Fuck, I just wish we could … well, fuck.
“You know, I expected you to pick something low-cut or like, bright red or weird or fucked-up. I didn't imagine in a million years that you'd pick some fairytale princess gown.”
“This is not a goddamn fairytale princess gown,” I snarl, kicking him in the calf with my boot. Turner pauses and then lifts my skirt up, spotting my black leather boots and letting out this chorus of laughter, the sound as beautiful as the songs he sings up onstage.
“Well, shit,” he says as I shove him back and climb onto his lap, pretending I don't notice Dax's hand up Sydney's nearly see-through skirt. “Guess you had to fit the badass bitch somewhere in that ensemble, huh?”
“Just shut the fuck up and let's consummate this damn thing.”
Turner's brows go up, but he doesn't protest when I lean down and kiss him again, capturing his mouth with my own as he tugs at the long frothing white skirts of my dress, sliding his hands underneath to touch my hips, the mess of garters and thigh-highs and stockings underneath making him growl against my mouth.
Yeah, there are two security guards in the front seat. Sydney and Dax are behind us. Lola and Ronnie are on our right. But I don't give two shits. Right now, we're on the way to the last club on Brayden's stupid list—the Chapel. Yep. It's another club, this one focusing on newly married couples and featuring slot machines and a twenty-four hour bar that's just too Vegas for words. At this point, I just want to get this over with, check the club off his list, and hope to God that whatever reason he had for sending us to these places is finally realized and I get the word that he's got some actual way to protect us, to make sure that tonight isn't the last show I ever put on.
But if it is, then hell if I'm going there without screwing my new husband.
The bodyguards crank up the stereo—probably so they don't have to listen to the animalistic sounds escaping Turner's throat as I tear his jeans open and lift myself up and over him, spreading the white satin of my crotchless panties and taking the full hard length of his tattooed cock into me.
“Oh my God, my fucking wife,” Turner snarls, letting his head fall back, sliding his palms up my back and over the lace top of my dress, sliding my straps down my shoulders and leaning forward to kiss the broken heart tattoo on my chest. Feeling him inside of me like this makes me feel like an animal, an alpha female claiming her mate. That's what I should've done that first night I met him. Instead of letting him woo me, pop my cherry, take control, I should've wrapped a fucking leash around his neck and pulled it taut.
And the hottest part of that particular fantasy is that I know he'd have fought me all the way.
“Make me a little rockstar baby,” he growls as I ride him with strong, rocking movements, driving him up the wall, testing the limits of that infamous stamina of his. “Please, Naomi, please,” he whispers, rough and ragged against my ear. I'm so into him that I don't notice the other two couples in the car doing their own version of this very same thing, filling the van with the scents of sex and sweat, cologne and perfume, desperation and love.
“Maybe if you're a really good boy, I'll think about it,” I whisper back, biting his lip, pulling on it with my teeth and closing my eyes in ecstasy as I feel his body tightening up, muscles rippling beneath me as he comes hard, this terrifying sound escaping from his throat as I gather his head up against my chest and drop my own back.
My own orgasm comes in response to his, from satisfying that deep base biological urge of watching him come, feeling him come, knowing that I've bagged myself an impossible rockstar.
And maybe just a little bit from knowing that I, I'm one, too.
The Chapel is big and glittery, with showgirls in the front and a live band in the back. Four separate rooms of dancing, a full bar, slot machines, and plenty of folks in white dresses, men in tuxes. Brayden Ryker is already there when we arrive, waiting outside and leaning against the white wall of the building, his tattooed arms big and muscular, covered in pastel floral tattoos.
I try really hard not to think of Blair hitting on him that day outside the safe house.
Jesus.
My heart skips a heat, but I swallow it down, let that feeling twist together with all the others and dive into the throng, my fingers curled through Turner's. I swear, whatever happens tonight, I'm not letting go of his hand. Not even for a second.
“Can I get you a Bride and Groom?” the bartender asks, smiling at us when we stop at the counter with all the other crazy stupid young couples.
“Sure, whatever,” I say, tossing my fake ID and credit card down in front of him.
Turner's behind me, his hips pressed tight to my ass, showing off an impressive erection.
“Didn't you get enough in the van?” I toss over my shoulder just before the bartender slaps down a white and a black drink in front of me, both in martini glasses with red sugared rims.
“I could never get enough of you, Mrs. Campbell,” he whispers in my ear as I drag the drinks close and take a small sip of each. I think the white one's coconut something-or-other and the black one … well fuck if I have any clue what's in that.
I take the thin glass stem in my hand, turning around and presenting it to my new husband.
God.
Husband.
Turner Campbell.
Who ever woulda thunk?
Fucked a thousand women. Married one.
And it only took us six plus years to get it right.
“Take a sip and tell me if you can figure out what's in that,” I tell him, my eyes glued to those full lips of his as his tattooed hand takes the drink from me, his wedding ring still raw and unhealed, the ink puffy and tender. I want to suck it into my mouth and swirl my tongue around it.
I breathe out slowly and put my hands on the flatness of his belly.
“Shit if I know,” he says, knocking the drink back as I reach for the 'Bride' and sip the milky coconut liquor slowly, taking in the crowd. I can't even fucking believe that this is the last night of the tour. Our last tour—the tour from hell—was scheduled as one of those big time slogs across the country, a necessary evil for bands that are too small to make it off record sales alone, but big enough to rake money in with enough well-placed gigs.
Now, we can do the powerhouse thing. A few cities, packed stadiums, loads of cash. Cash that's being routed to us via our new contracts with Spin Fast Music Group. God, the whole thing makes me sick.
But today's the last day and no matter what happens, at least there's some relief in knowing that at this time tomorrow … it'll all be over.
“You know,” I start, looking around and wondering where our friends have gone off to. I spot Ronnie and Lola dancing in the crowd near the stage, swinging to some spunky jazz tunes, and Dax and Sydney making out on some stools around the curved corner of the bar. Good. I don't want them getting too far away from us, not tonight. “As much as I hated that mansion when I first woke up, I'm kind of excited to get back there, swim in that pool, lounge on that bed.”
“Aw, baby,” he tells me, setting his drink down on the counter behind me and taking my face in both his hands, that smarmy smirky face of his gloriously affectionate, “I bought it for you. It's what you deserve and what's going to be waiting for you at the end of all this.”
“Let's write some songs together,” I tell him and he makes this growling purr of pleasure before taking my hand and dragging me out toward the dance floor. I down my drink quickly and set it on an empty table as we pass, Turner pulling me into his arms and burying us in the crowd. I keep feeling like at any moment we might get recognized, swarmed, questioned by paparazzi, but Brayden's at least done his job at keeping the media hounds off of us. That, and everyone in here seems to be part of a fresh couple, faces glazed with attraction and affection, eyes only for each other.
“Nothing would make me happier, Knox,” he says and then our dancing slows. “Mrs. Campbell,” he says with a sly smile, and I'm too in love with him to bother corre
cting his patriarchal bullshit. There'll be time later to whip his ass into shape.
I lay my head on his shoulder and close my eyes, just trying to take in the moment and let it ink itself into my heart the way I inked this man's name onto my ankle, our music into my arm, the symbol of our love onto my finger.
“Tonight, you and me are getting up on that stage, baby. Together. That's how we've gotta finish this tour. And besides, I'm not letting you out of my sight until, like, I'm old and gray and blind.”
“Ever the romantic, Turner Campbell,” I whisper, this strange sort of … contentment sweeping over me. For a second there, I let the light buzz of alcohol tickle my veins, let my eyes get heavy and lidded. My entire life I've been looking for a … well, a life. Some modicum of stability. To say I think I might've found it in the guy that knocked me up and left me alone in a hotel room is fucking weird, but it's probably the truest thought I've ever had.
“You know it,” he says as he spins me around and I lift my head, the black and white swirl of the crowd drifting past. It's so packed in here that I almost miss him, Albin Washington slipping inside through a door in the back, weaving through the packed club in a suit like he wasn't just stabbed by some crazy guitarist a few days back.
“Turner,” I whisper, curling my fingers into the crisp white cotton of his shirt, tracking the movements of Paulette's husband as he disappears through an archway and into the next room. “It's fucking Mr. Paulette.”
“The dude you stabbed?” Turner asks, sounding bewildered and a little like he's trying to dig his way out of a daze. His eyes follow my line of sight, but Albin's disappeared into the room with the feathery showgirls. “What's he doing here?”
“This is a Washington club, isn't it?”
“Yeah, but like, didn't the dude learn his lesson at the last one? What's a mega billionaire doing wandering around some shady Vegas club? Just because he owns it doesn't mean he needs to be here.” There's a pause and then, “Naomi Isabelle Knox-Campbell.”
His words are a warning.
I think of Blair again and a shiver ripples down my spine.
“Don't worry—I have no intention of going after him. I'm just kind of freaked out that he's here at all. It can't be a coincidence. There are no coincidences in this fucking game. Let's get out of here.”
Turner purses his lips and nods, letting me take his hand as we make our way over to Ronnie and Lola, and then to Dax and Sydney.
“Albin Washington is here,” I tell them and Dax gets this murderous look on his face, like if he sees Paulette or her husband in person ever again, he might stab them before I get a chance to. Blair was basically his best friend. The two of them have known each other since forever. “I want to leave. Now. We did what Brayden wanted, now let's get the fuck out of here.”
Turner pulls me toward the front doors where a crowd's gathered, thicker here even than it was on the dance floor.
“Coming through,” Turner says, using his sheer pigheadedness to bulldoze a path to the doors, shoving aside this young kid in a tux with his shoulder and reaching for the handle. It's locked or jammed or well, whatever the fuck it is, it won't open. “What the hell?” he asks, letting go of my hand and curling both around the metal handles, pulling hard, the muscles beneath his ink straining as he tugs on the black double doors.
They don't budge.
Most of the people around us are just laughing, a lot of them drunk or high on new love. They have no fucking clue they've just walked into our nightmare.
“Do you have your cell?” I ask and Turner nods, stepping back, letting a few other people try their hands at the door as he pulls his phone from the pocket of his slacks. “Call Brayden,” I say as I grab him by the arm and drag him and our friends back the way we came, toward the door I saw Albin come through.
“He's not answering,” Turner says as I hit the back door and find that locked, too.
“Shit, shit, shit,” I say, sweat dripping down my spine, this sudden feeling of being trapped taking over me. “Okay,” I breathe, reaching up and running my hands over the slick surface of my hair. There's enough hair spray up there to mummify somebody. “There's gotta be a fire exit around here somewhere, right?”
“Let's just follow along the walls until we find another exit. There's no way in hell that a place this big only has two doors,” Sydney says, lifting up the lace skirts of her dress in one hand and placing her palm against the wall with the other. So many horrible nightmares run through my head, but I try to tell myself that maybe this is all Brayden's doing, some FBI sting or raid or whatever the hell it's called. But I'm not that lucky, now am I?
We don't even make it through the archway where Albin disappeared to when the fire alarm goes off, this bleating screech that makes me clamp my hands over my ears and grit my teeth. On the wall, a silver light flashes and the sprinkler system above us activates, raining a monsoon down on the crowd.
The music stops suddenly and the crowd, jovial and celebratory just seconds before, starts to turn into this panicky mess.
“Goddamn it!” I snap as people slam into us, jostling by as they struggle for the exits. But none of them seem to have anymore luck than we do. I look up, toward the ceiling, studying the walls, trying to find a window that isn't twenty feet off the ground. As far as I can see, there aren't any.
The smell of smoke drifts to me, wet and ashy, the scent mixing with the reek of fearful sweat and spilled booze. Well, fuck.
“There's a real fire,” I say, my voice almost lost in the melee. I try to figure out where it's coming from and notice a surge of people pressing in from the direction of the bathrooms. A huge sign reading Restrooms points in the direction opposite the way the crowd is coming from. “It's a real fucking fire,” I whisper again, my voice hoarse.
“Stay against the walls,” Ronnie says, his body turned toward Lola, one hand on the wall on either side of her, penning her in, protecting her from the jostle of the crowd. It's one of the cutest things I've ever seen, but unfortunately, I don't have a lot of time to appreciate it. “And away from the doors,” he adds grimly as people fall to the floor in white wedding gowns, feathered costumes, slick black suits. Obviously I wasn't conscious during the fallout from the LA concert, when the crowd started to push and trample each other, but I know it was Turner's voice that kept them calm when they might've killed each other.
We don't have that option to help from in here.
“No fucking way I'm losing my new wife in a fire,” Turner growls, grabbing me by the shoulders. “Stay here!” he shouts, pushing away from the wall. Of course, I don't stay, grabbing onto the back of his shirt to make sure we don't get separated. “Damn it, Knox,” he snaps as he grabs an empty beer bottle and tucks it into the back of his pants. He grabs a stool next and drags it back to where the others are standing.
“I'm not letting go of you tonight,” I tell him, and I fucking mean that.
“God, I love you,” he says, shoving the stool against the wall and taking my face in his hands, kissing me in the deluge of water from the sprinklers. His dark hair is plastered to his forehead as he turns and climbs up on the slick black surface of the chair. Using the decorative molding on the wall, he starts climbing the slick wet beams, making my throat tight with worry. If he falls, he could break his neck, his back, even just breaking an arm or wrist in this mess could be fatal.
My throat thunders as I watch him reach for the windowsill, grabbing on with wet fingers, the muscles in his arms straining as he pulls himself up and onto the ledge. Turner strips his shirt off and removes the beer bottle, holding it in his hand and wrapping the wet fabric around it. When he punches the window, the stained glass cracks and falls to pieces around the leaded inserts.
As soon as people notice him up there, there's a crowd scrabbling at the stool, pushing me and the others aside, knocking the chair over. Men and women both fight and thrash to climb up, to escape the wet smoky hell that this place has become.
I watch w
ith my heart in my throat as my new husband turns toward the window and then slides back, catching the sill with his fingers and searching for a foothold with his boots. As soon as he finds one, he lets go and then falls, right into Ronnie and me, knocking us to the floor with grunts of pain, the wood surface beneath us pooling with water.
“Get up!” Dax shouts as feet pound by and over us. I swear to God some fucker steps right on my arm. Sydney's hands curl around my wrist and yank me toward the wall, pulling me back to my feet. Turner takes me in his arms and squeezes me tight as we both look up and find a few desperate souls reaching the window, fighting to get their bodies through the widest sections of the lead window frame. More people try to climb up and fall spectacularly, in tangled limbs and flailing arms.
It's fucking awful.
Just then I turn and spot the flicker of orange flames from just beyond my field of vision, sparkling in the empty wetness beneath one of the building's many archways. It's one of the only places in the room where there aren't bodies clustered together, fighting to escape.
The fire roars and rages as a rush of oxygen explodes through the room, the front doors swinging wide and letting in a sea of white light.
“We wait here,” I say, but nobody that's with us is stupid enough to try for the door with the screeching horde of the crowd. The way they are now, animalistic and base, that's the frenzy we tease them into during our shows. We strip away those proprietorial outer shells and find the raging roar of heart and blood and bone underneath. But that's a controlled sort of environment. This is … pure chaos.
It takes longer than you'd think to empty a building of that many people, but as I stand there and listen, I start to hear something else, sharp cutting echoes from outside followed by screaming. Either I'm imagining it from here, or some people are actually trying to get back into the building.
“Are those … gunshots?” Ronnie asks, his face white, his arms wrapped completely around Lola. She's coughing horribly. As soon as I notice, I realize that I'm coughing, too. The smoke is getting thicker by the minute. Whatever the source of the fire, the sprinklers aren't doing much to douse it. “Jesus. We need to at least get close to the door and get some fucking air.”
Get Hitched (Hard Rock Roots Book 9) Page 17