to start drinking again or something if I end up with someone else?”

  “It’s not a threat. It’s a fact.”

  “You can’t put that on me, Zane,” I told him. “You don’t get to fuck around and then throw a shit-fit tantrum because another man puts a hand on me.”

  “Yeah, I fucking will have a problem with it if someone puts a hand on you.”

  “No. No, you’ve gotta act like a sane person here, okay? Matt was just being friendly. What are you gonna do when someone actually makes a move on me? Oh wait, I know. Start a food fight.” I got up, shakily, covering myself with my dress. “So how about the next time some bitch grabs your junk in front of me, I’ll just throw chili at her head, would that work?”

  “Go ahead. I wouldn’t mind seeing that, actually.”

  “Of course you wouldn’t. Jesus.” I raked my fingers through my hair and stared at him. He was just lying there on the floor, half-dressed. “Do you not get this AT ALL? I’m never getting in a catfight over you, Zane. I am never gonna stand between you and other women. I’d be fucking trampled, do you get that? I don’t want to be the reason you don’t fuck other women, and I don’t want to be the reason you don’t drink, or the reason you don’t end up in jail. What I want—no, what I need is for you to be the reason you don’t do any of those things, FOR YOU.”

  “Yeah,” he said, gazing up at me. “That’s pretty much what Rudy said.”

  Rudy? Rudy Baker?

  He’d talked to his AA sponsor about this? About us?

  “Well then, Rudy’s fucking right.”

  I turned around, searching the floor. Where the hell were my panties and how did he incinerate them so fast? I needed them back on before his come started running down my leg, and the reality of what we just did without a condom sank in and I truly lost my shit.

  I’d probably just end up fucking him again, since that was what I did, apparently, when I lost my shit in front of Zane.

  I started to laugh, this scary-ass, high-pitched giggle that made no sense.

  “I need you, Maggie,” he said. I heard him getting up off the floor behind me, slowly, and my laughter died. He sounded defeated, and I didn’t want to see him like that. But I couldn’t even stop myself from turning around.

  He looked defeated as he sat on the edge of the bed, his jeans hastily pulled up but still undone, his shirt all askew. He pitched forward with his elbows on his knees and just stared at me.

  “I need you, too,” I admitted. It was the truth.

  I needed Zane, and Jesus Christ I wanted him. Seeing him vulnerable, the way he looked right now, the curve of his shoulders and his blond hair in his face, fucking killed me. I wanted to put my arms around him, so bad.

  But I didn’t. I couldn’t seem to move. I just stood rooted to the spot, wanting him.

  “I just can’t,” I told him, again. “I can’t do this with you.”

  “Fuck, Maggie. Come on.”

  “I told you. I already told you I can’t.”

  He held my gaze, and he actually looked scared. “Ever?”

  “I don’t know. Just… not like this.” I turned to get away from those blue eyes of his, and I finally glimpsed my panties. I snatched them up and pulled them on. I wanted to run right out the door, but I didn’t. It took everything I had to just stand here and not take off, but I didn’t.

  I turned around and I forced myself to look at Zane again. His eyes were still on me, and he still looked scared. I hated making him look like that. I hated hurting him.

  But I seriously didn’t know what to do.

  I really couldn’t handle this.

  All I could seem to handle—just barely—was avoiding him, then giving in and fucking the shit out of him… over and again.

  Which was no good for anyone.

  It just hurt like fuck.

  Worse, I was starting to realize that maybe it was me who was hurting us both more than anything else… and the guilt of that on top of everything else was gonna fucking destroy me.

  “Fuck,” I said, because sometimes, there were no other words. I pushed my hands into my hair, wanting to rip it right out at the roots. “You make me fucking crazy. Like no one’s ever made me this crazy in my life.”

  He just stared at me, like he knew exactly what I was talking about. “You love me.”

  I softened, any remaining fight totally leaving me, because that was the truth, too. I did love him.

  I loved him badly.

  “Love isn’t enough, Zane.”

  “Maybe not. But it’s a fucking start, isn’t it?

  “Yeah. Yeah, it’s a start.” I stared at him, sitting there on the bed just two feet fro
m me, and I hugged myself. “Here we are, eight years in… still standing at the starting line.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Zane

  I wanted a drink.

  I wanted a big, strong, bottomless drink.

  It was the middle of the night and this was Vegas. So getting my hands on that bottomless drink would not be a problem.

  I should’ve called Rudy.

  Instead, I headed downstairs.

  My AA sponsor and friend, Rudy Baker, was a blues musician, a fucking genius musician who’d just about drank his whole life away before he got sober about twenty years ago. He’d been my sponsor ever since we’d connected after my first stint in rehab. He’d been there for me through everything, knew all my dirty shit—or most of it—and was still there for me.

  He even knew about Maggie. Knew I was in love with her, but even Rudy didn’t know I’d married her in Vegas.

  Couldn’t quite get myself to confess that one to him.

  Rudy lived in L.A., and while it was late, I could’ve called him anytime of the night.

  I didn’t.

  I didn’t even see him while we were in L.A. this time.

  I made it as far as the hotel lobby before I stopped myself and sat the fuck down. Right where I was, on a stair. I could see the lights of The Strip beyond, hear the noise… and I just knew if I walked out there, I wasn’t coming back.

  Fucking terrifying feeling.

  I waved Shady away when he got close. “Just give me a minute. Please.”

  “Sure, brother.”

  He faded away, and I sat, looking out across the massive lobby, watching people heading out on the town. I hadn’t even thought to throw on a hat or anything. I just sat, unmoving, hoping no one would look my way and try to come talk to me.

  There was a loud group of girls in sparkly dresses, obviously half-cut, laughing and arguing over which bar to go to. I could’ve walked right over to them and joined their little party.

  Me plus chicks plus booze…

  Instant party.

  I remembered how easy that used to be, walking over to a group like that. Wild horses couldn’t have kept me away. Wherever I was headed, whatever other shit I was supposed to be doing… a group of chicks like that would’ve derailed me.

  But I also remembered the kind of shit that happened the morning after I’d gone off those rails.

  Like waking up to one of my best friends tearing me a new one because I’d ended up in bed with a girl he loved.

  Like waking up in the hospital with a broken collarbone and a concussion and stitches in my head because I’d fallen off a fucking balcony.

  Like waking up in a jail cell because I’d wrapped my rental car around a pole and by some miracle hadn’t killed anyone, including the girl who’d been in the passenger seat, whose name I didn’t remember. Was she blonde? Brunette? Tall? Short? I didn’t even fucking know.

  That kind of shit.

  The kind of shit that had finally scared me enough to realize I had a serious problem, and get my ass into rehab.

  The kind of shit I never wanted to pull again.

  Someone came down the stairs next to me and stopped. I didn’t look up, but I saw his snakeskin boots.

  Seth.

  He sat down next me and looked at me for a long-ass minute. “You hanging in?”

  “Nope.”

  “You gonna drink?”

  “Don’t know.”

  The words just fell out, and it was a fucking relief.

  It was the first time anyone had outright asked me, in a long fucking time, if I was gonna drink.

  It was also the first time in a long time I’d actually admitted aloud to another human being, besides Rudy or a roomful of random alcoholic strangers at an AA meeting, that I had the urge to drink and I didn’t even know if I’d be able to overcome it.

  I’d had this urge, many, many times over the past seven years. The entire time I’d been sober.

  But not many people really knew that.

  Not many people in my life really understood. Most everyone around me thought I was “cured” or something. I was a rehabilitated alcoholic, a nondrinker.

  My friends who drank socially, who enjoyed the pleasure of drinking without having it rule and ruin their lives, just assumed I was done with it. That I could sit in a bar full of people drinking around me, or in the middle of some party backstage, or alone in a hotel room, and I didn’t need it. I didn’t crave it. Because I was over it, it was out of my system, I was strong.

  Or some such shit.

  But those people were wrong.

  The only reason I was able to resist picking up a bottle at all was because I’d gone through the torture of detox, of physically getting the alcohol out of my body—so I could think straight enough to stop myself from taking the next sip, by whatever means necessary. So that I was no longer driven and controlled by the physical need.

  I’d been physically off of alcohol for years now. But the whole mental, emotional part was the part that still needed work.

  Obviously.

  Seth said nothing. He got to his feet, and I didn’t blame him. He probably didn’t want to watch me destroy myself any more than I wanted him to. He definitely didn’t want me dragging him down with me.

  “I come back in five minutes,” he said slowly, “and you’re still here and still dry, we’re going for a drive.” Then he headed back up the stairs.

  Seth was back in five minutes, maybe faster. I was still here, I was still dry, and he had the key for Jude’s rental car.

  I told Shady to stay behind. He didn’t like it, because Jude wouldn’t like it, but he stayed.

  I got in without asking Seth where we were going, and he didn’t tell me. He just drove.

  He drove until the lights of Las Vegas were behind us, until every sign of civilization other than the road was behind us… way out into the desert. Until I zoned out to the song that was playing on the radio and completely lost track of where we were.

  It was Paul McCartney & Wings, “Maybe I’m Amazed,” the live recording from Wings over America, 1976. And Jesus Christ, this song…

  This was one of those songs that, when I first heard it as a kid—this exact version of this song in particular—playing on some radio station, just like this, I’d been bitten by this sense of hope. A kind of faith that there was something out there so much bigger than myself to believe in, something that could save me if I could just tap into it.

  Was this what some people felt when they discovered God?

  For me, the only god I’d ever known was music.

  I got so lost in the song, I had no idea which direction Seth was driving.

  He pulled off the narrow, winding road into an empty stretch of desert and drove some more. Then he parked, turned off the car and got out without a word.

  I followed.

  Seth walked about a dozen paces into the desert and stopped.

  “Where the fuck are we?” I patted my vest, looking for my lighter.

  “Wherever,” he said.

  And that’s when it hit me. That Seth had just brought me out into the middle of no-fucking-where—and I didn’t have anything on me. I didn’t have any weed.

  Seth turned slowly, looking around, but there wasn’t much to see. Just flat and dark and empty desert in every direction. I searched every pocket in my vest, twice, and fucking sighed.

  Fuck me.

  “What are we doing here? Peyote?”

  He threw me a glance. “No, Morrison. We’re here to do whatever the fuck you need to do without getting drunk to do it. Sit. Walk. Sing and dance. Fucking commune with the aliens. Whatever.”

  “It’s fucking cold.”

  “So jog. Jump up-and-down.”

  He sat down on the cold, hard Earth and stretched out on his back, like it was the fucking beach and he was gonna grab some rays. He was wearing one of those trucker hats he sometimes wore when he didn’t want to be recognized. The one that said Big J’s Drinkin’
Hole. He tugged it down over his eyes, and fucker pretty much looked like he was going to sleep.

  He wasn’t even wearing a jacket. Just a zip-up sweater thing.

  I was already starting to shiver in my vest and thin shirt. Long sleeves or not, it was January. “How are you not cold?”

  “Mind over matter,” he said.

  “The fuck does that mean? Your body temperature is gonna drop. You gonna imagine that away?”

  “Eventually, I’ll get too cold and I’ll have to get up, get back in the car. But for now, you need to be here, I need to be here for you, so I can put off feeling cold.”

  “Yeah? You gonna mind-over-matter the scorpions away, too?”

  “Yup.”

  I shook my head. This dude and all his Zen shit. Ever since he came back to us clean and sober, he’d been spouting this shit.

  “That how you got off heroin, too? Fucking mind over matter?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Fuck off.” I was starting to pace a bit, agitated and cold. “That’s a bunch of bullshit. You needed methadone and detox and a medical team, and don’t tell me you imagined all that shit in your head.”

  “Clinic got me off the junk,” he said evenly, “but they definitely didn’t keep me from using again. That was all me.”

  “Yeah? That sounds pretty fucking arrogant. What about all that ‘higher power’ stuff they preach in AA?”

  “I never went to AA. NA meetings have worked for me, but I don’t really believe in a higher power. At least not one that’s gonna take all my fucked-up shit away. I just needed to get my head right. For me, that’s what it took.”

  “That’s all, huh?”

  “Yup. And that’s all it takes, every second of every day, over and over and over again. Definitely not as easy as it sounds.”

  “Doesn’t sound easy at all.”

  “Never would’ve worked if I didn’t stop mindfucking myself.”

  Yeah. That I could relate to.

  I’d been mindfucking myself all my life. At this point, I was a master of the self-inflicted mindfuck.

  I’d mindfucked myself for years over my parents dying when I was so young I couldn’t even remember them.

  Mindfucked myself before I went onstage, pretty much every time I went onstage.