by Jess Bentley
Elle followed me without protest after ensuring the monitor was on. She was diligent about such things, and sometimes displayed some overly adult tendencies, but she was much more childlike than she had been a year ago.
I halted for a second as I followed her into her room. Had it really been just over a year since I’d come back into the Hudsons’ lives? Sure looked like it, with the huge Christmas tree in Rockefeller Square, and the presents piled under the nearly-as-big tree here on the sixty-sixth floor of the Imperial.
And almost an entire year that I had been Mrs. Hudson? Yes, but some days felt like it was just yesterday, while others seemed like we’d been a happy family forever. Of course, Elle’s mom will always be her mom. Ashe is in rehab again, trying to make it work, and I hope she does this time.
Knowing there was one more Hudson I wanted to make happy tonight, I put Elle to bed as fast as I could without depriving her of attention. “Santa is coming tonight, so be a good girl and get to sleep soon,” I told her. I When her eyes fell shut, I pressed a kiss to her forehead and hurried down the hallway.
As expected, I found my husband in his office. He was much better about working late and bringing home work these days, but he’d told me well in advance that he’d have to work this evening.
I intended to disrupt his work, and I had no remorse about it. I wore a robe and nothing else. It was modest and discreet—at least until I opened his door and tossed it on the back of the chair across from his seat. Walking naked in front of him didn’t bother me at all these days, even though I still had a bit of a tummy from giving birth. He’d seen me in every state of dress or undress, and he’d been there for all the ups and downs in the past year that it was impossible to be insecure about how much he desired me.
Especially when he was so eager to show it as often as possible. I moved to his chair and plopped myself onto his lap. “It’s bedtime.”
He raised a brow, looking at a stack of papers on his desk. His twitching lips gave him away, but he was good at sounding serious when he said, “I have work to do.”
I wriggled enough to part my thighs and ease one of his hands between them. “Yes, you do.”
He groaned, and his façade fell away. “It can wait.”
“I can’t.”
Ben eased me back onto his desk, and I covered the pile of paperwork, but he didn’t complain. Instead, he bent his head and licked my pussy, slowly savoring it with delicate strokes. I moaned and arched against him, loving the way he teased and caressed me. His tongue expertly moved along my petals as his fingers slipped inside, alternating between slow and fast. “More,” I managed to say in the throes of pleasure.
Ben stood up to push his pants down to his thighs. He bent over the desk, and I wrapped one of my legs around his hip. I let out a giggling gasp when he pulled me to the edge and entered me in one deep stroke. He was fierce in his need, and I loved it.
“I love your sweet pussy. I could do this forever.”
I murmured a sound of agreement, not able to speak, concentrating on the pleasure. When he slipped his hand between us to circle my clit as he thrust in and out of me, I angled my hips to really feel the ridge of his cock press against my g-spot. He hit in all the right places, and at exactly the right pace to quickly bring me to the edge of a screaming climax.
His mouth swallowed my cries of passion, and then mine absorbed his as he came just after me. Ben let out some cries of his own, but we pressed close together to keep them muffled. With our daughters sleeping down the hall, we didn’t want to make too much noise.
When we were both trembling, he lifted his mouth from mine and stood up, slowly easing out of me. “I’m sorry it was so fast.”
I shrugged. “Fast is good sometimes. So is slow. Nights when I get both are the best.” I winked at him.
With a small growl, he lifted me into his arms. “Let’s make it one of those best nights then.”
I put my arm around his shoulders and touched his cheek with my other palm. “Every night—and day—is the best with you, Ben. I love you.”
“I love you too, Lindsay. More than I ever imagined I could love anyone. I was certain Ashe killed any ability to care about anyone besides Elle.”
I patted his cheek. “I always thought that wasn’t true, but I wasn’t positive until the night you and Elle proposed.”
He swept me up the stairs. “I was so scared you would say no.”
I nodded. “I’ll never say no.”
His eyes gleamed. “To anything?”
I hesitated for a second. “Probably not.”
He gave me a wicked grin. “There’s this thing I’ve been wanting to do with you…”
“Tell me more,” I said as we headed toward our bedroom with the rest of the night—and all the nights of our lives—stretching before us to entertain our deepest desires, all tied in a ribbon of true love. How could I say no to the best gift I’ve ever had?
Addicted
Women want me. Men want to be me.
The only thing I want is Chelsea.
I'm a rock star. I don't have time for anything else.
Especially not Chelsea. Little Miss Perfect.
A country star with a voice that slays and a body built for sin.
I've been clean for five years, but she won't give me a chance.
Her brother was an addict. She thinks we're all bad.
Someone's out to prove her right.
But Chelsea's mine. Our voices. Our. They're like one.
I was addicted to drugs. Now I'm addicted to her.
If they go after her, I'll destroy them.
I'm going to prove that bad boys can play nice with good girls.
Will she give me a chance to prove the only drug I need is her?
Wait!
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Thanks a million <3,
Jess and Zoey
Copyright © 2018 by Zoey Oliver and Jess Bentley
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Chapter 1
Ian
The whole building feels electrified with anticipation and it’s driving me a little crazy. Okay, more than a little, judging by the path I’ve worn into the carpet with my pacing. I sink into the beat-up dressing room couch and let out a long heavy breath, closing my eyes and pinching the bridge of my nose.
It’s just another show. You’ve done this a million times, I tell myself.
And how many of those times were you high as a fucking kite? an angry little voice challenges.
I shove it aside. I don’t need drugs to do my job. Maybe there was a time when I thought it fit my whole “rockstar” persona, but I’ve been clean and sober for five years now and I’m not about to screw that up. Not even for something as important as this event.
Which is a good thing, since this whole gig is supposed to be helping me to rehab my image. At this point, I don’t think there’s anyone in the world who knows who I am who doesn’t know about my struggles with addiction and getting clean. There were some fans that didn’t like my new image—or the lack of touring dates while I spent longer than probably necessary in rehab. But I learned I can’t worry about those people. I can only worry about myself. The fans that really care—the ones that truly want the best for me—haven’t given up yet.
And I’m glad for it. Hell, if I were one of these parents out in the crowd, I’m not sure I’d want my kid screaming and jumping excitedly for some junkie who may or may not be clean according to the tabloids.
But they’re out there. I can hear the crowd, feel the
energy thrumming through the very floor under my feet. I’ve played packed venues, sold-out stadiums in tours, but I’ve never been as nervous as I am right now waiting for my turn up on stage in front of all those sick kids.
Originally, when Merrill told me about his idea to have me perform at the Wish Givers’ benefit, I wasn’t sure they’d even want me. After all, these are really sick kids, cancer and shit like that. It’s bad enough that they’re sick and dying, but to offer them a concert with me? It almost seemed like a really bad, unfunny joke. But my manager knows what’s best for me. He always has. He’s stuck by me through thick and thin, helping me up when I hit rock bottom, being more of a family to me than the people I actually share blood with. So when Merrill said it was a good idea, I decided it couldn’t hurt to humor him a bit. Most likely the Wish Givers wouldn’t even want me in their lineup, right?
Well, Merrill’s apparently better at his job than I’ve ever given him credit for, because not only did they want me to perform, but they wanted me to headline this whole event. It was definitely a surprise, but also kind of flattering. When I first walked into rehearsals a couple of weeks ago, I felt like a big shot, probably more than I had any right to. But these kids changed all that. Every day during rehearsals and sound checks, there were kids coming in with reps from the Wish Givers, kids that wouldn’t be able to come to the show for one reason or the other. I’d fooled around with them, given them each a little backstage tour, and one of the kids told me he hoped he got to grow up to be a rockstar.
That really got me. Not that he wanted to grow up to be a rockstar, but that he hoped he got to grow up. I could barely hold it together when I was showing him how to place his fingers on the guitar frets and he shot me the biggest smile when he managed to strum a few chords together after an hour or so of practice. I spotted his mom wiping away tears in the wings and my throat closed up tight.
Ever since then, I really realized how much this show means to these kids, and I’ve been determined not to let any of them down. Not even a little.
And it’s that pressure I’ve put on myself that has me so nervous I’m afraid to go out on stage. Alaina, my handler with the Wish Givers, has already been talking about future benefit concerts and stuff like that, but I haven’t been able to agree to anything because I’ve been absolutely certain I’m going to blow this whole thing.
Thinking like that isn’t going to help me impress those kids or the people watching at home, though. Thinking like that will make me a complete disaster on stage. So I retreat back into my mind, going back to the time I spent in rehab, in therapy and group sessions, remembering how my counselor taught me to control my breathing and clear my mind. “Meditating” has always sounded like some New Age hippie nonsense, but the practice actually helps me control my impulses and cravings more than I would have ever predicted. I still won’t call it meditating, but that’s basically what I’m doing. Long deep breaths in through my nose, out through my mouth, counting to ten on each inhale and exhale.
Yes, these people are here to see me. And yes, I want to give them the best show possible, but that’s only going to happen if I can get myself into the right frame of mind. At least we’ve been through the rehearsals a thousand times. I could probably manage to pull off this show in my sleep, but that doesn’t do a ton to ease my nerves.
My mind is finally blank, a sense of calm washing through my nerves when a sharp, hurried knock on the dressing room door startles me out of my trance.
“Yeah?” I call from the couch, still sitting with my legs crossed, my elbows on my knees.
The door opens and a wall of sound rushes in with it, the crowd sounding like they’re right at my door even though I know they’re still a couple hundred feet away.
Merrill comes in and closes the door behind him looking down his nose at me. “Doing all right?” he asks, his face stony.
“Yeah, just trying to get my headspace right,” I say, frowning. Merrill’s usually much more chipper pre-show, trying to pump me up and get me ready to go. But his mouth is tight and he looks a little pale.
“What’s up?” I ask, the worry creeping into my voice before I can stop it. I’ve been at this a long time and Merrill’s been with me from the beginning. I know him too well to believe him when he shrugs.
“What makes you think anything’s wrong?” he asks, pushing his gold-framed glasses further up his nose.
I uncross my legs, planting my feet firmly on the floor, and arch an eyebrow at him. I don’t need to say anything else. He knows I know something’s up.
He sighs and takes the few steps to the couch, sinking in next to me. “Julia was in an accident.”
Ice washes through my blood, my eyes going wide. Julia Venn was supposed to join me on stage after a couple of songs for a few duets. I don’t know her all that well, but she’s been pleasant enough to me through rehearsals and the thought of something happening to her doesn’t sit well. “Shit. Is she okay?”
Merrill holds up his hands as if to ward off my worries. “She’s fine, fine. She’ll make a full recovery.”
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding and nod. “That’s good. So…” I lift my brow at him again.
“She’s not going to make it to the show,” he says, letting that sink in. I’d already figured as much, but the confirmation sucks. We worked really hard in rehearsals to make our duets absolutely perfect, but now those kids will never get to enjoy the fruits of our labor.
“We’ve got a replacement for you, though,” he says, forcing himself to sound chipper. I know it’s forced, because he uses that fake smile that he normally reserves for journalists like Kandy Florin.
“You want me to perform with someone blind? No practice, no nothing, in front of all these sick kids looking for a good time? This isn’t some grungy jam session in a dive bar, Merrill.” The last thing I want to do is disappoint this audience.
“Don’t worry. She knows what she’s doing. She’s got the lyrics down and you two will be fine. You’re both professionals.”
“Who is it?” I ask, a last glimmer of hope flickering inside of me. After nearly fifteen years in the rock scene, I’ve made my fair share of contacts. Maybe I’ll know her, or at least know her work. That would certainly set my mind at ease.
“Chelsea Garten,” Merrill says plainly. Then, to my look of non-recognition, he adds, “She’s a country singer.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I mutter, dropping my forehead to my hands.
Don’t get me wrong, I like country music all right, and I have a hell of a lot of respect for those artists, but we don’t exactly have the same style. I can’t imagine some little slip of a thing with hair bigger than her head and a sequined minidress shining like a disco ball exactly fitting in with my image.
“I’m not,” he says, clapping me on the shoulder. “Chin up, you’re on in five. And remember, it’s for a good cause.”
Merrill stands and leaves me on the couch there to process all of this alone. I was nervous enough before his announcement when I had almost three weeks of practicing with Julia under my belt. Now? With this Chelsea person I’ve never even met? I feel like I’m gonna puke. This is going to be a complete disaster. But at least I’ll have my couple of solo songs to wow the crowd with before we let them all down.
I’m back on my feet and pacing, just thinking about it. I wait for the familiar pang of longing, that craving for a hit to slam into me like it normally does when I’m this stressed, but surprisingly, it doesn’t materialize. Maybe all this meditating bullshit really is working.
I stop my frantic pacing and stand in the middle of the shabbily-furnished room, glancing over to the mirror.
“You’re going to be fine,” I say to myself, watching my lips form the words as if it were someone else talking to me. “She’s a professional. She has the lyrics. It’s going to be fine,” I repeat, hoping it sounds truer the second time. I stare at myself in the cracked mirror for a long moment before I take a d
eep breath, filling my lungs to the brim.
“Besides,” I exhale with a laugh, smiling at myself and the memory of Merrill trying to cheer me up, “it’s for a good cause.”
Good old Merrill. He might drive me up a wall sometimes, but he’s not wrong. This show isn’t really about my new reformed reputation. It’s not about trying to jumpstart a serious comeback for my career. It’s about those kids. Whatever the universe wants to throw at me tonight, I can take it, because I am not letting those damn kids down.
The knot in my chest releases and suddenly I’m relaxed, focused, and ready to put on one hell of a show. Which is a good thing, because it’s just as I’m shaking out the last nerves from my arms that I hear the emcee bellowing my name over the cheering audience.
“Chin up, Ian,” I say, mimicking Merrill’s false cheerfulness, “it’s showtime.”
I give my arms one more shake, jumping up and down in place to get rid of some of the overabundance of energy I have. Being on stage has always been electrifying, but I haven’t felt this good in a long time. Being clean really does suit me. I jog out on stage, my arm held high, waving at the crowd.
“How are you guys doing tonight?” I say into the mic, my voice echoing throughout the theater. This place is jam-packed, and despite some of these kids being in wheelchairs, or being attached to IVs, it’s all smiles as they roar back at me. That kind of response is more addicting than any hit of smack.
“You ready to party?!” I hold the mic out to the audience and they cheer back even louder.
“Let’s do this.” I drop my hand and fit the mic back into its stand just as the stage lights come on behind me and the band launches into the first song.
Apparently I’m not the only one feeling the energy tonight. Every beat, every note, every cue is absolutely perfect. We go straight from the first song into the second and I’m starting to feel like nothing could possibly bring me down. But it’s as the second song winds down and the lights dim for a short break that I remember what’s coming next: my unrehearsed performance with Chelsea Garten.