“You’re a hungry little thing, aren’t you?” he said in a breathless growl.
“Are you complaining?” I replied, running the tip of my tongue across his lips.
Noah laughed low and sexy. He rubbed his denim-clad erection hard against me. “Not yet.” His kisses devoured me like a tidal wave. “You have to come back tomorrow.”
Cocking my head, I said, “Do I? You think you fuck good enough to be bossing me around, huh?”
The smile fell from Noah’s face, and for a second I panicked inside that I had pissed him off. Instead, he reached one of his big, tattooed hands down between my legs and sawed it mercilessly against my pussy. My body nearly collapsed under his touch. I gripped hard on his strong shoulders and pushed my hips up to meet his hand.
Noah leaned down. His lips hovered right above mine. “Are you complaining?” he whispered.
That rebel part of me wanted to lie to him, but I couldn’t. He stared at me with his hard, blue eyes, daring me to challenge him. Daring me to say anything to stop him. His fondling was making me wet all over again, and I whimpered before I could help it. Noah’s smile was wicked and victorious.
He kissed me and sucked my bottom lip, rubbing purposely with his fingertips over my clit, pushing harder and faster for just long enough to make me moan into his mouth. As soon as I did, he pulled his hand away, and suddenly, it was all I could do not to beg for it back.
“Tomorrow night?” he said again.
I nodded, biting my lip. “Tomorrow night.” Gripping his shirt tight, I pulled myself up to his face for another deep kiss. “But I gotta go get some sleep. My boss will be pissed if I’m late again.”
Noah went quiet for a moment, searching my face and body. He wasn’t stepping away. I swallowed against a tight throat, nervous—what if he asked to come home with me? I couldn’t bring him back to the fucking hotel… but in that moment, I wasn’t sure I could have told him no.
I let out a quiet, relieved breath when he finally began to step backwards. Fingers entwined in mine, he pulled away until only our hands were touching, and then they finally fell apart as well. There was something almost sweet about it. “Well, you’re definitely going to need your rest, sugar.” The way he ran his thumb across his lips when he said it made me shiver.
“I’ll see you tomorrow night,” I said with a nod. “Promise.”
Noah smiled. He gave me one last longing look, winked, and turned for his big black truck. I waited until he roared down the empty highway and out of sight before getting into my car and starting back to the hotel.
The city was quiet and dark, a perfect soothing drive after the heated evening. The night clerk at the hotel lobby desk gave me polite nod as I passed for the elevators. I sent Steve a text to let him know I’d made it back safe, but didn’t give him any details—no doubt he was asleep, anyway.
Cranking the shower’s temperature up as hot as I could stand it, I washed off not only the sweat and grime of the club, but the smell of my incredible sex with Noah, as well. Just the thought of his name sent me into the stratosphere, and suddenly I could feel his hands all over me, his hard chest pressed against mine, his big, hard dick driving into me until all I could do was scream his name. I leaned against the shower wall under the stream of water and brought myself to another rocking climax with my own fingers, thinking of Noah and wishing they were his.
It wasn’t until I fell into the soft hotel bed, completely spent and halfway to sleep, that rational Laurel actually made another appearance in my mind. Through the cloud of lust that seemed to exist around Noah’s image came her shrill, but honest, voice.
You may have just fucked a murderer.
It was a good thing I’ve never had to learn to keep a regular schedule. It made things easier when all I wanted to do was lay in bed all morning and dream about the tattooed chest and hard dick of a certain rock god—especially when I’d been up half the night riding that dick.
No sooner had my sleepy fingertips wandered down my belly when a knock came at the door, followed by a sarcastic Spanish accent. “Oh, lady, I have your room service!”
The image of Noah in my mind washed away like a cloud of smoke and I growled to myself. “Goddammit, Steve.” Then, louder, toward the door: “Gimme a fucking sec!” It took me a moment to find a pair of shorts and a t-shirt. Steve stood outside in the hallway holding a giant tray stacked with food from the morning breakfast buffet. Suddenly, I didn’t feel so mad.
“Oh, in that case, yes, come in,” I said as I opened the door for him.
Steve scoffed and walked past me to the tiny circular table in the far corner. “ ‘Hey, thanks Steve! You’re a real pal, bringing me breakfast after I spent the night getting drunk and having fun at a show without you.’ ”
I laughed at the way he tried to imitate my voice. “See, we’re so good together, you know exactly what’s in my heart. I don’t even have to say it.” I dove straight for the plastic cup of black coffee and drank heartily, then reached for the bacon.
Steve settled in one of the big plush chairs with a round back and took a steaming lid off a plate of waffles. “Got fucked, huh?”
Mouthful of bacon, I could only glare at him. How the hell could he tell? I’d showered—this mop of blonde mess was legitimate bed head.
Steve just laughed. “That was the plan, wasn’t it?”
“That wasn’t my plan!” I insisted.
Steve waved a hand at me as he searched for a packet of syrup. “Eh, don’t sweat it so much, it’s a job. The important thing is you made contact, and just in time.”
“Just in time? What’s that supposed to mean?”
Dramatic as ever, he had to wait till I asked. Steve got a cocky grin on his face and pulled out his smart phone. He tapped around on the screen a few seconds before he handed it to me and went back to his waffles.
A video interview began to play. The reporter was from Roc Press, one of the larger music outlets in the nation; I vaguely recognized him from some exclusive interview he snagged a few years ago with a front man accused of hiring a hitman for his own wife.
Guess this guy had the right connections for exclusive interviews, because I did not expect to see the man he was interviewing: Duke Rogers, lead guitarist of Cut Up Angels. Noah’s lead guitarist. Tall and lean, with a baby face and soft, blonde hair, Duke had a different kind of charisma and attractiveness than his singer, and for years, rumors had flown that the two men hated each other behind the scenes.
Suddenly, those rumors seemed pretty fucking likely.
“I’m sitting here today with lead guitarist and back-up vocalist Duke Rogers, speaking for the first time since the tragedy at Sun Fest. Duke, thanks for being here today. I know it’s been a trying time for your band.”
Duke shifted in his chair, but his face never changed. He always seemed to wear this same half-ugly smirk, like he didn’t take anything seriously. It didn’t sit right in my gut. “Thank you for having me, Bryan,” he said in his thick, drawling New Orleans accent. “It’s been a nightmare, that’s for sure.”
“Now, we have to get this out of the way first,” said the interviewer, reading off some papers. “To clarify, you are still unable to directly address what happened at the Fest, correct?”
“That’s correct,” said Duke with a nod. “Under the legal instruction of our record label.”
“To recap for those viewers who somehow haven’t heard, a festival-goer, now identified as Richard Williams, was killed during the set of Duke’s band, Cut Up Angels. Williams made his way around security team members and climbed on-stage, where he was assaulted by lead singer Noah Hardy and pushed off-stage. He later died as a result of his injuries.” The interviewer turned from the camera to look back at Duke. “What can you tell us about this, Duke? What are you going through right now?”
“Like I said, Bryan, I can’t say a lot,” said Duke with a modest hand wave. “I can tell you that the band is dealing with all of this the best they can. But I
have to take a different approach with how I deal with it.”
“Care to elaborate?”
Something in Duke’s voice made me feel nervous. Without taking my eyes off the phone, I found the seat across the table from Steve and lowered myself into it.
“Bryan, I’ve decided to embark on a solo career. I love my band and what we’ve achieved, but who can say what the future holds now? None of us know what will ultimately happen to Noah—legally or otherwise. I’m an artist. I have to look out for my craft,” said Duke.
“That’s my favorite part,” said Steve from across the table, mouthful of waffle. “You can practically see him smelling his own farts.”
“Shhh!” I hissed.
“Does this mean the rumors of Cut Up Angels breaking up are true?” asked Bryan.
“I can’t say what’s going to happen to the band,” said Duke. “I can’t see the future, and we are still under contract for the time being. But like I said, I’m just trying to be true to my own vision. I’ve been thinking about this for a while and it seems the universe has laid open this path for me.”
Ugh, did anyone actually believe this douche? Did he believe himself?
“It’s difficult not to see this timing as you abandoning your band at its time of need,” said Bryan, a surprising challenge I didn’t expect. Yet there was something so scripted in how their exchange was delivered that I couldn’t swallow it. Would not be the first time a rock star had used a softball media contact to make himself look good.
“I’m sure plenty of critics will have things to say about that,” said Duke. “They have never shied away from telling us what they think about us, about Noah—about anything. I can handle what they dish out.” He took a pause like he was gathering courage, but again, it all looked too perfect. “What I can’t handle, though, is betrayal from within. And that’s why I have to strike out on my own.”
“Betrayal? By whom?”
Duke sighed. “I can’t get into details, Bryan. Suffice it to say I am just damn tired of certain members of this organization passing the buck and inventing insane delusions and stories instead of taking responsibility for their actions.”
“Inventing stories?” I said. He had to be talking about Noah—but what story? Steve just shrugged at me with raised eyebrows while he chewed.
The interviewer tried to get Duke to elaborate, but it seemed like the guitarist had said all that he had planned to say on the subject. The rest of the interview was basically a promotion for Duke’s new project, as-yet-unnamed, but with the polite reminder that he was one of the key songwriters of Cut Up Angels. It was another dig at Noah, whom most people assumed had little to do with anything but the vocals. A glance at their liner notes told otherwise, but Duke was clearly far more media-savvy than any of us had realized.
I sat back in the chair and listened to Steve eating. Something dark and dreadful was brewing in my gut.
“So,” he said, “thoughts?”
I shrugged. “What we get has to be big enough to overshadow that exclusive. That was a hell of a get.”
“My first thought, too,” said Steve, scooping eggs into his mouth. “Will it be?”
Noah. When I used to think of him, all I saw was concert footage, publicity photo, or paparazzi flash bulb versions of him. But something was different now. I felt his breath, his hands, his lips. I saw him in the mosh pit. It was disorienting. It was making it difficult to think clearly about my job.
I cleared my throat before I answered Steve. “Yes. Look, a man is dead, and there’s practically no question Noah Hardy killed him. The question now is why, and we’re going to figure that out. And then Slipstream is going to publish it before anybody else in this fucking industry has a clue. I’ve gotten in with Noah. It’s just a matter of time now.”
Steve grinned suggestively. “Yeah?”
“Hell, this Duke announcement probably helps us. Every other rag will be busy trying to speculate on that bullshit.”
“And while they’re distracted, we kick ‘em in the dick with the first exclusive words of Noah Hardy about being a goddamn murderer.”
“Alleged,” I said with a sarcastic wag of my finger. “Press ethics, dear Steve.”
“Right, alleged,” he said. “This is seriously going to send your stock through the roof, Laurel.”
He meant well, but Steve was cutting open old wounds that instantly sent poison through my mood. “Shit, it better, or else I’m gonna be serving you coffee at the lobby Starbucks by next year.”
“It’s not all that bad,” said Steve with a sour face. “Domino loves you way too much to throw you to the curb.”
Even hearing my editor’s name sent my pulse racing. “But not enough to have my back when I make a mistake or two,” I complained before I could stop myself.
“Laurel,” said Steve. He had that stern, rational voice I’d heard him use on his ex-girlfriend’s kids a time or two. “I love you, girl, but don’t fool yourself. That Tusk story was not just a mistake.”
I sighed, angry, ashamed at his words. I turned my gaze out the window. “So you think I went in to write a hit piece, too, huh?”
“No,” said Steve. He put down his fork. “But I think it’s clear that you went in with an agenda, and when it didn’t go your way, you just chopped up the story to make it look like it did. You lost your objectivity, Laurel. It happens to all of us—you can’t pretend you’re above it. And we all have to pay for it when it happens. The key is not to make that same mistake twice.”
I knew what he was alluding to. If I was sleeping with Noah, then there was a chance my objectivity might get lost again. He was right, of course, but I wasn’t about to tell him that. Maybe I was being childish, but that old wound still festered and burned. Being here, now, in Seattle, chasing Noah Hardy—this was the salve to that wound, and I wasn’t going to let Noah’s big dick change my opinion of what happened. I was sticking to the facts this time, whatever they may be. This story was going to fix all the shit I had broken, and undo all the bullshit heat I’d taken in the past six months. The past didn’t matter when I was in the middle of fixing it, right?
“Laurel?”
Steve was looking at me curiously. I sighed. “Fine. Right. You win. I’m paying for my past sins, like I deserve, so all is right with the world. And I won’t make the same mistakes again.” I got up from the chair and started digging through one of my suitcases for clean underwear. Even though I had just showered a few hours ago, suddenly I wanted another one.
“You didn’t even touch your breakfast!” Steve called after me as I shut the bathroom door.
Just before the door clicked shut, I said through the crack, “I’m not hungry.”
~ SIX ~
Noah
Laurel…
She writhed underneath me, her beautiful body glistening with sweat, pressing her ass against me as I drove inside her only made my cock sink deeper. She leaned back with my name on her lips and I kissed it off of them until she was moaning into my mouth. In one hand I held her neck gently, forcing her to face me as I fucked her from behind. I kept the other wrapped tight around her waist, holding her close.
In the back of the room a phone rang, distant and foggy.
Laurel…
The dream began to break up in my mind like smoke rising into the sky. Every chime of the phone yanked me further into consciousness without mercy. The warmth of Laurel’s skin faded away, replaced with the cold white sheets of my own empty bed. The only sweat was my own.
I should have turned my fucking phone on silent before I crashed, but I was so deliriously drunk on both booze and lust that it slipped my mind before I fell into bed. I hazily remembered ignoring its beeping hours earlier, rolling over and going back to sleep. But there was no ignoring it this time. The ring was incessant.
I rolled until the bedside table was within reach, and pulled my phone to my face. A picture lit up of my guitarist, Quinn, standing with a beer bong next to angry tourists at the Christ
the Redeemer statue in Rio. My thumb slid across the screen. “What?”
“Dude,” said Quinn, “I’ve been trying to reach you for hours.”
Quinn grew up with me in Thornwood, and there wasn’t a single band I had ever been in without him. He was as close to a brother as I was ever going to get, and currently the only fucking member of my band who gave a single shit about me.
Even being a hardcore kid, Quinn had never been particularly alpha. He’d fight if he had to, but he was a worrier before he was anything else. Something in his voice today sounded very worried, even by his standards.
Vindication: A Motorcycle Club Romance Page 23