by Wynne Roman
I pause for a breath that takes too long and comes too ragged. “That London Kennedy.”
CHAPTER 2
KNOX
Fuck me. This girl is trouble…and, deep down, I know I’m going to hire her.
If she wants the job, it’s hers.
Not because I want to fuck her—and that much is so fucking true. I do. Not gonna waste my time pretending she doesn’t make my cock hard as fucking granite. Wanted her from the second I caught her staring at me from the other side of the photographer’s studio. Fuck. I showed her my cock, just to see how far I could push her, and she stroked the fucker like a goddamn pro.
Jesus, it makes me even harder just thinking about it, but I can’t go there right now. Not sitting in Starbucks in the middle of the day.
Besides, I can already tell this woman is brave, willing to take risks and no bullshit, and she deserves some respect for that.
Exactly the kind of publicist we need.
It isn’t a true publicist’s job. We’re calling it that, but it’s marketing and PR and publicity, all crammed together into a pile of shit and done from a seat on a tour bus. It’s close, personal, and looking out for the band’s interests instead of the label’s. Somebody who, when they speak for us, says what we want to say and shows what we want to show.
Whatever the hell that means. Still figuring it all out. I’m shit at doing it. I like the control, but don’t have the patience or finesse to say, “Fuck you,” in a way that they won’t figure out is an insult until it’s too late.
I get the feeling that London Kennedy can manage that just fine.
She’s been through some shit in her life. In some ways, maybe even uglier shit than we have, and for fucking longer. She knows how to keep a low profile. I know fuck all more about what her parents did than anything about London herself. She looks like any man’s version of a wet dream, and I can’t help running a slow gaze from her head to as far down as I can see.
She’s got reddish-brown hair and oddly-colored golden-brown eyes. They see a lot, those eyes, and I want to know what that means. How does the world look to her? A lot of deep shit is going on in there.
A few freckles spread out over her nose and across her cheeks. Can’t say I remember hooking up with a girl who had freckles, but on her, they’re fucking hot. Her teeth are white and straight, like her old man paid for the best dentist in L.A., and her lips are full. Kissable.
Fuckable.
She blinks those strange golden eyes suddenly. “Is it too much?”
Looking at her without fucking her? Yeah, it’s way too goddamn much.
“What?”
“My background. My—father.” Her gaze slides away. “More than you want to take on?”
“No. Fuck no. Why would you think that?”
She lifts one shoulder. “Not everybody feels that way.”
“Fuck them.”
She looks back at me. “You can afford to feel like that.” She points in my direction. “You can get pretty much anything you want. Me? Not so much.”
I sit back and look at her like I’ve been wanting to. Deep and hard and seeing every part of her body. A fine fucking body it is, too. Full tits, tiny waist, hips and an ass that a man can really grab hold of when he fucks her, and legs that’d wrap around me real fucking perfectly.
But she’s not a groupie, a one and done I’ll forget as soon as I come. Or a fangirl who’s heard I like things a little rough and wants to find out what that means. If she takes the job, she’ll be around all of us all the fucking time—and that means a little discretion.
My cock hates the restraint.
“What about your old man? He can’t get you what you want?”
She pulls back like I slapped her. I get it. I hate that I understand, but I’ve got a fucking sperm donor who taught me everything I need to know about fatherhood.
“If I asked him, my father would give me whatever I want. It’s easy to give…things. I’ve never asked him and never will, so if you’re expecting some kind of special…favors from him—”
“Fuck no!” It’s a harsh snap that suits my opinion of fathers just fine. “I don’t take help from anybody. Not that kind.”
She nods sharply, like we’re in agreement, and I let it go. Don’t want to fucking talk about fatherhood, anyway. Just the idea ruins my fucking mood.
“Moving on,” I mutter after a quick drink of my iced coffee. “Tell me what you know about Wycked Obsession.”
“What?”
“You said you looked us up on the internet. What’d you find? And not the tattoos and piercing stuff.”
She gives me a little smile. “Okay. Well, you’re out of Austin, Texas, formed about five years ago. You and Ajia Stone were the founding members. You played the local circuit for a few years, put together an EP that went viral pretty quickly, and got yourself signed by a label. You went on tour after your first album, self-titled Wycked Obsession. You were on the road for a long time, almost six months, opening for anybody they paired you with.”
I nod, and she keeps going.
“You took six months away from touring, except for local gigs and the occasional national appearance, and released Wicked Is As Wycked Does about a month ago. The first single is Tonight, hanging solidly in the top five on the charts. The video is concert and tour footage, but rumor has it that your next video will be a bigger production.”
She pauses for a sip of iced tea, takes a breath, and then continues when I don’t say anything. “You’re on tour with Edge of Return, pretty damned impressive for a band less than two years out of Austin.” She angles her head toward me like it’s some sort of salute or something. “Your sister Bree is touring with you this summer, and your female fans are…not happy.”
“What?” That part comes as a surprise. “Why the fuck do they care if Bree’s with us?”
“You don’t seem to be as…” She pauses as though searching for the right word. “Promiscuous with her around.”
I laugh. I can’t help it. “Promiscuous?” I shake my head. “Fuck me, English. They think we’re not fucking enough cause my sister’s along?”
“Apparently.”
“Then they better be prepared to be disappointed for a while yet.” My expression settles into something more serious. I never joke about what Bree means to me. “She’s with us all summer, and my sister’s a fuck of a lot more important to me than some random fan’s opinion.”
“The two of you are close.”
It’s not a question, and I give a sharp nod. “Been there for each other through a lot.”
“You could use that to…I don’t know. Appeal to a different part of your audience.” Her gaze slides away as she pauses. “Connect with the less horny ones?”
I give her a wicked smile that usually gets me my way. “Aren’t many of those in our fan base, English. They’re all hot for one of us.”
“Lucky you.”
“Jealous?”
“No.” Her snort is fucking cute, but I feel myself tighten up. That’s a description I usually reserve for my sister. “Just wondering how we can…upgrade that. Your sister—”
“Is off limits. Not using her for some media attention.”
London angles her head, like she’s seeing something new. Different. “All right.”
I let it go. I’m a little touchy about Bree. She was just a kid when our sperm donor took off. Eight and I was 12. Old enough to take up the slack, and I wanted her to stay a kid, fun loving and free of what the world is really like, for as long as possible. It worked for a while, but now she’s complaining how she’s grown up, and I’m too protective.
Bree might be almost 20, but…no. Fuck that. Everything in me stiffens. I’m not ready for her to grow up. She pushed back against my protective bullshit, as she calls it, and I’m trying. Keeping my mouth shut as much as I can. It’s easier when the other guys are there; we all keep an eye out for her and always have. I
’m doing the best I can, but shit still gets out of hand.
Jesus! Our asshole stepfather, Gabe, is a prime fucking example. He’s been hitting on her for months now, for Christ’s sake! Newly married to our mom, he thinks Bree ought to be some kind of sex toy for him.
Fuck, no. Fuck that—and him. He’s the reason she’s on tour with us, and I’m not letting anybody take advantage of his sick shit for some goddamn publicity!
“So what else do you have in mind for us?” It comes out as a snarky demand, but I don’t care. This shit with Bree makes me crazy.
“What do you mean?”
“If you get the job.” Deliberately, I make it sound less certain than it is in my mind. “What’re your plans to get us…out there?”
“Well…” She blinks, sips from her iced tea, and then relaxes against her seat to look at me. So, her ideas for publicity don’t make her tense up. It says confidence, and I like that.
“I’d upgrade your website,” she says finally. Slow and careful, like she’s giving it serious thought before she speaks. “It needs a total redesign. Show off the album covers and your logo. I’d give you each a page, connect directly to merch sales and link to a YouTube channel for some video blogging. You’ve all got Facebook and Twitter accounts, but none of you use them effectively, so we’d change that. Post new content every day. Interact with some of your fan sites, maybe get the more serious ones to act like old-fashioned fan clubs used to. Start posting to Instagram, maybe some live feed, and—”
“Enough.” I blow out a breath. “Jesus, I get it. Plaster us all over the internet.”
“Pretty much.”
“And where’s this content coming from?”
She smiles. It’s part daring and part naughty, and hardens my dick again, just when it was starting to soften. Jesus. I want to know what the naughty part of her is thinking.
“Some from me. Some from you blokes. We’d set up a calendar—a system—and everybody participates. I’d organize and manage it, of course, and take up the slack on the days you don’t post.”
“Good luck getting those other fuckers to do anything. They don’t listen to me.”
She smirks. “They’ll do it.”
“You sound pretty sure of yourself.”
“I’ll…convince them.”
What the fuck does that mean? “Don’t know how, but you’re welcome to try.”
Her smile widens. “Never dare a woman. Don’t you know that?”
I drag a lazy, almost insolent gaze from her head as far down as I can see. She notices…and responds. I hear the sharp breath, cut off abruptly, and her nipples tighten beneath her bright blue top. Her smile fades.
“What else, honey?”
She swallows. “What?” Her voice is soft, ragged-sounding.
“What other dares you willing to take?”
Her eyes grow darker as she stares, narrow, and then her eyelids drift shut. Satisfaction mingles with an odd disappointment. I’ve seen women react that way a million times.
“Oh, you’re good.” Her eyes pop open, settling back to that unusual golden color, and she levels me with a harsh, serious gaze. “Bloody brilliant, actually. I don’t know how you do it, exactly, but I see how you get your way.”
“My way?”
She nods, sharply, and a strand of reddish hair falls forward over her shoulder. “You give a girl the look, call her honey, and she falls in line with whatever you want. Clever wanker, aren’t you?”
“Wanker?”
“Fucker. Asshole.” She lifts one shoulder in a casual shrug. “I’ve spent enough time in England to pick up some of their…idioms.”
“You think that’s what this is about? Some fucking flirting so I can get in your pants?”
“Is it?”
“I don’t fuck employees.”
“I’m not your employee.”
“You might be.”
“And is this part of the interview? Deciding if you want to fuck me?”
Don’t have to decide that. I wanted her from the second I saw her, and that hasn’t changed. I do have something called self-control, however.
Why the hell don’t people ever see beneath the manwhore reputation?
“Irrelevant,” I snap in a cold voice, refusing to confirm or deny. I don’t lie, but I don’t give anybody any ammunition to use against me. “Who I fuck’s my own goddamn business.”
Uncertainty flickers in her eyes before she drops her lids to conceal it. I’m faster than that, smarter than that. Had to be, the way I grew up. Satisfaction that she got the message doesn’t ease my irritation.
I’m a grown man, I haven’t answered to anybody else since the sperm donor took off, and I don’t have to tell her a motherfucking thing about who I want to fuck.
Even if it’s her?
“Anything else?” I demand.
“Pardon?” She pretends to look at me, but she doesn’t really. Her voice is stiffly polite.
“Anything else you’d do?”
She swallows and takes a minute to answer. “Do you have a photographer touring with you?”
“No.” I give my head a sharp shake. “Too intrusive.”
She nods carefully, like she understands. “I’m not an expert, but I’ve taken some photography classes. I can manage internet-quality pictures and video. The label would hire a professional like today’s photo shoot for the important things, anyway.”
I stare at her like I’m expecting something more. And maybe I am. But I don’t know what it is, unless it’s for her to drop to her knees and tell me she wants to suck my cock—and that just pisses me off more.
“If we take you on,” I snap, hearing the double entendre and glad it’s only in my own fucking mind, “how soon can you be ready to start?”
“Immediately.”
She does her best to hold my gaze but can’t really do it. I know why. Been told often enough that my expressions intimidate the fuck out of people who don’t know me well. I like it that way, have no interest in being subtle. What you see is what you get with me. I don’t spill my guts of everything I know, but I don’t pretend to be anything except exactly who I am.
Fuck. I need to get out of here. I shouldn’t be pissed off at her. None of this is her fault. She doesn’t know I’m pushing her because of how bad I want to see her naked and spread wide open for me, her arms bound above her head while I eat her to more orgasms than she can count.
No, she’s thinking any girl will do. And that’s usually true. Something is seriously fucked up if I’m thinking I want her, specifically, over some random pussy.
My insides tighten, and I want to hit something. Kick it. Knock the ever-living fuck out of it.
Forget all this ridiculous fucking shit, I tell myself. You played the relationship game once, and it was a goddamn disaster.
Relationship? What the fuck? Just the thought pisses me off even more.
I learned my lesson, and I have never, ever forgotten. I’m the kind of guy women want to fuck. To tell their friends they fucked a rock star with a big dick and a taste for rough, dirty sex. They don’t want anything permanent—and neither do I.
The sperm donor taught Mom, Bree, and me all we need to know about that happily-ever-after crap. After that, Farren took care of any unanswered questions, and now I know for sure.
Romantic love doesn’t exist. Pleasure—sex—makes a pretty good substitute, so I might as well get it wherever and however I can get it. That means no emotions except knowing how fucking good it feels to come. No need to explain shit. No reality except exactly the one I want.
Hey, all you motherfuckers. I’m Knox Gallagher. Songwriter, lead guitarist of Wycked Obsession…and manwhore.