DOUBLE TREBLE (A TWIN ROCKSTAR ROMANCE)

by Nikki Wild

“Are you okay, Liam?” Ian asked me. I looked over at him and saw the concern filling his eyes.

  “I’m fine, brother. You aren’t getting rid of me this easy.”

  “I don’t want to get rid of you, you bastard,” he said, his eyes shining with tears.

  “Of course you don’t - you’d never find another singer like me.”

  “I’d never find another brother like you,” he said. He reached down, hugging me hard.

  “I’m calling an ambulance,” he said, standing up and looking down at Callum laying beside me.

  “He’s not even worth killing,” he muttered, as he walked away. When I looked back at Catherine, my heart swelled with love.

  “Are you sure you’re okay? I couldn’t bear it if you were hurt,” I said, looking her over. My heart was racing with worry.

  She nodded, shivering. I pulled her close, as best as I could with my bloody shoulder, the urge to wrap my arms around her protectively overwhelming.

  “I’m never letting you go again,” I whispered, as she kissed me again.

  “Promise?” she asked.

  “I love you, Catherine,” I said, peering down into her bright green eyes.

  “I love you too,” she whispered. I kissed her again, relief flooding my limbs now that I had her safely in my arms.

  Chapter 41

  One Month Later

  Catherine and Liam lay in bed in Liam’s LA mansion, as Catherine read from the Rolling Stone article she’d written. They’d been holed up for a month, allowing time for Liam’s shoulder to heal.

  ‘Rock star. Bad Boy. Troublemaker. Rebel. Liam Mercury is more than the usual labels placed on him. Liam Mercury is an enigma. Just when you think you’ve got him all figured out, he shows you a side of him that you haven’t seen. That’s what happened to me, when I was assigned the pleasure of spending a week tagging along with the insanely handsome and brutally sexy god of rock during the last leg of his band’s American tour.”

  “You think I’m insanely handsome and brutally sexy?” Liam said, interrupted her.

  “Sometimes,” Catherine replied. “Hush!”

  ‘The week would prove to be the single most adventurous week of my life, and as much as I would like to say it didn’t change me, it did. And, surprisingly, I think it changed Liam, too.”

  “Changed the size of my cock, that’s for sure,” Liam quipped. “In fact, I think it’s growing again right now, luv!”

  “Stop it! Shall I stop reading?” Catherine said, her voice filled with laughter.

  “No, no, go on!”

  “Full disclosure to readers: this journalist fell in love with Liam during this week and this article is entirely biased, but the events told are factual.”

  “You included a disclosure?” Liam asked.

  “Yes, I had to, it’s only ethical,” she replied.

  “The events of the week unfolded into a perfect storm that ended in embezzlement, kidnapping, a violent stand-off, and topped off with a brand-new number one hit song, co-written by Liam Mercury and myself, performed by the Electric Horses, that raised millions of dollars for The Lennon Foundation, Ian and Liam Mercury’s children’s cancer research charity that is now leading the nation in donations to help find a cure.”

  Liam grabbed the magazine from Catherine’s hand as she read.

  “Stop! I’m getting to the best part!” Catherine protested.

  “Unless you’re wrote about how skilled my cock is, I’m not interested in hearing about myself anymore!” Liam said, pulling Catherine into his arms and kissing her.

  After being subjected to Callum’s deranged lunacy, the two of them had come together and written a song while Liam spent a week in the hospital. The band recorded it quickly, the label releasing it immediately as a surprise single, and the world had eaten it up.

  It sold five million copies in the first day, and had gone on to sell millions every day since then. All the proceeds went to the charity, and they’d raised ten times the amount Callum had pissed away.

  After learning Callum had abused Ally, Liam was making sure he was prosecuted to the full extent of the law. He was looking forward to seeing Callum locked away for a very long time.

  “Wait, you have to at least skip to the end,” Catherine said, opening the magazine back up. “Read the last paragraph.”

  “Oh, alright, if it means I can get you naked faster.”

  “Just read!” she insisted.

  “Fine!”

  “After all was said and done, after my week was over, I’d learned new things about Liam, but also a few new things about myself. I learned that love finds a way, no matter how much you resist. I learned that no matter what life throws at you, it’s never what it seems. I learned that underneath the renegade exterior, there’s a softer side of Liam Mercury that most people never see. In spite of all the wild stories, the extravagant partying, the thousands of adoring fans, at the end of the day, Liam Mercury is just like the rest of us - a normal guy that’s going to be a father in about eight months.”

  “What!” Liam cried out excitedly.

  He looked over at Catherine, and saw her smiling eyes, tears running down her face as she nodded enthusiastically.

  “You’re pregnant?” he asked.

  “I am. I didn’t know how to tell you…”

  “I’m going to be a father?” he yelled.

  “Yes!” Catherine cried, as Liam’s lips crashed down on hers, his arms pulling her in tightly.

  “I can’t believe this,” he said, breaking away, his voice cracking with emotion.

  “I know it’s sudden, I know we just met, but I —-,”

  “But nothing! This is bloody fantastic, luv!”

  “You’re happy?”

  “Happy? I’m fuckin’ ecstatic!” His eyes lit up with excitement.

  “Wait here!” he said, leaving her alone on the bed and disappearing into his closet.

  “Liam, what are you doing?” Catherine called.

  “Just wait!”

  A moment later, he walked back in the bedroom and climbed back on the bed with her. He brought his hand from behind his back, and revealed a tiny black box. He opened it slowly, and the biggest, brightest, shiniest diamond she’d ever seen shined back at her.

  “What is that?” she squealed.

  “Catherine, luv, there’s only one thing in the whole world that could make this day better. Please say you’ll marry me.”

  “Yes!” she cried, as he jumped off the bed and picked her up, twirling her around in his arms, kissing her as best he could through the huge smile on their faces.

  “I love you, Catherine,” he whispered, setting her back down gently.

  “I love you, too,” she replied, her eyes shining with happiness.

  “Now, darling, be a good girl and drop those knickers…” he whispered.

  Keep going! You just finished ROCK HARD but I’ve still got several more special bonus surprises in store! Turn the page for Illicit Behavior. Keep going for my entire Saved by the Bad Boy series, and ONE MORE little special surprise!

  You are the reason I write.

  -Nikki Wild

  Thank you for supporting an independent author! Just for my naughty readers, my entire catalog is now FREE TO READ to anyone with a Kindle Unlimited subscription!

  Be sure to check out my entire naughty Nikki Wild catalog by clicking RIGHT HERE!

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  BONUS: Illicit Behavior

  A BAD BOY ROCKSTAR ROMANCE

  Copyright 2016, Nikki wild

  All Rights Reserved

  Thank you for supporting an independent author!

  My entire catal
og is now FREE TO READ to anyone with a Kindle Unlimited subscription!

  Be sure to check out my entire naughty Nikki Wild catalog by clicking RIGHT HERE!

  You might be interested to know that I offer a chance to be an ARC reader, special limited time discounts, new release notification, and FREE EXCLUSIVE CONTENT to anyone that subscribes to my Nikki Wild List! So go ahead, sign up is easy and I will NEVER send you spam or share your e-mail address with anyone.

  Sign up for the NIKKI WILD e-mail list by clicking RIGHT HERE!

  ILLICIT BEHAVIOR

  Trent

  “Dude! These groupies are totally ready to go!” My dreadlocked bastard of a bohemian guitarist laughed, splashing his bottle of beer in an arc.

  The two hot young girls wrapped around him cooed a chorus of flirtatious giggles. They must have been just barely eighteen, clad in tight, low-cut shirts that made their silky, angelic breasts practically burst out of the seams.

  Despite my lack of interest, I wasn’t about to rain on his parade. I lightly raised my own bottle of music festival beer to him, shaking my head.

  “You go on ahead, man. Not feelin’ it tonight.”

  No matter where we went, fans were throwing themselves at us – and my band-mates were always eager to take the free, willing pussy back to the bus for a fresh bang.

  In fact, my bassist and drummer were already back there now, getting their freak on with a few nameless groupies now.

  “Serious?” Waylon asked drunkenly.

  His limber playing hand slid under a skirt and along a tanned, tender ass, drawing a blush from the groupie’s cheeks. The sight made my cock almost twitch.

  Almost.

  “You sure you don’t want to try a piece of this Alabama ‘tang?” He pressed on. “Plenty to go around. I’m not greedy.”

  The groupie twosome puffed their chests and wiggled provocatively for me, giving me the deepest pair of sultry, lustful looks that they could muster.

  They looked cute.

  Cute, and too young to be acting like this.

  “Think I’m just gonna relax and ride the vibe,” I reaffirmed. “Go get your dick wet.”

  “If you say so!”

  “And ladies,” I continued, turning towards the girls, who settled down and looked at me almost fearfully. “Don’t keep him up all night. This guy needs to be shredding licks same time tomorrow.”

  They nodded respectfully, but Waylon jumped up to his feet, his dreads scattering around his face briefly.

  “Ain’t gonna happen. This train rides ‘til sunrise! Ain’t that right, ladies?”

  They chuckled with big, goofy hero-worshipping grins on their faces. He scooped them up against his sides, and soon they stumbled off towards the back of the after-party, heading for our bus.

  Joke’s on them, I thought to myself. Waylon’s a two-pump chump on a GOOD day.

  Truth of the matter was that I’d been in a funk. For the last few weeks, I had turned down sex left, right, and center from even the most flexible little minxes.

  A constant stream of the hottest goddamn chicks around went fucking wild for us on the regular.

  And why shouldn’t they?

  We weren’t just anybody.

  We were Trent Masters and the Whiplash, the hottest fucking rock band in America.

  On national radiowaves dominated by DJs making music off of laptops, mainstream child stars glammed up and given backing bands, and egotistical personalities lacking substance and spitting shit…we brought something better.

  Something harder.

  Something real.

  Something apparently sorely missed.

  Our latest album, Twelve Machines, was flying off the shelves across the country. The last two singles went platinum. Hell, talks of a Grammy nomination were already in the pipeline.

  I was on top of the fucking world.

  Or I should have felt like I was.

  But all I felt was empty inside, and even the quick fix of endless sex didn’t quell the tension.

  It was hard to think I was taking advantage of these girls when they grinded up against me at after-parties like this, always seeming so desperate to give my cock the old spit-shine.

  It just didn’t feel right.

  But… I couldn’t tell what I wanted instead.

  What I needed.

  I drank another swig from my bottle of beer, watching the other bands delight in the attention. We were in town for this badass music festival called the RipFest, and we’d shared the stage with some serious rock legends and decent upcoming talent.

  They were having fun. Even the older, crustier guys looked like they were having a blast, likely filled with enough drugs to bring down a Bull Rhino in its prime.

  It’s not like I wasn’t grateful… I was just… Lost.

  The constant attention was overwhelming – too much of a great fucking thing. I had to be careful about the shit I said, because rock stars were even closer to scandal in this day and age.

  Everything constantly recorded, rumors spread with the speed of a tweet and the snap of a camera on some girl’s iPhone.

  It was all about being careful and avoiding the wrong kind of spotlight. Blogs are eager for clicks, and the whole world is ready to tear you down to build an audience.

  I’d paid my dues.

  No more practicing in oily garages and filthy bars. No more struggling in hard labor and backbreaking jobs to make ends meet. I wasn’t going to let some little misstep tear me down.

  Despite the bullshit, the throne on this rising fucking star felt grand.

  But as the light grew brighter…the shadows only grew filthier. Despite all the fame, all the success, all the money and women and the fancy toys. I knew the truth.

  The world is a filthy place.

  And I am the reigning king of the filth.

  Angel

  Summoning every drop of charisma that I could find, I smiled and plunked down the glasses at the four-top bar table for the graying, slovenly bikers. I rattled off the orders as I sloshed the drinks in front of them in turn, each of them smiling grotesquely.

  “Four drafts: Bud, Bud, Miller Lite, and Abita. And four shots of Fireball, because why not,” I added mirthlessly.

  “Thanks, darlin’,” the closest biker chuckled, lifting his shot and suddenly grabbing a nice handful of my ass.

  I flinched and drew back from him, preserving my pride – and my job – by not responding poorly to the harassment.

  “Can I get you guys anything else?”

  It was less a question, and more a growl.

  “One other thing.”

  He dropped his menu on the ground, and looked at me expectantly.

  “Step onto that.”

  I was used to this by now, and I suppressed a heavy sigh and a filthy look. Instead, I stepped meaningfully onto the discarded menu.

  “We’ll take one of you,” he grinned.

  “You can’t have one of me.”

  “But darlin’, you’re on the menu!”

  They broke into riotous laughter, as if this was the cleverest fucking joke ever.

  It was pretty funny the first time someone did it to me. Months ago… People are less original than they think. I heard this one twice a week.

  “Looks like we’re fresh out,” I responded, scooping the menu off the floor and strolling away.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw their laughter die down, and they were looking at me with annoyance for not playing along.

  To hell with ‘em.

  To hell with everything about this stupid goddamn job.

  I hated working this ancient, decrepit dive bar. The money was just good enough to keep myself afloat, and bartending was fun enough, but not somewhere like this.

  If it wasn’t bikers, it was rednecks.

  If it wasn’t rednecks, it was thugs.

  If it wasn’t thugs…

  A shiver went up my spine. I didn’t like to think about that.

  Old Greg owned this p
lace, and he was a friendly enough guy. Hell, he’d been a godsend. A lifelong resident of this backwater little town, he was old enough to be my grandfather. His best patron was our sheriff – someone who turned a blind eye when I was brought onboard to tend bar at sixteen.

  At least that was no longer a problem. I’d turned eighteen pouring drinks.

  When it was slow and I was cleaning glasses or wiping surfaces, I dreamed of exactly what you’d think a bright, young girl who dream about in a place like this:

  Getting the hell out of Riverton.

  That was the name of this place. The town, not the bar. Well, the bar too, technically.

  Riverton Bar, in Riverton… On Riverton Avenue.

  Remember when I said people aren’t original?

  That applies to the friendly ones, too.

  Dropping the drink tray off at the stack, I passed back around the counter and checked on my other patrons – several working-class stragglers, downing cheap beer specials, an older fellow nursing a whiskey neat, and a few older crones sipping heavy martinis.

  Satisfied, I began taking stock of my liquors. I was gonna have to pop open a bottle of Crown soon, and we were still out of half our rum…

  While I checked things off on my clipboard, I noticed someone approaching the bar. I didn’t think much of it, and I continued my work for a moment. I was busy, and the shadow could see that.

  Whoever it was, he could wait a minute.

  Ticking a couple of more checks, I finally turned around to see the same biker from before – the jester of the group.

  Well, more like the leader, from the way the other bikers regarded him. He was leering at me for some reason, and I felt a pit deep in my stomach.

  “You forgot something,” he grumbled.

  “Sorry,” I answered, letting my tone demonstrate how unapologetic I really was. “My memory’s a bit fuzzy. What was it?”