by Amiee Louise
I hear him let out a sigh of relief. “It’s so good to hear you happy again, Peyton. There were times when I thought it was impossible, but it sounds like he is good for you.” He swiftly changes the subject, which seems to be a Harper family trait. “So what did the flash bastard get you for your birthday?”
“A new car. A Chevy Camaro ZL1.”
Dexter splutters, “Fucking hell! It must be love! Could we be looking at a double wedding?”
I snort in the most unladylike fashion. “I don’t think he is the marrying kind, Dex.”
With those words, Sam walks in and cocks his pierced eyebrow curiously at me. I stick my tongue out, and he heads into the kitchen.
“Every man is the marrying kind; it just takes a certain type of woman, sis. I never in a million years thought I would ever entertain the idea of marriage until Grace and I took that break from each other a few years ago. While we were apart, I knew in my heart I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her, it was definitely a turning point.”
“My little brother, the romantic. Who knew! Besides, you and Grace have been together forever.”
“You should try it sometime; he might surprise you. Just because you’ve only been together a few months doesn’t mean it’s completely out of the question, and just because you got your fingers burnt in the past with Callum doesn’t mean all men are the spawn of Satan!”
We both laugh. There’s nothing like a conversation with Dexter to put things into perspective.
“You’re getting way too deep for me, Dex, I have to go. I’ll call you once I’m settled back at home, and we can arrange that visit.”
“You got it, sis. I’ll hold you to that; catch you later.”
“Bye, Dex, love ya.”
“Back at ya, Peyton, bye.”
With those words, we both hang up, and Sam leans over the table drinking orange juice from the carton. He cocks his pierced eyebrow and smirks.
“So, I’m not the marrying kind?”
Shit! He heard that? I feel my face burn with something that resembles embarrassment but also terrified of his reaction to the idea of marriage, as we have never had the whole marriage conversation before. I sit opposite him at the table, and he takes my hand in his, stroking my knuckles softly.
“I’d love nothing more than to spend the rest of my life with you, Peyton. I want to spend my life proving to you that I’m enough for you. I want to prove that I can be the man you deserve. Do you want me to propose? I’ll get down on one knee now if that’s what it takes, tell me what to do, angel, and I’ll do it.” My stomach does a flip, and I am surprised at his reaction. “Marry me?”
I laugh. Really? Did he really just propose sat at the table of his band's tour bus? No way, Newbolt! His face turns serious, and he puts his hand on his heart.
“I’m wounded, angel.”
He smirks, and I raise my eyebrows.
“If you want me to marry you, babe, you’re going to have to do much better than that. I want romance, hearts, flowers, a bedroom window serenades, the whole nine yards!” I quote a conversation we had at the beginning of our relationship. He throws his head back and laughs.
“Consider it done.”
He winks and gets up from the table, kissing me on the end of my nose. With that simple gesture, I know Sam Newbolt is going to be forever mine, lock, stock, and barrel.
The boys perform their gig at Wembley Arena, and they are amazingly flawless as usual; giving an immense, show-stopping, all-out rock performance to their beloved fans. Sam and the boys are on top form tonight.
“How the fuck are we doing, London? It’s so good to be back on home turf, we have missed you guys. Are we ready to rock?” The crowd cheers. “I can’t hear you; I said, are you ready to fucking rock?”
The crowd erupts into rapturous screams, and the whole place vibrates with the noise. Every time I see Sam up on stage doing what he loves, I am in awe of him. His stage presence, the way he interacts with the fans, his enthusiasm, and a true showmanship that would rival the likes of Freddie Mercury and Robbie Williams. He plays each gig as if it is going to be his last; he puts his heart and soul into every performance.
After the gig, we all pile into a waiting black limo and make our way to the after show party at Neon Nights, the club where the album launch was held. I am wearing a daring, black-lace mini dress with leather panels on each side. It is very short, backless, and way out of my comfort zone, but I feel sexy. I have teamed it with silver hoop earrings and black studded ankle boots. My hair is in soft, tousled waves.
After braving the press gauntlet with Sam and the boys, I step into the familiar surroundings of the club. It is just as decadent as I remember.
Sam has his arm wrapped casually around my shoulders, and he is more relaxed than I have seen him in weeks. He is smiling his dazzling, dimpled, panty-dropping smile, and I know it is all for me. He leans close to my ear, and his breath tickles my neck.
“Even though that dress is obscene, you look absolutely fucking stunning. It’s taking everything I have not to take you to some dark corner and fuck you until you can’t remember anything else but my name,” he rasps, and I shiver as I feel that customary heat between my legs. “Your tits are looking fucking exquisite. I think I’m going to have to do a lot of arse kicking tonight, you’re attracting a lot of attention, angel.”
I laugh. “It’s lucky I’m not wearing any underwear, and I’ll be going home with you at the end of the night.”
He groans at my words and I chuckle softly. He licks a trail up my neck and bites my earlobe. I mewl softly.
“Jesus Christ, you’re going to be the death of me, angel.”
He growls, and I get a secret thrill knowing that I have that effect on him. A man approaches us, and he smiles a dazzling smile as he reaches us. He is tall, lean, but muscular, tanned, and has short brown spiky hair. He has pale-blue eyes, and he is wearing a black suit, a crisp, white shirt with the top button undone and a loose turquoise tie. He is clutching a glass of amber liquid, and he pulls Sam in for a manly one-armed hug.
“Ryan, my man, how’s tricks?”
He pulls away from the embrace.
“Sam, so good to see you, mate, it’s been a while. Yeah, it’s all good, thanks, how are things with you?”
Sam smiles and nods. “Can’t complain, mate.”
Ryan looks me up and down. He licks his lips provocatively and raises his eyebrows.
“Aren’t you going to introduce me to this extremely beautiful creature on your arm, Sam?”
Sam looks at me. “Angel, this is Ryan, he is Alistair’s brother and the owner of this club. Ryan, this is my beautiful girlfriend, Peyton.”
Ryan nods, and he offers me his hand. I take it and smile shyly.
“Nice to meet you, Ryan.”
He kisses my hand, and Sam rolls his eyes.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you too, petal. I’ve heard so much about you, and I’ve been looking forward to meeting the beauty who has stolen the famous Bolt’s heart.”
Sam throws his head back and laughs.
“So you can turn on the charm and try to get in her pants? That’s the reason I haven’t introduced you before!” Sam jokes, and both men laugh. But the way Sam says those words makes me believe that there is a hidden warning in there somewhere.
“Can I get you both a drink?”
Sam nods. “Yeah, that would be great, cheers, mate.”
Ryan nods and winks.
“Coming right up. I’ll see to it myself. If you need anything at all, give me a shout, mate. If you’ll excuse me.”
Ryan nods, slaps Sam on the back, and strides off. As he strides off, he exudes confidence and charisma. I can’t help thinking that he has ‘heartbreaker’ written all over him. Sam wraps his arm around me again and nuzzles my neck.
“Now, where were we before we were rudely interrupted?”
I laugh.
“What’s got into you tonight, baby?”
Sa
m chuckles softly. “Need you ask, angel? You’ve got into me, in more ways than one. I don’t know how I’m going to hold out until we get back to the bus; I intend to make our last night together a memorable one.”
“Good things come to those who wait, Newbolt.”
I wink cheekily, and two tall, muscular, tattooed men approach us.
“Newbolt.”
The taller of the two is an inch or so shorter than Sam, muscular, heavily tattooed and has long black hair flowing past his shoulders. Sam tightens his grip on my waist, and I look up to see a look I haven’t seen before; it looks like pure hatred.
“Draven,” Sam says flatly through clenched teeth. “You’ve not been hit by that bus then yet, I see?” Sam says coldly. I feel like I am at a tennis match looking back and forth between both men.
“No, unfortunately, I see you haven’t been pushed off that cliff yet.” Draven laughs and then turns his attention to me.
“Hey, gorgeous, what are you doing this with this fucking loser?” he asks in a soft American drawl. I narrow my eyes at him, instantly disliking him.
“Step into the dark side, babe, I’ll show you a good time.”
He winks. Everything about this man screams out slimeball, and I can’t quite believe the cheek of him. The man next to him steps forward, putting distance between him and Sam.
“I’m sorry about him, darlin’, he seems to have misplaced his manners again. I’m Mitch Masters, and this fuck face is Draven Michaels. I’m the drummer, and he is the lead singer in The Devil’s Henchmen, we’ve been supporting Rancid Vengeance on this tour. He is not normally this rude.”
I shake my head. “Don’t apologise for him, honey, it’s not your fault he’s a complete fucking arsehole.”
Draven raises his eyebrows and laughs.
“She is feisty, I love it, and do you have a name, sweetness?”
“Yep, but maybe I don’t want to give it to you.”
“OK, let’s start again, I’m Draven.”
He offers me his hand, but I don’t take it. He tries to disguise my rejection, and he casually tucks his hand behind his back. Mitch offers me his hand, I shake it and smile.
“I’m Peyton, nice to meet you, Mitch.”
“I believe you’ve rendered the Draven Michaels speechless with your blatant brush off. I salute you, hot stuff!” He salutes, and I laugh, instantly liking him.
“So, how’s Lyla these days? I heard on the grapevine she’s back in town.” Sam smiles slyly, and it’s the first time I have ever heard Sam be anything but nice to someone.
I see Draven tense and clench his fists at the mention of Lyla’s name. Before I know what’s going on, Draven has drawn his fist back and punched Sam square in the jaw. Sam's head snaps back and his nostrils flare. He punches Draven in the nose, and blood drips down his face. I am still none the wiser to who this woman is, and I might have known the hostility would be down to a woman. We are soon joined by Jax, Lucas and a tall, slender woman with an hourglass figure to die for. She has long red hair, wide green eyes, and full red lips. She is wearing skinny jeans and a red bustier emphasising her ample breasts.
“Boys, y’all need to calm down.” Her voice is soft, breathy, and has a Southern American drawl. She brushes Draven’s arm. “Draven, a word, please.”
Draven’s eyes don’t move away from Sam. “This isn’t fucking over, Newbolt, not by a long shot.”
The woman turns to me and smiles.
“I’m Phoenix King, I’m the manager of The Devil’s Henchmen. I’m so sorry for his behaviour, if there’s any more trouble, don’t hesitate to come and find me.”
Phoenix goes to lead Draven away.
“Oh, Draven, make sure you give Lyla my love.” Sam smirks, and he can’t resist having the last word. Draven spins around and punches Sam in the face again. “I didn’t realise how much you loved my sloppy seconds, Michaels.”
Mitch and two other men, which I assume are the other two members in their band, try to hold Draven back, but he is too fast and strong. He rugby tackles Sam to the ground, and both men are full-scale brawling on the floor. Fists are flying, and chaos has ascended around us. Jax, Lucas, Mitch, and two other men are trying to stop the fight, but they end up being caught in the fracas. There is blood, limbs, and fists flying from every direction. I realise there is nothing I can do to stop it; I am rendered helpless and useless watching the violent drama unfold in front of me like something from a bad soap opera. Where the fuck is Cole? I feel like my feet are rooted to the floor and I can do nothing but stare. Unexpectedly, I am pulled away from the fight by a delicate hand.
“Oh, dear, all this because of little old me.” Lyla smirks smugly.
How does she have the ability to just appear out of nowhere?
“Who the fuck are you, Lyla?”
She pulls me towards the bar area where Cole and the club’s security are descending from all directions trying to diffuse the whole situation.
“I’m Lyla Hudson; I used to be in one of the biggest female rock bands, Hell on Heels.”
I thought her face seemed familiar, I remember seeing her on the cover of one of Ruby’s gossip magazines.
“We supported Rancid Vengeance for a while on tour. We did some rock festivals together, and we got to know each other pretty well. Sam and me we had a fling of sorts; it was just sex to him but never to me. That handsome bastard made me fall in love with him, I was besotted. When I found out it was going to be nothing more than sex, I went off the rails for a while. I had a highly publicised fall from grace, the band split up, and I lost everything. I hit the booze and the drugs hard, I did a stint in rehab, and it was all his fucking fault.”
Her voice sounds so full of vitriol it actually makes me feel sorry for her. I cock my head and regard her intently, not knowing what to make of the information she is telling me.
“Don’t you fucking dare feel sorry for me, my only crime was falling in love with a man who I could never have. He was so emotionally detached. We’d fuck like bunnies, and he’d just lie there afterwards with this look on his face.” She frowns at the memory, and I bristle at the thought of Sam with another woman. “It was like the shutters came down and he just totally switched off. I knew we were toxic together, but I couldn’t help myself, I was addicted to him. It was fun, exciting, and dangerous. I saw you together; when I saw him look at you that way it hurt because all those years I wanted him to look at me the way he looked at you.”
She laughs resentfully.
“Why are you so interested in mine and Sam’s relationship? It’s none of your business.” The tone of my voice is brusque, and she nods curtly.
“You make a fair point. I’ve followed his career closely for years now, and I was curious as to what all the fuss was about with this—” She looks me up and down, I feel my temper spike. I ball my fist at my side. How fucking dare she look at me that way as if she is superior to me? “—ordinary, plain, tattoo artist who captured the heart of the Sam Newbolt, famous ladies’ man. So tell me, Peyton, what did you do to grab his attention? Is your vagina made of platinum and encrusted with diamonds?”
I suddenly feel intense anger towards this woman standing in front of me. I sense a presence at my side, and I instantly know it’s Sam. I catch his familiar scent before I see him and a feeling of calm washes over me. I turn to him, and his face is a bloody mess. My heart clenches at seeing his beautiful face covered in blood. He swipes his hand across his nose.
“It’s nothing, angel, just a little blood, that’s all. I’m fine.”
He smiles. Lyla moves closer to him, and his face drops.
“What the fuck are you doing here, Lyla?” he spits out angrily.
“Don’t be like that, baby. Aren’t you pleased to see me? I’ve missed you.”
How dare she call him baby! I feel the anger bubbling up inside of me, and I’m not sure if I can hold it back. She drapes herself over him and gropes his crotch. That is all I can take. I push her away from him, g
rab hold of her hair, and punch her in the face. I have never been this angry in my entire life. I am so consumed by rage. Before I gather my wits, my forehead connects with her nose, spraying blood all over her face.
“You fucking bitch!” she screams, grabbing my hair and managing to get a punch to my nose before Cole drags her off kicking and screaming. Sam lifts me from the ground and carries me over his shoulder. He strides off across the club and into the corridor, setting me on my feet.
“You’re bleeding, angel.” I touch my nose, dismissing him. “Is it wrong that I’m hard?”