Filthy Beautiful: A Players Rockstar Romance (Players #2)

by Diamond, Jaine

  Bring it on.

  My phone was still in my hand. I swiped the old conversation with Courteney left, deleting it. So at least I wouldn’t have to see her smiling at me every time I checked messages.

  Unless she ever actually messaged me again—which, after tonight, was probably never fucking happening.

  And that was a good thing, right?

  I walked back into the poolhouse and shut the door; my best friend’s guesthouse. And I told myself that if his little sister hated me now, because of what went down between us tonight, it was a very fucking good thing.

  Let her hate you.

  It’ll be better this way.

  Chapter One

  Courteney

  Three weeks later…

  I pulled into my brother’s driveway, using my remote to open the big iron gate and close it behind my car again.

  Then I drove up the long drive, which curved through the big, private yard. The mansion was surrounded by trees. You couldn’t even see it from the street, but it was gorgeous. Taupe stone with ivy vines winding up the walls, and big windows along the front. It was newish, maybe fifteen years old, but looked old and fused with the landscape, like it had always been here and always would be.

  I loved this place.

  I loved my big brother… so much. Too much, probably. It was the kind of love that would suck you right into a black hole if you let it.

  That’s how it always felt, driving up my brother’s driveway; like I was circling the edge of a black hole.

  I parked my car in front of the closed three-car garage. It was a new BMW convertible, Seaside Blue Metallic. My brother had bought it for me just six months ago, as a gift for my eighteenth birthday. He was incredibly generous like that—at least, he was with me.

  I had a bunch of bags and boxes of my things in the back, but I grabbed the gift bag, the takeout coffee and my purse, and left the rest in the car for now. There was really no hurry.

  It was late Monday morning, and I’d taken my time getting here. Cary had told me to show up “whenever.”

  So far, my brother was a pretty nice boss.

  I’d expect no different from him.

  As I walked slowly up to the house, I took a moment to indulge in my recurring, ridiculous fantasy. I allowed myself to envision my brother opening the front door. He’d smile at me, his face lighting up the way it used to… so long ago, I was afraid of actually losing the memory. Forgetting what he looked like when he used to look at me like that.

  When he used to look at the world like that.

  The sun was shimmering down between the leafy trees and birds were chirping. The yard smelled of fresh, green, flowery things, so full of life, and for just that moment, it felt possible—that my brother might actually come to his own front door, in his own house.

  For the first time in four long years.

  Then the fantasy crumbled.

  I knocked on the door, rang the bell… and no one answered. I used my key to open the door and let myself in. Then I disabled the alarm and made sure the door was locked behind me.

  It was quiet as a crypt in the house, but I knew my brother was home. And I knew where he’d be.

  Where he always was.

  I headed into the kitchen, where I found a note from his part-time housekeeper on the fridge for me.

  Dear Courteney,

  I’ve made up your room for you. Please let me know if you need anything else.

  Love, Rose.

  I smiled and tucked the note in my purse. Rose had always been sweet to me, but I wouldn’t be bothering her for anything. Her time was her own when she left this house. I could clean up after myself when she wasn’t here.

  No one was ever really in the house except my brother, and he pretty much lived in the giant music studio on the west side. Once a week, Rose was granted access to the studio to clean for him. She took care of the rest of the house, too. But really, what was there to clean in an empty house no one ever used?

  I crossed back through the big foyer and headed over to the back hall, where the set of tall, soundproofed double doors led into my brother’s studio. They were closed, as always, and I would’ve bet my life that they were locked. The studio was a self-contained unit and even had its own separate alarm system.

  I tested the doorknobs. Definitely locked.

  I tried not to let it bother me, because what good would that do?

  I’d just bailed on pretty much everything in my life for my brother. Even quit college in the fall. And he wouldn’t even come out to see me when I got here.

  But really, I didn’t expect him to.

  I set the takeout coffee on the floor in front of the door for him. It was in a reusable mug that I’d bought for him; a belated birthday gift. It was black and said Good Morning, Handsome in gold script. It was hard to know what to get for a man who had everything—and nothing.

  A man who wanted nothing from me.

  I went back out to the kitchen. I put my purse and the gift bag on the counter and sent my brother a text.

  Me: I’m here. There’s coffee at your door. Left you a gift on the kitchen counter from Nana.

  My brother’s thirty-second birthday had been last week. He didn’t come to the dinner, the one our parents insisted on having for him every year even though he never came anymore.

  I hesitated, then quickly sent him another text.

  Me: Let me know when you want to meet.

  He texted me back almost immediately.

  Cary: Thanks CC.

  The text was punctuated with a heart emoji.

  I softened all over like a baby.

  My brother was the only man I’d ever met who sent me heart emojis. He’d always called me cupcake, at least when I was small. Somewhere around thirteen, I’d insisted he stop doing it, though I later kinda regretted that. Now he called me CC—my initials, and his.

  But in secret, he’d told me it was CC for cupcake.

  How could I not adore him?

  Cary was fourteen years older than me, and in some of my earliest memories he was maybe seventeen, eighteen years old, swaggering into the room with his wavy, sun-streaked hair and summer tan, sitting down next to me and saying, How’s it going, my little cupcake?

  By the time he was twenty, my brother was a rock star. And still, he always made time for me—when he was around. Dollies, tea parties, dress up, whatever I wanted to play, he was game back then.

  Now, I made my way through his silent house. He’d bought this place about five years ago, just before he went on that final tour, and he was so proud of it. He hired someone to decorate it, and he had a big party with all his friends. A real grownup party with cocktails and caterers, and pretty girls in bikinis lounging by the pool. I was thirteen, but he still invited me to the party—while the sun was still up and maybe it was still appropriate for a thirteen-year-old.

  He’d walked me out back to the pool and said, Look, cupcake. I got you a floaty. You can hang out here anytime you want. There was an inflated unicorn floating in the pool, just for me, and he’d meant what he said. I was always welcome in my brother’s house.

  I still was. At least, in the parts of it he didn’t use anymore.

  I walked through the fancy living room behind the foyer, the one he never used, with the plush furniture he’d so carefully chosen and the massive flat screen TV on the wall. I looked out the wall of French doors along the back, through the trees, into the private backyard surrounded by the high fence. Like most things in his life, Cary paid people to take care of it, though he barely used it. The lawn. The gardens. The pool.

  The poolhouse.

  I actually got a weird sick feeling in my gut when I looked out at the small building at the back of the yard, just past the pool. My brother’s guesthouse. I could see it there, just barely, through the trees.

  I remembered when Cary had the poolhouse built, just after he’d moved in, during the decorating phase. I was so damn excited about it. That poolhouse was go
ing to be my everything. A place to escape my parents’ house. A place to hang with my girlfriends by the pool, sneak booze, talk about boys. Bitch about whatever we needed to bitch about.

  Grow up.

  My brother would be away on tour a lot, and that poolhouse would be my freedom.

  It didn’t turn out that way.

  Instead, Cary’s band, Alive, came home from tour early—and he never went back out.

  My brother’s bandmates, Dean Slater and Xander Rush, went on to form a new band, Steel Trap, with some other musicians. And whenever Steel Trap wasn’t away on tour, my brother’s poolhouse became Xander’s personal crash pad.

  You know, for chilling by the pool and screwing all the skanks he hung out with.

  But if I put that thought aside…

  In the lush, sunny backyard, nestled back in the shade of the trees, the poolhouse looked so… inviting. So cute and cozy.

  It was my brother’s guesthouse. Not Xander’s shag palace.

  No matter what Xander seemed to think.

  So why should I feel weird and sick about it?

  It was late July now, the peak of summer, and my brother had a cute, cozy poolhouse. Why should I stay in this giant, empty house all alone… when I could be staying out there, by the pool?

  I knew Xander wasn’t here. If he was, his black Corvette would be in the driveway. My brother’s garage was full of cars he never drove, and Xander, like me, parked outside.

  He probably wasn’t even in town. Steel Trap was on tour this summer. And it’s not like Xander Rush owned my brother’s poolhouse or had some kind of squatter’s rights over it anyway.

  He had his own condo downtown. He could shag his groupies there. He didn’t have to stay here when he got back.

  Fuck it.

  It’s mine.

  I went out through the French doors, up the little path that zigzagged through the trees, to the pool. And right past it, to the poolhouse. It was like a miniature version of the main house; taupe stone, ivy up the walls, French doors.

  The perfect place to spend my summer while I sipped cocktails by the pool with my girls.

  I reached for the doorknob, but then decided to knock. I was pretty damn sure Xander was out of town, but just in case… I wasn’t willing to risk walking in on whatever he did behind a closed door.

  Ick.

  No answer.

  I tried the doorknob, which was locked. Fortunately, it had an electronic keypad and I knew the code.

  I nudged the door open and took a look around inside. Living-room-slash-kitchen. The bedroom and bathroom up the short hall…

  All neat and tidy.

  One thing I could say about Xander Rush, he was a total neat freak. The place was OCD-level tidy. And not because Rose took care of it while he was away. She didn’t.

  But tidy appearance or not… the place was a total man-cave-slash-sex-den.

  Complete with porn mags on the bedside table.

  Ugh.

  It looked clean, but I’d definitely have to scour the place. Like disinfect from top to bottom, just in case. I did not need some secondhand STD. I could ask Rose to do it, of course, but she’d be far too nice about it.

  This called for a deep purge situation, blowtorch style.

  Since I was pretty sure my brother didn’t actually own a blowtorch—he was a musician, not a metalworker—I went back into the house to gather what I could.

  I stripped off my T-shirt as I went; the temperature was already climbing and it would be another hot day. I had sweaty work ahead, so my shorts and yoga bra would do. I found a big plastic bin in the garage and collected what I needed. Including disinfectant spray, some wiping cloths, and a giant box of garbage bags. Rubber gloves. And a long pair of barbecue tongs.

  Yup, that should do it.

  I hauled everything out to the poolhouse, where I cranked up some mood music on my phone—Dua Lipa’s “IDGAF,” because I really didn’t give a fuck. Not about the man who stayed here from time to time and thought he owned the place, or about his premium gin and hemp seed protein powder, or his organic-greens-and-wheatgrass breakfast smoothie mix. Nope. Not one little bit.

  Those few “food” items left behind in the kitchen were the first things I stuffed into a garbage bag. I scrubbed out the sink and wiped down the counters, which were already pretty clean.

  Then I tackled the true cleaning—in the bedroom. Which was seriously disturbing. As it turned out, Xander Rush had every cliché in the sexually-depraved-manslut handbook nailed.

  Congratulations, buddy. You’re a total pig.

  Condoms, like a metric ton of them.

  Flavored lube.

  And yes, porn mags. The extra twisted ones.

  Massive dildo… I did not want to know who or what that was for.

  Cock ring…

  Florescent orange butt plug?

  Ew. I stopped looking directly at them after the fifth or sixth obnoxious, gaudy sex toy.

  But seriously. Xander never had girlfriends for long. Or ever. Was this all stuff he played with by himself? Or did he really whip out this shit with some one-nighter?

  Hey baby, I know we just met, but do you mind if I stick this giant dildo up your butt?

  Such a gentleman.

  Nope. Do not want to know.

  I opened the top drawer of the dresser, cautiously. Who knew if some self-inflating fuck doll was about to pop out of there?

  Athletic shorts. Tank tops that still smelled like him.

  I tried not to inhale through my nose and tossed them in the garbage bags. Damn, though. Even his clothes smelled good.

  Next drawer, T-shirts. Tossed those in the garbage bags. Along with everything in the next drawer. And the next.

  I tried not to look at the random panties I discovered. Pretty hard to ignore, though. Especially when they were cheap and lacy, canary-yellow, and… granny style?

  Shudder.

  So. Gross.

  But it was also strangely cathartic as the disgust really let me tear into it. Plus, I was singing along to Jessie Reyez, “Figures,” and really getting into the angry-lament vibe. I hadn’t exactly been gifted with my brother’s musical skills, but I could hit a note or two.

  “Redecorating?”

  I screamed. Like legit, an-ax-murderer-just-snuck-up-on-me SCREAMED.

  And spun around.

  Xander.

  He stood in the bedroom doorway, where he’d been watching me shovel the contents of his underwear drawer into a garbage bag—with tongs—while I sang. My heart slammed in my chest and if I’d been holding a gun I probably would’ve shot him. Accidentally, of course.

  “Don’t sneak up on me like that!”

  “Just coming home,” he drawled, totally cool. “Been here since Saturday.” Then he lounged his muscular, godlike body against the doorframe. All gorgeous and fucking full of himself and so goddamn aloof—and barely looking at me. Instead, he looked around the room.

  And here’s the thing about that. Xander looked at everyone. At least, everyone female.

  Except me.

  He did, however, look at my hand. Or the item dangling from the end of my tongs. His eyebrow rose, and I glanced down, expecting one of his nasty, skimpy boxer briefs… but no. It was a teeny, tiny… mankini? Like a skimpy men’s swimsuit—with a T-back.

  Yuck!

  I tossed it in the garbage bag.

  “I thought you were on tour or something,” I snapped, probably blushing a dozen shades of fuchsia. Same color as the mankini, unfortunately.

  “Got back into town last week.”

  “So?” I glared at him, while trying not to actually look at him. His broad shoulders, his muscular arms crossed over his chest… the gorgeous artwork of his tattoos, all down his arms and up his neck. His dark, slicked-back hair and his perfectly trimmed beard. Grayish-bluish-greenish eyes.

  That stupid, smug, beautiful face.

  “So,” he said, “I came to see Cary.”

  That sexy, ma
nly voice that made my insides quiver.

  “You’ve seen him?”

  “Yeah. On Saturday.”

  Okay; that irked me. Badly.

  I hadn’t seen my brother, in person, in weeks. It irritated me that Xander got to see him more often than I did, in general. I knew this was because he and Xander were both musicians and they’d been in a band together; they connected about music, so Cary let him in a bit more. Music was pretty much my brother’s life, and Xander could talk to him about that in ways that I couldn’t. I wasn’t exactly a rock star drummer.

  I tried to tell myself it was just about the music. It wasn’t personal.

  “Well, you’re not staying here,” I informed him.

  “Actually, I am. I always stay here.”

  “You haven’t stayed here in weeks, and I’m staying here.”

  He glanced at the open drawer next to me. “Looks like my underwear in there, so.”

  “It’s my brother’s house.”

  He sauntered into the bedroom. “Well, there’s two rooms. I’m sure the couch is comfy. Feel free to move in. I’m not leaving.” Then he lounged on the bed, stuffing a decorative pillow behind his back and crossing his bare feet, like he owned the place.

  I’d already stripped off the bedcovers and he didn’t seem to notice or care. He pulled out his phone and directed his attention at it. Because clearly, it was far more interesting than the live human being standing right in front of him.

  I still stared at him for a lot longer than I needed to. Xander always wore loose jeans and tight, sleeveless shirts, and he looked delectable in them. Today the jeans were faded and ripped, showing skin. The shirt was white, and it hugged his sculpted body the way every woman who looked at him probably wanted to.

  Stupid, sexy manslut.

  I knew exactly what Xander was, and it fucking annoyed me to no end. And not in the way you might think. It annoyed me because, even being the pig that he was, he’d never looked at me as anything more than his best friend’s kid sister.

  I peeled off my rubber gloves and tossed them at him. They bounced off his chest and rolled in dejected rubber balls onto the bed next to him. He glanced up, giving me a blank look. At least he looked me in the eyes. But only in the eyes.