My Night with a Rockstar

by Mankin, Michelle

  “Wild.” She bucks her hips up to meet me on the next thrust. “Don’t go easy. I won’t break.”

  Her words snap my control. I stop thinking and let go, enjoying the sensations of her body. Her heat squeezing my cock. Her breath against my ear. Our skin slick with sweat coming together. I move faster, pump my hips harder, pulling moans and cries of pleasure from her lips. There’s an irrational need to claim her. Own her pleasure and completely eradicate the memory of any other man she’s been with. I sure as hell have forgotten all other women.

  Desire builds with each thrust. Together we find a rhythm, better than any guitar riff. My orgasm threatens to explode, even as I ward it off. Her body fits with mine as if we’re made for each other. I get lost. Her body. Her touch. Just her.

  A groan leaves my lips. Her name. A few expletives too. I’m not even in control as my balls tighten and my release fills the condom. Usually I pull out. Just as a precaution, but I don’t, instead coming with my cock deep inside her.

  She holds me to her. Taking it all. Kissing along my neck. Welcoming me home. I swear I see stars. That’s how intense my orgasm is, and even now, seconds after, when my pulse becomes regular, I can barely speak. Rolling to my back so I don’t crush her, I stare up at the ceiling. A heaviness settles on my chest. Not regret. No. It’s fear.

  I’m afraid to say or do anything that’ll make this night end. It’s completely illogical. Time will pass even if I don’t want it to. Once I leave this room, I’ll never get this moment back again. The thought is crushing. Selfish as it is, I hope she feels it too.

  “Stay a little longer,” Simone whispers, even though we’re the only two people in her apartment. It’s the only clue she gives to her own feelings, and I hold on to it, treasuring everything I can.

  • • •

  Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

  My eyes squint against the bright light. Where am I? It’s the first thought that hits as I wonder who the hell set their alarm in the van. But no, I’m too comfortable. The plush bedding wrapped around my body is much nicer than what we haul from city to city.

  A groan next to me, feminine and sleepy, snaps my mind into focus.

  I’m in Simone’s bed.

  We had mind-blowing sex.

  She asked me to stay.

  I fell asleep holding her in my arms.

  Fuck, now I have to go. “Shit,” I swear and sit up, my eyes scanning the room for the clock. It’s five till eight. “Shit.” I don’t have time for a proper good-bye. Or anything really. The guys will be waiting, and sending out a search party if I don’t show soon. I frantically press the buttons on her alarm clock to make it stop wailing, then pick my clothes from the mess on the floor.

  Simone sits up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. “What time is it?”

  “Eight.” I tug up my boxers and jeans. Where the hell is my shirt? I’m late. Fuck. This is not how I envisioned this morning going. “I have to go.”

  “Yeah.” She pulls the covers over her body. “Sure.”

  “We have a show in Sacramento tomorrow.” I pick through the clothes on her floor, finding my socks and shoes. “I wish I could stay.” Bingo. There’s my shirt.

  “I wish that too.” Her words make me pause, even with the racing clock.

  “Thank you. For last night. It was—” Mind blowing. Soul shattering. Everything.

  “Yeah.” She smiles, her eyes darting to the floor. “It was.”

  “You’ll come see our next show? When we’re back in town?” Fuck. I don’t even know when that will be. We’re headed up the coast, and back to Seattle next week.

  “I’d love that.” She smiles but it doesn’t quite brighten her face. Not like last night.

  “Can I get your number?”

  “Yeah.” Her smile widens and she tugs the blanket snug around her body before reaching over to the stack of books on her nightstand.

  I pull on my boots and lace them up enough so I won’t trip on my walk back to the venue.

  “Here you go.” She hands me a receipt.

  On the back side of the small paper are ten digits I intend on memorizing by the next time we meet. I fold it and tuck it into my pocket. “Thanks.” Shit. I hate this. Why does it hurt so much to walk away from this woman? We’ve known each other for less than twenty-four hours. I’ve had hook-ups before. They’re fun, and the good-byes are easy. Not like this.

  “I guess this is see you later.” I sit on the edge of the bed. Needing to touch her once more, I cup her jaw and tilt her gaze up to mine.

  Her eyes shine, as though she’s holding back tears. “Not good-bye?”

  I hope not. “How about, until we meet again?” I lean down to rest my forehead against hers.

  “I like that.” She presses her lips to mine, stealing a sweet kiss. “Later, Wild.”

  “Later, Simone.” I give her one last look then walk away, forcing my feet to move, even though everything in my body says to stay. Panic claws up my throat and my gut twists. I pray to God I’m not turning my back on the best thing to happen to me. But I have to go. This was only one night, and I’m not done chasing my dreams. I was born to make music. She’s got a degree to finish. There’s no future for us—not now. If it’s meant to be, we’ll find a way back to each other. I trust that the universe will make it happen. I hold on to that belief because it’s the only way I can walk away. Until then.

  • • •

  I hope you’ve enjoyed this prequel to Wild Love. Simone and Wilder’s full-length story is coming soon but until then, catch up with more of Kacey Shea’s rock stars in the Off Track Records series. Start with DETOUR now available in ebook, audio, and print!

  http://mybook.to/detourOTR

  Humor, Heat, & Happily Ever Afters

  Kacey Shea is a USA Today bestselling author of steamy contemporary romance. She enjoys writing strong and smart heroines, heroes with hearts of gold, and stories that deliver a satisfying, well-earned happily ever after.

  When she’s not writing you will find her playing Uber to one of her three children, drinking iced tea by the gallon, or planning her next escape from the Arizona heat.

  Kacey has a free book for all newsletter subscribers along with bonus epilogues for her most beloved novels.

  https://kaceysheabooks.com/newsletter-freebie

  a short story prequel to No Commitment

  ABOUT THE BOOK

  When Tyler Caldwell steps off the tour bus, I don’t recognize the boy I worked with a decade ago. He’s grown from a boy to a man. A hot, lean, sexy rock star of a man.

  A fierce attraction simmers between us, but my ex took both my dog and my confidence in the break-up.

  Will this be my night with a rock star?

  “You’re what?” I practically yell into the phone.

  “I’m trying to get a squirrel out of my house, Danielle,” my boss tells me. “You can do this. Have Christine take your position for the night and you take mine. I’ll do my best to get there tonight, but it’s more likely I’ll just see you tomorrow.” He cuts the call, and that’s that.

  I stare blankly at my phone for a second as I sit at my desk—early to work as usual—and contemplate what he just told me.

  Instead of the back of house supervisor position I’ve been working for two years as the assistant venue manager at a huge arena in Milwaukee, tonight I will be the actual venue manager.

  That means instead of operational supervision like checking up on my ushers, box office staff, and maintenance crew, I’ll be working with the band’s manager, providing hospitality, and maybe even working directly with members of the band.

  All because Patrick, my boss, somehow let a freaking squirrel into his house.

  Capital Kingsmen, the band headlining tonight, is set to arrive in two hours. The opening band will arrive in the next fifteen minutes.

  I’ve seen Patrick do it plenty of times, but I’m more the quiet, behind the scenes managing type, not the one who meets with the musical acts we’ve b
ooked to perform.

  We’re completely sold out tonight with a capacity of twenty thousand expected in attendance, so it would’ve been a busy night either way. But now I have the responsibility of ensuring the band is comfortable and all the riders in their contract are met, and that’s just never been my job. Hospitality I can handle, but I don’t even know how to deal with the technical stuff.

  And he wants me to call Christine from marketing, the woman who will be all too happy to step up and prove herself.

  The next thing you know, I’ll be out on my ass because Christine’s hair is blonder and her legs are longer and she’ll just waltz in and take my job out from under me all because of dumb Patrick and an even dumber squirrel.

  I huff that this is my life right now as I pull up Christine’s number, and I dial it before I lose my nerve.

  I will not let her take my job from me. I repeat that mantra a few times in my head before she answers.

  “I suppose an usher has a sore throat and you need me to cover?” she answers.

  God, she is just not my favorite person. “No,” I say, forcing the snide tone from my voice. “Actually Patrick is tied up and he needs me to step in as acting venue manager tonight. He asked me to call you to see if you’re available to work as my assistant manager.”

  “Guarantee I get to meet the band and I’ll do it,” she says.

  Capital Kingsmen is made up of four good looking guys. I’ve seen their pictures enough times over the last few months as I worked with the marketing materials for the summer season, and I get why she’d want to meet them. Some people get involved in this career because of their love for musical performances, and others get involved because they love chasing celebrities. Any guesses which one I am versus which one Christine is?

  “Fine,” I mutter.

  She squeak-squeals.

  “Be here in an hour,” I say, and I hang up. I pull up Alex’s number next. He’s Patrick’s right hand technical man.

  “I already heard from Patrick and I’m on my way,” he says instead of hello.

  I laugh. “Thanks, Alex. I owe you one.”

  “No, but Patrick does,” he says, and I can tell from his tone that he isn’t happy. “I had a date tonight.”

  “Bring her along. I’ll make sure she meets the band.” I think I have the actual power to do that.

  He’s thrilled and I’m already putting out fires. I’m practically made for this job.

  Except I’m totally not. I’m nervous as I meet the opening band, but everything goes smoothly. Their riders are basic—some towels, food, and beer.

  I take care of the crew, too, which is mostly standard requests. And then I read through the riders for Capital Kingsmen.

  They’ve listed the standard items plus some unusual requests. Black licorice bites in a bowl, chicken fingers with crispy French fries, a bottle of cheap scotch, and twelve lemons.

  Whatever. It’s my job tonight to get that stuff for them, not to judge them for it. Actually I already had Christine pick up the licorice, and she’s busy with the ushers now.

  My phone beeps with a text just as I’m emptying the bag of black licorice into a bowl, and a quick glance at my phone tells me the band is here.

  The openers were nice, and they took it all in stride that they weren’t meeting with Patrick, but they’re newbies. They’re not quite as famous as these guys.

  I’ll admit I’m more than a little nervous, but I’m also a professional. I can do this.

  I walk through the maze of hallways to get to the loading dock where artists enter and exit the arena. I’m holding a clipboard tight against my chest where my heart thumps nervously. I’m wearing casual jeans and a t-shirt since I didn’t really think I’d be meeting the band tonight.

  Their tour bus is already here and parked, but they haven’t gotten off just yet. As I wait for their manager to get off the bus and come talk to me since agents and managers are typically who Patrick deals with, I glance down at my clipboard. I’ve checked just about everything off the list I can for now.

  I hear the door to the bus open, and when I glance up, a single person gets off the bus and makes his way toward me. I’m pretty sure it’s a member of the band, not the manager, and I only know that because of those marketing materials. I probably should have studied these guys a little more closely. Maybe learned their names.

  And I would have if I’d have been given some warning. My nerves spike again.

  “I’m Tommy Stevenson,” he says, and I suppose I should know who that is.

  “Danielle Watson,” I say, holding out a hand.

  “Where’s Patrick?” he asks.

  “He had an emergency, so I’ll be taking care of you tonight.”

  His eyes flick down to my chest and back up again. “I’d love to have you take care of me tonight.” He offers a lazy grin, and God these rock stars are really just all the same, aren’t they? Like they can just flick their eyes wherever they want and women will drop their panties for them.

  I don’t let him fluster me, though, and thankfully I’m saved from awkwardness when the rest of the band descends the steps of the bus and starts walking toward us.

  And that’s when I hear it.

  “Dani Watson?”

  No one has called me Dani in the last six years. Maybe longer.

  I glance up and my eyes meet semi-familiar ones, but the rest of him doesn’t match the memories I have of those eyes. I’d remember someone who looked like that. From this distance, his eyes are dark. He has dark hair, a little bit of sexy scruff on a strong jawline, and tattoos snaking down powerful arms. “Do I know you?”

  He chuckles, and then he sings three words of a slogan that take me back nearly ten years. “Guacamole, fajitas, chips.”

  “The salsa makes me do backflips!” I finish, and the other members of the band stare at us like we’re dorks.

  “Tyler Caldwell,” he says, pointing to his chest.

  We worked together at Carne’s, a chain restaurant in Los Angeles where I hail from...so it is him.

  And wow, he’s aged nicely.

  My jaw falls open. “Tyler Caldwell?” I repeat. “But you were a skinny band nerd!”

  A skinny band nerd who, by the way, bussed tables at Carne’s and passed by the hostess stand twelve times every hour just to ask me out.

  I always said the same thing. “Ask me later.”

  I figured he was just doing it to be funny. We were friends. Close friends, and admittedly I had a little bit of a crush on him at the time. I honestly thought he was just teasing me every time he asked me out, and so I told him to ask me later. That way it was never an actual rejection.

  We hung out after work in a group with the other bussers and hostesses around our age. We snuck shots from the bottles behind the bar when our boss wasn’t looking and we nabbed French fries from plates before they were served to our guests.

  But if I’d have known he’d grow up to look like he does now...maybe I would’ve taken his advances more seriously.

  He closes the gap between us to give me a hug, and while it should just be two old friends sharing a hug, something lights up inside me when I breathe him in. He smells good—clean and fresh—but it’s something more.

  He tilts my entire world on its axis for a second.

  A sharp, dull ache presses between my thighs, so sharp that I actually gasp a little at his touch.

  Whoa. I don’t even know where that came from.

  I always liked Tyler back in the day, but I never felt like that around him. Apparently just a hug from a hot guy can do that to me now.

  I haven’t felt this way since Nate and I first started dating...well, come to think of it, maybe not even then. Nate and I dated for six months before we got engaged, and then we broke up three years later, a month before we were supposed to get married.

  And I haven’t been with anybody since the last time I slept with him over a year ago.

  The four men standing across from me all laugh,
Tyler included. He shrugs once he pulls out of our hug, and I still feel a little dazed by it all. Especially up a little closer, where his eyes aren’t so dark anymore and they look more familiar. Green and clear, like they can see right through me.

  Wow.

  “I’m still a band nerd, but I started working out in my early twenties.”

  “And you’re a member of Capital Kingsmen now?” I surmise, doing my best to hang onto my cool. I remember him always talking about his band, but it didn’t go by that name. He went off to college, and I started dating my first real boyfriend, and we just sort of lost touch.

  He nods. “We went by Dust to Dust back then.” His brows wrinkle. “How’d you end up in Milwaukee?”

  I laugh. “Long story that involves a dog and an ex-boyfriend.”

  The other members of the band are watching us like a tennis match. “Man, we have a lot of catching up to do.”

  I smile, and as much as I want to stand here and catch up with a total blast from the past who I’d like to see blasting into my future, too, I have a job to do. “First we need to get the four of you situated. Follow me.”

  Tyler leads the pack and walks beside me rather than trailing behind me. “What kind of dog?”

  I glance over at him with my brows down in confusion.

  “That brought you to Milwaukee, I mean. You just never seemed like the kind of girl who’d want to leave California.”

  “I wasn’t,” I admit. “And it was a Jack Russel Terrier.”

  “Was?” he asks, and I nod. “I’m sorry.”

  “He’s still alive,” I say. “But my stupid ex got him in the break-up.”

  He chuckles. “Why didn’t you go back to California?”

  I hold my hands up to motion all around me.

  “This job?”

  I nod. “I love what I do, and jobs in the music industry are hard to come by, as I’m sure you know. But California has nearly seven times the population of Wisconsin, so that means getting a position like this would be about seven times harder if I went back home. Probably even worse odds than that. What about you? Are you still in LA?”