Rock Star Romance Ultimate Volume 2

by Mankin, Michelle

  “No way.” I was already selling well more than a pound of flesh for the signing. Albums, yes. I loved talking music with the fans. The stories got a little uncomfortable sometimes, but I knew they always came from a good place.

  Music changed people.

  It had changed me, once upon a time.

  Now I was a cock on a fucking magazine.

  “Do it.” Indie’s voice brooked no argument.

  Fuck. I tipped my head back. Fuck-fuck-fuck. I’d gotten myself into this damn mess by mentioning the charity. Good press, and good for the kids. How the hell was I supposed to say no?

  “I’ll have them delivered,” Dex said.

  Indie crossed to the table where the two cases had been dropped. “A thousand kids—”

  “Last I counted more like eighteen hundred.” Came Wyatt’s voice from the side of the room. He was leaning against the wall, his fuck-off face in full effect. Awesome. That was going to be fun for the signing and the show. He’d had a bug up his ass since the night before.

  Bats and Zach were doing an interview for a special episode of Music Life, so they wouldn’t be back until it was time to do the signing. All I wanted to do was what I’d been born to do. I could give two shits about the circus that Rolling Stone had created.

  Just let me on the stage. Let me sing. Let me get this excess energy out.

  My gaze drifted to Kenny. She was Kenny to me, at least. I couldn’t even figure out why. Just because I was pretty certain no one else on this planet called her that? Maybe. She was definitely more than half the reason that my skin felt too tight for my body.

  The fact that she’d kissed me and then dumped me on my ass in the space of five minutes was the most interesting thing a woman had done in too many months to count. Hell, even the kiss had been different. I hadn’t fucked nearly as many women as reported, but I’d definitely kissed my share.

  Exuberant fans got carried away, and I wasn’t a saint by any means. However, I was a bit more discerning with my cock. Kenny was different. She was lightning in a bottle. Hell, the tips of my fingers were still sparking from our zinger of a kiss.

  The weird thing was, I’d gotten harder for her after she’d punched me. She looked as fragile as one of Tristan’s sugar flowers, but then she’d hauled off and nailed me in the shoulder. Not a glancing blow either. I’d never actually been turned on by a combative woman before. I’d even dated a MMA fighter chick when I lived in New York City for a summer. Kizzy had been a fun distraction, but she’d been a little too wild even for me.

  No, this Kennedy McManus was a ball-buster hidden under classy silk.

  I think I liked her even more for it.

  “Sick fuck,” I muttered.

  Wyatt pushed off the wall. “Excuse me?”

  I rolled my eyes. “I’m talking to myself. Just fucking relax. What the hell has you so wound the fuck up?”

  He crossed his arms, his biceps bulging out of the slick silk suit jackets he liked to wear. We were goddamn rock stars. If I didn’t give him six kinds of shit, he’d probably wear them behind his fucking kit.

  “Nothing.”

  “No, it’s something.” I crossed to him. “Spit it the fuck out.”

  “You don’t want to start this, Manaconda.”

  “Seriously?” I took a step closer to him, until we were toe-to-toe. We were almost the same height, him just a hair taller because I already had my shitkickers on for the show.

  Wyatt gave me his blank-face. The one that didn’t let anyone in, no matter what.

  I shoved him back a step. “Don’t be a pussy. Say what you gotta say.”

  “Haven’t you been knocked on your ass enough today? I can guarantee you won’t get up so easy if I do it.”

  “Enough.” A hand landed on my belly. I knew it was her before even looking down. Her voice was in my head already, but it was her scent that burrowed into my brain. Immediate flashbacks to our time in the tunnel, the feel of her mouth under mine, and the grip of her fingers in my hair—all of it made me suck down a groan. I didn’t look away from Wyatt. Even when her fingers twisted into my T-shirt with a bite of nails, I held steady.

  Wyatt simply lifted an eyebrow and finally broke our staredown. “Not your girlfriend, huh?”

  Kenny put a little more force into her grip on my shirt. I spread my legs for better balance. No way was she dumping me a second time. She waded right in between us, peering up at Wyatt but leaning back against me—not much, just enough that every instinct inside of me wanted to curl my arm around her and drag her behind me.

  She was as fearless as Indie.

  “No. I’m the PR agent for the band appointed by Donovan Lewis. My job is to get you through this release party and use the current viral push to extend the life of your album and boost ticket sales. Period.”

  With tongue. That amendment wouldn’t win me any favors, so I kept my mouth shut.

  “Is that what we’re calling Manaconda? A viral push?” Wyatt asked.

  “Quit fucking calling me that.” I knew not to show it bugged me. Wyatt usually needled me in good humor, but it came out far bitchier this time. He needed my boot up his ass. What we really needed was to pound it out with sparring gear like we had in our early twenties.

  We were supposed to be grownups now. Five albums under our belts and a decent fan following, as well as a new decade should have tempered us. But the entire band was getting itchy.

  Now this magazine thing had us in Bieber-land. I didn’t want to go back to the squealing girls that were barely legal. I was more interested in a suit for the first time in my life.

  And all she saw was a cock.

  Fan-fucking-tastic.

  Okay, so it was my cock. Six months ago that would have been enough. Hell, even three months ago I wasn’t choking on all this restlessness. I was so damn tired of not feeling anything.

  Until today.

  Today had been electricity and gunpowder wrapped in orange blossoms.

  And I didn’t want this freaking magazine to ruin it all.

  The side of her hand came in contact with my chest. She’d twisted my Henley so much that the buttons were gaping. She didn’t seem to notice. Good thing, because my dick was trying to bang its way through my damn zipper.

  I always liked feisty women. They just usually tended to be wild women of the groupie variety, not bossy little redheads with my career in their hands.

  “Hudson, I’m not here to—”

  “Wyatt,” he corrected flatly.

  And wait a minute. Why did I get the Mr. Jordan stuff and my best friend didn’t?

  She cocked her head and I could practically hear the gears moving in her head. Shelving the info, processing, adjusting. It was fascinating. I should be warming up for the show, but I couldn’t wait to hear what she had to say.

  “Wyatt, the magazine is a tool. The cover of Rolling Stone is still a big deal, but if they hadn’t taken that particular picture it would have just been just a little buzz. A collector’s item for fans, and maybe—emphasis on maybe—a few people would notice it at the gas station and download the album.” She tapped Wyatt’s chest with a short, wine-colored nail. “Now it’s a way to grab attention, and ride the comet’s tail into ticket sales. Into getting spots on late night television. That’s the important part. The legacy of the band, not a sensationalistic name for an appendage.”

  Wyatt finally stepped back. He glanced over at Indie, then back to Kenny. He squinted down at Kenny. “Did you just call Hunter’s dick sensational?”

  And just like that the tension dispersed and I tipped my head back with a roaring laugh. Wyatt joined me. Hell, even Patrick cracked a smile. Kenny twisted my shirt tighter, and a few chest hairs were casualties.

  Ow, man.

  I covered her hand and she seemed to finally notice how tight she was hanging on.

  She pulled her hand free and spun on her heel. “How do you deal with this?” She aimed the question at Indie.

  Indie shrugged. “I us
ually let them bloody each other’s lips.”

  Wyatt threw his arm around my shoulders. “Dude. Getting to first base with the new girl? That’s an all-time record even for you.” He looked over his shoulder. When Kenny was out of earshot, he jammed his hulk-sized fist into my side. “Babe.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, she’s hot.” I grinned. “Mad hot, truly.” I peeked for myself because damn, the woman was stealthy. “Cameras sucked.”

  “Wait till you see the pictures, man.” He unearthed his phone and unlocked it. “I saved a few.”

  “You’re all heart.”

  Wyatt shrugged. “I found one or two that I can make into a poster.”

  “Fucker,” I muttered.

  I scanned through the pictures. Some were blurry, some were a little too crystal-clear, and still others were far more compromising than anyone would like. All of them were damning.

  Dex came up and slapped my back. “You do realize who you were snogging?”

  I moved away from him. “It was supposed to be private.”

  “When you stick your tongue down Prince Harry’s publicity savior, people are going to notice.”

  Wyatt crossed his arms. “The British Harry or One Direction?”

  Dex grinned, his white teeth as blinding as the flashbulbs I’d just waded through. “Is there a difference?” He waggled his eyebrows. “Actually both in this case.”

  I winced. “It’s just a magazine cover.”

  “Just a cover?” Dex’s British accent went so thick and full of bass that even Indie turned to look at us. “Look, boy. I don’t think you are really grasping what this has done for your sales. People are actually buying the album, not just pirating it or listening to it on Spotify. Buying. The demand on the website for concert dates is in the thousands.”

  I lifted my chin and shrugged him off. “First of all, don’t call me ‘boy’. I’m not some fresh-faced tween that is going to fall at your feet.”

  “Well, then act like it.” He calmly slipped his hand in his jacket pocket, drawing out his phone. “Your job is to sell you, your wares, and the Ripper Records product. It’s not to hide in the back pretending you’re a chef, it’s not to make social media think you’re anything less than available. Kissing the smokin’ hot redhead—that’s good. Getting caught was inspired.”

  “Fuck off. I didn’t do that on purpose.” I wanted to glance over Dex’s shoulder to find Kenny, to see what she was going to say, but I couldn’t let this dick think he had the upper hand.

  “But you make sure that every girl in that fucking crowd has wet panties for you and the band.” He turned to Keys. “You make every girl want to be you, or in your shoes.” His gaze shot to Wyatt and Owen. “Every guy should be jealous that you can fuck anyone in the crowd tonight, male or female.”

  “Enough.” Indie’s voice sliced the air. “You don’t talk to my guys like that.”

  Dex’s attention drifted to his phone. He held up a finger to her.

  I was going to break it off and feed it to him. Maybe knock out a tooth or three.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Munroe—” Indie broke off.

  He put his phone to his ear and walked away. Indie’s bluebell eyes held murder. I’d been on the other end of that gaze. The dude was fucked.

  Bats and Zach came down the side stairs from the second level. “What’d we miss?”

  “Manaconda made the papers again,” Keys chirped.

  “Dammit.” I swiped my hand over my face.

  “What? Like I’m lying?”

  Bats grinned. His tightly trimmed beard emphasized his sharp jaw, giving him a distinctly sinister edge. On purpose, of course, because Bats was short for Batshit Crazy.

  The only person I didn’t see was Kenny.

  CHAPTER SIX

  * * *

  Kennedy

  I escaped into the theater. Long queues of people were set up for the meet and greet, the new album was being piped in, and people were singing along. The murmur of excitement was heady.

  In my wake, people whispered and laughed. I even got a few menacing glares. I knew of this phenomenon. I’d studied fan behavior for years. This was how they reacted to the significant other. Either they wanted to talk you, or step on you.

  I’d be bug juice if I wasn’t careful.

  And seriously, there was nothing to worry about. Not that I could convince them of that. My hip buzzed. I checked my phone—Lila Shawcross. I let the call go to voicemail. No way did I have an answer about what happened.

  I tucked my hair around my ear and caught his scent on my skin. I made a beeline for the bathrooms. I would just freshen up and be ready for the next part of the night. A professional photographer was on hand to take the photos for the newsletters. Also, a promo download code would be given to people from the fan club, and some photos would be used for fan keepsakes.

  I pushed open the door, breathing a sigh of relief. Alone at last. I closed myself in a stall and took a few cleansing breaths. There hadn’t been enough time to put the car crash of emotions away. There’d been kissing—all of the kissing. Dear diary, I want to swoon kisses, for God’s sake.

  Before I could even assimilate the details there’d been cameras to document my spectacular lack of judgment, and then Dex.

  I curled my fingers around the lock. I needed to do damage control, not hide in the freaking ladies’ room.

  “Can you believe that girl with him?”

  I froze at the voices.

  “Imagine all six-feet-three of him swooping down to kiss you like that?”

  “I do. Every night. And in my dream, there’s no skank.” Yet another voice.

  Skank? Really?

  “In your dreams, there’s no clothes,” the first woman said in a 1-900 voice.

  “Damn right. And it’s my mouth wrapped around that massive cock.”

  My eyebrows shot up. Wow. Truly? My cheeks heated, and my fingers fumbled on the lock. It jangled, but the women didn’t seem to notice.

  “I went on the Manaconda Alert site. There’s already like ten videos,” 1-900 said.

  The what? I dug out my phone and typed in “Manaconda Alert”. A Tumblr and Instagram site came up. I clicked on the Tumblr and had to physically hold back a shriek. It seemed to be a fan site dedicated to all things Hunter. In depth discussions about the size and shape of his…manaconda, as well as sightings, girlfriends, and any picture on the internet of him with a woman—ever.

  Including me.

  A lot of me.

  Oh, God.

  The girls from outside the bathroom stall moved on. Now that they’d laid their little information bomb on me, I couldn’t stop looking at the blog. Tumblr was known mostly for small clips caught from videos—and the most incriminating ones at that.

  One kept coming up again and again.

  It was the one that had seared itself in my memory. However, my memory was much different. It was way more disconcerting to actually see us completely lost in the moment. Him holding me so tight there wasn’t even room for air, let alone breath.

  My phone rang again, obliterating the image of me and Hunter. The name on the display snapped me out of my hormonally-induced fugue state.

  Lila Shawcross. Again.

  I dropped the phone into my bag, opened the door and strode out to the sinks. The damn thing kept buzzing, but I didn’t want to force the call to voicemail again. It was better if she thought I just couldn’t get to it because of the show. A pair of women were at the sinks, another three coming in. I didn’t look at them. Didn’t need to. It was silent as a church, and I was definitely the sinner everyone was staring at.

  At least that’s what it felt like.

  I didn’t have the balls to look up until after I washed my hands. I lifted my chin, gave my winning smile and waltzed out. Somehow I didn’t fall, didn’t break an ankle, didn’t walk into a wall. When I got back outside, I forced myself to set a steady pace through the lobby to the theater. People were lined up for the meet and greet,
and there was a pulse to the room.

  Obviously the band had arrived.

  I made my way up the stairs to the balcony, nodding at Patrick as he stood sentinel at one end of the ridiculously grand table the band sat behind. It was as ornate as the theater itself, with embellishments and filigreed scrollwork dripping off the corners.

  Indie and one of her minions was herding people through, but I was happy to see she actually gave everyone time to actually spit out stammered hellos. It wasn’t just a factory line. Keys was the most hands on—literally. She leaned forward and listened to every person. Even going so far as holding hands with some that were really upset or too excited.

  Hunter was last in line and Patrick was paying close attention to everyone that moved up to him. Hunter’s smile was wide and friendly for albums, memorabilia, or pictures, but his demeanor changed for the magazine cover. His shoulders stiffened, and the shine left his unusual gray-green eyes.

  I slid behind Patrick and leaned against the wall so I could hear the conversations.

  Two giggling girls came up to him, asking him to sign over the jeans. The taller girl with bleached white hair and lavender roots tapped a nail over the bulge. Challenge lit her heavily-lined, improbably violet eyes. “Are you sure you didn’t stuff a sock down your pants? Or was that photo altered?”

  My eyebrows shot up.

  Everyone went silent. Hunter’s marker stopped. His shoulders hunched forward, and I had the strangest urge to move up behind him and slip my fingers into the short strands. I liked the peach fuzz of the tightly shaved part of his hair, but had to confess that the much longer top made my mouth water. But right at that moment, I wanted to soothe.

  And I wasn’t exactly the soothing type.

  Bats tilted his head and leaned forward. He was sitting right beside Hunter with his hands laced together loosely. “Are you expecting him to whip it out right here, darlin’? Slap it on the table for all to see?”

  The girl’s smile vanished.

  Bats stood and pulled up his shirt, showing off an impressively muscled torso. He drew down his zipper. “Mine’s just as impressive. Maybe a little girthier. Want to suck it right here too?”