Hurt Me

by Ker Dukey

  Hurt Me

  Copyright © 2019 Ker Dukey

  Copyright © 2019 K Webster

  Cover Design: All by Design

  Photo: Adobe Stock

  Editor: Word Nerd Editing

  Formatting: Champagne Book Design

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information and retrieval system without express written permission from the Author/Publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Synopsis

  Epigraph

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Epilogue

  Books by Ker Dukey and K Webster

  Acknowledgements from Ker Dukey and K Webster

  About the Authors

  From international bestselling authors, Ker Dukey and K Webster comes a fast-paced, hot, MM instalove standalone lunchtime read from their KKinky Reads collection!

  I got my dream at a young age.

  The lead singer of one of the most popular bands in the world—Berlin Scandal.

  I’m a rock god.

  But under the façade of living the dream, a twisted secret consumes me.

  Angry lyrics and a brooding attitude propelled my career.

  Getting wasted and lashing out behind the scenes could be my downfall.

  I’m spiraling and don’t know how to stop the descent.

  Now, my record label has issued me a babysitter.

  Blaine Mannford, a hardass detective with a dark thirst.

  And he’s looking at me like I can quench it.

  He’s not my type in more ways than one.

  Bossy. Forceful. Firm. A man.

  I don’t like cops. I don’t like him.

  Unfortunately, he likes it when I fight him—enjoys punishing me how he sees fit.

  I’m screwed up in the head, because I’m a willing player in his dirty game.

  I want him to hurt me.

  This is a steamy, kinky romance with a small amount of BDSM themes sure to make you blush! A perfect combination of sexy and intense you can devour in one sitting! You’ll get a happy ending that’ll make you swoon!

  Pain has never been more addictive than when he’s inflicting it.

  For the ones who crave the sting of a whip.

  The burn of a firm spank.

  The ache of a bite.

  Embrace the pain.

  The hurt only makes the pleasure greater.

  Sweat drips from our overheated skin, the movements between us like a dance—skilled, fluid, powerful. Each thrust finds purchase, creating a game of stamina, strength, dominance. In sync, heavy breathing echoes through the room.

  I need this release, this outlet. We lost an officer today—killed in the line of duty. My head clears with each beat of my racing heart. It’s just the two of us. I give, he takes. I pound, pushing my body forward in powerful strokes.

  “That’s good,” he tells me. “More.”

  I give him more—bam, bam, bam. He falters, feet stumbling backward. I drop my hands, gulping down some air. Bruises blossom on my partner’s cheek, just as I know they are on my jaw. Sparring has become a tradition of sorts for us. Whenever the job gets bad, we come to the gym to beat the shit outta each other until we bleed out the ugly.

  “You done?” I pull my gloves off and pat his back.

  He answers by swiping at his lip and nodding.

  “Drinks?” I ask, hoping he says no. I want to find myself a nice ass to sink into.

  “Nah, Jess is cooking. You’re welcome to come to dinner.”

  “Pass. I’ve had your wife’s cooking before. Spent two days married to the toilet.”

  “I’ll tell her you said that.” He chuckles.

  Showering and changing, I check the mirror for cuts, sealing one on my brow with some tape before heading out.

  The bar is hopping. Fridays nights are always busy. I like the noise that fills my head.

  I flag down the bartender and order a couple chasers and a beer, checking my phone while I wait. I fire off a text to Ronan, and his brother, Ren, to ask if they are coming in tonight. This place is owned by Ronan’s girl, and she likes to make appearances to keep the crowds piling in. Sofina is a famous name these days, after Ronan, my best friend and label owner, launched her career. I get fast replies from them both. Ronan’s working, and Ren sends a pic from inside Hush, a sex club our friend owns.

  Ren: Got plans ;)

  “What are you smiling about?” a masculine voice croons, the owner of said voice sidling up to me and tipping his beer to my phone.

  I recognize him from here. He’s looked my way on more than one occasion, but never dared to approach me. I usually like to do the hunting, but tonight, I just want to fuck and sleep, so I drink the chasers the bartender places down and lift my chin to him.

  “I was smiling at the thoughts running through my head of the ways I could destroy you,” I challenge, a smirk playing at my lips.

  He gulps, his eyes never leaving mine. He’s tall and has a sturdy frame with toned muscles. Smooth features, a sweet, appealing face with shaggy brown hair—the surfer type. If I had to guess, I’d say early twenties. I like them young.

  “Is that a promise or a challenge?” he asks, licking his lips.

  “It was a warning.” I grin. “Grab your coat.”

  We’ve been back at my place for five fucking minutes, and he’s already irritating me by trying to top from the damn bottom.

  “You wanna suck my dick?” he asks, rubbing his hand down the bulge in his jeans.

  I narrow my eyes. “Have you earned my lips on your cock? Get fucking naked,” I bark.

  He’s just about to drop his jeans when music blasts from his pocket. Familiar fucking music. I groan.

  “Please tell me that’s not your ringtone,” I grunt.

  He tucks a strand of hair behind his ear, looking sheepish, his cheeks flushed. “Berlin Scandal. I fucking love them. You know them? Their shit is pretty catchy.” He grins, shoving his hand into his pocket to pull out his phone.

  I fucking know them all right. Their lead singer is stalking my thoughts, haunting my fucking dreams. Xavi Jacobs—a mouthy, little shit who needs a firm hand to reign him in.

  The boy in front of me taps over the screen, then Berlin Scandal’s latest song starts over. Xavi’s gravelly voice croons from the device, heating the air and making my dick grow.

  “I have their album on Spotify,” he tells me, waving his phone. “I like to fuck to music, but I can turn it off if you want.”

  Rolling my shoulders, I drop my jeans and yank my T-shirt over my head. My veins pump all the blood in my body to my dick. “No, leave it on and bend the fuck over.”

  Heroin.

  I won’t touch that shit with a ten-foot pole. I owe that much to Lex. It stole him from my bandmate, Owen, and me. Owen’s little brother and my best friend overdosed. He left us shredded and raw. Exposed to the public, our wounds bleeding for all to see
.

  Scrubbing my palm over my face, I try desperately to keep the pain locked tight in the cavernous hollow of my heart. When I’m here—with them—I don’t want them to see I die a little every fucking day without him.

  I hate you, Lex.

  The thought is like bitter sludge creeping through my veins, infecting me worse than any wicked hit of the brown.

  I don’t hate him. I never could. That’s why he died. Because I couldn’t fucking tell him no. I couldn’t fucking get him to see he was slowly killing himself.

  And now, without him, I’m the one dying.

  Music thumps, buzzing through me, reminding me I’m not alone in my massive house. There are hundreds of goddamn people milling about. Berlin Scandal is the hottest alternative band this country has seen since the 90s when Nirvana ruled the charts. Our grungy style is considered “a homage to the past.” We’ve opened for big acts like Pearl Jam, Alice in Chains, and Foo Fighters, who are still killing it despite doing this shit for decades. Where they’re holding onto their old fan base who are my parents’ age, Berlin Scandal is raking in all the Harry Styles and teeny bopper kids fanatical over our dark vibe.

  We’re different, but familiar.

  Sellable as fuck.

  Thanks to Harose Records.

  Irritation churns in my gut. Ren Hayes wooed the hell out of us. Showed up at nearly every gig, praising and fucking worshiping us. Owen, our lead guitarist, begged me, Seth, and Riley into signing with Harose. We were all still raw over Lex and caved.

  Money.

  We’re fucking rolling in it, and have been since we scribbled our names on the dotted lines. We’ve toured twenty-six states in a matter of months. Our debut album, Hurt Me, has gone platinum three times as millions of people across the globe obsess over our music.

  This is everything we ever dreamed of.

  What we wanted from the get-go.

  We’re rich, popular, and get our dicks sucked sometimes three times a night.

  Everyone is happy…except me.

  Owen can push the death of his brother two years ago into a hole and stomp on the lid to keep it shut, but I’m not wired that way. With each song I write and lyric I belt into the microphone, I relive the hurt of the night he left me. The pain is barbed wire wrapped around my heart, piercing into the broken organ and bleeding it dry. Each day is worse than the last. I’d do anything to numb the constant ache inside me, even if it means creating pain on the outside.

  I grab my pack of smokes before yanking one out and pressing it between my lips. I flip open my Zippo—one Lex gave me—and study the flame as my cigarette dangles from my lips. Hot. Orange. Bright. His old party trick was to hold the flame to his flesh as long as he could and prove what a badass he was. Lighting my cigarette, I suck in the soothing, tainted air, then hold out my palm to tease the flame of the Zippo beneath my pink flesh. Searing hot pain erupts over my palm, sending warning signals racing up my nerve endings.

  I don’t flee.

  I don’t stop.

  I watch it burn.

  When hot tears sting my eyes, I blink them back and snap the Zippo shut. It still has the stupid Chiquita banana sticker Lex stuck on it. On one edge, it’s bent over and no longer sticky. I rub at it with my thumb to press it back down, but it doesn’t stay.

  I smoke the hell out of my cigarette, until it goes out. Stubbing it out on my forearm, I flick the butt and stare at my palm.

  My hand fucking hurts, and the skin is bubbled.

  Too long.

  Sometimes, I leave the flame on too long and fuck myself up more than I intend. But because I’m filthy fucking rich now, I have discreet doctors—both the mental and physical kind—who keep me loaded up on any medicinal shit I might need. With a heavy sigh, I stalk into the bathroom in my room and locate the cream I use for these instances. Slathering it on, I grit my teeth. At least I’m not thinking about the gaping wound inside me. I find some gauze and roll it around my hand before securing it with tape.

  Owen’s going to be pissed.

  We have a photoshoot in the morning downtown with GQ. Some new-age rock star bullshit magazine spread—something the label is forcing us to do.

  Every time I think about Harose, it makes me think of Ronan Hayes. I like Ren just as much as the rest of our band and signed the stupid contract, but I have serious beef with his brother, Ronan.

  Unease trickles through me. I won’t admit why I have issues with him, not even to myself. He just pushes his fist inside my heart and stirs up shit that’s best kept hidden. It makes me hate him with every ounce of my being. Like the spoiled fucking brat I am, it makes me want to taunt him—ruin him like his very existence ruins me.

  I kind of enjoyed irritating him by acting out and not being his perfect band singer.

  But then he called in backup.

  Six-foot three. Stacked as hell. A fucking monster with a badge. Ronan only made me loathe him more, because calling in backup for my “little boy tantrums” only confused me.

  Confused.

  I hate that fucking word.

  They use it for people trying to understand their sexuality. I don’t need to figure mine out. I was just fine fucking anything with a pair of tits until Lex overdosed and stole my goddamn soul. I was eighteen when I lost him—barely got to spend any time with him in this life. Now, when I see someone who reminds me of my best friend, I have the urge to yank them to me so I can press a thousand damn kisses to their mouth.

  That’s confusing, yes.

  But what really burns me up is it’s not just the rare, lanky guy with a lazy smile. It’s guys like Ronan and Asshole Cop. That part’s not confusing, it’s infuriating.

  I’m not attracted to men.

  I just miss my best friend.

  And because of his death, I’m drawn to guys like him. My heart begs to get a glimpse of Lex within each one. It’s cruel and unusual torture. If I didn’t think Dr. Maggs would shove more unnecessary drugs down my throat, I’d ask him to help me get these maddening thoughts out of my head.

  But what if he tells someone?

  My entire career is based on the fact that I’m a sex god who sings like a fucking dark angel. Girls—by the hundreds of thousands—cry and collapse when they see us. It’s fucking strange and oddly empowering. What happens when they find out I’m ungrateful? That I wish they were a hundred thousand Lex lookalikes instead? That sometimes I get hot thinking about Ronan yelling at me and throwing shit in his rage. Or that I’ve jacked off more times than I can count to the memory of Asshole Cop manhandling me into submission any time I lose it at Ronan’s office.

  I’m fucked.

  I’m not gay or confused.

  Just fucked in the head.

  I storm out of the bathroom and dig around in my nightstand until I find some mollies. In the past, two or three would get me nice and loose, but now, I require more. I choke down four and chase them with an open bottle of Jack. As soon as my skin starts to tingle, I abandon Jack and exit the safe confines of my room to find pussy—my other drug of choice.

  “Oh, God,” a girl yells out as soon as I leave the wing of my house that’s off limits and join the party. “Look at him! Look at him!”

  I glance toward the sound of her voice and size her up. Short. Big tits. Nice wide hips to hold onto. The pink fabric of her leggings stretches over her thick thighs, and I want to tear them off with my teeth.

  Fuck yes.

  This is me.

  Finding a nice piece of ass who worships the ground I walk on to drive my dick into. Not whatever the fuck I was twenty minutes ago.

  Pink Leggings Girl beams at me, jiggling her fat tits as she bounces in place. She pulls out her phone and starts recording as she chants, “Omigodomigodomigod.”

  Flashing her a lazy grin, I saunter over to her and pose. Tomorrow, this video will be all over social media—one more thing for my parents to lecture me about whenever they call.

  “I like your tits,” I say with a wicked grin. �
�Songs are written about tits like yours.” I reach between us and rub my fingers over the front of her leggings between the juncture of her thighs. “Your thighs, though, are what wars are fought over.”

  The girl fucking swoons on her feet, nearly dropping her phone.

  “Turn off the phone and play with me,” I taunt as I grip her wrist and drag her behind me through the crowd.

  Pink Leggings Girl loses the phone in her cleavage to latch herself to me. I pass Owen on a sofa. Some brunette bitch is riding him buck-ass naked in front of everyone. Riley is passed out, already in a recliner like an old man, his drumsticks hugged to his chest like they might run away in his sleep. Seth will be ready to party, though. I can always count on our bassist to get fucked up with me.

  I find him outside by my pool, emphatically telling a story, his massive tattooed arms waving wildly around him. Coke dusts his nose. He’s flying as high as a fucking kite. I give Pink Leggings Girl a little tweak to her nipple through her shirt before meeting with my boy.

  “Zaveeeeeeee,” he calls out, launching himself at me for a bear hug. When we first met as teens, he kept fucking up the pronunciation of my name. Xavi. Easy as fuck. But this motherfucker kept saying it like “Exavee.” I got pissed and barked out “za” and then “vee.” Even fucking wrote it down so he’d get it. Now, he calls me Zavee. Which is exactly how you say it, but I know this motherfucker sees it spelled the wrong way in his head.

  “What’s up, snowflake?” I slap my sore hand on his shoulder as we hug.

  “We’re rollin’ hard tonight waiting on your lazy ass.”

  He pulls away slightly to grin at me. His shirt is missing, and he’s sweating like a damn pig. Every woman in this place salivates over his tattoos and muscles. Seth’s the body of our group. The one all the girls want to fuck. I’m the face—the one they all want to look up at while they suck cock. Owen’s clearly the dick and our fearless leader, and Riley? I don’t know what the fuck Riley is.