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by Laurelin Paige

  On the other hand, now I’m in the hot seat for a second time.

  “Sooooo,” Rowan draws it out, grinning like the cat that got the cream. “You’re imagining Nick Ryder’s peen while we’re watching a sex film. Want to tell us more about this?”

  “And if you don’t want to tell us more about it, will you tell us more about it anyway?” Hadley presses with a wink. “Better out than in, that’s what I always say.”

  Rowan belches loudly and agrees.

  I sink further into the sofa and throw my head back onto a pillow. “You guys, it’s really nothing. This is so ridiculous.”

  “It’s obviously something,” Hadley says.

  “Or she would’ve told us by now,” Rowan agrees. Hadley looks discretely away.

  “I might have just been casually thinking about him a little bit. Because I saw him the other day. Just at an event, not like on a date. That’s all. Not because I’ve been fantasizing about him nonstop or anything, you know that like—I would be his fantasy Anastasia and he has, like, his own private red room somewhere, that’s not what I’m thinking at all.” By the time I’m done word-vomiting, my face is redder than Christian Grey’s walls.

  “Okay, Lady Macbeth, back up,” Rowan says. “When did you see him?”

  I throw my head back again. “At the Mud Tug on Saturday. He was on my team. Wearing a wife-beater. Looking amazing.”

  Rowan leans in even closer, practically eating the gossip with a spoon. “Did he talk to you?”

  “He talked to me. I talked too. We did some talking.”

  I mouth along with Hadley when she reminds me, “Use your words.”

  “He said he wanted to see more of me.”

  Rowan stands up and puts a fist in the air like she’s cheering for a ball game. “Yes! And when are you seeing more of him?”

  I sit up. “I’m not. You guys, he’s not an option. So that’s when I left.”

  “Again?” Hadley seems less than impressed with my method of dealing with the man. Boy. Man.

  “It’s hard to say no to him. He looks at you with those eyes and you just know he’s imagining you naked, and it makes you forget what you’re saying . . . It’s easier to just disappear. You don’t understand,” I say, exasperated.

  “You’re right about that,” Rowan says. “I do not understand. He is hot and available and after you. If he were picturing me naked, my clothes would probably take themselves off. Why are you not banging him?”

  I really can’t believe that Rowan is my friend sometimes. Does she even know me? Has she forgotten the years I’ve spent on my platform, rehabilitating my image? I suppose maybe she never really knew. She wasn’t in Hollywood yet when the Tanner James scandal happened. She’s too young to know how devastating that was.

  And that’s why she doesn’t get this, either.

  “I’m older than him,” I say, not very patiently. She shrugs, and when I look to my other friend she mirrors it. They’re ganging up on me.

  “Everyone’s going to think I’m just using him for sex. Like some kind of cougar rebound. I’m still fresh off my breakup with Garner.”

  “You’re right. That’s exactly what everybody’s going to think. That’s why everyone wants to be you, you dork,” Rowan says, rolling her eyes. “Every woman in America over thirty wants to land a cougar rebound. My grandma wants to bang Nick Ryder. We’re all jealous because you have the chance to touch his penis. With your vagina. And we’re all going to think you’re lame if you don’t. In fact, we may never forgive you. Where else will we ever be able to hear all the sexy details of what he’s like in bed?”

  The ever-crass Rowan can always be expected to take a party-girl approach to life, so I turn to Hadley, the more professional live-r.

  “I agree,” she says. “You need this. You deserve this. It’s okay to give yourself permission to do things you want to do even if you think the public won’t.”

  Says the girl who’s never once been on the front page of London Westin’s blog.

  “Why are you over here in your flannel pajamas watching Anastasia Steele bang when you could be doing the banging yourself?” Rowan shouts from the sidelines.

  “But, but,” I’m full of buts. I have what feels like a million, but really it’s just two. Two big ones. The rebound, and those thirteen years in between us.

  “You aren’t marrying him, you know,” Hadley says as though reading my thoughts. “What is thirteen years anymore anyway? You’re really overthinking what that means. He’s of age. He can buy his own beer. And I’ll bet he’s a whole hell of a lot more sexually experienced than you are.”

  That clams me up because it’s most definitely true. Which is maybe half of why I’m so attracted to him.

  Part of me knows the girls are right—my life is mine, even if it’s lived in the public eye. I have every right to get with any guy I want to, popular opinion be damned. And if I’m just hooking up for sex and everyone knows it, who cares, right? Flings are a fact of life. And being open about it is supposed to be really empowering, they say. Besides, it would be fun.

  But it would also be so out of character.

  So off-brand.

  So much of a risk in so many ways.

  I look back at the screen, at the still of Ana in the throes of what promises to be the best orgasm she’s ever had. Why can’t I have one, too? Just one. I’m not greedy. I can dip a toe in the fling waters without actually diving in.

  “Okay, you win,” I assure my friends, wanting to have the subject put to rest. “If another opportunity presents itself, I won’t turn him down.”

  “Yes!” Rowan exclaims again.

  We didn’t trade numbers, though,” I add, an addendum that I’m counting on getting me off the hook.

  Rowan knows my game and shakes her head. “Hah. I could get his number from my agent in ten minutes—”

  “No! No. I’m not going to hunt him down. It has to be organic. I swear if I see him again, and if he still wants to start something, I’ll totally hit that.” I mean it, too.

  Just.

  What are the chances? I’ve basically shut him down three times now. He’s surely gotten the hint.

  And if he hasn’t, what are the odds we’ll run into each other again?

  Chapter Six

  Do It Like a Rock Star

  Nick

  “Your sound checks are set for six p.m. across the board; the shows all start at eight except for Red Rocks in Denver. That one’s starting at seven-thirty. They have an ordinance about sound after ten, so we need to make sure we make the curfew with plenty of time for encores.”

  I pace around the living room of my house in Los Angeles. I’m half-listening to my manager, Bruno Nash, give me the last-minute details on my upcoming stretch of gigs. It’s a smaller tour than usual—thirty-five cities in a little more than two months, US only—but I’m eager to be back on the road. Performing is an outlet I’m addicted to. Riding the wave of the crowd’s energy as they sing along to even my most obscure B-sides is better than any drug.

  Except maybe one.

  Her.

  I’m growing anxious about leaving without talking to Natalia again. It’s been five days since I saw her at the charity tug-of-war and she’s under my skin. I can tell I’m under hers as well. I feel the way her body gravitates toward mine; I see her eyes dilate as they linger on my lips. How can she keep walking away from this chemistry? But on the other hand, I kind of enjoy it. She’s more in my mind now than she’s ever been. My body pulses with her, with the want of her. Just thinking about the fragments of time that we’ve shared together makes my cock dance.

  There’s no way I can leave LA without at least speaking to her again. Without one last try at exploring this explosive thing between us. Otherwise it’s going to drive me to madness. Two months on the road is a long time to be alone, and I’d like a few memories to take with me.

  But first things first. The tour has to be dealt with.

  “Are all the ho
tels living up to expectation?” I ask pausing my stride to watch Jake kill an enemy on Call of Duty. He’s taken over the couch, eating all my junk food, and if only Jonas were here, it would feel just like the old days.

  “Not a problem,” Bruno confirms. “The bonus to a shorter tour is that you don’t have any stops in places that can’t handle late-night food or wine. Or . . . anything else you might require.”

  I know what he’s saying. Bruno’s only been with me for a short time, and I think he thinks that I’ve been shy about my rock-star habits. And I certainly know better than most how often child stars turn to things like coke and hookers, but the thing is—I didn’t. My needs are pretty simple.

  I’m not an asshole with a huge rider demanding a certain recipe of guacamole or Cristal for an entourage of twenty. I don’t even get picky about my bottled water. To say this makes me an exception is putting it mildly. We’ve all heard about the diva who doesn’t allow staff to make eye contact with her. And Chad Spank, frontman for the Spank Monkeys, apparently requires his own furniture be installed in each hotel room he stays in.

  I’m not that bad.

  I like a full meal waiting for me after a show. A bottle of nice wine. No Two Buck Chuck for this guy—I want the best vintage the concierge can source. And a firm pillow—fuck the soft, fluffy things they give you at most of those hotels. My head needs something solid to get a good night’s sleep.

  They’re easy requests though, and not crazy for someone of my caliber. Most hotels bend over backwards for their celebrity guests, especially the ones who return the favor by not trashing the room.

  “Do you have my names?” I ask.

  I never stay under my own. That would just be asking for trouble, and not the fun kind, either. I don’t need underage girls and paparazzi knocking on my door when I’m trying to wind down after a show. This time we’re using eighties sitcom characters, a different character in each city. Alex P. Keaton. Sam Malone. George Jefferson. Mike Sever.

  “I’ll have all your aliases emailed to you and Kirby,” Bruno says. Kirby’s my personal assistant, the one who will make sure I’m everywhere I need to be, from record-store appearances to morning radio shows to pre-show meet-and-greets and sound checks on all of my stops.

  “Sounds good. I guess we’re ready then.” The first show is just over a week away, a hometown show, and I can hardly wait. Playing music here is great, and I don’t know how I’d get through a day without processing my thoughts through rhythm and melody, but I need to work through new material live. And I’m pretty excited about debuting my latest song.

  “Yep. You’re ready,” Bruno agrees.

  I start pacing again, rubbing my hand on the back of my neck, hoping Jake is too wrapped up in his game to hear me or pay attention to my next words. “About that other thing. That information I asked you to get me? Did you find out anything?”

  Before Bruno can answer, Jake pipes up. Of course. “If you don’t think I know you’re talking about Natalia Lowen, you’re a fucking idiot.”

  I bite back a groan. I didn’t really want to discuss my growing obsession with Natalia with Jake, but my brother’s a giant troll and will never miss an opportunity to give me a dig. We’re close, but some things should stay private.

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about, asshole.” A wide grin spreads over his face, and I realize I’ve just fueled his fire by responding. I should’ve ignored him.

  Jake puts his game on pause and turns his full focus to me, singsonging his words like a fifth-grader. “Tell me, tell me, what did Bruno find out about Natalia?” I reach over the couch to punch him, but he dodges easily and laughs.

  Bruno, who has stayed silent, finally answers hesitantly. “Still haven’t got a number for her. I’m working on it, though. I’ve called in a couple favors. You’ll probably need to add some people to your guest list.”

  Damn.

  Bruno was the one man who I thought could get me in touch with her, help me get around her unpublished phone number when her agent proved unforthcoming to mine. The guy has scored coke and hookers for everyone else in town, surely tracking down a cell number wouldn’t be that hard for him. I’d called him immediately after seeing her on Saturday.

  “Seriously?” I can’t stand how disappointed I sound. How desperate. But I am, I’m completely desperate. I crave Natalia like a junkie. “You have to have something.”

  “Please give him something,” Jake says loud enough that Bruno will hear him. “He’s driving the rest of us bananas with his never-ending hard-on for America’s Sweetheart.”

  “Shut the fuck up,” I tell Jake. Into the phone receiver I say, “Listen to him. Give me something.”

  “I do have something,” Bruno says, his tone brightening. “It looks like she’s scheduled to do Jimmy Kimmel Friday night. That’s tomorrow.”

  Jimmy Kimmel is filmed locally, not in New York.

  Not that I wouldn’t fly to New York for this.

  “Get me into the green room,” I say to Bruno.

  “Done.”

  “Thank God,” Jake says. This time, he doesn’t get away fast enough and the punch lands solidly on his upper arm. It’s satisfying, but not as satisfying as knowing I’m going to see her in less than twenty-four hours.

  The next night I’m dressed in my standard jeans, T-shirt, and leather jacket. I look cool, laid-back, like a rock star. Not at all like a guy who’s running out of hope that he can get the girl. When I show up at the soundstage for Jimmy Kimmel, Bruno’s gotten me five minutes alone in the green room where Natalia is now waiting for her slot on the show.

  That’s fine. Five minutes is all I need.

  With a deep breath, I slip into the room and shut the door behind me.

  She’s alone, sitting on the couch. Her legs are crossed, showing off her long, toned thighs in the miniskirt she’s wearing. They go on for miles, and my mind is already traveling them. She looks up when the door clicks. Her mouth parts, and a little gasp escapes from between her beautiful lips before they turn into a shy smile that makes me think very dirty thoughts about this very nice woman.

  “Hi,” she says, her cheeks reddening in a way that reminds me of that first night we were together. When her cheeks flamed from heat and lust. When I imagined how pink other parts of her were.

  Our eyes are on each other, and I swear the electricity crackling between us could power my entire set at The Forum.

  I cross toward her, purposefully slow, and watch her as she stands, so careful to stay ladylike in that tiny little skirt. “What are you doing here?” she asks.

  I offer her neither a greeting nor an explanation. I just reach inside my jacket and pull out an all-access backstage pass to my concert next week, and an envelope that contains my phone number. Inside is also all the info she’ll need to put as many of her friends on the guest list for the show as she wants. With my other hand, I take hers; her fingers cold and small in mine make my entire body hum with heat.

  I don’t give her an opportunity to talk.

  I lay the pass and the envelope in her palm, closing her fingers around them, and lock my eyes on hers. “You can show up. Bring a friend—or not. Have a good time. Or text with a really hot excuse why you can’t come, accompanied by a picture of yourself apologizing. Naked.”

  Her blush deepens, and her fingers tremble slightly in mine. All the blood in my body rushes to my dick. Her eyes are sparkling, and that sweet smile is growing bigger.

  “I’m going on tour next week,” I say, my gaze never wavering from hers. “I need some memories for the road.”

  She starts to open her mouth to say something that I’m not sure I want to hear. I want to stop her with a kiss—so badly. But she’s got to be on the show in a few minutes and I don’t want to mess up her makeup. So instead I gently place one finger on her mouth, lean in to her ear and whisper, “I put on a really good show. Trust me.” I brush my lips along her temple, inhaling her—memorizing her—as she opens her mouth a
nd sucks my finger in. If I wasn’t hard as a rock before, the feeling of her soft tongue against the pad of my finger would have slain me. It takes every ounce of self-control I have and a little more besides for me to pull my finger out of her warm, ready mouth before I turn and walk out.

  For once, I’m the one leaving her, and I’m leaving her wanting more.

  Now that’s how a rock star does it.

  Chapter Seven

  Something to Talk About

  Natalia

  “That. Was. Amazing,” Hadley says as soon as the lights go on at the end of the concert.

  She’s taken the words right out of my mouth. But I can’t even speak, I’m so wound up with adrenaline and excitement, my insides hosting a parade of butterflies. The energy from Nick on stage is echoed back by his fans. It catches onto me like a cloak, and I can’t shake it off.

  But even if I had been the only one in the room, if there had been no one cheering and screaming and no common high-on-music vibe, I would still be spinning with the dizzy effect of nerves and hormones that I feel whenever I’m in the near vicinity of the man I’ve come to see tonight.

  When he was on stage, while he sang his songs, while he poured out his soul, it was easy to forget the thirteen-year distance between us, and simply hold onto the ecstatic buzz of passion that he poured out in every note. In every dance move.

  No wonder the women line up outside his door. In person, Nick Ryder is a charismatic hottie. In concert, Nick Ryder is a rock god, sex sparking from him with every note.

  We are up front, at the footlights of the stage. We were so close that throughout the show there were times I could look him directly in the eye. It was awesome and inspiring. When his eyes met mine, his hands gripped around the mic, the world stood still.

  But now the world around us is moving again as concertgoers press their way out of the audience, alive with the jubilation of a good night. They’re off for a drink, a meal, their way back home. But not me.