Wycked Crush (Wycked Obsession Book 1)

by Wynne Roman

  CHAPTER 1

  LONDON

  The photographer’s studio buzzes with activity. I stop just inside the entrance, keeping well out of the way, and look for a familiar face. I recognize the guys from Wycked Obsession, of course; anybody in the music industry, or who hasn’t been living under a rock for the last six months, would know them. They came out of nowhere, a sudden phenom from Austin, and now they’re on tour with Edge of Return, the biggest band since Coldplay.

  Not bad for a band with only two albums out.

  I straighten my spine and resist the urge to adjust my hemline or tug at the fit of my shirt. I’ll admit it: I dressed to impress. I’m wearing a white pencil skirt and a teal blue sleeveless blouse, with coordinating jewelry and three-inch blue heels. I don’t expect Knox Gallagher, Wycked Obsession’s lead guitarist and my contact within the band, to give a damn what I look like…or even notice anything about me. But Baz Calhoun, the band’s manager, might, and I’m not taking any chances.

  I want this job.

  The photo shoot seems to be breaking up. I recognize every one of the band members: Ajia Stone, lead singer; Noah Dexter, drummer; Zayne Prescott, bassist; Rylan Myles, keyboardist…and Knox. I’d recognize him anywhere. He’s one of the best guitarists playing right now, and, with Ajia, co-writer of Wycked Obsession’s biggest hits. He’s also the best-looking guy in a band made up of some of the hottest men on the freaking planet.

  The other band members disappear, while Knox continues to talk to the photographer. Baz explained that Knox acts as the band’s unofficial leader, and I can see that must be true. From photo shoots to meeting with me about the band’s marketing and PR needs, Knox exudes an element of control.

  So, where’s Baz?

  I look around but don’t see anyone who has that harried, I’m-so-busy-I’m-going-to-tear-my-hair-out look I’ve seen on other band managers. That leaves me to stare at Knox some more.

  He’s tall, maybe 6’2”, and muscular. His arms and chest are tattooed, revealed because he’s not wearing a shirt. The meaning and placement of his tattoos are of great interest to his female fans. I did a little on-line research before our meeting, and it left me both amused and alarmed at the information and speculation out there.

  None of what I read about Knox seems to have done him justice. His hair is long, to his shoulders, and a deep sable color that looks so much richer in person. It’s like strands of brown, black and ginger all tangled together, and some perfectly decadent part of me wants to discover for myself how soft it is. His lower face is covered with the scruff of a few days worth of whiskers, darker than his hair, and I have to admit it looks totally freaking hot.

  His facial features are nicely proportioned. His nose is maybe a little wide, but his bottom lip is perfectly bitable, according to one on-line fan site. His eyes are lighter colored than I would have expected, sometimes gray and sometimes green, according to his fans. I can’t tell the shade today, not from where I stand, and a part of me wants to move forward to see for myself. I almost take a step forward—and then I realize that he’s staring back at me.

  I can feel my reaction: my eyes widen and my cheeks flush. Damn. I’ve changed in so many ways from the shy, embarrassed girl I used to be, but I’ve never quite learned how to control that damned blush.

  Knox grins, but it’s more of an I-know-you-want-me smile than a friendly expression. Asshole. So he’s like all rock stars. Sure of himself and his appeal, and not afraid to take advantage of it.

  And why not? an impatient voice snaps inside of me. He can get by with it. Every girl in America wants him—and if you had the chance, you wouldn’t turn him down, either.

  Bloody hell.

  I don’t have time for this. More than that, I don’t want to notice him as a man. That wanker, Colin, cured me of that kind of rubbish, and I’m not looking at Knox Gallagher any longer.

  I pull my phone from my purse and glance at the time. I check emails and text messages. Nothing new. Now, pay attention, I tell myself. You’re here to meet with Knox and Baz as a professional. Not some daft cow looking for a quick dance in the sheets.

  Properly chastised, I look back only to discover Knox is gone. The photographer is bent over, messing with a camera case at her feet, and so I approach.

  “Pardon me. Can you tell me where Knox Gallagher went?”

  The photographer looks up at me through a tangle of long graying hair. “You supposed to be here?”

  “I have a meeting with him. I’m from the label.”

  It’s only partly true. Wycked Obsession’s record label was interested in me for an in-house position, but they ended up hiring someone else. They think I’ll be a better fit after some on-the-road experience, and so I’m here at their recommendation, hoping that Knox and Baz agree.

  She nods her head toward the far corner of the room. “He’s in the dressing room.”

  I turn. Dressing room is a generous term. The studio is one big loft, and there’s an area partitioned off with a big screen that is, apparently, the dressing room. With Baz nowhere in sight, I head in that direction.

  “Hello?” I step around the partition to find some odd pieces of furniture and a couple of rows of rectangular metal racks filled with men’s clothes draped on hangers. “Pardon me?”

  Clothing rustles, but I hear nothing else, so I try again. Politely. “Knox? Uh, Mr. Gallagher?”

  My nerves ratchet up as I wait. I’ve met my share of famous people over the years, but this is different. Knox has the final say about whether I get this job—and the more arduous this whole process has become, the more I want it.

  “Well, hell, honey. If you wanted to see my cock, all you had to do was ask.”

  He steps out from between two racks of clothes, stark fucking naked.

  I try—bloody hell, do I try—to keep my gaze on his face. I fail. Dramatically. His chest is broad, tattooed with a Wycked Obsession logo over one pec, a colorful chest piece over the other—a dragon draped around a Celtic cross—and the words Wicked Is As Wycked Does angled over one hip.

  That, of course, leads me lower. To his cock that—oh, my God—even in its only semi-hard state, is twice the size of Colin’s in full erection.

  What must it be like to ride him to orgasm? My panties become drenched and my nipples tighten at just the thought.

  Jesus, luv, no more men! Remember?

  I force my gaze back to his face and stiffen when I see his smirk. Fucking rock stars.

  I swallow. A prissy part of me recognizes how completely unacceptable this is, but most of me knows I have to handle it just right. Rock stars—celebrities of any kind—live by their own rules. They pretty much get by with whatever strikes their fancy. If I want to play the game, I have to learn the system. After all, Baz made it clear that taking this job means working closely with Knox—and I can’t do that if he’s laughing behind my back at some prudish reaction on my part to a little nakedness.

  “Well, hell, baby.” I saunter close with an appreciative smile. “I didn’t know you were offering such…personal service as part of the interview.” I recognize a flicker of awareness in his almost-gray eyes, but that doesn’t stop me. My research told me everything I need to know about the Wycked Obsession guys and their manwhore reputations.

  I wrap my fingers around his shaft and stroke it up and down, just a couple of times. “I would have brought my camera if I’d known, and we could have posted a few pictures on Tumblr.”

  His gaze darkens to one of absolute awareness, like the two of us are suddenly and unquestioningly the only two beings on the planet. He closes his hand over mine and drags my palm up and down over his cock a few more times. His grin is a naughty smile that says, What the hell do we have here?

  “Interview, huh? You must be…Kennedy?”

  “London,” I correct. “London Kennedy.”

  I pull my hand from his—and his cock. “I’d shake your hand,” I say as casually as I can,
“but I think we’ve already moved past that point.”

  His eyebrows rise. “Does that mean I get to grab your pussy?”

  I can’t help it. I laugh. “You taking advice from a certain businessman turned politician?”

  He frowns, but then he laughs, too. “No. God, no. Not looking for any controversy here. Forget I said that.”

  “Good.” I nod emphatically. “Now, if you want to put on some clothes, we can talk about this PR and marketing position you have available.”

  “What if I want to do it naked?”

  I shrug. A very surprising—and mischievous—part of me wishes he would. “Your choice. You’re the boss.”

  “And you?”

  “Me?”

  “Will you be naked, too?”

  “Ah, no.” I shake my head with as much emphasis as my earlier nod. “My girly bits aren’t quite—agreeable to being naked for a first interview.”

  “Girly bits.” He laughs and shakes his head. “Too bad. It might have been fun.”

  “I’m not sure your manager would agree.”

  Knox turns and disappears between the rows of clothing racks. “About that,” he calls, and I hear sounds that might indicate he’s getting dressed. “Baz texted. He got held up at the label. It’s just us.”

  “Oh.” I swallow my disappointment, ninety percent sure it means I won’t have an answer about the job today. “Are you all right with that?”

  “Sure.”

  He walks back out, fastening a pair of skinny jeans over his remarkable hips. I got so caught up in the sight of his cock, I forgot about the rest of him. The man-scaping, the delicious V that starts above his hips and ends at his pelvis, the elaborate guitar tattooed on his thigh. I remember it all now, as clearly as if he hadn’t covered it up at all.

  I swallow. Part of me wishes I’d just said, screw it, let’s do this thing naked. The rest of me fully appreciates the sight of Knox in those dark skinny jeans and vintage Jim Morrison T-shirt.

  Hold on there, luv! I drag my thoughts to a halt. Or maybe it’s my libido. Whatever, he’s dangerous.

  Knox Gallagher might be the hottest thing this side of the sun, but keep your mind on business!

  “There’s a Starbucks not too far from here.” Thank God, he started to speak. “We can go there and talk.”

  “Out in public?”

  “Why not?”

  “Uh…” How exactly do I say it? “Fans? Interruptions?”

  He shrugs. “It’s Southern California. C-list celebrities are a dime a dozen here.”

  I smirk. “Not sure I’d classify you as ‘C-list,’ but you’re right about it being common to see celebrities here.” I take a breath. “Okay, let’s go.”

  “You got wheels?”

  “Yeah.” I send him a look. “You don’t?”

  “I got a tour bus.” He waggles his eyebrows. “Otherwise, I hire a car.”

  “You trust my driving?”

  He grins, and my heart stumbles. Bollocks! What is it about rock stars, and this one in particular, that makes me all hot and anxious…and wet?

  And goddamn Colin for being such a douche as to drop the mistress bomb on me before we’d had sex in—what? Three months? Maybe if we had, I wouldn’t be so…edgy.

  “It’s only a couple of blocks,” Knox says easily. “If the label sent you, you must be safe to go at least that far.”

  I nod, wrestling my physical awareness of him to the back of my mind. I lead the way from the studio to my coppery-colored Audi R8 Spyder, parked just down the street.

  He whistles. “Nice ride.”

  “A graduation present from my father.”

  “College?”

  “High school.”

  He gives me a look I’ve seen before. It means anything from you must be rich to who’s your father? I’m not about to explain anything about Hugh Kennedy and my cocked-up family life until I have to, so I just gesture toward the car as if to say, get in.

  We do, and we’re pulling into the Starbucks parking lot before I can think of anything else to say. Knox hasn’t made any effort to speak, either, and I’m glad. It’s hard to concentrate with the heat of his big, hard body so close to mine.

  I order iced tea, Knox gets iced coffee, and we find a seat at a relatively private table. Well, private for Starbucks. He sits back in his seat and stares at me.

  “Tell me about yourself.”

  I take a deep breath. This is it.

  “I graduated from UCLA this spring. Communications. I interned with your label last summer. I know this isn’t exactly a publicist position, that I’ll be doing the actual marketing and PR.” I pause long enough to organize my thoughts. “Heavy on computer work, which is fine. I’m well-versed with both Mac and PCs. I have experience in most software, and I’m familiar with all the social media sites online. I—”

  “Baz can get all that shit from your resume. I want to know about you.”

  “Me?” Why the hell does my voice squeak like Minnie Mouse? “What do you want to know about me?”

  “We’re on tour for a couple of months yet. You ready to live with the band twenty-four seven?”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  “You ever been on the road living in a tour bus? It isn’t easy.”

  “No.” I shake my head slowly. “But I understand the celebrity lifestyle.”

  “The celebrity lifestyle?” He snorts. “What the fuck does that mean?”

  Why does he have to sound so goddamn appealing, even in his snark? I am so not noticing guys right now! And how many fucking times do I have to remind myself of it?

  “Traveling a lot,” I say quickly, talking fast so I can pretend that he doesn’t make me nervous as hell. “Public exposure. Paparazzi. Fans. Fucking your way through—”

  Oh, shit! Heat floods my face as the words die a sudden, humiliating death. Jesus. Was I really going to say fucking your way through your fan base?

  “Fucking my way through…?” he repeats with a smirk. Bloody hell.

  I fight the urge to close my eyes or hide behind my hands. They’re shaking, anyway, and I don’t want Knox to see it. “Oh, my God! I am so sorry! I didn’t mean you, specifically, but that was completely uncalled for. I—Jesus! I don’t know what I was thinking!”

  He lifts one shoulder, along with one eyebrow. “Been known to happen.”

  If only I could smile, make light of it, but I know better. I fucked this up, and I have to own it. “I read some things on the Internet,” I admit meekly, “but that doesn’t excuse what I said. I’m terribly sorry.”

  He perks up. “Anything good?”

  “What?”

  “On the Internet. What’d you read? Anything good about us?”

  Part of me wants to laugh. He’s like a kid. The rest of me is busy fighting to keep a calm expression.

  Don’t blush. For God’s sake, do not blush!

  I take a breath. “About you? Just…you know. The tattoos and piercings.”

  “Which ones?” He flicks his earlobe, and for the first time, I notice he wears a diamond stud and a gold ring behind it.

  “Not…there.”

  “Where, then?”

  “Are you enjoying this?”

  He shakes his head, his amazing sable-colored hair shifting to cover his earlobe, but I see the devil in his mostly gray eyes. “Nope. Just trying to find out what they’re saying about me on the internet.”

  I settle back in my chair and cross my arms over my chest. “You know what they’re saying. That your cock is tattooed. Or pierced. Or both.”

  He gives me a wicked smile that gives away just how much he is enjoying this. “Then you already know for yourself that it isn’t either.”

  “That’s true.” I try to sound matter of fact, but my gaze drops like I’m looking past the solid wooden table and through thick fabric of his jeans. Picturing him naked again. And maybe I am—but he doesn’t need to know that. I
drag my eyes back upward.

  “We don’t need to confirm or deny those rumors on the internet,” I add desperately.

  Knox takes a drink of his iced coffee and considers me with a look. “You say you know something about the celebrity lifestyle?” He uses my words again, sounding amused—or maybe irritated. I can’t tell which. “Why?”

  Here you go, luv. This is it.

  I’ve known it was coming. I don’t want to admit much about my past and my family; never have. Still, I thought I’d accepted that I’d have to do this. Faced with it, I’m not so sure.

  Normal people with normal families don’t run up against this kind of thing. I’ve whined about it most of my entire life. When your father is famous—infamous—it’s a whole different ballgame. Full disclosure. In the long run, it’s the right thing to do. The easiest.

  And the hardest.

  “My father is Hugh Kennedy. The movie—”

  “Producer.”

  “Yes. You’ve heard of him.”

  “Everybody who’s seen a fucking movie in the last twenty years knows who Hugh Kennedy is. His string of hits is unprecedented.”

  I nod. “Twenty-two years.”

  Knox blinks. “That’s a pretty specific number.”

  I shrug. “I’m twenty-two.”

  “Ahh…” He drags the word out. “You’re his muse. His lucky charm.”

  “No.” My laugh sounds more bitter than I mean it to. “My mother is.”

  He watches me for a heartbeat, and I see the instant he puts it all together. The stories and the gossip. Everything that’s been said about my family—and me. True or not.

  “London Kennedy.” He says my name softly.

  “That’s right.” I take a quick sip of my tea, mostly just to steal a few seconds to think. To breathe. “Illegitimate daughter of Hugh Kennedy.” I say it like I’m reading a bullet-list of facts from USA Today. “The result of his affair with actress Marisol Malone. The relationship that has remained unacknowledged for twenty-two years. The mistress and daughter he only pretends to hide, while he remains married to Adele Southworth Kennedy, his beloved wife, and father to their three legitimate children.”