“Why are you doing this to me?”
“Because I like you,” I say as he sets his glass aside, slips mine from my hand and does the same, and then he takes me into his arms and pulls me close enough that I can breathe in that minty fresh scent of his. God, I've never been with a guy that smelt this damn good. He's clean and bright, but underneath it all, there's still that kiss of animal, of beast. I want to take him to bed now.
“The last thing we need is another sex tape,” he says with a small sigh. Of course, our newest broadcast—the foursome on the bus—was sort of gray and grainy, not all Technicolor like the one at the mansion, but it's gone viral. Obviously. This time though, it's not some devious plot and just our own stupidity. “But I'll be damned if I can resist you. What the fuck have you done to me?”
“Must be my heart of gold,” I say as I lean up on my tiptoes and nibble his lower lip. “That's what all the gossip is saying.” I grin as Dax puts his hands on my hips and turns to steer me toward the staircase leading down. There are three floors in this place; the bottom is like any other club, but the two above it are shaped like squares with the center cut out. There's a railing, of course, but all the action is connected. If I want to see Turner and Naomi grinding together on the floor below us, all I have to do is lean over. “Where are we going?”
“I'm not sure yet,” Dax says, his voice low and dark, swimming in and around my senses like a shark circling its prey. The thought gives me wicked chills. And I love that, how he can make me feel this way—and how I can hear his voice, no matter how loud it gets in here. That must count for something, right? “But if the Washingtons own this place—and if Paulette's husband got caught screwing an underage prostitute in here—then I won't miss it if we leave.”
Dax spins me around by the shoulders and walks so close behind me that I swear I can feel the hardness of his cock stabbing me in the ass. Tricky little fucker. Or should I say big fucker. Huge. Monstrous. Girth-y. Oh, ladies, he's hung like a goddamn horse and I'm not just saying that. I have plenty of dildos that would strive to be as big as this guy.
We slip out the front and into a crowd of partygoers heading to their next destination. Clearly, our security guards are in this mess somewhere, but I decide to ignore them for the time being, letting myself get swept up in Dax McCann as he drags me into the alley next to the club. It's not very romantic—across the street is the glowing sign of a 7-Eleven—but it's dark and there's nobody else down here …
“Wow. We've upgraded, haven't we? A back room in a strip club, a graveyard, and now, a dirty disgusting alley.”
“Just remember,” Dax says as he pushes the hoodie back over his head and smiles down at me with this feral gleam in his eye, “this is all your fault.”
His hands slide up under my dress, teasing the slick fabric of my pantyhose, making me pant and gasp at even that simple touch. If I'm this crazy for him right now, how am I going to survive the actual act?
Lord help me.
“I brought a present,” Dax whispers in my ear, leaning close enough that I'm forced to take a step back. I bump into the brick wall of the club and close my eyes. I can feel the thrumming of the bass through the stone, edging into my bones, my muscles, making my body quiver and tremble in time with the frantic beat of my heart. “Two presents, actually.”
“Oh, did you?” I whisper back, the grungy grind of traffic and the sound of screeching partygoers almost drowned out by the frantic throbbing of my own pulse. “What are they?”
“You'll see,” he says as he teases his thumb along the seam of my nylons, rocking his finger over the hardness of my clit. “You'll see.” Those two words are a vicious purr as Dax takes my earlobe between his teeth and bites down gently, tasting me. “But first, I want to make sure you're still mine.”
“Because I touched Turner's dick?” I whisper back, and I like the way Dax tenses up, gets jealous and pushes his body into mine, grinding his cock against my hip. I bite my lower lip as he strokes my swollen sex through the nude tights—and then drops his other hand down and tears them open. “Jesus Christ,” I whimper, but I don't open my eyes. I'm afraid if I do, I'll see that wild look on his face and I'll melt away into nothing.
“You can pray,” Dax says, laughing against my ear, making me shudder, “but it won't save you this time.”
“Who says I want to be saved?”
I open my eyes as Dax takes a step back and reaches into the pocket of his jeans, pulling out what looks like a black belt with four loops on it. He looks wicked as fuck but also a little nervous which I like. He's cute like that, young and male and horny but with a goddamn heart in that wide muscular chest of his.
How rare is that?
“You might want to after I tell you what this is—and admit that I want to use it here.”
He looks around the alley and ruffles up his hair with his free hand. Meanwhile, my back is actually enjoying the rough texture of the bricks, and my thighs feel cold from the sudden rush of night air, my dress pushed up around my hips, nylons torn open in the front. I'm not wearing panties underneath—why bother?—so the little dyed pink heart of hair above my pierced clit is bright and obvious.
“We're surrounded by bodyguards,” I say, trying to still the violent trembling of my need. But fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, I want to get fucked. Hard. Fast. Rough. “There's one behind that dumpster pretending not to watch as he plays with his phone.” To his credit, the guy, one of Brayden's dudes that I hardly recognize for all his nondescript features, glances back at us like he's bored and then turns away again. Maybe he really doesn't care to watch? With all the crazy shit we do, I'm sure this is something he's seen before—many times. “If you're in the mood to get wild, now's your chance.”
“Fuck,” Dax curses and then he grabs me and slips two of the black loops on my wrists, his hands trailing vicious lines of ice against my skin. Each touch of his fingers makes me ache for him in ways I'm still not sure I fully understand. That cold burn incites me to do rash things—even more rash than usual. I just … God, I want him. A stupid rockstar, a drummer. Like, the last person I ever saw myself dating. And now we're not just dating but living together.
He spins he around with his hands on my shoulders and pushes me over in a way that's reminiscent of our first time in that strip club, right before we found Hayden and Tara and … nope. No, no, no. If I let memories of blood and bullshit taint our sex, we'd never have any. And I intend on having gobs, oodles, mountains of sex with this man. Hell, I'll probably be ninety-seventy and gray, trying to straddle his lap and ride him.
And sure, whatever, that's kind of a weird thought but … it's also a promising one. Because if I can imagine screwing him when he's old and leathery, I can imagine being with him until we both are.
Turner's stupid triple wedding bit isn't sounding quite as … dumb as it did before.
“Dax,” I say as he spreads the elastic webbing of one of the loops with his hand and then pulls my black velvet heel through it. He does the same with the other side, tying me ankle to ankle, wrist to wrist, and wrists to ankles. This stupid … neoprene or whatever-it-is belt is a restraint system.
Holy Lordy.
It's like tropical storm El Niño up in here—just a wet, wild, crazy sort of storm.
“I am head over heels in love,” I joke/not joke because while I am kind of literally head over heels bent over like this, I mean what I say.
Dax just slaps me in the ass, the crack of his palm against what's left of my tights a hell of a lot more arousing than one might think.
“If this is the first present,” I gasp, feeling his hands curl around my hips, his fingers digging into my skin as he grips me and gets ready to fuck the ever living hell out of me (I hope), “then what's the second?”
“Me,” he says, and then he's sliding inside of me hot and bare and warm.
All of us party-hardy losers got tested in the last month, so we're golden in that department. And although I'm kind of down for having
kids sooner rather than later, I'm religiously back on the pill. No more stinkin' condoms.
And thank the gods for that, too, because I need to feel him against me, moving inside of me, stirring up every wicked dark dirty thing living in my soul. All of my dark things like his dark things, and I think we're both quirky and fucked-up enough to make this work.
At the very least, my body really likes his body.
With my wrists and ankles bound, I'm completely helpless. Dax has to hold me up, keep me standing, fuck me into oblivion and make sure I come. The surrender is delicious, giving me a moment to relax, to give in, to welcome that first orgasm with a lip bite that makes me bleed. The copper tang hits my mouth as a short, sharp intense ripple of pleasure chases through me.
But it's not enough and Dax isn't done. He rides me with long, powerful strokes, hitting the end of me, making me whimper with pleasure. Purely base sounds escape his throat, as untamed and wild as the frenzied slide of his body inside of mine.
I forget that we're in a dirty alley, or that lives are on the line, or that Dax is a rockstar who's supposed to be on tour. I forget it all and fall into oblivion with him. Only with him.
There's nobody else in this world I've ever let myself go with quite like that.
I'm slamming out a dope rhythm on my portable drum kit, headphones plugged in, completely blocked off from the world and flying just slightly high off the few lines of coke that Sydney and I laid out in the bus bathroom. Lola and Ronnie might be engaged and pregnant, but Sydney and I can still have fun. I've finally kicked the dust I think, though. That shit is dangerous and at this point, the drugs are just for fun, like the cigarettes or the alcohol, something to take the edge off and play around with. I'm not using any of them to get by anymore.
Sometimes, when I first fall asleep, I dream of pills clutched in my palm, of Tara's blood and Hayden's head exploding. But then I wake up and find Sydney's warm body tucked into my tiny bunk with me, and it makes everything okay. I don't need narcotics to console me or cut me off from the world, just her.
“Guards are all out there joking about you and your BDSM sex slave,” Turner says, interrupting my flow by grabbing one of my headphones and yanking it off my ear. “What's that about?”
“Jesus fuck,” I growl as I jerk the damn things off and turn to glare at him, sweat dripping down the sides of my face, coating my arms, trailing down my back. When I get really into the music, I forget the world exists. Well, the whole world except for Sydney. I definitely let myself forget about Turner Campbell. “What the hell do you want?”
“I was just thinking,” he starts as he nibbles on a granola bar and glances around surreptitiously. We're parked at some rest stop in the middle of nowhere waiting for the drivers to stretch their legs, take a piss, or switch places. Naomi and Sydney must've gotten off, too, but Kash and Wren are sitting here slumped and bored. Kash has this look of pained indecision on his face, like he can't goddamn decide if he wants his driver girlfriend or if he misses the bassist from that band off our first tour, Terre Haute. Wren just looks like he's smacked out of his mind.
Fuck, I miss Blair, I think as I set my sticks aside and pull my phone from my back pocket, ignoring Turner and checking for messages. None from her family thus far, but no news is good news, right? Like if she were dead, I'd know about it. Please be okay, Blair. Please, please please. I can't lose another friend.
“Hey, quit emo-ing out on me for a second and pay attention.” Turner snaps his fingers in front of my face and I grit my teeth, glancing up at him, dressed in a too tight shirt, too tight pants and boots. God, I hate you, I think but I don't, not really, not anymore. As annoying as he is, as much as I kind of want to throat punch him half the time, he's alright. At least he's his true genuine self—as awful as that true genuine self might be—and he's not a bullshit fucking liar. Like, say, my dad for example. Well, the man who pretended to be my dad for years. My real dad is just some drive-by sperm donor apparently.
What a family legacy, huh?
“What is it?” I ask with a sigh, feeling exasperated, wondering if I'm crazy because when I close my eyes, I can see Hayden and America, hear their voices. I think in some strange fucked-up sort of way, I miss them both, too.
“I want to go ring shopping like, at some point before Vegas. I don't care if it's in NYC or frigging New Orleans or what, but I want to go.”
“Why are you telling me this again?” I ask as I rub my temples and appreciate the fact that I snorted a line because that's what it takes to deal with this idiot sometimes. “Didn't you already ask me to go ring shopping with you, and I didn't I already say no?”
“Don't you want one for Sydney?” he asks, still smacking that granola bar and staring at me like he doesn't give two shits that there's a sex tape on the internet with the two of us making out. Jesus, the memes. So many, many memes. What is it with people and fucking goddamn memes?
“I haven't exactly asked her to marry me yet, Turner.”
“Um.” He finishes his granola bar and tosses the wrapper in the sink. Dear Jesus. I stand up and put it properly in the trash, grabbing a dishrag from the counter and mopping at my face. “Why not?”
“Because we haven't known each other all that long,” I say, even though that doesn't feel true at all. It's been … months? It feels like years. Years and years and years, but not because of her. Because of Hayden and Tara, because of my dad, because of that awful tour and this awful tour, and the copious number of sex tapes related to Indecency and Amatory Riot.
“Long enough. Dude, she's totally into you. Besides, I already looked shit up. There's a chapel just a few blocks from the marriage license office, and I called—they'll do all three of our weddings at the same time as long as we pay full price for 'em all.” He pauses and tilts his brown eyes up to the ceiling like he's calculating something. “Not that that's difficult anymore, right?”
Turner Campbell flashes me one of his signature shit-eating grins.
“Las Vegas?” I say because his words have just hit me. I raise an eyebrow and lean my ass against the counter. “You want to marry your supposed soul mate, the love of your life, blah, blah, blah … in Las Vegas.”
“Yeah. Why not? It's easy, we're already going there, and we can get a license and get married in like a second.” Turner opens our fridge, roots around, and reappears with a small ziplock bag with sliced apples in it. Who the fuck sliced him apples and made goddamn snack bags? I roll my eyes to the ceiling and then close them. “It's time I made an honest woman out of Naomi.”
“The marriage plot is so fucking over,” the woman in question says as I split my lids and glance her way, “that if you don't stop goddamn talking about it, it'll just … never happen. I'm in no rush.” Naomi pushes her sunglasses up on her blonde head and for a second there, I think holy shit, she's gorgeous. But then … then Sydney ascends the metal steps in a pale blue halter and tight jeans and I am fucking done for. Done, done, done.
“All I'm saying is Vegas was made for people like us. It's a town built on sins and sinners, baby. We'll fit right in. My devil will marry your demon and we can rain hellfire down on this earth for the rest of our days.” He grins and steps up close to her, but all she does is raise her brows at him. “I'll even let you wear a white wedding dress and I won't tell anyone how many times we've fucked in the last week. I think we're close to triple digits.”
“Who sliced those apples?” she asks, taking her shades off and pointing with a shiny silver arm.
“That roadie chick with the, uh, tattoos or whatever.” Turner gestures roughly over his shoulder and then slides an apple wedge into his mouth, tossing off another wink.
“Her name is Spencer Harmon, you dumb shit,” Naomi says, but her voice is practically vibrant with affection (and a healthy dollop of sarcasm).
But I'm not looking at her anymore. My gaze is drawn down to Sydney's blue eyes, to the way her lashes curve up toward her forehead, the way she tilts her head when she looks
at me, hoop earrings swinging with the motion. They're big and plastic and yellow and kind of ugly, but they're so fucking Sydney Charell it's not even funny.
I want to wrap the rainbow vibrancy of this girl all the way around the gray darkness inside, let her sunshine banish all the shadows for the light.
I'm so in fucking love.
“So are we doing it then?” she jokes, grinning at me. “Gettin' married in Vegas with Elvis presiding over the ceremony and all that good stuff? Because when we break up, at least I'd get half of your money.”
I smile at her, but I don't answer because I can't tell if she's joking or not.
Or what to think or feel either way.
St. Louis, Missouri.
I can't remember if we stopped here during the last tour or not. Frankly, a lot of the cities themselves have disappeared and I'm only remembering things in terms of events. That place where I stumbled on a bus spattered in blood, that town where a tornado kicked my ass, that one time Naomi and Hayden got in a fight onstage. That's it. Just memories and events, not actual cities.
“Who the fuck is Beauty in Lies?” Turner says as he plays with his phone and checks out tonight's venue. “And who cares if they've played here anyway? I ain't ever heard of 'em.”
I roll my eyes and ignore him. If he wants to look up all the past acts that've passed through this place and start judging them, then go for it.
“And Cameron Koons? Gross. I hate that bitch and that auto-tuned bullshit she calls music.”
“Tonight's club is a gay bar,” Sydney says, her backstage pass twirling as she spins the lanyard around between two fingers, each nail painted a different color. “And there's a fucking drag show.”
“Hell no,” Turner says from behind me, like he was at all included in the conversation. I almost grit my teeth, but you know what? It's just not worth the effort. Now that I'm dating Sydney, now that Naomi's dating him, I've sort of come to the realization that either I accept the man into my life as like, a friend or whatever, or I have to give up both my friendship … and my new love. I won't do either. “I ain't dressing up in lady clothes.”
Get Hitched (Hard Rock Roots Book 9) Page 8