by N. N. Britt
“The magazine means more to you than I do,” he whispered.
My jaw fell. I stared at him, dumbfounded, trying to understand if he was drunk or had taken something. “What the fuck is wrong with you, Frank?”
His lips twitched. “Everything.”
Here we go with the self-pity again.
Rolling my eyes, I whirled around and headed to the bathroom to fix my hair and makeup. He grabbed my hand in a tight, uncompromising grip and drew me back to him. I felt his heat. Near my heart. In my stomach. Between my legs. Our bodies were close, grinding against each other madly, chest to chest. Frank was hard. Remnants of sweat coated his skin. The rough press of his erection to my center stirred me up. My sex was tender from last night and my knees still had the burns. Oh, yes. Burns were a real thing, especially when you rode a man for countless hours.
He put his left arm around my waist and cradled my head with the other. My chin settled in the hollow of his sweaty neck.
“I’m going to make sure you’re full of my cum when you interview Marshall Burns.” I heard him whisper in my hair. His deep voice vibrated through me.
My breath hitched. I was soaked in seconds. Frank shuffled us across the room and spun me around. My cheek hit the wall when his chest pushed against my back. Trapped against his tight body, I was lost on this rough, dirty high. Reaching around me, he dragged down my zipper. My hips rolled in anticipation. Something dark and wild brewed at my core. I hated everything about our conversation, yet I loved where it’d taken us.
Frank’s fingers found their way into my panties. “So fucking wet.” He brushed my clit and a wave of primal need rolled through me. My nerve endings buzzed.
Oh yes, yes. I rubbed my ass against his erection. “Just the way you like it, rock star.”
He withdrew his hand from between my thighs and yanked down my jeans. My breasts ached from the lack of attention and the unnecessary confines of my bra. I wanted him everywhere. I wanted every part of my body to be marked by his touch. He was the sickest obsession.
Thrusting my ass backward, I welcomed the intrusion. With a loud groan against my hair and long, deep strokes, he filled me up. In and out. In and out. Oh God. It hurts so good. The wall muffled my whimpers. My legs shook and my feet slid across the floor with each thrust and each exhale. Frank was fucking me raw. Like an angry animal. His left hand gripped my waist to steady us, his right one clutched my breast. He was loud and unforgiving. His broken moans rang in my ears.
This was the best kind of undoing. Sensuously savage. Like a sizzling rock ’n’ roll beat. Hard, fast, and erotic. A flame around my shuddering core.
My mind drifted and blanked. I slammed both palms against the wall for leverage. My climax was near and I knew Frank’s was too. His strokes quickened, then his body began to convulse against mine. He came with a growl and his hand wrapped around my neck, pinning my cheek to the wall as I thrashed from my own release.
There was a long pause. We were destroyed and struggled for breath.
Frank spoke first. “Now that you have me all over you, baby, you can go.” The rough edge of his voice as he growled it into my ear sent shivers down my spine. Thoroughly fucked and newly aroused, I clenched around his length.
“You like when I talk to you like that, don’t you?” He pressed a gentle kiss to my temple and pulled out. Slick wetness coated my thighs.
I was wrecked in the best possible way, and my core still thrummed from the orgasm. “You really are a man of many talents.”
“Maybe we’ll do a movie of our own sometime.” A soft chuckle. His recognition returned. He’d returned to his senses.
I spun to face him and traced the curve of his chin with my index finger. “We’ll definitely talk about it when I come back.”
Twenty minutes later, when I was loading my gear into the Porsche, dressed and ready to leave, Frank rushed outside. Freshly showered, he trapped me against the car and buried his head in the crook of my neck.
“I’ll miss you.”
A soft laugh escaped my lungs. “I’ll be back in a few hours.” I brushed his damp hair away from my shirt. “You should get the hot tub going.”
“I like that idea.” He kissed my cheek. He was like a plush toy, a man child, the absolute opposite of the Frank who’d fucked me as if it were his last day on Earth half an hour ago.
The party was held at a high-end hotel in West Hollywood. I hit the heavy afternoon traffic on the way there and arrived thirty minutes late. A large crowd gathered on the sidewalk. Most sported black T-shirts with the burning butterfly design, the official Hall Affinity 2020 tour merch. Mean-faced security guards chained up the empty step and repeat area. A few telephoto-lensed cameras could be seen among the fans.
I valeted Frank’s Porsche and hurried to the back for a check-in.
“What took you so long?” Levi barked, rushing over. Anxiety twisted his face. I suspected he’d had at least five Red Bulls since we’d parted this morning. I could determine his intake by his level of jitteriness. He was definitely on high alert.
“Shut up. You’re not the one who drove to Malibu and back twice today.” Smiling, I grabbed the press pass from the girl at the Jay Brodie PR table and slapped it against Levi’s chest. “Come on. Let’s see how bad it is.”
We were close, but not to the point where I could possibly tell him about the real reason for my delay—Frank fucking me senseless against his bedroom wall. Blaming everything on traffic in this city was normal. Although those of us who were born and raised in L.A. couldn’t use it as a valid excuse. It made us look dumb and, therefore, worked best for the newcomers.
“They have us upstairs on the patio,” Levi rambled on as we walked through the long, brightly lit hallway.
The entire pool area and half of the ground floor, including the ballroom, was closed off. The hotel staff that worked the event fussed over the buffet. Anxious chatter and the crackle of walkie-talkies filled the hallway and danced around me. The familiarity of it all hit me like a tidal wave. I missed being a full-time reporter.
A slew of voices drifted from one of the lounges as we passed.
“What time is the red carpet?” I asked Levi, noting familiar faces inside. Johnny. Carter. A couple of girls who looked awfully plastic. Waiters carried trays loaded with exotic hors d'oeuvres. No Dante. No Marshall.
“Six thirty. Did you not go over the itinerary at all?”
No, I was busy chasing an orgasm. “I didn’t have time.” I turned my head to look at Levi. “I didn’t exactly plan on conducting ten interviews today.” Then I really looked at him and grimaced at the multiple wrinkles across his shirt. “Is your steamer broken or something?”
He returned my stare with a scoff.
We entered the ballroom and headed for the spiral staircase at the far side, behind the small, performance-ready stage. There, on the wall across from us, hung a massive Hall Affinity poster. The new line-up. With a cocky smirk and tousled blond hair, Marshall Burns was in the center. My stomach drew tight and not in a pleasant way.
At that moment, I felt for Frank. I understood why he was upset.
On the patio, Ashton was guarding Levi’s gear. We had a small corner with a stunning view of Sunset Boulevard and the jagged bloodred horizon. The Rewired banner stood behind a small leather couch.
“Brother.” I scanned his outfit. Black shirt, jeans, sneakers, hair slicked back. He looked decent.
“Sister.”
Our gazes collided.
“Behave.” I smoothed the sleeve of his shirt and grabbed a small clipboard from Levi to check whom we were interviewing first.
“Relax. I’ve got this.” Ashton grinned and gave me a thumbs-up. This was his first major event, and he looked chipper. I suspected that later on, he’d attempt to get some selfies with the VIPs. His Instagram feed was littered with photos of Isabella and other people he’d met while helping out Levi. I was starting to see a pattern. My brother was a celebrity stalker in disguise. Hone
stly, half the people who worked in the industry were. As long as the privacy rules didn’t get broken, it was okay. Everyone was a fan. Just not everyone became an idol.
The noise of the party clashed with the noise of the street and while our spot was beautiful and free of foot traffic, I’d definitely have to scream through my questions, which I loathed. My throat always took a beating during such annoyingly loud events, and Levi hated tweaking sound in post.
“Do we have to interview Dante?” I muttered under my breath, scanning the list of artists. It wasn’t really a question, but more wishful thinking.
“It’s his party.” Levi grunted. “It’s not like we have a choice.”
“How about you do it?” I offered.
I was shot down with a joke. “My makeup doesn’t look good on camera.”
“Okay.” I drew a deep breath and tried to concentrate on the task at hand, interviewing rich, possibly drunk and high rock ’n’ roll folks. Thinking about hot sex with Frank and other fantasies needed to be put off for later.
Setting the clipboard on the couch, I glanced at the party below. People began to spill into the ballroom. Drinks were served. “I need to use the restroom. I’ll be back in a couple of minutes.”
“If you see Dean Foster, bring him in.”
“Copy.” I tossed Levi a smile and hopped down the stairs. The song playing in the background was from the new Hall Affinity album, which was officially releasing next week. Mastered, titled, and properly packaged. If anything, the leak had only raised more interest. A little birdie named Linda had mentioned that preorder numbers were sky high.
Curious gazes swept over me as I made my way across the ballroom. My pulse kicked up, my awareness heightened. After all, I was dating Frankie Blade. Attention was expected. Whether these people liked me or not, we were a couple. Chin up, shoulders straight, I pushed past the loud knots of people and ducked into the dimly lit hallway.
Dante’s silhouette swam into my line of vision. Beer bottle in hand, he was attached to a Hannah Montana knock-off who propped up the wall. Her skinny leg was wrapped around his booted ankle, hand shoved in the waistband of his jeans. My stomach rolled. The man clung to his twenties like shit to a shovel. It wasn’t cool anymore. This sick obsession with younger, barely legal females made him look desperate and unattractive.
Dante heard the click of my heels and tore his face from the teenager’s. His clouded gaze swung my way. The girl’s hand remained on his crotch. No surprise there.
“Hey, short stuff.” His voice was weak and sluggish. “You’re looking gorgeous.”
I slowed my pace.
The compliment didn’t go unnoticed. Hannah Montana wannabe grabbed his shirt and attempted to pull him back to her. He didn’t budge.
I stopped and tried not to laugh at the scene in front of me. “Thank you.”
“Is Frankie-boy here?” Dante drew the girl’s hand from his jeans and shooed her away. She strode off with a sour expression.
“He’s not coming.”
“What? Why?” Brows knitted, he moved closer. The unbuttoned top of his black shirt revealed a good portion of his chest. He wasn’t as finely cut as Frank, but he had something even better—the dark, bad boy sex appeal that made women crazy.
“Are you seriously asking me this question after you put up a billboard-sized photo of Marshall Burns next to the album artwork Frank created?”
The space between us shrank to a couple of feet. I caught the smell of cigarettes and alcohol on his breath.
“Cassy, darlin’.” Dante rested his hand on my shoulder. “I did the best I could. I called. I emailed. I came over. You know what he did? He told me to go to hell. I guess we’ll be meeting again there then.”
“You do know the age of consent in California is eighteen?”
Confused, he lifted his brow.
“How old is the girl?”
His face relaxed. “She’s legal.”
“Are you sure?”
“Why are you so worried about me, darlin’? Don’t you have a man to be worried about?”
“Because you’re drunk and because you need someone to tell you this shit.”
Dante slid his palm down my shoulder. “Frankie-boy is a lucky guy. If he hadn’t asked you out first, I would have asked you out myself.” A lopsided grin touched his lips.
A nervous laugh escaped my throat. “When was the last time you actually asked someone out?”
With a potent expression in his eyes, he took his hand off my elbow and raked it over his dark, messy hair. “Umm, maybe 2009.”
“You really are out of practice.”
“I don’t need to chase women. They usually chase me.”
“Spoken like a true douchebag.”
“Why do you hate me so much, Cassy?”
“Okay, you’re way off here, buddy.” I held up my palm. “I don’t hate you. Hate is a very strong word, but I don’t like what you did to Frank and how you did it.”
“You know I had no say in it.”
“I know you, Johnny, and Carter didn’t fight back when KBC decided to fire Frank. You just stood and watched the label tear him apart.”
“You know nothing about our contracts.”
“I don’t need to know about contracts. You’re a coward.”
“I’m here to play a fucking guitar, darlin’. I don’t want to play with fucking fire and wait for some asshole in a suit to decide my future.”
“You won’t have a future if you keep burning through your present like you’re some immortal god.”
“Tell that to Frankie-boy. He was the one who pulled the plug on your charity project. Where is he now that I’m trying to save this fucking sinking ship?”
“You know what, Dante? Fuck you.”
My heart hammered and my pulse raced. I brushed past him and hurried to the restroom. He was drunk and there was no point in continuing this conversation. Besides, I hadn’t come here to fight Frank’s battles. I’d come here to conduct interviews for Rewired.
On the way back, I noticed Marshall’s perfectly styled blond hair swimming through the crowd near the bar. Shaking off my unease, I marched upstairs and found Levi and Ashton taking goofy selfies against the city backdrop. They’d bonded over the course of the past few months, but seeing them work together was still strange. Once upon a time, Levi had hated my brother. Hell, I’d hated my brother. Now he was everyone’s favorite. Even Linda had a soft spot for him.
Of course, nothing went according to plan. Dante was too busy. Dean Foster, bassist of the band who’d frequently toured with Hall Affinity before Frank’s accident, was too high to understand my questions. Tommy Bryce from Black Rain Coming politely refused to be interviewed.
We took a break at around eight when the party shifted toward the stage. Armed with a new bottle of beer, possibly his tenth, Dante staggered over to the microphone and rattled off a quick thank you speech, then asked for Marshall to come up. I watched them from the patio. They seemed at ease with each other, like old friends who’d been through thick and thin, and I couldn’t help but wonder if the label wanted a singer that had the same features as the original front man so the audience wouldn’t feel overly cheated.
Dante finished monopolizing the microphone and let Marshall speak. The man had a nice deep and raspy voice that soared across the ballroom and danced against the walls, and from what I’d heard from Linda, he’d nailed all the Hall Affinity classics during the audition. His range wasn’t as wide as Frank’s. He lost at least an octave, but the label probably didn’t care and most fans wouldn’t notice since Frank had hardly employed his higher pitches.
The crowd cheered.
Johnny and Carter jumped on stage and the four of them ripped through the intro of “Adrenaline Lane.” Marshall was great. Sexy, confident, young, and sharp. The full package.
I knew despising him wasn’t going to make me or Frank feel better, but I couldn’t will myself to enjoy what I saw.
That was the
moment I understood that everything I’d been working on all these years was no longer valid. My personal life had completely taken over my professional and the notion terrified me because I couldn’t be objective anymore. And as a reporter, I needed to be objective.
This performance happening in the ballroom, no matter how messy, was good. Marshall Burns was good. He had the right chemistry with the rest of the band members. Sure, Johnny looked a little fazed, but Dante was having the time of his life, which was important since he essentially called the shots.
Objectively speaking, this was a great jam. Subjectively speaking, I wanted to throw a dozen raw eggs at them for having a good time while Frank spent his evening at home alone, struggling with depression.
The band played two songs and stepped down. The party went on. A couple of minutes later, Linda showed up upstairs with Marshall in tow.
“Look who I’ve got here.” Smiling, she nudged him in my direction.
He extended his hand for a shake. We locked gazes. His eyes were the color of mocha. Wide, bright, and looking for a challenge.
Swallowing down my emotions, I slid my palm into his and said, “Marshall. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Cassy with Rewired. Congratulations.” My voice sounded foreign. Mechanical. I tuned out all my Frank thoughts and tried to think about interview questions and things to discuss.
“Likewise.” His grip on my hand was strong. “We’ve met before, haven’t we?”
“Yes. A couple of times. Last summer. During the Walk the Dark campaign.”
“That’s right.” The spark in his eyes and the slight tilt of his head told me he remembered me. Did he know I was seeing the man he’d replaced? “Backstage at the Palladium?”
“Yes.”
He shook hands with Levi and Ashton and settled on the couch across from me. My brother helped him with the microphone.
“Count me down, boys,” I blurted out into the space in front of me and rolled my shoulders to get rid of the building tension.
The noise of the party—drunk laughter, rock music, clanking of glasses—floated up from downstairs and cut into my speech, but I blocked it all out.