by Tara Leigh
“I think the feeling’s mutual,” I answered, turning around to introduce myself. Except, I had no words. None. Shane Hawthorne, lead singer of Nothing but Trouble, the hottest band on the charts, was standing in front of me. I sucked in a deep breath, my eyes widening in surprise. Holy shit, Shane Hawthorne.
Seriously, I could get lost in his face and enjoy every minute of my journey. Glide across the high plane of his forehead, cartwheel down the sharp angles of his cheekbones, slide along his jaw to land at his mouth. Full lips, slightly crooked at one corner, smiled down at me.
“You’re in the minority, in this town at least. What are you doing here, at Casa Taggert?”
Somehow I managed to pick my jaw up off the flagstone patio and glance around at the people illuminated by the floating lights scattered on the surface of the pool. “To be honest, I have no idea. I’m a friend of a friend. Sort of.”
Up close, Shane’s longish hair was a river of brown, from dusky caramel to burnished mahogany, threaded through with shades of henna, chocolate, and deepest umber. He wore a snug black button-down shirt, setting off his tall, buff physique perfectly, the sleeves rolled up just enough to catch traces of ink on his tanned forearms, leaving me fighting an urge to push aside the fabric and expose everything that remained hidden. I longed for a pocket to stuff my hands into, settling instead for awkwardly wrapping both around my sweating glass.
Shane eyed me curiously, as if he knew I didn’t belong. As if he knew the direction of my wholly inappropriate thoughts. “I guess you’re here for me, then.” A grin spread across his face, punctuated by a sexy-as-hell dimple in his left cheek.
“Me?” I choked. What on earth would Shane Hawthorne want with me? I swallowed thickly, my eyes darting around for Piper. I am so out of my league.
With a hand in the back pocket of his ragged jeans, Shane followed the path of my anxious stare. “Expecting someone?”
My focus snapped back to Shane’s face. “No.” I shook my head. “Sorry. This is just so not me. I don’t wind up at Beverly Hills parties talking to rock stars. I mean, this is crazy.” My fingers twitched. There was no part of him I could look at without wanting to touch—especially the two-day growth of scruff covering his strong jaw, which practically guaranteed goose bumps if it brushed along any part of my anatomy.
“Imagine how I feel.”
I tilted my head. “You?”
“Yeah. I’m usually stuck in a tour bus or chartered plane flying to some city I won’t actually see. But tonight I’m at a Beverly Hills party where I don’t really know anyone, besides my agent and a few industry suits, talking to the most gorgeous girl in the place. Pretty lucky, huh?”
Feeling like a complete idiot, I looked around again. And then I pointed at my collarbone with my index finger. “Me?” I repeated.
Shane threw back his head and laughed. Instantly I wished I could record the sound on my phone so I could play it on repeat. Forever. It was the most delicious noise I’d ever heard. “Yeah, you. Where did you come from, anyway?”
“Bronxville,” I squeaked.
Shane laughed even harder. When he finally got control of himself, he brushed at his eyes. “And do you have a name, or should I just call you Bronx all night?”
All night. “Delaney. Delaney Fraser.” I extended my hand.
“I’m Shane.” Offering his last name would have been redundant. Shane’s fingers closed around mine, the pad of his thumb pressing into the center of my palm.
I nearly groaned. Please don’t let go, ever. “Would I sound like a groupie if I said I already knew that?”
He quirked a rich, sable brow. “Are you a groupie?”
I shook my head. “No. But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a fan.” Since high school, when lusting after rock stars I’d never meet was safer than talking to boys I encountered in my real life, who eyed my chubby body and frizzy hair with barely disguised revulsion.
“I do love my fans.” Shane’s throaty growl pulsed in my ears, and for a moment I let myself believe he might be flirting with me. But then I looked down, a blush staining my cheeks as a sea of uncomfortable memories rushed in. Get a grip, Delaney. Why would Shane Hawthorne ever be interested you? All those years of awkwardness, of feeling so uncomfortable I almost couldn’t bear it, were still trapped inside me even though my reflection in the mirror had changed.
Shane lifted his other hand to my jaw, pulling my gaze back to him. “Don’t do that.”
His fingertips were hot, controlling my blood flow like some kind of stylus. I could feel it rushing to the surface of my skin, surging to meet Shane’s touch. “Do what?” I asked, my voice a ragged whisper.
“Look away from me. I like feeling your eyes on my face.” He balled his hand into a fist against my cheek, stroking my flesh with his knuckles, each touch erasing a tiny piece of the self-conscious teen living inside me.
Knowing this was probably the last time I would be so close, I studied Shane. Memorized his face. His lips, I decided, were almost too full to belong on a man’s face. Tried to imagine how they would feel on mine.
“If you keep looking at my mouth like that, I won’t be held responsible for what happens next.” Shane’s comment interrupted my perusal.
Color me gullible, but I couldn’t help myself. “What would happen?” I breathed. There was a moment before Shane answered, a moment when I lost myself in his eyes. His pupils were black flies caught within a whorl of amber. My heart thudded inside my chest, trapped by the darkness I saw within the depths of his gaze. Shane Hawthorne wasn’t just some vapid one-dimensional celebrity. He bristled with intensity. And even in the center of a Beverly Hills party, punctuated by popping corks and trying-too-hard laughs, waves of danger rolled off Shane’s broad shoulders, swirling around me like the chilly waters of the Pacific.
I should have been scared. I was, actually. But not scared off. I wanted to meld my body against Shane’s taut length, potential groupie status be damned. Desire filled my lungs, every breath a heady cocktail, and I swayed toward him, catching myself just before crashing into the perfectly carved statue wrapped in tight jeans and a shirt that did nothing to hide his rippling abs.
Shane stood still, watching the flicker of emotions on my face with interest. “Maybe we should go somewhere else. Somewhere with a lot less people. Somewhere we could both be wearing a lot less clothes.”
Pulling my eyes away from Shane’s blistering gaze, I looked down at the trail of feverish skin exposed by the plunging neckline of my borrowed dress. “I don’t think I could wear anything less and still be considered dressed.” I didn’t even recognize myself right now. Was I flirting?
His laugh was a caress, the rich timbre soothing nerves rubbed raw by his overwhelming presence. “That’s my point. Exactly.”
Breath punched from my lungs and I staggered back a step. Shane didn’t mince words, did he? I raised my face back to his, just as he reclaimed the distance I’d put between us.
“Let’s go,” he added, one of his hands reaching out to cup my elbow.
A shiver tore through me at Shane’s blunt command, reality hitting hard from the shock of his palm sliding against my skin. Instinct made me step back, out of reach. I didn’t have room in my life for Shane Hawthorne. He was a distraction I couldn’t afford. There was only one man I should be focused on right now, and he was sitting in a jail cell. Because of me. I was the only one who knew he was innocent, except he’d made me promise not to say anything. I was free because of him, but feeling alive—smiling and laughing and having fun. It had been three years since any of those things felt appropriate, or even possible.
Tonight, I did feel alive. And I was smiling and laughing and having fun. God, it felt so good. And so wrong.
There was a woman lying in a cold grave tonight whose laugh I would never hear again.
What Shane was offering—more of this, of him, of feeling this way—terrified me. Spending the night with Shane Hawthorne, or even just a few hours, woul
d either be knock-my-socks-off amazing, or a bitter disappointment. Either way, when he walked away from me without a second glance, I’d be crushed.
I had reached my quota of broken dreams already. One more might break me.
“Sorry. That’s not who I am.” I forced the words out through gritted teeth, the quivering kaleidoscope of butterflies in my stomach launching a winged protest. I’d already started to walk away when Shane grabbed my arm, pulling me so close I could feel the washboard of muscles ridging his abdomen. His touch seared my skin, melting my willpower.
“Who are you?” he whispered in my ear. Shane’s breath was hot along my neck, sending ripples of need racing in all directions before making their way to one spot in particular. Throbbing en masse.
My resolve wavered, desperate to claim the promise shining from Shane’s eyes. The promise that he’d outshine everything in my world for just a few minutes. That he’d make me forget about the wrecking ball that had slammed into my life and shattered everything I’d ever believed in. But this kind of reaction, just from a touch…No. Any more and I’d go into toxic shock.
I glanced around, not wanting to make a scene, wrenching my arm from Shane’s grasp with a small grunt and forcing words past my lips that left a bitter taste in my mouth. “No one you want to know.”
Piper was talking to someone on the other side of the pool, but she broke away when she saw me striding toward her. “If you don’t get me out of here right now, I’m going to walk home,” I hissed, passing her.
“What? Why?” Piper responded immediately, but it was too late. I blew right by, heading for the front door, but not before catching her quick backward glance at Travis, an anxious, apologetic pull to her lips.
“Delaney, wait!”
Halfway down the driveway, I spun around. “Are you going to take me home or not?”
“Jesus Christ, slow down. You’re not a prisoner, for God’s sake.” Piper moved as fast as her stilettos would allow. “I’m not exactly dressed for a sprint, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
I released an angry breath. “Sorry, I just…That party wasn’t exactly my speed.”
Fishing a set of keys from her Prada clutch, Piper unlocked the car and opened her door. “I saw you talking to Shane Hawthorne. Most girls I know wouldn’t let themselves be unglued from his side, let alone run away from him. What happened between you two?”
I slid into the passenger seat and slammed the door, her deliberately casual tone scratching at my last nerve. “Nothing.” Nothing except he mentioned getting naked…and it might have been the best idea I’ve ever heard.
Piper glanced over, arching one perfectly waxed eyebrow. Waiting for a straight answer.
“What?” How could I possibly explain the effect Shane Hawthorne had just had on me? I was having an allergy attack, my skin itching with need for a man whose interest in me didn’t go beyond what was between my legs. Or maybe it was because I was certain he was already hitting on any one of the gorgeous girls back at the party. Girls who probably wouldn’t be dumb enough to turn down a night with Shane Hawthorne.
Chapter Three
Shane
Making friends, I see.” Travis appeared at my side, both of us watching Delaney’s tight ass wriggling in her dress as she stalked off.
The list of things I wanted to do to Delaney was a mile long, but being parked in the friend zone? Not on it. “I don’t need any more friends, Travis.”
“Of course not. You have me.” He lightly clinked his glass against mine in a mock cheers. “Speaking of which…I did good, right?”
Ignoring his question, I asked one of my own. “How did you find her anyway?” The girl was a unicorn in a field of mules.
“I have my ways.”
I arched an eyebrow, looking pointedly at my longtime agent. “That’s your answer?”
“What? I can’t leave anything to the imagination?”
Frustration spiraled inside my stomach, dead-ending into a tight knot. “I want to know. Seriously, Trav. I wouldn’t put it past you to send out a casting call for this.”
Travis raised his hands, palms facing outward. “I swear. I just met her this afternoon and knew she was perfect.” He gestured at the crowded patio. “But hey, there’s got to be twenty, thirty chicks here who are just your type. You’re not into Delaney, go find someone else.”
“You didn’t coach her? Tell her what to say, how to act?”
Travis snorted. “I’ve yet to meet a female that knows how to take direction well, Oscar-winning actresses included. Believe me, meeting Delaney today was just a coincidence.”
“You don’t believe in coincidences, and neither do I.” I didn’t know what I believed in anymore.
He huffed out an exasperated sigh. “I might have to reevaluate my opinion. Turns out that Delaney’s an old friend of Piper, a girl who works for me. Listen, if you two didn’t hit it off—” Travis slapped his hands together “—no harm, no foul.”
I stared him down, trying to gauge the extent of his honesty. With Travis Taggert, it was a sliding scale.
“So, are we good?” he prodded, always looking to close a deal.
I shook my head, crossing my arms as adrenaline spiked inside my blood. Yes, so fucking good. “No. Let her go. I’ll make do with someone else.”
“What?” Travis reared back as if my words were bullets. So much for “no harm, no foul.” “What are you talking about? Delaney’s perfect.”
He was right. She was. Perfect.
Too fucking perfect.
Because, offstage at least, I was completely, abysmally imperfect. I knew it. Travis knew it. There were cracks in my soul that couldn’t be filled no matter how hard I tried. And I had tried, over and over. In bed. Beds, actually. And on buses and planes and in countless bars. I’d tried everything, although I had my favorites. Whiskey, women, and a white powder that made me believe, for a just few hours, that I was whole. One was good. All three were better. Overindulging in the dangerous trifecta was so tempting, it had nearly killed me. More than once.
It was Travis who had come up with a solution to my problem. My addiction. Not Alcoholics Anonymous, or Narcotics Anonymous, or Sex Addicts Anonymous.
I was Shane Hawthorne—I wasn’t Anonymous.
At first I’d laughed him off. Hire a girlfriend? They had a name for that, and it was illegal. But in Hollywood, nothing was off-limits. Closeted sex symbols hired boyfriends and girlfriends all the time, sometimes even married them. Addicts hired sober coaches and passed them off as romantic relationships. There wasn’t much that was real in this town, and as Travis bluntly pointed out, the relationships I entered into on my own had been nothing but disasters.
Women were my gateway drug. Left to my own devices, I gravitated toward party girls, chicks with invisible wounds as deep as mine. They alone saw the blackness in my soul, would hang around as long as the party raged. Meanwhile, I just raged.
So, I’d agreed to let Travis trim my options, weed out the bad choices. He looked at L.A.’s pool of stunning starlets and found the ones with half a brain, who viewed the experience as an opportunity, not a romance. By now, launching a new girlfriend was almost like rolling out a PR campaign, garnering as much press as a new album. And for the most part, it had been a successful solution for me. Aside from the occasional setback, I hadn’t touched cocaine or whiskey in years. I stuck to wine or beer, not too much, and the high I got from performing in front of a live audience. My short-term, faux relationships might be superficial, but they were monogamous, and most importantly—disease- and drama-free.
I’d had more than enough drama in my life already, the kind that belonged on the Jerry Springer Show. My rock-star veneer might be thin, but it was my only protection against getting dragged back into…I stopped myself. There were places my mind didn’t need to go. Dark, desperate memories I’d been hiding from for well over a decade now. If the truth ever caught up with me, the fact that Shane Hawthorne was rock ’n’ roll royalty might
be the only thing to save me. I needed to maintain my place at the top of the food chain. Predator, not prey.
And if I needed a goddamn “girlfriend” to keep my ruse going, so be it.
With the newest Nothing but Trouble tour just days away, Travis was nervous. I was, too. So far, the only thing that kept me from getting sucked in by the excesses so abundant behind the velvet ropes of rock and roll was to be preoccupied by a woman who was just as tempting. A woman who wasn’t an addict. A woman who softened my image, just enough, so that when I fucked up, the millions of women who bought my music, believed in my brand, didn’t write me off. Sometimes it was a starlet looking for the career boost being Shane Hawthorne’s girlfriend would give them. Sometimes it was a model looking for more exposure. Travis insisted that the woman in question be hampered by an ironclad confidentiality agreement and locked into a contract that ran the length of the tour. After that, she could leave, and usually did.
My girlfriends were temporary companions. Interesting enough to be worth my time, attractive enough to get my attention. They were good while they lasted, and when they were over we parted amicably and moved on.
There were a whole bunch of words I could use to describe Delaney Fraser. Beautiful, sexy, lean with curves in all the right places. But what I’d discovered during our all too brief conversation couldn’t be captured in words. She called herself a fan, and maybe she was. But not the crazy kind who would attach herself to me and declare that we were “meant to be,” or the saccharine-sweet kind with no backbone, giving me everything I wanted without batting an eye.
I should insist that Travis find a sweet little thing to bring on tour, like he’d done in the past. Someone happy to smile pretty for the paparazzi and eager to spread her legs whenever I wanted.
But damn, I was so sick of sweet. I wanted someone to make me work for it.
Delaney was no easy lay, I could tell. She had mounds of smooth, dark hair I wanted to plunge my hands into, framing a round face with delicate features that gave her a dreamy, angelic look. But her aquamarine eyes had blazed with caution, as if one glance at me and she’d known immediately I was toxic.