Amped

by Teagan Kade

  A Bad Boy Rock Star Romance

  Teagan Kade

  * * * * *

  Published by Teagan Kade

  Edited by Sennah Tate

  Copyright © 2016 by Teagan Kade

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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  Also by Teagan Kade:

  DRILLED

  DIRTY BRAWLER

  WRECKED

  SLAMMED

  STROKER

  STRIKER

  THROTTLE

  ROYALLY WRONG

  HITCHED

  CHASING STORM

  DEDICATION

  To Mom. I know you’re reading this.

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  EPILOGUE

  Wrecked: A Bad Boy Outlaw Romance

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  EPILOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  SELENA

  Delaney Martinez leans close, her voice low and secretive even though there are hundreds of people in the studio and millions watching from home. “So, is there a man in your life at the moment?”

  I hate this question. God forbid I might actually want to talk about my music. I straighten my pants and smile. “Only Elvis.”

  “Your adorable Jack Russell Terrier, right?”

  By some TV witchcraft a shot of Elvis appears on the screen behind us. In it he’s managed to pull every article of clothing I had at the time out of my drawers. The room looks like it’s been hit by a laundry bomb.

  I smile at the scene. “He loves me unconditionally, he’s protective, active, cuddly, and the absolute cutest guy in the world.”

  Cue mass swooning from every female in the audience. Read: the entire audience. Truth is, Elvis was his dog. Every time I look at his paunchy little face, cute as it is, I’m reminded of what could have been. But I’ve moved on. We both have.

  Delaney claps her hands together, which means she’s about to reveal something. I look to the crowd. Here come your cars.

  Delaney is rocking pink satin on this special ‘pajama party’ edition of the Delaney Show. I’m doing my best to project sexy in my Elmo PJs, but it’s hard to pull off. “Cute, not sexy today, huh?” my stylist noted to my publicist, forever keen to push me towards the burgeoning tween market. I imagine most teens wouldn’t have a clue who Elmo is these days, too caught up Snapchatting or Kiking or sexting or whatever it is that’s hot these days.

  Delaney looks like she’s about to explode with giddiness. She stands and speaks to the audience. “Speaking of cute, let’s really get this party started with today’s surprise guest, a man who needs no introduction. Welcome, rising bad boy of rock and son of legendary Mason Barton, Mathew Barton!”

  Oh crap.

  For a moment I think this is all planned, but the look of shock on my publicist’s face tells me he had no idea about this. I try my best to strip the terror off my face as Mathew enters stage right wearing only silky boxers, black with skulls on them, his hard cut body on show, and boy do they love him. There isn’t a pair of dry panties in the house.

  I have to admit, for a ‘rock star’ he looks completely in his prime—tall, dark, and devilishly handsome. My head floods with memories, but now is not the time. Keep it under control, Sel.

  He makes his way up to the riser and kisses Delaney on the cheek. She playfully pinches his ass in return. He turns and holds his arms out, smiling that wicked, come-hither smile of his. I stand and smile myself as he pulls me into an embrace, his lips hot on my cheek, breath warm against the shell of my ear as he whispers, “No one makes Elmo look as sexy as you do, Sel.”

  He releases, leaving me a little flustered, and takes the seat to my right, lifting one leg up onto the other, his boxers ballooning out a touch.

  I steal a quick glance down. You better be wearing something under those boxers, but no, he’s not, because there is the whole chorizo, thankfully out of view of the cameras.

  I avert my eyes, slacken my collar. Why is it so damn hot in here?

  Delaney seats herself and leans in. “I understand you two know each other?”

  Of course you do.

  Mathew speaks first, just as casual as Mason was in front of the cameras. “We grew up together, yeah, listening to a lot of music. Selena’s still the most talented vocalist I know.”

  Cue more swooning.

  Delaney eyeballs me, her southern drawl in full swing. It hasn’t escaped me I’m the only Latina woman here. “Isn’t he just the sweetest, folks?”

  Smile. I turn to look at Mathew. He’s in his element. “That’s right. We had some fun times, didn’t we?”

  That’s an understatement.

  “We sure did,” he winks back.

  “Have you ever thought about working together,” Delaney continues, addressing the crowd now. “What do you say, people? Wouldn’t you absolutely buy the skunk out of that record?”

  The skunk? Who says that?

  Rapturous applause.

  Delaney shrugs her shoulders. “The people want it. Question is, are you two going to give it to them?”

  Time to sass this up a little. I cross my legs, lean back. “I’d have to check with my agent first. Mathew’s market might be a little” — I look down at his crotch — “small… compared to mine”.

  “Burn!” Delaney laughs, the crowd cackling along.

  Mathew reaches down and grabs himself. “Baby, there ain’t nothing small about me.”

  Delaney fans herself with her notes. “Whoa, who else thinks it’s getting seriously hot in here, huh?”

  More whooping. Soon bras will be shed. We may as well be at one Mason’s concerts.
>
  Delaney focuses on me. “Selena, you’re a rising star in the Latin music industry. You’re latest single, Inferno, is burning up the charts, no pun intended.” She gestures to Mat. “And Mathew, your band Masonite has just returned home from a sell-out world tour, so my question is, where to from here for the both of you?”

  We start to speak over each other in a completely unplanned, semi-awkward, semi-cute ‘no, you, no, you’ until I finally clear my throat and announce, “World domination, what else?”

  “And you, Mathew?” questions Delaney.

  He looks at me as he says it. “Onwards and upwards, emphasis on the up,” he says, popping the ‘P’.

  Delaney stands. “Selena Torres and Mathew Barton, everyone.”

  He’s still watching me as the applause goes on… and on, and on. Hell, maybe we really should release something together. Mat’s dad, Mason, would have approved. He played to us all the time as kids. I don’t think the guy ever went without a guitar in hand.

  I watch from my chair as Mat takes to the stage with his band and launches into their latest hit, aptly titled ‘Panty Dropper’. The crowd went wild for my single earlier, but they love him. He has all the energy of his father and more, a true passion for music that shines through in every syllable he sings… cheesy as the lyrics may be.

  I join in the applause as she slings off his guitar and exits the stage. The producer calls “We’re out,” and Delaney leans right over to me, whispering, “Mother of god the things I’d do to that boy if I was twenty years younger.”

  I try to bleach the image from my mind as I stand.

  “Thanks for agreeing to come on with such short notice, by the way,” Delaney continues. “You really pulled me out of a jam. You both did. I owe you one.”

  “Any time.” But I’m only half-listening, eyes trained on Mat.

  And so the prodigal son returns.

  *

  “Here she is.”

  I wrap my arms around myself as I approach Mat backstage. I’m surprised to see he’s with the third member of our little childhood gang, Rick Evans—Rick who’s now my agent, and boyfriend.

  “Selena Latina,” says Mat. “How’s it going? Rick and I were just catching up.”

  I come forward and Rick places his hand behind my back, pulling me into his side protectively. He kisses my cheek. Given the look on Mat’s face, he wasn’t expecting this at all.

  “Whoa,” he says. “You two are a thing now?”

  Rick holds me tighter, smiling down at me. “We are.”

  I can’t believe it. The three of us were inseparable as kids, the two boys from Beverly Hills and the poor Latina girl who tagged along with them twenty-four seven. We listened to so much music together I’m surprised I have any hearing left at all.

  “You look amazing,” compliments Mat, eyes running slickly up from my legs. “You always did.”

  “You haven’t aged badly yourself,” I reply, trying to keep my voice tempered.

  I feel Rick tighten beside me. He addresses Mat. “How was the tour?”

  Mat raises an eyebrow, lips pulling together. “Not bad. I don’t know about ‘sell out’, but it was,” he pauses. “Fun.” He looks to me at this last word, turning his attention back to Rick. “And you? What’s Tricky Ricky been up to?”

  Of the three of us, Rick was the only one who didn’t pursue a career as a musician. “Believe it or not,” he replies. “I’m an agent—Selena’s agent, actually.”

  Mat stands back a little further. “Get the fuck out of Detroit.”

  Rick presses his hand to his heart. “Scout’s honor.”

  Mat comes forward and claps him on the shoulder. “And a damn fine agent at that, I bet. Who’s up for a drink?”

  *

  I watch the boys standing at the bar. Talk about the luckiest two pairs of jeans in the world.

  I can’t remember the last time we were at this place. It must’ve been ten years ago, all of us with fake IDs and fake label clothing—not that Mat’s dad couldn’t afford it. But no, he wanted to teach his son the value of money. I had no objection. Even back when we were teenagers Mat could make anything look good.

  The boys return, Rick sitting next to me and placing down a mystery cocktail that looks like a cross between a cowboy and a Manhattan. I hold it up to the industrial lighting above. “And what is this?”

  Rick grins. “You don’t remember? Bar specialty—the Heart Breaker.”

  I lift my eyebrows and place the cocktail down. “Truth be told, I don’t remember a lot from those times.”

  Mat’s cradling a beer sitting opposite us. “I’m not surprised. You could drink us under the table even back then.”

  I continue to stare down into the cocktail. “Guess it runs in the family.”

  “How is your father?” questions Mat. He obviously doesn’t read the gossip mags.

  I lick my lips, Rick taking my hand and squeezing it. “He passed away. Liver disease.”

  Mat shakes his head, looking to Rick. “Shit. I really know how to start a party, don’t I?”

  I shrug. “Don’t worry about it. For an alcoholic he was a surprisingly good father. I owe him a lot.”

  Mat nods, raising his beer. “Don’t we all? To parents.”

  We clink glasses and drink.

  “How about you, Mat?” asks Rick. “Time to settle down and make babies?”

  Mat practically spits his beer out. “Whoa, easy, my friend. I’m not choosing picket fences yet, if that’s what you mean.”

  “What was it you used to say?” continues Rick. “You wanted to ‘fuck your way around the world’?”

  If Mat is embarrassed, he doesn’t show it, locking eyes on me. “I did, but as they say, there’s no place like home.”

  I clear my throat, the Heart Breaker’s heavy on the vodka and light on the ‘heart.’ “Speaking of, is it nice to be back?”

  Mat’s watching me with such intensity I’m expecting the air to combust between us. It hasn’t escaped Rick. He moves his hand to my thigh, holding it like a vice.

  Mat nods once. “It is.”

  I feel Rick’s phone vibrate against my leg. He takes it out, scrolling through the message. “Ah, shit. I’ve got to go, baby.”

  “Business?” I query.

  “Yeah, sorry.” He stands and puts his hand out. “Great to catch up, Mat. Sorry I couldn’t stay, but you look after my baby doll, you hear?”

  His baby doll? Rick never talks this like. Either he’s feeling threatened by Mat or he’s trying to impress me. I’m starting to think it might be the former.

  The two boys shake hands and Rick darts to the door. Whatever business it is, it must be pressing given his urgency to leave.

  Mat takes the opportunity to swing around the table and sit beside me. We watch a group of college kids dancing in the corner. “Please tell me we didn’t used to dance like that.”

  I pick up my glass again. “You’re implying we’re old. I don’t know about you, but I’m not looking at retirement homes just yet.”

  Mat takes a swig of his beer. It’s not local. It’s something foreign, exotic. “We always said we’d grow old together, the three of us in a home.”

  “We said a lot of things when we were younger.”

  He looks sideways at me. “You haven’t aged a day. You’re still the sexiest girl in the room.”

  The air starts to sizzle again over the thump thump of dance music. I don’t know why, but my heartbeat is keeping tempo.

  I press my thighs tight together, ignoring the sudden rave party that’s started up between them. You’re with Rick now. Remember that. “Flattery will get you everywhere.”

  He winks. “And it has… mostly.”

  “Mostly?”

  “Some things are, unfortunately, off limits.”

  Is he talking about me? I swallow. Drop that ego down a notch or two, Sel.

  I notice a table of men behind Mat. They’ve been looking over at us since we arrived. I know the l
ook. They’re either discussing who has the balls to approach me or what they’d do to me if we had five minutes alone. As I’ve seen online, some of these guys have very active imaginations. None of them will act on it, but you never know, which is why I’m glad Ari, my bodyguard, is sitting behind us—6.5ft. 270lb of black-suited, take-no-shit muscle.

  “Sel?”

  I snap back to Mat. “Sorry?”

  “I said, do you miss it, our get-togethers?”

  I run my finger around the sugared rim of my cocktail glass. “Of course. We had so much fun back then, didn’t we?”

  Mat seems surprised. “And you’re not having fun now? Hate to tell you, but you’re a superstar with a bank account to match. Either you’re not hanging around the right people or you’re simply overworked.”

  I laugh. “Probably a bit of both, and I’m as loaded as you think. Rick’s holding my royalties for now. He knows a good investment guy, says it will be better in the long run.”

  “You trust him?”

  “Rick?” I question. “Of course.”

  I look up to find one of the guys from the table behind Mat has manned up and made it over. He looks down at me with what I assume are fuck-me eyes but instead make him come across like Charles Manson. “Selena Torres, right?”

  I nod. “Right.”

  He puckers his lips. “How about a shot, on me?” His eyes run down into my cleavage. “Or maybe on you?”

  I note his friends watching eagerly. I stand and pull close to him, close enough to smell his cheap Abercrombie aftershave. “How about no?”

  His expression turns fast. “Bitch.”

  He barely whispers it, but Mat’s up in a flash. He shoves him hard. “What the fuck did you say to her?”

  The stranger’s two friends get up, but they soon sit back down when Ari stands behind me.

  The stranger puts his hands up, eyes on Mat now. “And you? I know who you are, saw you on TV riding on the coat-tails of your daddy’s success. Mason Barton was a fucking legend, man. You’re just a hack. I mean, fuck, you named your fucking band after him?”

  I’m expecting Mat to put this guy’s lights out. I wouldn’t blame him, but Mat remains surprisingly collected. “You don’t know anything, friend. I suggest you take a seat before I shove this beer bottle down your throat.”