by Wynne Roman
I want the whole world to know that Bree Gallagher belongs to me, and I belong to her. Knox hates the idea, but London’s in charge of video and pictures, and I want them plastered on the internet like wallpaper on every fucking page. Everywhere.
“You’re mine, kitten,” I shout over the applause of the crowd. “Now everybody knows it.”
Her smile is radiant. “And you’re mine. Everybody knows that, too.”
“Good.”
“So that’s it? You’re giving up Garage Girl and Tits for good?”
I give her a wicked grin. “Never really wanted ‘em in the first place, and I gave ‘em up the first time I went down on you.”
“Ajia!” She tries to look shocked, but I can see the satisfaction settle over her.
“You’re mine, kitten,” I say again, just to be sure. Then I do the only thing I can.
I kiss her like it’s the end of the fucking world.
THE END
PLAYLIST
These aren’t necessarily the songs that I listened to while writing Wycked Crush, although some of them are. Mostly, my writing playlist is far too eclectic to make sense to anyone but me. These are the songs that Ajia, Bree, and the rest of the band listened to during the course of the book.
Highway to Hell – AC/DC
Welcome to the Jungle – Guns n’ Roses
Kickstart My Heart – Mötley Crüe
Every Rose Has Its Thorn – Poison
Here I Go Again – Whitesnake
Heaven – Warrant
Something from Nothing – Foo Fighters
Adventure of a Lifetime – Coldplay
Don’t Wanna Know – Maroon 5
Confident – Demi Lovato
Rockstar – Nickelback
SexyBack – Justin Timberlake
Crazy – Gnarles Barkley
Give it to Me – Timbaland ft. Nelly Furtato, Justin Timberlake
Birthday – The Beatles
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Sometimes life throws us a curveball, and that can change your whole direction. It’s happened to me more than once in my lifetime, and it isn’t always easy to recover. The last time it happened to me, I felt lost, adrift, confused, and alone. I saw no way to go forward, and the things that had always brought me comfort—reading and writing—seemed to have abandoned me, as well. There were times when I wasn’t sure I wanted to go on.
Life got better. I got better. It took time, hard work, the love of friends and family, but finally I found my way again. I even found my way back to reading, and then writing. So much had changed! Amazon and the freedom of independent publishing opened avenues that had been missing from traditional publishing, and I found a whole new world.
It wasn’t always an easy transition. I was familiar with traditional publishing, thought I should give it another try, but I didn’t fit. I’m not sure I ever did. And so, in a fit of temper, I decided to write something that was a total fantasy, something I wrote just for me. It was supposed to open my mind and heart to the freedom of indie publishing, and I never expected to finish it. It was practice.
You now hold that fantasy practice book in your hands. I had such fun writing the first 20,000 words, I kept going. I made a very basic plan: write a 50,000-word book and see what I could do with it. About the time I hit 35,000 words, I knew 50,000 words was a joke, but I also thought I had something. So I kept going, all the way to 89,000 words, and by then I was totally in love with the men of Wycked Obsession.
I didn’t do any of this alone. I’ve had some very wonderful, supportive women in my life who have seen me through everything. Enormous, heartfelt thanks go to my sisters Karen Henderson and JoAnne Mandel, my sister-in-law Kathy Ferguson, and my friends-to-the-end Shannon Canody-Fink, Kathy Hafer, Jenny Hunter, Mindy Meinking, Kelly Scardino Meller, and Stacy Young. You ladies enrich my life!
I’d like to thank my “team,” my beta and ARC readers, brainstormers, and cohorts in crime on Wynne’s Way. Here’s to you, Kathy Hafer, Nickie Harman, Sherry Goodman Hughes, David Hunt, Rachael Siegel, Karen Wilson, and Stacy Young. Wycked Crush would definitely not be the same book without every one of you!
I would also like to thank Crystal Kaswell, who inspired me to tackle the rock star world in the first place. The men of Sinful Serenade and Dangerous Noise changed my reading and writing life. Tom, Pete, Kit, or Mal? I couldn’t decide, so I had to write my own heroes!
Finally, I want to thank you, the reader, for choosing this book from among the many others available to you. I hope you enjoyed your time with Bree and Ajia. Please watch for Wycked Rumors, Knox and London’s story, coming in the winter of 2017.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Reading and writing have been a part of my life forever. I was that odd child who went to the library during summer vacation, and I was reading romances before I quite realized that’s what they were. Years later, my habits are still the same.
As Wendy Douglas, I published two historical romance novels, Shades of Gray and The Unlikely Groom, with Harlequin Historicals. After a long hiatus from publishing, I have returned with new enthusiasm and a different focus. Wycked Crush, the first book in the Wycked Obsession series, is the result.
I was born and raised in northwest Iowa and spent most of my adult life in Anchorage, Alaska. When it came time to thaw out my bones, I moved south to the Texas Gulf Coast, where I live with my two very spoiled dachshunds and an assortment of fictional characters who all jockey for position in my head. Sometimes I win, sometimes they do, but it’s never dull!
BOOKS BY WYNNE ROMAN
WYCKED OBSESSION SERIES
Wycked Crush – Ajia’s Story (Summer 2017)
Wycked Rumors – Knox’s Story (Winter 2017)
Wycked Escape – Noah’s Story (Spring 2018)
Wycked Redemption – Zayne’s Story (Summer 2018)
Wycked Love – Rye’s Story (Winter 2018)
Untitled – Baz’s Story (Spring 2019)
(Wycked Obsession’s unseen manager, Baz Calhoun)
WRITTEN AS WENDY DOUGLAS
Shades of Gray
The Unlikely Groom
SNEAK PEEK
Wycked Rumors
Wycked Obsession Series – Book 2
(Knox’s Story)
Coming Winter 2017
[Note: Unedited and subject to change.]
PROLOGUE
LONDON
The restaurant is quiet and dignified, everything I would expect from the finest French establishment in my namesake city. The table is covered with sparkling white linen and set with fine china, silver, and crystal. An elegant silver candlestick holds a flickering white taper, and the mood is perfect.
Colin has already ordered his choice of wine, it’s poured and waiting, and so I take a sip. Anything to calm my nerves. They’ve put me on edge since he picked me up. Something in his voice, his demeanor, his choice of restaurant—everything—tells me he’s up to something.
It must be something special, I think to myself. Colin Gilbert is somewhat stoic and unemotional—typically British, he always says—and romantic gestures aren’t his style. Could tonight be the night he pops the question?
Do I even want him to? And if he does, how will I answer?
“Have you decided?”
I blink. I haven’t looked at the menu.
“No.” I shake my head as the waiter approaches. “You order for me. You know what I like.”
Colin nods smoothly. He likes it when I defer to him, and in this case, I don’t mind. I’ve been back in England for three days, and this is the first time we’ve seen each other. I’m hoping our latest separation might drag out of him whatever trace of romance he might have buried deep in his soul.
I can’t help watching as he orders. He’s slender, not soft but definitely not muscular. The perfect body for an English gentleman, he claims. I don’t know if that’s true, but I accept it if he’s happy with himself. Hi
s hair is dark brown, curly on top and short on the sides, and his eyes are a shade lighter than his hair. He’s maybe five inches taller than my 5’5”, which seems comfortable enough, and dressed in a navy-blue-almost-black suit and coordinating tie.
We’re a nice match, he says, although he does complain about my hair being too red. I laughed the first time he said it. Maybe I do have auburn highlights in my hair—they’re natural—but it’s just as much brown as it is red. My eyes are brown, too—hazel, they’re probably called—but Colin says they’re too gold. They make me stand out, and he’d rather I not draw too much attention.
He isn’t the first one to wish that.
For myself, I’m through with that kind of thinking. I’ve lived most of my life under that pressure, and I’m done with it. Forever. I made myself a promise the day I turned eighteen. By the time I graduated from college, I’d no longer be the shy, innocent girl who faded into the background. I’d be strong and independent, a woman defined by nothing and no one except being my absolute and authentic self.
The time has come. I graduated with my degree in Communications a week ago.
Colin sends the waiter off and looks at me with a distant smile. Is it my imagination, or has he been preoccupied since he picked me up?
“Is everything all right?” I try to smile in an easy, understanding way.
“Yes. Why do you ask?”
“You seem…distracted.” He’s an attorney—a solicitor, I remind myself—and work frequently concerns him.
“No. Although I do want to have a word.”
“All right.” It’s the British way of saying, we need to talk. Uneasiness snakes through me. That’s not usually a sign of anything good, is it? On the other hand, maybe non-romantic Colin doesn’t understand the usual clues. I learned long ago that he sees things much differently than I do.
“What is it?” I ask when he doesn’t continue.
He shakes his head. “We’ll save that for later. How was your trip?”
“Fine.”
“Did you travel with your parents?”
“My mother. Dad…went ahead without us.” I don’t explain—again—that my father never goes out in public with us. Colin knows the situation. We’ve talked about the realities of my family dynamic more than once.
“Yes, of course. And your graduation?”
“Uneventful.” I swallow the words that I really want to say, mostly because I’ve already said them—and it was a waste of breath. I asked Colin to attend the ceremony, and he begged off. Too busy. Too far. Too expensive.
It’s always too much something.
“And your plans now?”
I delay my answer while our waiter places an artfully-arranged vinaigrette salad before each of us. Colin begins eating immediately, while I wait.
“I’ve submitted a number of resumes, both here and in the States.”
“The States?” He looks up. “Southern California?” He says it like he means the very pit of hell. The garbage dump of all humanity. I suppose, to Colin, that’s the case.
“It’s home,” I remind him mildly. “Where I grew up.”
“Yes, well…” His nose wrinkles up like he’s just noticed a bad smell. It makes me want to push him a little.
“I’ve had some very promising interest from a record company in L.A. I interned there last summer.”
“I thought you were staying in England permanently now.”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
I rest a flat gaze on his face. He ought to know; we’ve been seeing each other for months now. But I also recognize his unemotional reserve. Colin Gilbert never assumes anything.
“It depends on the job offers.” I try to keep my tone patient. How difficult can it be to understand? “And how—fulfilling my life here can be. You know, because of my father.”
“Right.” He nods and returns his attention to his salad. “Have you thought about not working?”
“Not working?” I pick up my salad fork but then drop it back to the tabletop before I take a bite. “Why wouldn’t I work? I worked hard for my degree! What would I do instead?”
He finishes his salad calmly and sits back in his chair. He looks at me after a moment, tilting his head as though he wants to see me from a different angle. “I’d like to set you up in a flat. Keep your time available for me.”
“I…” The words fall away. “Keep my time available for you?” I blink and pull my head back. “What the bloody hell does that mean?”
His expression tightens, and I know it’s my language. Colin doesn’t like ladies to curse. Right now, I really don’t give a good goddamn.
“Exactly what it sounds like. I want to be your priority.”
“My priority?” I have to repeat it, hear it again, to believe it. “My priority?” I say once more. “Do you mean my priority, or my only concern?”
He narrows his eyes. “London…”
Why doesn’t he finish?
“What about me, Colin?” I ask stiffly. “Am I your priority?”
“London,” he says again, and this time he shakes his head.
“What? We aren’t engaged. Why should—”
“Engaged?” He frowns. “What do you mean?”
I blink and imitate his expression. “Engaged. As in we’ve made a commitment to each other. That we will have a future together. Why would I make you the priority in my life if I’m not one in yours?”
He stares at me long enough to make me uncomfortable, and then finally he sighs. “London, you must realize the impossibility of what you’re suggesting.”
“The impossibility of what? My being a priority in your life?”
“Of our becoming engaged.”
An odd feeling races through me, like an electric shock sent straight through to my nervous system. I’m hot, then cold, then hot again. “What do you mean, Colin?”
He scowls and shakes his head. “Do I really have to say it?”
“Yes.” I nod emphatically. “You do. Absolutely.”
“It can’t come as a surprise to you that a man in my position can’t consider marriage to…Hugh Kennedy’s illegitimate daughter.”
“Hugh Kennedy’s illegitimate daughter?” I repeat carefully, my throat suddenly dry. “And a man in your position?”
He tries to hold my gaze, but he can’t do it. Brown eyes that suddenly appear weak and untrustworthy slide away.
“You know my goals,” he finally says. “I have grander plans than to remain a simple solicitor for the rest of my life. With the right connections, the right wife, I can—”
“The right wife,” I repeat. I don’t give a fuck if I interrupt him. “And that couldn’t possibly be Hugh Kennedy’s illegitimate daughter. So that must mean you’re asking me to become—what? Your mistress?”
“London…”
I nod as though things suddenly make sense. And they do. They fucking do. “Your mistress,” I say again. “You want to set me up in a flat where I can wait for you to have time to come round for a quick fuck.”
He flinches but says nothing. I press on.
“This might come as something of a shock to you, Colin, but you overestimate the attraction of your cock, you asshole.”
“London!”
His voice is strangled, his voice horrified, and I really don’t give a damn. I rise from my chair with every bit of elegance my mother instilled in me, reach for my purse, and drop my napkin on top of my untouched salad. “I’ll find my own way home, you wanker.”
I don’t turn back. Why would I? I may not have an undying love for this man, but my emotions are involved. I trusted him to believe that he at least cared enough to treat me decently. Hugh Kennedy’s illegitimate daughter deserves some reasonable consideration. Some respect. Doesn’t she?
Don’t I?
It doesn’t matter. I step out onto the street and look for a taxi. Quickly and oh-so-efficiently, Colin ha
s destroyed whatever there might once have been between us. Shattered any hope that this time—this man—would be different.
I should have known better by now. Men want one thing, and women want another. Sex for security and commitment. Isn’t that the exchange?
Maybe for others. Not for Hugh Kennedy’s illegitimate daughter. Born on the wrong side of the sheets, as I’ve heard it whispered, means never aspiring to a real relationship apparently.
A man to love me for who I am, and no other reason.
Tears shock me when they begin to prickle behind my eyelids. I haven’t cried in years, and I know instantly I’m not emotional over Colin fucking Gilbert. It’s the reminder that the accident of my birth makes me…dirty. Not good enough. Someone to be hidden away or embarrassed over.
So maybe London Kennedy, embarrassment to her family and friends, ought to start thinking about herself, suggests a fierce voice from deep inside me.
I choke back a laugh, or is it more tears? Yeah, maybe I should. Instead of looking for trust, romance or even respect, why not accept the obvious that life has laid out for me?
Work hard. Earn respect. Protect yourself, and forget about relationships. For that kind of thing, sex is the answer. Sex doesn’t waste its time with love and happily ever after. Sex doesn’t take your feelings and smash them into smithereens. Sex fills a physical need. The big O is the reward.
Isn’t that how guys look at it? I know it is, so why waste my time expecting anything else? I ought to be thanking Colin! He did me a big fucking favor. Reordered my priorities.
Relationships? They aren’t bloody worth it. I’ve seen what a mess they cause.
“Fuck love,” I mutter as a cab pulls up to the curb. “Who needs it?”
Who, indeed? That’s going to be my new motto, and if I do it right, it’ll see me through anything.