by Quinn, Cari
I crossed my arms behind my head and kicked my feet out. “You come into my house, you work.”
She brought it back to her mouth. “Is that so?”
I nodded.
Lindsey climbed off of me, holding my microphone hostage. “Do I get to play one of my songs?”
I leaned forward, off the balcony. “Yo, Bats,” I shouted.
He held up a hand like a visor. “Yo.”
I jerked my head toward Lindsey. “You know any Brooklyn Dawn shit?”
Jamie wrapped an arm around my neck and leaped on my back. “Shit?”
I grinned and gave an exaggerated grunt. “Aww, come on, Jamie, I didn’t mean it.”
She wrapped her long-ass legs around my waist and managed to get herself around the front of me. She pinned me against the seat. The click and whir of cameras and the flashing red lights of video made me groan.
By tomorrow, the papers would report that I was going out with Jamie. Or at least fucking her into next Wednesday. But it wasn’t Jamie DuCaine that I wanted. A week ago, I would have welcomed the dare in her eyes.
She pinned me with one strong hand at the center of my chest and wiggled against my thighs. The invitation was there in her eyes. One nod and I’d have a night full of hot sex. Me and Jamie had been dancing around a hookup since Christmas.
Too bad my head was full of orange blossoms and a stubborn redhead. Jamie would have been infinitely easier.
Before I could look for a way to extricate myself, Jamie popped up off of me and raced to the back of the balcony. Bats stood at the doorway with Patrick behind him holding an extra guitar.
“Want one of these?”
Jamie took the guitar and looped it over her shoulder. The two of them dueled out the opening solo to Brooklyn Dawn’s “Fight Song”. Lindsey’s voice was as smooth as hot caramel over ice cream.
The crowd welcomed it.
My band loved it.
I was just relieved to have everyone’s attention off of me for a moment. Jamie’s sexual pull worked with just about anyone. Bats was definitely into her. A hot chick who played guitar was about as crackalicious as it came for my buddy.
Sweet and clear, Lindsey’s voice carried from the rafters to the bowl of people below. She was a powerhouse created for the mic.
I slipped past them, smiling at a few actresses and a producer I’d met at a party. The gleam of satisfaction in Dex’s eyes made me want to wind my arm back and smash his face in, but I managed to pass him and disappear back into the stairwell. I flipped out my earpieces for a moment of silence.
I was used to Owen’s bass as my guide, but right now I needed a moment. I rushed down the stairs to the backstage area and downed a bottle of water, then another. I’d poured out my weight in adrenaline and sweat. The crowd fed me like a drug, but I always escaped for a song to breathe for a moment.
The Brooklyn Dawn song ended. Just as I was about to push myself back through the curtains, I heard Bats urge both women into a Joan Jett cover.
Getting two songs off was a gift.
At the edge of the side stage, a flash of pink and cream turned my cock to stone. Kenny.
She turned and met my gaze. The closer I got to her, the more she hugged her damn iPad. I was half a foot away from her, my heart racing. Her pupils were blown wide in her amber eyes. I didn’t hesitate.
I couldn’t have stopped myself if I tried. And I didn’t.
I cupped her face and dragged her up on to her toes. “Damn you, Kenny.”
Eight
Kennedy
I couldn’t move. That whole saying about a tractor beam stare? Yeah, that was a real thing, and Hunter owned the rights to it. My iPad clattered to the floor. It was my life and I just didn’t care.
My nails scraped through his sweaty scalp. His shirt was soaked through and I would wear more than one imprint of him on my body. I couldn’t care less.
He crushed his mouth to mine, dragging me into him so tightly that there was no doubt to the claims of the magazine, that was for freaking sure. I literally dangled from his shoulders. He towered over me, but didn’t bend to me.
No, he lifted me up and demanded I bend to him.
I did.
God help me, but I did.
His arm banded around my lower back, and his other hand dug into my ass as he turned me into the wall. My skirt didn’t allow for me to curl around him like I wanted to. I had no choice but to be pinned. I made due with curling my calf around his knee, and tried desperately to think.
Thinking kept getting squashed by the power of Hunter in his elemental form. I’d watched his passion ignite onstage for nearly two hours, but now it was all directed at me. Again.
No.
No, this was even bigger than the hallway. Then had been a teasing taste.
I sucked his tongue into my mouth and wished for better timing. Wished for so much.
I tore my mouth away and touched my forehead to his. “We can’t.”
His lip curled into a snarl. “We can.”
I shook my head. “Show.” I dragged in a deep breath. “Song. Singing.” Fuck, I didn’t even know the right words. Words were what I knew. Spin and image. I groaned when he pressed me even tighter into the wall. Breath whooshed out of my lungs.
“After. I want you after. In my room.” His voice lowered until it was only a grumbling bass of sound. “All of this off. All of you—mine.”
I shook my head. Caveman tactics shouldn’t be hot.
He lifted me higher, nudging my jacket open. He found my nipple unerringly. It might have been because it was so hard I could barely stand keeping my clothes on. Yeah, maybe. But then I couldn’t think again. He sucked and nipped the tip through the camisole and bra under it. Until there was nothing but hot wetness and his relentless suction.
“My room,” he said around my nipple.
“Hunter, you’re my client.” I’d already fucked up. Donovan hadn’t reprimanded me. I didn’t know why. Maybe that was his way. Just the disappointment in his gaze was enough to make me want to scrabble back and correct every mistake I’d ever made in my entire career. This one, right here. This was the ultimate career blunder.
But when I met his storm-soaked eyes, I couldn’t deny just how much I wanted him. Wanted this feeling to go on.
“You’re fired.”
I laughed. I shouldn’t have, but his face was thunderous and his jaw was set. I stared at his mouth, sawing my teeth through my own bottom lip so I wouldn’t attack it again. “You can’t fire me.”
“The fuck I can’t.” His eyes were blisteringly hot. Like his skin, like his cock that was branding me right across my upper thigh. Damn pencil skirt. I wanted to wiggle it up and get him to line me right up with his thick length.
Could you die from being turned on?
Was that a thing?
There had been a time or two in my life where I’d thought I knew what passion was, but nothing like this. Was it a rock star thing? Was it a Hunter thing?
Or was it watching him prowl over that stage and own every woman that looked his way?
His hair was shorn to the skin on the sides, but the top was long and unkempt from my fingers. I pushed a hank back, losing myself in his broody eyes. Words. You can do it, Kennedy. “You fire me and I have to find another client.”
He grabbed my hand, one then the other, and pinned them above my head. “Hell no.” I sucked in a shallow breath when he went at my neck. “I don’t care if you technically work for me, or if I have to drain a bank account to buy out your services. Whichever gets me inside you is the only answer that interests me, Kenny.”
“You couldn’t afford me.”
He reared back until our gazes locked. “Try me.”
I leaned my head forward—it was the only thing not currently pinned to the damn wall—and flicked my tongue over the dent in his upper lip. So delicious and full. And good God, he knew how to use it. Bad ideas were stacking up like emails on a Monday morning.
�
��Dammit, Kenny.”
The backstage fuzzed around me. We were still backstage, weren’t we? I could hear the distant whine of guitar and thump of bass. Or was that my blood? And why did he keep calling me Kenny?
Worse, why was I starting to like it?
My eyes fluttered shut when his mouth found my neck again.
“Hunter.”
He swirled his tongue over the little strap of my camisole. “Say yes.” He lowered me to my feet. A groan hummed through my skin as he released my hands. But he didn’t just step back. No, that would be too easy, too normal. Fantasies of a hot, hard hookup with a rock star didn’t include soft and easy. Not when there was no familiarity to base it on.
Hunter left me off-balance—always.
He skimmed his fingertips down my arms, the calluses leaving electric aftershocks along the silk of my jacket. The backs of his knuckles grazed the sides of my breasts before he carefully stepped back and raised his hands to my face. He cupped my cheeks, his fingers slipping into my hair. “It’s easy. One little syllable. Yes.”
My brain had emptied with each successive touch. What was I saying yes to again? Right. Being with him.
I couldn’t say no. I couldn’t really spit out yes either. There were too many reasons why I shouldn’t—career suicide, personal boundaries, all the smart things I should be thinking about.
He nipped my lower lip. “I’ll find you. If you try to leave, I will still find you.”
A shiver ran up my spine. Then there was that. Sweetness fell away as his rain-swelled gray eyes met mine. His face was devoid of laughter, the teasing long gone. Within fifteen seconds, he’d gone from seduction to demands. The words bordered on a threat, but the pounding in my clit was not on board with Stalker 101. It liked it.
I liked it.
And I kinda wanted to make him chase me.
All kinds of wrong.
When he disappeared past the curtains and out of view, my senses snapped in like I’d been stuck in a vacuum. I shivered at the wet spot over my nipple, from the dampness of my clothes due to his sweat, at the buzz in my fingertips after touching him.
I was a wreck.
I’d literally vined myself around a sweaty rock star. My gag reflex should have been activated, for God’s sake. And here I was tempted to wait right there and get the full effect after the show. It was that thought that got me moving.
I scooped up my discarded iPad. A dent in the corner of the rose gold case now had Hunter Jordan’s name etched on it. I pushed back my hair and turned to find Indie.
Fuck.
“So, the other picture-happy moment wasn’t enough?”
Every instinct urged me to look away from her. Instead I kept my gaze defiant. I wasn’t ashamed. I was too keyed-up to be ashamed. I wanted him. He wanted me. We were adults.
After tonight, he wasn’t my problem anymore. He would be an ex-client and my favor to Donovan would be fulfilled.
I just needed to get through the afterparty, and wall of press waiting in the wings. I’d gathered enough information during the meet and greet to know what they needed to know about him and the band.
“Have you ever had a guy get under your skin?”
Indie tipped back her hat. “Maybe.”
“Yeah, well, I haven’t. I’m not going to lie. I hate it, but…”
“But it’s hard to walk away from a man that turns your skin inside out.”
Relieved, I nodded. “That about covers it.”
“Well, you’ve got a brain in your head, unlike the other women Hunter’s hooked up with. He usually goes for the damsels in distress. Not exactly a label I’d slap on you.”
I snorted. “Definitely not.”
She shrugged. “So, just don’t rip his heart out through his nose, all right? He’s delicate.”
I laughed. “Delicate?”
“The big idiots always are.” She wasn’t laughing with me.
“I’m not looking for anything other than what this is.” I twisted my fingers into my purse strap.
“Make sure he knows that.”
I nodded. “All right.”
“Good, then we’re cool.” She lifted her hat and shook her tawny hair back before replacing it. “Now, you have about twenty-five rabid reporters waiting to talk to you. I’ll send Hunter along when he’s cleaned up.”
Send him out sweaty. I strangled my inner voice. That bitch’s filter was broken.
Instead of replying with anything more than a nod, I took myself to the ladies’ room. I was a wilted mess. Thanks to my emergency kit, I was able to pull myself together. I’d go back to my room and change for the afterparty. That was a much more glammed out affair.
I stepped out into the lobby. A long table was set up with microphones and nameplates. A six-foot-tall copy of the Rolling Stone magazine was right behind Hunter’s spot. Well, that was going to put him in an awesome mood.
As a PR girl, I knew that was where it should be. Personally, I wanted to shove it off to the side. I didn’t want to deal with the surly Hunter again. He’d started loosening up on stage and by the end of the show, he’d been the smiling sex symbol he was born to be.
I shook my hair back and went to the podium. I’d be fielding questions and keeping everyone on track for the next hour.
I was impressed with the number of magazines that had shown up for the show. Local news was peppered in with the bigger magazines, vlogs, and TV shows.
“Thanks for coming, everyone. The band will be out in a few minutes. They’re just showering off the stage sweat.”
“We want them sweaty!” came a shout from the back.
You and me both, sister.
“I guarantee it’ll be worth the wait. Now, does anyone have any questions I can answer about the album or the upcoming shows in LA this week?”
“That little display in the hall before the show? Real or publicity stunt?”
My gaze snapped to the woman in the smart chocolate suit. I knew that voice. Music Life’s lead reporter, Kim Forrester. Blonde, gorgeous, and far too smart for her own good—she was one of the few reporters that I loathed and respected at the same time.
“Next question,” I said.
“So, publicity stunt,” she said with a smile. “I see.”
A TMZ reporter took that ball and ran with it for a goddamn touchdown. “How’s it feel to be one of Hunter Jordan’s many girlfriends? Jamie DuCaine seemed quite cozy with him at the show. Lindsey York as well. Just one of many, Kennedy?”
I didn’t remember the viper’s name, but she’d been trying to get her claws into a name like Kim had. Personally, I didn’t think TMZ was the best way to get names out there, but that was just me.
“This junket is for the new album, Bronze. Not Mr. Jordan’s personal life.”
“That poster behind you says differently,” said another voice from the middle of the pack.
“Did you read the Rolling Stone interview? If you did, you’d know there was a great deal of information on Hunter’s animal activism, his extensive collection of albums and guitars, the nearly two-thousand square feet studio in his home, or the fact that this is Hammered’s fifth studio album in ten years.”
“Boring, right?” My head swiveled toward his voice. I knew it, craved it already. Hunter stood at the top of the winding staircase above the tables. His powerful arms were outstretched along the intricate iron railings, his legs spread apart to show off his strong thighs in a pair of jeans that definitely mirrored that damn magazine. He leaned forward, every muscle strung tight in his arms as he gave a lazy smile. I couldn’t see his eyes. They were hidden behind mirrored aviators. “All you care about is my cock, right?”
Well, shit.
Where the hell was the rest of the band? I looked over my shoulder and Indie stood along the side with her fingers pinching the bridge of her nose.
Yeah.
This was not good.
Hunter sauntered to the stairs and down the steps with a lethally lazy gait. He was al
l sex. Every sin that a woman could think up would be attached to his leisurely smile and ridiculously tight jeans.
He didn’t look at me. Didn’t even nod in my direction. He calmly walked across the dais to the poster and crossed his arms as he posed in front of the damn near life-sized poster of him.
The funny thing was, he was even more impressive here in the flesh.
And the freaking paparazzi loved it. The whir of old school cameras, flashbulbs, the red dots of a hundred video cameras—all of it soaked him up.
This was exactly what he should be doing.
Then why was every single one of my nerves on high alert?
Nine
Hunter
No one was going to attack Kennedy because of a few mistakes I’d made. Kissing her, wanting her…no, those were a newfound bliss. My timing on the seduction? Yeah, well, that wasn’t exactly one of my finer moments today. Now, the press attacking her? Making her feel less?
Fuck that.
I’d been in our dressing room with the rest of the band, the high of the show still lighting up my skin like it was supposed to. That’s why I did what I did. The studio was another part of me. I likened it to nutrition. It sustained me, it helped me grow, it even excited me, but it was the stage that I lived for.
This shit—the press, the pictures—was a necessary evil. And normally I did it well, but the poster behind me made me want to raze the damn world. I didn’t even think. I just ran out with my hair still wet, my T-shirt still sticking to my damp skin from the shower.
“Is it true you have a new denim line?”
My jaw tightened and my smile stretched thin. “Nah, man. I’m no model.” My agent had been busting my balls about it, but I didn’t think it was actually a thing. Stef Wesley was known for blowing smoke up my ass when it suited him.
Kim Forrester tilted her head with a sly smile. “Simon Kagan’s been doing it for ages. They say you’re going to take over his campaign for Roman.”
“They say a lot of things.” I deflected to another reporter behind the pretty blonde from Music Life. “You.” I knew not to let Kim run at the mouth. She was a damn barracuda.