“Have you heard from your dad?” Owen asked Adam.
“Yeah. He bitched me out on the phone less than an hour ago.”
“Still in the hospital?”
Adam nodded. “And apparently they don’t subscribe to his favorite TV channel.”
“Well, fuck, Adam, you don’t expect him to watch the Disney Channel, do you?” Owen said.
“That’s the channel he was bitching about. Can’t miss Hannah Montana.”
Owen jerked back in surprise. “No shit?”
“Shit no,” Adam said. “I swear, Owen Mitchell is a synonym for gullible.”
“Adam Taylor is a synonym for asshole,” Owen countered.
“Gabriel Banner is a synonym for let’s get the fuck on the stage,” Gabe said. “Isn’t it already after nine?”
Owen turned to watch the crew standing around a bank of amplifiers on the stage. The head of their road crew, Jack, was squeezed behind the sound equipment, wiggling wires and garbling swear words around the penlight he held between his teeth. Owen moved closer and waved down one of the onlookers.
“What’s the hold-up?” he asked.
“One of the new guys caught a cord with his foot and loosened some cables. Jack is fixing it.”
“And he needs an audience? None of you has anything better to do five minutes after the show was supposed to start?”
The group scattered. In his earpiece, Owen heard Cash, their soundboard operator, say, “That’s got it, Jack. Owen, we’re ready when you are.”
Owen was always ready to be on stage. He loved that he got to start every show—a few precious seconds to have twelve thousand screaming fans all to himself. Not many bassists got to stand in the limelight.
He gave the rest of the band the thumbs-up to let them know he was starting and took the steps up to the edge of the stage. In the near darkness, Gabe hurried to settle behind his massive drum kit, careful not to make a sound by bumping a cymbal with those long limbs of his. As soon as he collected his sticks, Owen began his bass riff. The crowd roared and whistled as the first sound thrummed. The curtain dropped and a blinding white light lit Owen from above as he sauntered across the stage playing the repetitive bass line of “Darker.” He gave no indication that a surge of adrenaline had his heart galloping a mile a minute as he slowly made his way toward center stage. Owen lived for this shit. He couldn’t believe this was his job. For the rest of his life, Owen would worship at the altar of rock god Kellen Jamison for sending him down the path of wickedness. Kelly had been the one who’d forced Owen to learn to play guitar in an effort to get him laid in high school. It hadn’t worked then—chubby bassists didn’t get the girls—but it worked like a charm now.
The crowd got louder and louder as Owen pretended to ignore them. When he reached his target—a white X taped at the exact center of the stage floor—Gabe entered the song with a wickedly rapid drum progression. Owen pivoted, beamed a smile at the crowd, and dashed toward the audience as the rest of the band entered the stage and the song.
The entire band was pumped tonight, which guaranteed an amazing performance. Shade was in a great mood and joked around with the audience and with Adam. The pair had talked out some of their problems that morning, but Owen had had no idea that a simple conversation would make such a noticeable difference in the feel of the show. Owen and Kelly always had a great time onstage; they were completely relaxed in each other’s company and loved hamming it up for the crowd. Shade and Adam, on the other hand, had spent the last couple of years acting as if they were at war with one another both onstage and off. Owen couldn’t believe how much the atmosphere had changed overnight.
Between “Going Down” and “Heaven to Pay,” Owen slipped into the wings and grabbed a bottle of water from a roadie. He chugged the cool fluid while Shade told the crowd a story about their lead guitarist falling off the stage in New Jersey.
“Face planted right on the cement,” Shade said, slapping one palm against the other. “Wham!”
“It wasn’t funny,” Adam said. “I almost broke my neck.” But he didn’t sound angry about Shade’s teasing.
Owen was grateful Adam had regained his sense of humor. His short fuse was a liability.
“Luckily, I was drunk enough that I didn’t feel a thing,” Adam said.
“Until the next morning,” Shade said.
“I can’t believe how well they’re getting along,” Kelly said to Owen as he sipped from his water bottle. “Calm before the storm?”
“Maybe. I keep waiting for one or the other to explode.”
“Shade’s been acting happy all day,” Jack said. “It’s just not right.” He took the empty water bottles from Owen and Kelly.
“You can blame that on his bedmate last night,” Owen said, grinning. “She must have a magic vagina.”
“I don’t care if it shoots glitter and rainbows,” Kelly said. “That relationship can only end in disaster. We’d better enjoy this while it lasts.”
As the pair returned to the front of the stage, Shade asked, “Did you have a nice break?”
“No,” Owen said. Shade’s microphone was close enough that it picked up his words and they were broadcast through the stadium. “I was hoping the clear stuff in my bottle was vodka, but it was only water.”
“Mine had vodka,” Kelly said. “The crew has seen you drunk, Tags. Not something they want to see again.”
“I’m a fun drunk,” Owen said. “Everyone loves to hang around when I’m drunk.”
“Yeah,” Kelly said, “everyone who wears a skirt and wants it up around their waist while you go down loves to hang around when you’re drunk.” He rolled his eyes.
Feminine approval roared from the crowd.
“If it bothers you so much, stop wearing skirts, Cuff,” Owen said.
The crowd’s laughter egged them on.
“It’s called a kilt. And how else am I supposed to show off my legs?” Kelly asked.
“Kilts don’t come in floral patterns.”
“Okay,” Shade said, “that’s enough out of you two. This isn’t open mic night.”
“These people came to hear music, not your lame jokes,” Adam said.
Since Gabe didn’t have a live mic, he played a mini drum solo to enter his opinion on the matter. Owen and Kelly kept their jokes to themselves for the remainder of the show, but they still managed to have fun.
And the crowd responded, stomping on the floor and thrusting their fists into the air.
“I’m heading for the shower,” Owen said after the encore. He handed off his bass to one of the road crew and looked at Kelly expectantly.
“I’ll join you,” Kelly said. “I’m drenched.”
“Last chance for you pussy-whipped disgraces to join us tonight at Tony’s new club,” Owen said, looking to his other three band mates.
“Not happening, Owen,” Shade said. “Have a good time.”
“I’ll have a good enough time for the three of you,” Owen said. He glanced at Kelly, knowing he probably wouldn’t utilize the club to its fullest capabilities. “For all five of us,” he said under his breath. He vowed never to fall hard for a woman. Monogamy. Where was the fun in that?
A pair of hands appeared over Shade’s sunglasses. “Guess who,” a soft, sultry voice said from behind him.
Shade’s hands reached back and began to explore the feminine body at his back. “I know these tits,” he said, a huge smile stretching across his face.
“Are you sure?”
Owen cocked his head to the side, and his suspicions were validated. What in the fuck was she doing here? Amanda made Shade happy—hell, that was obvious. But she was trouble for him. Big trouble.
“Yeah,” Shade said. “It’s been ages, Pamela. Are you ready for another musician to rock your bed?”
Amanda grabbed his nose and twisted.
“Ow! Amanda, I was only joking.”
“You knew it was me?”
“Of course I knew it was you. Pamela’s
tits are enormous, and yours are massive, at best.”
She scowled at her ample bust. “Maybe I’ll get them enlarged,” she said.
“Don’t go messing with perfection, babe.”
She looked up at him. “You’re not surprised I came?”
“You came already? Geez, all I did was fondle your tits a little.”
Owen chuckled. God, he’d missed this Shade—the guy who smiled and joked and didn’t look as if a perpetual doom cloud was tailing him.
Amanda slapped Shade, but was unable to hide her grin. This sister was so much easier to get along with than the one Shade had married the first go round. But, yep, still trouble.
“Or,” Shade said, “do you mean I’m not surprised that you couldn’t wait until Saturday to see me again? Or that you’d drive almost five hours just to get in my pants? Nope. Not surprised.”
“Ugh,” she groaned. “I forgot how big your ego gets after a show.”
“It’s not the only thing that gets big.”
She wiggled her eyebrows at him. “I hope you’re planning to show me that other big thing.”
Shade turned and grabbed her, hauling her against his body. He whispered something in her ear, and she nodded eagerly.
“Owen.” Kelly snapped his fingers in Owen’s face. “The limo is waiting for us. If you want a shower, you’d better stop gawking at the happy couple and get your ass to the dressing room.”
He couldn’t help but gawk. Train wrecks waiting to happen were mesmerizing.
Owen hurried through his shower, keeping his eyes diverted from Kelly’s naked body. Especially when Kelly placed one hand on the shower wall and used his free hand to thoroughly lather his cock. Lucky cock. Owen stuck his head under the shower head, shut his eyes, and let the water flood his face. Worrying about Kelly’s neglected dick was bizarre—Owen knew that. He should concentrate more on his own fifth appendage, which was half hard in anticipation of seeking a new conquest at the club tonight. Or something.
“Remember when we used to see who could jerk one out the fastest?” Owen said, soaping his own cock now.
Kelly chuckled. “God, we were immature,” he said.
“Um, yeah, immature.”
Owen hurried to rinse the soap from his body. He then shut off the water and found his clothes. Before he slid into his boxer briefs, he switched out the metallic balls in his centered dydoe piercing to a larger, mismatched set. He found the . . . what had Adam called it—the monstrosity in his junk—gave both himself and his partner the greatest thrill if the balls were of different sizes. He absolutely loved the reaction that little piece of jewelry got from the ladies the first time they saw it. And loved it even more the first time they experienced it inside them.
Grinning in anticipation, Owen dressed in all black, but not the typical jeans and T-shirt he usually wore. He slipped into a pair of tailored slacks and a button-down shirt. He did wear his Converse though, because they were the only shoes he ever wore. His tattoos all concealed beneath his clothes, he decided to play down his rocker image. He removed his lip piercing and the barbells in his nipples, but left the half-inch black plugs in his ears since when he went without jewelry, the holes were even more noticeable. He fingered the hoop in his eyebrow and decided to leave it in as well. The piercing had never healed right, so he had a hard time getting the ring back in the hole if he took it out.
“All black tonight? If you had a cape, you could be a vampire,” Kelly said, using his towel to dry his long hair instead of using it to conceal his body.
“Black is slimming.”
“You’re not fat any more, Owen.”
“I know.” Owen ran a hand over his flat belly, making sure those rock hard abs he worked so hard to maintain hadn’t suddenly disappeared. Still there.
He added a touch of product to the ends of his damp hair, arranging the dark blond locks into disarray. “Hurry up, Kelly,” he said, suddenly eager to get to the club and fuck any woman who would have him.
“Keep your pants on,” Kelly said as drew a brush through his longish black hair.
“Hopefully, I won’t have to for long.”
Chapter Two
Caitlyn was going to screw every man in this club. That would show the insufferable bastard. She had trusted him, loved him, and picked his damned dirty underwear off the floor for twelve years. How could he do this to her? Her no-good, lying, son-of-a-bitch ex-husband had cheated on her with a freshman in his introductory English class. A nineteen-year-old. A baby. Then he’d had the audacity to file for divorce stating irreconcilable differences. Yeah, he wanted to put his dick in someone, and Caitlyn had an irreconcilable difference of opinion that it should be only her. The worst part was that because she made more money than the asshole, she had to pay alimony while he spent his summer off in Italy fucking that little tramp. How was that fair? How was that even legal?
Caitlyn was going to screw every man in this club twice. That’s what she’d told herself while she was purchasing sexy lingerie in the shop downstairs. What she’d told herself when she’d been changing into her new white lace nightie, thigh-high stockings, and four-inch heels. That’s what she told herself when she’d marched into the club and strutted—the best she could in these ridiculous shoes—across what might have been a dance floor if anyone had been dancing. But the other patrons were occupied with activities that made Caitlyn alternately gawk and avert her eyes. They were involved in things she hadn’t done in the privacy of her own bedroom, much less in public.
Yeah, she was about to go do some of that stuff herself. Lots of that stuff. And she would mentally give Charles the middle finger the entire time another man was stuffing her with his cock.
So why was she hiding in a secluded corner avoiding eye contact? And why were her knees knocking together?
She’d asked Jenna to bring her to the club. Asked Jenna to leave her here. By herself. Because Caitlyn had been afraid that she wouldn’t be able to open her thighs to a stranger and at the first sign of masculine interest, would have begged Jenna to take her home. That wouldn’t have done anything to hurt Charles. Not that she cared if she hurt him as much as he had hurt her—she doubted it was possible anyway. Word would get back to him that she’d come here, and she’d make damn sure he thought she’d participated in the orgy of her life. And that she’d loved every minute of it. Without him.
At least that had been her plan when she’d arrived.
But instead of participating in the overt sexual acts going on around her, Caitlyn observed. And tried not to feel like a coward and a loser and the most unattractive, undesirable, oldest woman in the place. Tried to pretend she was alone because she wanted to be, not because no one wanted her. Being here was not making her feel better about herself or empowered or even sexy. Why had she come?
Caitlyn had only ever slept with one man. Charles couldn’t claim he’d slept with only one woman. He couldn’t even claim he’d slept with only one woman when he’d been married. Would removing Charles’s claim over her body help her heart mend? She’d thought so at first, but now she wasn’t so sure.
Caitlyn watched yet another couple leave the main parlor to go to one of the private rooms in the back and then lowered her eyes to stare at her thumbs. The man had held the woman’s breast in his hand and had his other hand down her panties—teasing her, stroking her, making her moan—as if he couldn’t wait to take her, to touch her.
Caitlyn wanted someone to take her. To touch her.
God, how she wanted someone to touch her.
How long had it been since a man had found her irresistible?
Had a man ever found her irresistible? Yeah, Charles had once. When she’d been a freshman in his introductory English class. An innocent, trusting virgin. It seemed he didn’t find women over thirty attractive at all. Did anyone?
What did she have to do to feel sexy again? To feel wanted? Sitting in a frilly white negligée in the corner of a sex club staring at her thumbs wasn’t working so w
ell for her. Not the way she’d thought it would. She’d thought braving this place would make her feel confident. Attractive. Desirable. Instead she felt out of place and uncomfortable.
“Do you know what your problem is, beautiful?” a deep voice asked from the chair across the table from her.
She hadn’t realized anyone had sat down. “What?” she snapped.
“You’re much too pretty to give off such incredible men-suck vibes.”
She caught herself before she said, Men do suck. They suck shit-encrusted balls. But she’d have been lying. Not all men sucked. Charles sucked. But not all men did. She liked men. Most of the time. Most of her colleagues were men, and she got along just fine with them.
Caitlyn stared at a pair of dog tags resting against a black button-down shirt covering a man’s chest. Her heart thudded too fast for her to find the courage to actually meet his eyes. He’d called her beautiful. Pretty. Was this that masculine attention she’d both coveted and dreaded? She was pretty sure he was hitting on her. Wasn’t he? She’d never dated much before she’d gotten married. She wasn’t sure how this worked.
Oh God, what was she doing here? If she made eye contact would he expect her to have sex with him? Could she go through with this? “You’re very perceptive,” she managed to say.
“I was wondering why the most attractive woman in the room was sitting by herself in a corner. I thought maybe the possessive, hot-tempered, black-belt martial artist you were with was in the bathroom or something, but I watched you for a while and figured out why you’re not surrounded by admirers. It’s those men-suck vibes you’re giving off.”
“So why didn’t they scare you away?” She lifted her eyes, and her breath caught. Not only was he the most gorgeous man she’d ever laid eyes on, he was young—in his midtwenties. His dark blond hair was lightly gelled into a devil-may-care style that matched the twinkle in his blue eyes. Those eyes were a mesmerizing contrast to the warm tanned hue of his skin. A small hoop pierced one eyebrow, and he wore round cylinders in both earlobes—plugs or whatever they were called. She’d have thought he was an actor or a model if not for those accessories marring his otherwise perfect features.
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