Dirty Boys: Bad Boy Rock Star Romance Box Set

by Jade C. Jamison

  I have no idea how long I lay there in that bed, but after quite a while, some part of my brain registered that something was happening. Suddenly, I felt urgent and desperate, and I sped up my digital exploration, as though racing toward some unknown goal. My breathing grew deeper and heavier and I adjusted my pelvis. Yeah, there. Right there, I told Decker in my mind. That was the perfect spot.

  And then it happened. It was as though time and space froze just for me. Some tiny sane part of my brain realized I was getting ready to let out a loud noise and stopped my vocal chords, but I didn’t stop moving my finger. My legs clamped together on my hand, ebbing against a tide of pleasure that felt like a drug.

  As I lay in my bed, my body cooling off, my heartbeat winding down to normal, I realized one thing: I could easily become addicted to that sensation.

  * * *

  Summer vacation started promptly the first week of June, and I had no job, but that was my goal. Mom’s part-time job didn’t keep her out of the house enough for me to relax.

  But I was hopeful. She and dad had talked on the phone the day before. And they weren’t yelling at each other.

  Mom didn’t tell me about it, but I knew that was who she’d been talking to. I don’t know why it meant as much to me as it did, but it was like a weight was lifted off my shoulders.

  So, Tuesday morning, the first week of June, I got out of bed before ten AM and got in my car, ready to head over to the Workforce Center to look at job openings around town, and then I was going to simply go from place to place applying for work. I had just parked my car and started traipsing down the sidewalk (yeah, I traipsed as a teenager) when my phone rang.

  I pulled it out of my pocket. Goddammit. It was the caller again, the one who’d been calling me constantly over the past couple of months. That person managed to catch me at just the right time this time. I swiped the green button and put the phone to my ear. “All right. Who the hell is this and why don’t you ever leave a fricking message?”

  And then my life completely changed.

  Chapter Eleven

  A lot of you—my hardcore fans who have been following me since the Vagabonds—have your own opinions about Peter Cyrus. I’m not going to try to influence you one way or the other. But I will say this: He was a hell of a salesman. In fact, I suspect he was born that way, exiting the womb with a sales pitch. Hey, mom, if you let me nurse, I promise your boobs will get bigger and your tummy will shrink fast!

  When he called me that warm Tuesday morning in June, my greeting when I answered his call didn’t even phase him. He let out a slight chuckle and said, “Is this Kyle Summers?”

  “Yeah. Who’s this?”

  “You don’t know me,”—duh!—“but I know you. You play a mean guitar, right?”

  Okay, he had that in his favor—good taste. “Yeah. Who’s this?”

  “My name is Peter Cyrus. Let’s just say I’m in the music industry.” All right…he definitely had my attention.

  But he’d already pissed me off, being all roundabout in his approach to begin with. I also remembered something my dad had told me years before. Dammit. I hated giving my dad credit, but there it was, in my head, as soon as I had the thought. A few years earlier, dad and mom had need to buy a new vehicle. The one we’d been driving around had been on its last legs. It was probably better to say goodbye to it, because it was an old small truck that we used to pull a popup camper. It had definitely seen better days, and I myself was tired of being squished between my parents as we rode from town to town. As a five-year-old, I’d fit just fine between them, but as I got older, it was getting snug. Anyway, we test drove a big truck that I was pretty sure all three of us liked, but when we got back to the car lot, the salesman began putting on the pressure. Dad finally just said he was considering an RV anyway, after the guy had bombarded him with one tactic after another. And we walked away. Once we were in our car—the one that was on its last tires—I said to dad, “I thought you loved that truck.”

  “Never—I mean never—let a salesman know how badly you want what he’s selling and always be willing to walk away.”

  The next day, we bought that damned truck—and dad was able to name his price.

  That had always stuck with me, and Peter felt oily and slick, just like a salesman. My guard was up immediately. So I was intrigued but intentionally cautious. “What do you mean in the music industry?”

  “Let me make you a business proposition.” I was quiet. I needed to just let him talk and I needed to listen and assess the situation before responding. Dad’s advice about salesmen was at the front of my mind as I listened to Cyrus’s pitch. “I’m putting together an all-girl rock band—young adults. I heard you play a mean guitar. We need a solid, versatile guitarist. I’d like for you to audition for us.”

  I gave it two beats before I responded. “Yeah, and how do I know you’re not shining me on?”

  I could hear a smile through his greasy voice. “Well, of course, right now, you’ll have to take my word for it, but at some point, I’ll have to prove it to you, right?”

  “I guess.”

  “You ever hear of Serenity Shattered?”

  They were a local band out of Colorado Springs—pretty obscure, but, thanks to the internet, I’d heard of them. A lot of kids at the school had tried to get the band to play for their prom, but they’d been turned down. Apparently, the band was too good to play for a high school crowd. “Yeah.”

  “I just got them signed with a major label.”

  Okay, now he had my attention. I still fought against myself to keep the excitement out of my voice—and to be willing to walk. “All right. I’m listening.”

  “I have a young lady, also a guitarist, who’s written a couple of songs that are fucking dynamite. She’s a hell of a lyricist, but she has her finger on the pulse. She’s got it…and we’re going to put together a band the likes of which this planet has never seen. We’re talking hard rock—loud and in your face. And it’s even more impressive if you’re young, doing things that people twice your age can’t manage to accomplish. If I get the right people, I can sell this. And I’ve been told you’re one of the right people.”

  “Okay, but you just said the lyricist is a guitarist.”

  I could hear that slick smile again. “Yes, and she also wants to sing. That means we need a lead guitarist. She can play rhythm.”

  I blinked a few times and leaned against the brick wall. I let his words—his offer—sink in for a few minutes. Be ready to walk away, Kyle. “But, man, what’s in it for me?” I didn’t like the idea of playing second fiddle, and it didn’t sound like he was offering it. Lead guitar in my first band would be fucking amazing. But I wasn’t going to say that out loud.

  “Don’t you want to be famous, Kyle? Imagine…an auditorium full of people, all there to see you and your band. Thousands—no, millions—of people lined up to see you in concert, begging for your autograph, liking your videos on YouTube, and buying your album off iTunes. You. And with fame comes fortune. More money than you could ever dream of, more riches than you could ever wish for. You can buy anything you ever wanted—a big house, a sports car…or two, a Harley, all the guitars you ever wanted…”

  I didn’t care about things, probably because my parents had never put an emphasis on material shit. The only thing I gave two shits about was my guitar…and, much as I loved her, I knew I could even replace her. Up until a few months earlier, I would have said the only thing worth saving was people—relationships, family, love—but now even that didn’t apply. Fame, though? That would be something no one could ever take away from me.

  Still…

  I had to hear what his terms were. What would it cost me? That would determine if we went through with the sale. “Okay, so now what?” I could only pray the lust in my heart couldn’t be heard in my tone.

  “Like I said, you audition for us. We go from there. And…” He paused. I didn’t get Peter back then, but I can tell you now that the man did th
at frequently for dramatic effect. Oh, he had my attention. “If you’re half as good as they say, young lady, you’ll be a part of this band by the end of the week.”

  So he gave me an address in Colorado Springs—belonging to the writer/ guitarist/ front woman phenom Peter was salivating over—and we made plans to meet the next afternoon.

  I already knew it would be hard to walk away at this point. But at least I had that summer job covered. I couldn’t think of anything better than doing what I loved and getting paid for it. When I got home, I played my guitar all day long, dreaming of the audience, of playing original material, of the fame and fortune Peter had told me to imagine.

  I saw no downside. Dad had told me to be ready to walk away, but why the hell would you want to when it was the most perfect deal ever?

  * * *

  Mom was going to her cashiering job around lunchtime the next day, but I gave her a heads up that I was going to the Springs. When she asked what I’d be doing, I told her I was going to be playing guitar with a friend. “Does Decker know?” she’d asked, a knowing look on her face. But she had no fucking idea what was on my plate.

  I was thinking about her smirk all the way down to the big city, and it pissed me off. Here she was, cheating on my dad (granted, it was retaliatory cheating, but still) and acting all eyebrow-wiggle cutesy I know what you’re doing. It was fucking irritating.

  Besides, Decker knew my guitar was my first love. He was a fucking idiot if he didn’t.

  Thanks to the maps app on my phone, I found this house rather quickly. It was pretty posh, and I knew driving through the neighborhood that these people had a lot of money. I shouldn’t have felt uncomfortable, but I did. There weren’t many super-rich people in Winchester and those who were kept themselves separated from the rest of us. I was pretty sure driving down that street that my car with the loud muffler wasn’t exactly welcome. But one thing I’d learned since being the new kid at school in a tiny town was that if you feel uncomfortable, you puff up your feathers. The tabby doesn’t run when she’s scared—she gets bigger, fiercer, and lets you know not to fuck with her. And I discovered quickly that if you can act the part well, people believe it even before you do.

  I parked my car on the street and then looked down at my phone before verifying the address. Then I strode up the walk, dressed in ripped blue jeans, a metal t-shirt, and black sandals, ready to seize the fuckin’ day.

  Chapter Twelve

  Edna Elizabeth Mayerson…you all know her as Liz Mayer. Well, little Lizzie was my age, only she was a spoiled rich bitch wannabe. At least, that was my first impression of her. When I rang the doorbell—which made a rather ostentatious (and pretentious) sound behind those doors—I waited patiently in the hot summer sun until that big wooden door opened.

  She was kind of quiet but seemed respectful. She must have liked my look—or maybe it was my guitar case. Whatever. Peter was there with her and no amount of preparation could have made me ready for that man. He was thin, fastidious, driven—and a raging asshole. But I didn’t know all this when they opened the door.

  I could tell Liz was trying a little too hard. Her hair was dyed black (although, to this day, she tells everyone it’s her natural hair color, and if you get hold of her baby pictures that show her with light brown hair, she’ll just tell you she grew into it) and she wore heavy eyeliner. Her clothes were close to the mark. The one thing she had going for her was that she had the balls to do something that I was pretty sure her parents didn’t approve of. I had to give her kudos for that.

  She went by Elizabeth back then—it was that first meeting between her and me, in fact, where Peter told her she needed to go by Liz. “Rock stars don’t go by Elizabeth. That’s a queen’s name. But you have women like Liz Phair and Lzzy Hale in rock. How seriously would you take them if they went by Elizabeth? No—you gotta lose the formality, kid.” Liz raised her kohl eyebrows and kept her mouth shut. But Peter wasn’t done yet. “Elizabeth Barrett Browning wrote civilized, dignified thee-and-thou poetry. We’ll have none of that shit here.”

  After she fetched us some iced tea—with lemon slices, mind you—I plugged my guitar into her set of amps in a room at the back of the house. Now this room was built for music—the acoustics were amazing. I guessed money could buy that. The amps too were like nothing I’d ever used before. I was tingling all over as I tuned my axe, and I couldn’t help the grin that spread across my face. A few minutes after I was all set up and ready to go, Peter brought another girl in—a gal who went by the name Vicki (and I was thinking inside that she’d already done Peter’s job for him with her name). I was started to feel pissed off that they were going to have me competing right off the bat…until I saw her sit at the drum kit after pulling two sticks out of her back pocket. “I always bring my own for good luck,” she said, grinning.

  Okay, so Liz and I felt a bit like oil and water, but Vicki and me? Like sisters from another mister. Two peas in a pod. Holy shit, I clicked with that girl like I never had anyone else in my life. It was like she could read my fucking mind. I had been waiting for Peter to either hand me some music or ask me what I wanted to play, but while he was busy chatting with Liz across the room, Vicki asked me who some of my favorite bands were. I didn’t hesitate. “Bullet for My Valentine, Lamb of God, Slip—”

  “Oh, my God. Me too. Lamb of God is probably my favorite.”

  “No shit.” So we started talking about what album was the best one and, before I knew it, I was playing “Desolation” and she was banging on the drums. Holy hell, could she play, and that song was all it took to convince me of her brilliance. I’d never seen a woman play double bass like she did but, more than that, it was like she could read what I was doing. She was the yin to my yang. I looked up and grinned at her and she grinned back, and it was then that I realized she even looked like me. We really could have been sisters. She had brown hair like I did (although hers was a shorter—shoulder-length, while mine was long), a slender build but on the short side. Her eyes were green, while mine were brown. My boobs were a little bigger too, but—other than that—sisters. Oh, and she had cute little dimples. I didn’t have any. They looked good on her. But if anyone on this planet was my spiritual sister, it was Victoria Graham, the woman we eventually dubbed Sticky Vicki. We clicked on another plane entirely.

  And I could sense the jealousy before I’d even had a chance to bond with Liz.

  I realized, finishing up our third song, that if Liz had any say in the matter, I’d probably already blown it. I was clicking with the other girl a little too easily—and making rich girl Liz an outcast in her own home.

  If Peter noticed her reaction, he wasn’t saying anything. “I can’t wait to see what you girls do after you start writing music together.” He turned to Liz. She already had a little black beauty strapped around her body, but we hadn’t given her a chance to play. “Play Kyle the opening riffs to ‘Love’s a Bitch.’ I want to see what she does with it.”

  Liz’s facial expression gave away nothing. She was like a fucking ice cube. But she did as she was told and played a tune. Peter looked at me and said, “Can you play that?”

  That simplistic, childish thing? I didn’t roll my eyes or even say it, but I instead asked Liz, as politely as possible, “Could you play it again?”

  I thought I saw a bit of a smirk on Liz’s face, as if to say to Peter, Where’s your goddess guitarist now? But she ripped through it again.

  God. It was like some smarmy, poppy drivel. Okay, so that wasn’t fair. It was soft rock, but that was at its best. Peter again, demanding this time, said, “Can you play that?”

  I shrugged. “Yeah.” But no way in hell was I going to play it the way she had. I looked at Vicki and said, “Can you give me a fast 4/4 beat?”

  “How fast?”

  I knew she spoke Lamb of God—we’d already ripped through three of their songs. “Think ‘Desolation’.”

  She grinned. “You got it.” And she cranked out a simple beat—n
othing too complicated at first—just wanting to play metronome for me. And then I started playing Liz’s tune. Liz had played it more slowly and with some sappy emotion behind it. I rocked it up. It was hard and fast, and—once more—Vicki proved to be a mind reader. She was tuned into me like my guitar was plugged into my amp. I looked up, first at Peter, who was grinning from ear to fucking ear, and then to Liz who…was not. She didn’t like what I’d done with her bubblegum baby.

  Well, too bad. If I was going to be in a band, it wasn’t going to be in a band that made me want to curl up and go to sleep. We were going to be jumping and headbanging, moshing and screaming.

  Peter encouraged Liz to begin playing rhythm and, once we were done, he promised to have her sing a few vocals “next time”…but first, he said, he had a bassist to find. And the dude was out the door faster than Danica Patrick.

  Saying goodbye was awkward, but we all got each other’s cell numbers and settled into the idea that we were going to be spending a lot of time together this summer—for better or worse. But all I saw was better and better…

  * * *

  I was so damned excited, I went to Sonic and got a Route 44 cherry limeade and relaxed in the car for a few minutes before group texting mom and dad. I told them I had some very important news for them and wanted to tell them together.

  I knew that was stupid, but something this big I didn’t want to play favorites and tell one before the other. Dad texted back and said that was fine, that he’d call mom and set something up, and then mom texted me alone and asked if I was pregnant and/ or planning to get married.