Copyright © 2020 by J.M. Stoneback
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons , living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Cover Design: Najla Qamber
Editor: Contagious Edits.
Proofreader: Gem’s Precise Proofing
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Title Page
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Books by J.M.
About the Author
Stalk Me
Sadie
Thump, thump, thump, thump.
My heart goes haywires in my chest and is ready to splatter against my ribcage.
Where is it?
Where is it?
Where is my fucking diary?
I yank the oak desk drawer open, pulling out paperwork. My skin burns. Burns to the point I want to rip off my sea-green romper and lacy bra and panties. Burns to the point that I want to rip my flesh off my bones. Anxiety chews on the inside of my gut. I’ve hated small, crowded rooms ever since I was a little girl, and this tiny room feels like I’m in a cramped closet. The pale white walls make my flesh crawl. I need to get the hell out of here, but I need to find my diary. It has everything in it. A list of sex poems I wrote.
My bucket lists.
Events that are supposed to happen in the next month or so.
My diary is one of the most important things in my life. People rely on their phones and tablets for everything, but I’m old-fashioned and rely on pen and paper. My life is crammed in that little dairy. It went missing in action right after my meeting with The Wakening of Gods, a band I’m currently managing.
We’re at the State Farm Stadium in Atlanta, Georgia for their last performance. I’ve been on tour with The Wakening of Gods for three months. Three months of babysitting a bunch of grown men who act like children that can drive you to pop a Xanax. After I finish managing them, hopefully, my dad will see all the hard work that I’ve been putting into this company and make me CEO of Sacrifice Records. I’ve been gunning for it since I graduated with my business degree from Harvard last year. Sacrifice Records is one of the top labels in the United States. My great grandfather started this business, so it’s been passed down from generation to generation. My dad is ruthless and cutthroat as the CEO, just like the music industry. He’ll be stepping down in the next couple of months for retirement, and hopefully, he won’t give the position to my brother.
I move to the next empty drawer, then I bend down on all fours. My romper rides up my ass cheeks as my curly jet-black hair falls over my shoulders.
“No, no, no, no. It has to be here. It’s the only place I had it.” My words bounce off the wall. I crawl on the gray tiles, to the indigo couch tucked away in the far corner, getting my hands and knees dirty. I’m greeted with dust mites, a few used condoms, chewed bubble gum that stuck to the floor.
Gross. I’ll just have to buy another diary. I hope no one has read it because I wrote some filthy things in there.
“You keep bending over like that in front of me, you’ll find yourself fucked against the floor, Thumbelina.” A deep smoky tone threatens the air and his words are little ants marching up my spine.
My heart skips a beat like a rock skipping over a pond, and my nipples harden against my bra. I hurry up and get off the grainy floor and stand face to face with the man of my wet dreams.
Felix Sawyer is the drummer and he’s known for his awesome solo performances. He’s known as the broken god, and he’s broken as a shattered glass. That fire-breathing ex of his did a number on his heart by sleeping with his ex-manager. I don’t know the full story, but the tabloids and gossip blogs made a mockery of the incident, and I never asked him about it. Because I don’t ask people about their business if I don’t know them personally.
Once the world sees a flaw in celebrities, they treat them the way Cinderella was treated by her evil step-sisters—with cruelty and abuse. People can’t handle their gods having human traits.
I love, love, love their music. Angry and sad. Dark and cold.
This guy is walking lubricant. His eyes are the color of mud and deep, deep, deep, as a bottomless pit, but they’re hard, lethal, dangerous. And his cheekbones are sharp. So sharp that you can hone a blade on it. His skin is smooth as stone and the color of golden sand. A few strands of his copper hair float in front of his forehead, and two nose rings glint in his nostrils. Tattoos written in Hebrew snake up to his right chest. He’s built like a Viking, thick muscles and tall as a skyscraper. Six foot five or six. Who knows? Either way, my five-foot-four frame wants to climb him like a tree. Every time I’m around him my stomach turns into goo. Felix is gorgeous as a thunderstorm. Beautiful from far away, but up close, he’s deadly, dangerous, and chaotic, sweeping women off their feet with his charm.
He yanks his stained white shirt over his head, and my gaze zeroes in on his chiseled abs. A delicious a line of hair rails down to his jeans that hang so low on his narrow hips, that fine strands of pubic hair peek above his jeans.
My breath is unsteady as ocean waves and my throat is drier than a desert.
Damn. You think I would have gotten used to seeing his body while I was on tour with him, but every time I lay my hungry eyes on him, his body looks more delicious.
“Have you seen my diary?” My words come out shakier than an earthquake, and I cross my right Greek sandal across my other.
He swaggers to his black backpack that’s next to the dresser, swaps his stained shirt for a clean white t-shirt, and pulls it over his head. “It has Ariel, The Little Mermaid on it.”
If he read it then my life is over with.
I’ve written sex poems about him.
I’ve written sex fantasies of him taking my virginity.
We aren’t friends and we aren’t enemies. He’s spoken to me to tell me how beautiful I am and how good I would look riding his dick. And I bet my life savings—thirty million dollars, to be exact—that he tells every groupie he comes across that. That’s how our relationship rolls. Felix is the biggest flirt. He’d flirt a nun out of her clothes before she realized it, and she’d be standing there asking what happened. And for that reason alone, I don’t take what he says serious. He’s the most dangerous man to the women’s population because he knows how sexy he is. And he uses it to his advantage. When we were on tour, he brought a few groupies to his hotel room. And my dumb heart raged with jealousy. But I have no right to be jealous, because his bed is always warm for me. Every week, he asks me to spend the night in his hotel room and every time, I use my pride as a shield to turn him down.
His facial expression is calm as an autumn night, and I want to bathe in his calmness, so I can get rid of my anxiety. He steps closer as he stares into my eyes like he knows my heart and soul.
Like he knows my secrets.
I drown in the depths of his eyes.
Felix was bro
ught up in wealth. But unlike any rich person I’ve met, he doesn’t flaunt it, nor dress like it. He’s a chameleon, blending in with the middle and lower class while his father owns half of Atlanta’s real estate. My parents bought their manor from him a few years back. Felix is a mystery, and moody and broody at times. Maybe that’s why I want him. Out of all his bandmates, he’s the nicest. In fact, he’s the glue that keeps them together.
I need to find that diary fast.
“Why would it be in here?” He lifts his thick eyebrow, his mouth twitches, and he folds his arms across his chest.
I lean against the dresser, twisting my expensive watch around my wrist. He turns me into a puddle of lust and ball of jitters at the same time. “It was the last place I saw it when we had a meeting earlier.”
His cologne invades my nostrils. He’s smells like sap from pine tree.
“It’s rude to go through people’s shit.” His words fire at me, and guilt coils in my stomach like a snake. His eyes sweep over my legs, then my breasts, then back to my eyes. Lust burns so much in his eyes that it can melt down this whole arena. He’s every bit of a lion ready to pounce on his prey
I’m not ugly. I’m beautiful. My mother used to tell me when I was growing up that I was blessed with such beauty to kill off the male population.
My eyes are the same color as coal, and I have toned legs thanks to my workouts, four times a week. I’m fun-sized, and my skin is smooth and ivory.
We stare at each other as if we’re two warriors holding up our shields, ready for war.
“I wasn’t going through your stuff. I was backtracking my steps.”
I glance down at my watch. “You have to be on stage in ten minutes. Chop, chop.” I snap my fingers. “You don’t want to piss off your fans.” My tone is light as a feather.
Then I tug on his rock-hard bicep and avoid eye contact, not letting him see the excitement glinting in my eyes. Goosebumps make their debut onto my arms as my head feels lighter than a balloon. I look forward to watching them perform; their performances stir deep emotions inside me and tug at my gut so that I’ve teared up a few times. And I’m not much of a crier, either.
“Whoa, hold your horses, Thumbelina.” His smile brightens up the room and steals the breath out of my chest. His smile is cool drops of rain licking my heated skin. “Meet me at my house tonight. So I can lick your clit until you’re screaming my name.” His words touch me in places that I want him to caress.
“Not happening.” I shake my head and chew on the end of my index finger, smearing red lipstick on my finger.
I’m not in the business to lose my virginity right now, I’m too focused on becoming CEO of my dad’s company, and Felix would be a distraction. A sexy, delicious, distraction I don’t need.
He gives me a shit-eating grin and his eyebrows draw together, hooking his finger on my belt loot. “Are you sure about that?”
“Absolutely.” My confidence is faker than breasts implants.
He showcases his panty-dropping smirk. “We’ll see.”
“Arrogant doesn’t look good on you.”
I roll my eyes so hard they might fall out of their sockets. With my hand still glued to his hard bicep, I give it a light squeeze because I love the way the hardness feels under my fingers. The most attractive part on a man is his arms.
He tilts his head to the side. “Playing hard to get doesn’t suit you. You think I don’t notice the fire that burns between us. The burning need to rip each other’s clothes off and fuck each other until we’re out of breath. You’re hot for me.”
My cheeks burn and heat spreads across my face like wildfire.
He pulls my belt loop and my body crashes to his hard chest. Excitement jolts through me. And I want to lie my head on his chest and wrap my arms around his waist. He gazes down to my lips then he bites his. My chest clenches and my panties are damper than the Chattahoochee River. How can he make a simple lip bite so sexy?
“You’re hot, Felix. Every woman with a pulse knows you are. Ninety-nine-point nine percent of the women’s population wants to fuck you.” My tone comes out matter of fact. And the corner of his lips curls up into a gigantic smile. Dimples dig into his cheeks making him look boyish.
He let’s go of my belt loot and we leave the tiny room and I exhale loudly. If I stayed in that room, I would’ve passed out. We rush past the security and technical team and make it to the stairs that’s connects to the stage. He rushes past me, swaggering across the stage as thousands of people chant. Gods. Gods. Gods.
I stand by the black curtains witnessing women screaming at the top of their lungs with tears in their eyes, throwing their panties on the stage. Others hold poster signs in remembrance of their late band member Natasha Cohen. Cameras click and flash. People holds their phones in the air wanting to hold the performance in their hearts forever.
Felix hits his sticks on the drums. The rest of the band plays their instruments as Easton’s god-like voice booms through the mike and the fans lose their shit. And butterflies bloom in my stomach and my soul is lifted off the ground as the dark music vibrates through my bones.
The Wakening of Gods gives their fans what they want.
Making love to them with their words.
Inking their words into their souls.
Being the rock gods that they are.
Felix
It’s the same shit, different day. We’re having band practice in Easton’s basement. Easton sings through the mike. And Aurora, Azrael and I play our instruments like it’s the last time we’ll do it.
I slam on the drums hard as the rhythm vibrates through my blood and syncs with my heart.
But for some reason I can’t concentrate because I have my mind set on a five-foot-four that’s more sassy than Regina George from Mean Girls. Sadie Bennett. She’s more beautiful than a rare painting that catches every freckle. Those almond eyes, soft supple pink lips, ivory creamy skin tone, and very curvy body can bring a man down to their knees.
I’m a liar, hypocrite, and thief. I own those titles fair and square. I stole Sadie’s journal.
As soon as she went to the bathroom during the meeting, I snatched that shit and tossed it in my bag. I’ve been wanting her since she signed up to be our manager seven months ago. Since my schedule is crazy, I need a warm hole to park my dick in until my next tour starts, and Sadie is the perfect candidate. She isn’t like most women that wear their emotions on their sleeves, and she doesn’t get emotionally attached to people. She’s too obsessed with her dad’s business which is A-OK in my book.
I’m not like Easton, the band leader, who has to cramp my dick in everything that has a pussy, and I’m not like Azrael who likes to fuck with women’s emotions. Because a) I want my dick disease-free and b) It’s not right to treat women like shit.
My morals are more questionable than the OJ Simpson murder case but my conscience, well, has its own brain and wants to do whatever the fuck it wants.
I wanted to know what Sadie’s thoughts were.
I wanted to know what’s in that brilliant mind of hers. I appreciate women who are smart so that they can challenge me. And not the airhead groupies that want to get a taste of my dick so they can brag to their airhead friends.
So last night, when I got home, I read the first half of her diary. I read her thoughts on fashion and global shit. You know, chick’s shit.
I read her filthy thoughts about me. The ones where she wrote about taking my cock in her mouth, coming down her throat. Or how she wanted me to slide my dick in her ass and come on her tits. Sadie is a filthy girl. As a woman that comes off assertive, outgoing, and sassy, I didn’t think she was a virgin. And fuck, she wants me to pop her cherry. Knowing that she hasn’t been with anyone else makes my dick harder than metal.
Normally, I don’t do virgins. Most of them want more, they want someone they can be in a serious relationship with. And right now, relationships look as appealing as watching granny porn.
But that’s what
Sadie would be to me, a dirty fuck. I don’t do relationships. Period. Ever since I caught my ex-girlfriend, Mae, on her knees sucking off my uncle, and ex-manager, Brody in the living room that we once shared. And instead of fighting for us. She went on and on about how he made her happy and gave her the attention that she deserves. Our relationship was more of a joke than the Jerry Springer show. I was publicly humiliated when the media got their greedy paws on the story. They twisted and dragged my life through the mud.
Fuck Brody. Fuck Mae. Fuck the media. In that order.
We finish the last song of the day from our current album, Love Defies Us. I rest my sticks on my lap. Easton has a band set-up, and when we are not on tour, we have practice here every Saturday. Stale chips permeate the air, and the floor is sticky like someone drenched the carpet in syrup. A torn and tattered red couch is across the room. Easton needs to get off his lazy ass and clean up the place. This basement has seen more ass than a strip club.
“This is the shittiest rehearsal ever,” Azrael says to me, and his tone is rough as sandpaper.
He sets down his guitar and removes the cigarette from his ear. He props it between his lips, lights it, and inhales the nicotine into his lungs likes it’s the best thing on the planet. Then he blows smoke through his nose and a cloud of white smoke fogs the air. He isn’t as ripped as me but he’s toned. His skin is mocha.
“The last two rounds sucked. My cat could have played a lot better than you.” Easton frowns at me. He hits the switch on the mike and places it back on the stand. He’s an evil bastard and a world-class dick. He makes Hitler look like a saint. He’s angry at everyone and everything and shits on anyone who gets in his way. His kind of anger makes him depressed.
I keep my facial expression blank and my shoulders tense. Fuck Easton for always expecting perfection out of people.
“Cut him some slack, Easton.” Aurora’s voice is softer than fine silk, and she shakes her head so hard that I think it’ll snap from her neck. “What mood are we gonna get today? The crazy one? The broody one? Or the angry one?” She tucks her pink guitar behind her back and grabs her pink skateboard, decorated in Tokidoki stickers, from next to her book bag, tucking it under her arm.
Love Defies Us Page 1