Wycked Crush (Wycked Obsession Book 1)

by Wynne Roman

  The ride to…well, wherever this party is being held—nobody actually told me—is filled with Knox’s advice.

  “Remember. Talk to the execs. Their wives, kids, whoever they introduce. Baz says there’ll be reporters and photographers, but not the paparazzi type. And—”

  “What the fuck, dude?” Noah shakes his head. “What kind of loser assholes you think we are?”

  “What?” My brother acts like the question has him clueless. And, to be fair, it probably does. His need to control shit goes deep.

  “We got this,” says Rye calmly. “Maybe this is the first party the label’s given for us, but we’ve been to other shit. We know what to do.”

  “Right.” Knox nods. “Right.”

  “Why’re you so nervous, dude?” asks Zayne.

  I sigh and say, “Me.” Because I know it’s true. “The tabloid shit.”

  “We got that, too.” Ajia takes my hand and squeezes. “Nobody fucks with Bree.”

  They all share a gaze that almost makes me want to laugh. You’d think they were the Sopranos going in on a hit or something. I don’t, though, because I don’t want them to doubt how serious I take the gossip. Part of me feels kind of removed from it, because it’s so far from the truth. The rest of me is just…overwhelmed.

  We pull up in front of another hotel, and the limo door opens. Knox is first out, and immediately I hear shouts and people calling his name. So there’s a crowd—and that means paparazzi.

  “Let me get out ahead of you.”

  Ajia crawls over me, then turns to help me out. I step from the limo, my hand in his, and the noise almost overwhelms me. The same shouts, people calling Ajia’s name, the fast click of camera shutters.

  “Ajia, do you have anything to say about group sex with your bandmates?”

  “Is that Breeanne Gallagher? Bree, any comment?”

  “Wycked Obsession rules!”

  “How’s the tour with Edge of Return? Any chance you’re sharing your girl with them?”

  “Get rid of that slut! You want a real woman, I’m here for you, Ajia!”

  Ajia drops my hand to splay his fingers over the small of my back and guide me forward. “Ignore it.” His voice commands me like I’ve never heard him before. “Look straight ahead and smile like you’re the happiest fucking woman on this goddamn planet.”

  I do as he says, but only because it’s Ajia next to me. Ajia telling me what to do, reminding me in his own way of every piece of advice that Baz’s given me. The weak part of me wants to turn into the man at my side, hide my face against his chest, wrap my arms around him, and steal some of his strength. Bask in the knowledge of what he can do to my body with his touch, his kiss…his cock. But the rest of me—the Bree Gallagher who’s put up with the years of longing for him, of being the band mascot, and fighting off my stepfather’s advances—wants to make him and the rest of the band proud.

  I smile and nod, as though some sort of acknowledgment of those around me. Truthfully, I keep my eyes focused on walking forward with some shred of certainty. When the wide glass doors open and we step inside, I welcome the cool, relative calm of the hotel.

  “This way.”

  Security is there. It’s Kel, and he steps up to lead us toward where Knox is waiting. The others trail behind us, and as we wait for the elevator, Ajia drops his head to whisper in my ear.

  “You did great, baby.”

  I look up at him. “Did I?”

  He nods and glances at the others. “We got this, right, you fuckers?”

  They laugh, Kel smiles, and the elevator finally arrives. It’s crowded with all of us but not uncomfortable, and when the doors open, I see a fancy restaurant decorated with a banner announcing Wicked Is As Wycked Does.

  Kel leads the way. There are other posters inside: album covers; the Wycked Obsession logo; pictures of the band, both posed and live in-concert; and what I can only assume are some of the pictures taken at the most recent photo shoot, if what Ajia told me is true.

  There he is, larger than life, reclining shirtless on a bed of white. His leather pants are unbuttoned, his hand tucked into his waistband, and a sultry expression on his face that says, C’mon, baby. Fuck me now. You know you want to.

  “Holy motherfucking shit,” mutters Noah just behind me.

  “How did they get those pictures so fast?” asks Rye.

  I glance around and see oversized posters of them all. Every one in a seductive pose and looking like they’re ready to fuck the next girl to step in front of them.

  “Jesus, y’all.” It’s all I can say.

  Zayne laughs in delight, but I forget when I feel a soft breath behind my ear. “I was thinking about you when they took that,” Ajia whispers.

  My nipples perk up to stand at attention, and my eyes dart from left to right. Nobody seems to notice Ajia and me so close together; they’re all staring at the posters like ten-year-old boys hooked on video games.

  “There you are! Good to see you!” A middle-aged, somewhat balding man with a round tummy approaches and shakes hands all the way around. He hesitates for just an instant when he gets to me. “And this must be Bree.”

  I smile and offer my hand. “Yes, sir. I’m pleased to meet you.”

  “I’m Martin Evans, but call me Marty. These boys are mine.”

  I recognized the name. “You signed them.”

  He nods. “That I did.” He gestures to the room that’s quickly filling with…I don’t know, music industry insiders, I guess. “I’m going to steal Knox.” Marty smiles at my brother. “Maybe we can get this marketing and PR issue nailed down today.”

  London. I smile to myself and wave Knox off. I know he’ll stay around for me as long as he thinks I need it, but we already agreed to our solution.

  “Go.” I let the smile spread over my face. “I’ll be fine.” I slip my arm through Ajia’s with a wink. “Ajia said he’d introduce me around.”

  “Good, good!” Marty seems to like that idea, and then he cocks his head, looking from Ajia to me and back. “You’re like a pair, both dressed in black.” He turns to wave at somebody—a photographer, apparently, when a guy with a camera approaches. “Get some candid shots of them. They look good together.”

  Ajia shrugs when I look at him. Far as I know nobody planned for us to both be in black. I didn’t have much choice; both dresses Baz sent are black.

  Marty leads Knox away as the photographer waves us off. “Mingle. I’ll keep an eye out for you.”

  “Okay,” says Noah. “Divide and conquer, bitches.” He grins at me. “Baby girl, you’re gonna kill ‘em dead.”

  I smile back. “Let’s do this,” I say with more bravado than I actually feel.

  And so it begins. Ajia snags a couple of glasses of champagne for us and leads me around the room. He seems to know a lot of the people from the record label, although it’s clear he’s meeting some of them face-to-face for the first time. He introduces me easily as Knox’s sister—the unrecognized member of Wycked Obsession, he tells them, which I’m not sure is such a good idea. Some of them—the ones who have an idea of the internet gossip—smirk in a real fucking unpleasant way.

  I ignore it and remind myself I’m strong all on my own. I don’t need to reach for Ajia’s hand. I might want to, but that can wait until later.

  The crowd demands we circle endlessly, or so it seems. After more than an hour and a couple of glasses of champagne, I need a break. Just a few minutes in the Ladies’ Room, I promise Ajia, and I’ll be fine. I even believe it.

  The restroom is empty, but I slip into a stall, anyway. The added privacy beckons, and I sit primly on the commode. Ajia, Knox—all the guys—are made for this kind of thing. They’re entertainers, and they thrive in a crowd. Something in them blossoms—they’re on and playing rock star versions of themselves. Not quite the same people as when it’s just us and our fucked up little rock star family, but it doesn’t matter. They’re good at it.
At everything.

  Then there’s me. I don’t have any other version of myself, didn’t know I’d need one. I’m just Bree, band mascot, tagalong and, now, Ajia’s lover. If I’m going to spend the next couple of months on the road with them—and if I seriously want this relationship with Ajia to have the chance at being something real—then I better figure out pretty damn quick just who this public Bree is going to be. And, more than that, how to turn her on and off.

  The restroom door opens, and I swallow a sigh. Should I flush and exit the stall like I’m done? Or can I get by with hiding out for a few more minutes?

  The decision is taken from me when a voice demands, “Did you see her?”

  “Who?”

  The women sound young, maybe my age, with an easily recognizable entitled boredom in their tone.

  “The slut sister. Breeanne.”

  My breath cuts off and my eyelids snap closed.

  “She’s here?” snorts Girl Number Two.

  “The one walking around with Ajia Stone.”

  “In that awful black fuck-me dress?”

  Number One laughs. “The dress isn’t so bad. Looks like shit on her, though.”

  “D’you suppose they’re all fucking her?”

  “You saw her!” Number One screeches. “What d’you think? Muddy brown hair, little tits, huge thighs. Why the fuck would the Wycked Obsession guys waste their time on her?”

  Number Two laughs. “Not everybody can afford the boob job you got at sixteen.”

  “Oh, come on. Her brother is Knox fucking Gallagher. He could buy her twenty boob jobs if he thought it would do any good. It’d be a waste of his money, and he probably knows it. What’s that saying? Something about putting lipstick on a pig.”

  They laugh, take care of Mother Nature, and whatever else they came in for. I hear the water run, the hand dryer roar, and they continue to gossip. How big is Knox’s dick? Is fucking Ajia as hot as his voice makes it sound? Can they convince Noah to have a ménage with the two of them?

  I hold myself absolutely still. Not sure I even breathe until the door opens again. “Come on,” says Girl Number One, her voice fading. “Let’s go find Ajia and show him what a couple of real women look like.”

  Number Two laughs, and the door clicks shut behind them.

  I realize I’ve been pressing my hands over my mouth, but the reality of it comes only after the others are gone. The bathroom stall comforts me and yet the metal walls press in on me at the same time. How long have I been in here?

  Moving like I’m sick or something, I push myself up and open the stall door. My brain stays checked out until I finally get to the sink to wash my hands. My face—a stranger’s and yet oddly familiar —stares back from the mirror, eyes wide and cheeks bright red.

  You know how this stuff is supposed to work, I tell myself. I’ve heard about it, witnessed shit first-hand, even felt the hatred of the groupies when I’m around the band. I’ve even been preparing myself for it to get worse, once word of Ajia and me gets out.

  But this kind of meanness throws what I thought I knew all to shit. It’s specific, targeted directly at me, and over nothing but a silly rumor. A joke that somebody took way too fucking far and now has a life of its own. Worse, it shows pure hatred for me and my place in the guys’ lives.

  Or maybe it’s just a combination of everything. Hearing the actual fucking words like I’m such a worthless piece of shit. Wide green eyes stare back at me from the mirror, and I realize that it’s true. It has nothing to do with the rumors. It’s about me, and it’s personal.

  Well, personal to me. To them, it’s plain old jealousy, and they don’t really give a shit about me either way. If I can just remember that, I can make it through the rest of this stupid party, and I won’t have to see these people ever again.

  What other choice to I have?

  “Stop stalling.” I say it aloud, snapping at the me in the mirror. “So maybe they hate you. They don’t matter. You don’t need them. You have Ajia and Knox and the rest of the guys. You don’t need anybody else.”

  You have Ajia and Knox and the rest of the guys. I repeat the words over and over as I freshen my lipstick, fluff my hair to fall over my shoulders, and straighten my dress over my hips.

  You have Ajia and Knox and the rest of the guys.

  My confidence wavers as I reenter the party. It hits me in an entirely new way just how many beautiful women fill the room. They’re all taller than me, with perfect figures, stylish outfits, and they carry themselves with the grace and poise of fashion models. Who am I? A plain, simple girl from Texas who has no business being here with the pretty people.

  I suck in a ragged, half-assed breath and that’s when I spot Knox. He’s talking with a petite woman, about my height but slender. She’s wearing a navy blue cocktail dress, conservatively cut, even though it’s sleeveless and with an outer layer of lace over the bodice and skirt. Her hair is a beautiful auburn color that falls to her shoulders. I wish she’d turn around so I could see her face. Could it be London, the PR and marketing whiz?

  Zayne crosses into my line of sight, distracting me enough so that I follow his progress. None of us quite trusts that he’s totally recovered from whatever he had going on last night—or that he isn’t possibly doing something more today. I didn’t see the guys at their absolute worst, but I saw enough during and after the last tour. Now I know just enough to be suspicious.

  Fortunately for us both, he stops to chat with Marty. It’s then that I spot Ajia, surrounded by a couple of girls. Of course. I wish I could smile about it, but I can’t quite manage it at the moment.

  I start for him, partly because I’ll always be drawn to him, but also because he’s my point man in this party charade. I’m supposed to stay close. I promised.

  “Ajia.”

  I hear a woman’s laugh, and then another joins in. The girl on his right says his name as she reaches for his arm, and I find myself staring at the way her long, red-tipped fingers curl over his forearm. I hear it again. The laughter, the entitlement, the edge beneath the humor…

  The girls from the bathroom have cornered Ajia, and I want to puke.

  “Bree!”

  Turning away, I spin on the ball of my foot. I can hear him calling my name, but I can’t stop. Not now. Not after…everything.

  You can do it. Face those bitches down! You’re better than them. You kick ass!

  Something desperate inside me shouts out a hell of a pep talk. A part of me even tries to listen. I want to be that strong, resilient woman, but everything I need to be her is just shot right now. Damn if I’m not just a little too exhausted at the moment.

  For now, it’s just too fucking much, and I’m outta here.

  CHAPTER 20

  AJIA

  “Bree!”

  She turns away, and I can’t tell if she heard me over the crowd noise. Fuck. I look at the vampires around me. Maybe not fair to call them that, but I can feel them sucking the life out of me.

  Does Bree think I went back on my word? That these women around me mean something in some fucked up way? She trusts me more than that, doesn’t she?

  Why the fuck should she? demands my conscience. What have you ever done to prove yourself to her?

  “Sorry, honey.” I pull away from the vampire who clutches my arm. “I gotta take care of something.”

  “Ajia” Her voice is a shrill demand. “You’re not going after her, are you?”

  I turn to look at her full-on. Maybe vampire is right. She’s pale with long, seriously black hair and goth-looking makeup. Her expression is…well, pretty fucking ugly, if you want to know the truth. Entitled and just plain mean.

  “What?” It comes out like I can’t fucking believe she questioned me. “Who are you talking about?”

  “That’s the one, right?” The vampire points in the direction of where Bree disappeared, seeming to miss the clues I’m sending out that she’s crossed a line.
I glance at her friend, who looks like she gets it on some level, at least if her wide eyes are any sign. She’s smart enough to keep her mouth shut.

  “The one what?”

  “The slut from the internet. Knox’s sister. The one you’re all supposed to be hot to fuck.”

  “The slut…” My voice goes so low it can only fade away.

  “C’mon, Ajia.” She steps toward me, and I step an equal distance back. I suddenly can’t stand the idea of being any closer to her than is absolutely necessary. The distance from L.A. to Austin would be perfect.

  She blinks, angles her head, and narrows her heavily made-up eyes. “Don’t tell me it’s true! You’re actually fucking her?” She laughs, but it’s an angry, ugly sound. “What the fuck could you guys want with her, when you can have prime pussy like this?” She spreads her arms wide.

  The slut from the internet. Knox’s sister.

  I’ve never cared what the tabloids say or write about me. It might not be accurate, but there’s a pretty good chance there’s some underlying truth. I’m a piece-of-shit manwhore who doesn’t care about anybody but myself, the band—and now, Bree. Maybe always Bree. Nobody knew much about her before, but now…

  A few hours in the spotlight, and she’s a slut?

  Fuck that.

  My temper’s on a hair trigger right now, and I don’t fucking care. A lot of shit has put me on the edge lately. Traveling, performing, partying. Crap with Bree’s stepfather, getting her in bed with me, the secret we’re keeping from Knox…and the shit I have to reveal from the past. It’s too fucking much, but I can’t seem to stop myself from making it even fucking worse.

  Disgust narrows my eyes, and I let the expression settle over my face. I shake my head and drag a revolted gaze over the goth vampire chick. “No thanks, honey. Not into sloppy seconds. But you’re right about one thing.” I lean forward just enough that I can lower my voice. “She’s not sleeping with the whole band. I’m keeping her to myself.” Spinning on my heel, I stalk off and ignore the shriek behind me.