Like the half-naked bodies in the elevator—no longer pictures but the real thing.
She forced herself inside, hovering near the elevator even as it shut behind her.
Keaton showed no such hesitation. He strolled in like he’d been here a thousand times before. She supposed, since Lock trusted him with a key card, he probably had. Maybe he was an assistant of some kind. He went to a large bar and popped the lid of a Coke. No vending machines for penthouse residents.
He cocked the bottle toward her. “You want one?”
She shook her head, taking a hesitant step forward. “Do you know when Lock will be here?”
He sprawled into a large leather chair, one leg over the square arm, and took a sip of his drink. Chicago’s twinkling nightscape framed him from behind. He looked so incongruously regal, sitting there, like a king surveying all he owned. And she knew, with a sinking feeling, what he was going to say before he did.
“Sweetheart, you’re looking at him.”
* * *
Her shoulders slumped, and her mouth settled into a disconcerting line of determination. The look on her face. She looked…resigned. He'd wanted to shock her, to watch her fluster and backpedal.
“Not what you expected?” he asked.
“No, you're exactly what I expected. I don't know why I didn't realize sooner. It's not like I've never seen your picture. I'm a little embarrassed. Do you mind if I sit?”
He nodded, still intrigued. She didn't lie or try to make herself look better. She just told the truth. What else might she say?
Her gaze darted around the room, a mouse scanning for danger, and she settled on the edge of a chaise lounge across from him. Then she took off her shoes—actually took off her shoes—and rubbed her stockinged feet. Worked her thumb deep into the arch, sighing. He felt it in his groin.
“Gosh, my feet hurt. I don't know how my sister wears these things. If I put anything other than a sneaker or a croc near my toes, they just curl up in terror. Like the Wicked Witch of the East. Taking off my shoes is my favorite part of the day. That and my bra. Oh.”
“By all means, take that off too.”
She bit her lip and flushed. He knew she regretted that last admission as soon as it was out of her pretty mouth. She didn't look like the kind of girl who discussed her underwear in mixed company, but he couldn't resist pushing. This nervous babble was getting more interesting by the minute. The tantalizing peek of her bare toes through the fishnet was getting more interesting too.
He watched her school her features, bring herself back to calm and dignity. It was so much like what he did before he went onstage. Only in reverse. She steadied; he frenzied.
She took a deep breath. “I'd appreciate it if you didn't tease me. It isn't nice.”
Her quiet reprimand brought him up short. No one had expected niceness from him, ever. He’d grown up on tour with his parents, rock royalty who’d lived fast and died not quite as young as they’d expected. He’d been treated alternately like a tiny king and luggage. He’d had almost everything he wanted and nothing he needed. He wouldn't know where to begin…being nice. “I'm not teasing. I'm being a good host. Seeing to your comfort. I'll even take it off for you.”
She shook her head like he'd offered her another unwanted soda. So she wasn't here to try and fuck him. Why did that make his dick hard?
“I have a problem—a private, family matter—and I'd like your help.”
He leaned back in the chair, inhaling the leathery scent, and rubbed his eyes. Of course she wanted something. A signed photograph? A vial of some bodily fluid? A sweaty T-shirt worn onstage? Exhaustion settled over him like a lead blanket. “What do you want?”
“Last month you bought my sister a bus ticket home. She toured with you this summer. She's…”
“She's what? Sorry she left? If she got a ticket home, it's because she needed to leave. I doubt she'd be welcome back, even if you do plead her case. And I don't buy tickets. Our tour manager might.”
“She's pregnant.”
So it was that scam again. This was part of the reason he had his agreement. No questionable paternity suits for him. Not anymore. He knew exactly who he fucked, when, and for how long. He had them stored in a file, and since he hadn’t added to that in file nine months, he knew it wasn’t this girl’s transient sister. “Not by me. Not my problem.”
“I didn't say it was yours. I'm pretty sure it isn't, because she won't talk about the father. She'd be shouting it from the rooftops if it was you. You're a god in her eyes.”
“I'm no god. A demon, maybe.” Keeping starry-eyed groupies from broadcasting his conquests was another reason for his agreement. Too often their excitement turned sour, the fantasy never quite matching the reality. Turned out he didn’t magically become one of their nice guys when they fucked him, like some frog getting kissed. He'd written “Scorned” after a particularly grueling bout of tabloid vengeance.
Her soft brown eyes raked over his body. He could almost feel her gaze searching for scales and a tail. So fucking earnest. He wished he could sprout horns on the spot, to make her sad smile falter. “I was hoping you'd be able to help me find the father.”
Now he was shocked. “You want me to interview my band? My crew? Pass her picture around at sound check? That isn't how it works.”
“Nothing like that. We don't want it public. We both work for our church, and a scandal would be awful.”
“Church?” He nearly snorted his soda, the bubbles tickling the back of his throat. “I’m surprised you didn’t burst into flames downstairs. What do you do at church? No, let me guess. Sunday school?”
She pursed her lips. “Well yes. But that’s volunteer work. Chloe volunteers with the youth group. My paid job is in the attached child-care center.”
Of course. Another person paid to care. Worried about her job. “I can see why you’d want to keep this quiet.”
“I think if I can talk to some of the people here, I might be able to figure it out. Quietly. I could blend in? Like a groupie? Just for a few days. So I can convince him to do the right thing.”
A few days to ask around and figure out who her sister had fucked. Without it becoming public knowledge. Un-freaking-likely. Her plan was as thin as the air in the nosebleeds at Madison Square Garden, and judging from the desperation in her eyes, she knew it. But family could drive people to crazy depths; he knew all about that. For that and many reasons, he should throw her out, maybe even call the cops. This had stalker written all over it, but he couldn't hold back the grin spreading across his face as it clicked in his mind, exactly what he was going to do. He had so few vices left. “Stand up. Let me look at you.”
She rose slowly. “Maybe I will take that drink. What do people drink when they have no idea what they’re doing? Beer? Tequila?”
“Beer is for barbecue. Tequila is for bad decisions. And whiskey is for all-purpose adjustment. It’s what I always reached for when I drank. But I can’t help you drown your troubles in booze. Or are you looking for liquid courage?”
“No, I just—” The jut of her chin told him courage was exactly what she’d been looking for. He cast a glance at the bar, cleared of all alcoholic beverages prior to his arrival per his agent’s instructions. Not even a bottle of bitters. Like he’d ever been that desperate.
“You won’t find a drop of that here. I can call downstairs—”
“No, it’s fine. It’s not like I’m really a drinker.” She shivered. “I hate the taste.”
He regretted ever acquiring it.
She'd never pass as a groupie. Not even with her ripped fishnets and glitter fetish. She'd looked too horrified, too out of place in the middle of all the debauchery downstairs. And tonight was tame. But if she was with him? How badly did she want this particular all-access pass?
“You can stay, but I'll need you to agree to a few terms first.”
“Whatever you want.”
“Yes, that's number one on the list.”
&nb
sp; * * *
Hailey forced herself to stand still for his leisurely perusal. Even when he stood and stalked toward her, she managed to hold on to her dignity―whatever dregs she had left after donning these clothes and almost falling on her face. But his smile hit her like a blast of heat, blinding her, scalding her. He looked far too pleased with himself, like a man about to get everything he wanted. And her shaky insides warned she might just give it to him.
“What do you mean?” she asked, proud her voice didn’t quaver too much.
“You want to stay here while we’re in Chicago,” he said. “To stay here for three days, to blend in so that no one questions why you’re here. To ask questions, poke around.”
Yes, that was exactly what she wanted. So why did her nod feel like surrender? As if she’d agreed to his terms before she even knew them. But then maybe she did know what his terms would be. His eyes spoke the words his lips had yet to say. There were volumes of gold-flecked pages filled with all that sensual knowledge. They promised delight and, even better, a hard bite to the exchange. Where the men she had been with were a fresh spring breeze, he stood before her like the calm before the storm, his eyes darkening clouds.
“Can you…” She licked her lips. His gaze tracked the movement, making her feel hunted. “Can you help me?”
His expression softened. Just the slightest degree, but it was enough to slow the hammering of her heart. This was the same kind man she’d met in the lobby. Desire had given him a rough edge, turning his loping gait into a prowl, making his nostrils flare―scenting her. But he was still kind inside.
When he didn’t answer, she searched for whatever strength she might have found. You want… he’d said, listing her terms. Only his terms were left to be stated. A negotiation, then. But even as she thought the words, an image flashed through her mind, a gazelle caught from behind, the vicious beauty of her captor feasting in a National Geographic special.
“What do you want?” she whispered, and somehow the wall was at her back. He was at her front…crowding her…embracing her?
“You,” he snarled. “Under me. Over me. On your knees in front of me. I get full artistic license to your body for three days.”
His words pounded her like hail, leaving dents and then pooling in the hollows left behind. They drowned out the rest of the world and shook the floor. She began to shake too―but her gaze remained locked with his. The shaking was on the inside, fear and a strange longing warring inside her, a battle to the death. She stood frozen, caught in his sights and too terrified to run. Too curious to walk away.
He stepped back, sending a wash of crisp hotel air over her body. She sucked in a breath and immediately missed the earthy scent of him.
“And you,” he continued conversationally, “will have total access to play Nancy Drew in the hotel. That is, whenever I’m not using you.”
Her body lit up when he said the word using. It imploded on you, spoken with such self-assured possession. What was wrong with her that she wanted to be used? Maybe because she wanted to be free to enjoy sex, to really explore it, for the first time in her tame little life. Maybe because he would be the one using her, and he seemed like he would know just what to do with her.
This was a bad idea. For reasons that weren’t quite coming to her at the moment. But she knew it was bad. If she’d said it once, she’d said it a thousand times to her preschoolers: don’t make decisions when you’re angry. Though she wasn’t angry. She was concerned. And frustrated. And…
God, Chloe, why? After I worked so freaking hard so you could start college, why couldn’t you be more careful?
Okay, she might be angry.
She swallowed. So maybe this weekend could be for her too. She would find the baby’s father, but she’d also find something for herself.
With a deep breath, she struggled for levity. A lopsided tilt of her lips was all she could manage. “Where do I sign?” she joked.
His grin widened, revealing an even row of white teeth. The Cheshire cat had just such a smile. “I’m so glad you asked. I have blank copies of my contract in the side table. Right next to the lube.”
FOUR
Chloe stared at the white oval, willing a second blue line not to appear. It did. Just like it had for the last seven strips. She’d also been disappointed by a red circle, a pink plus, and the word Not never forming in front of the word Pregnant.
She tossed the current plastic stick into the little trash can overflowing with cardboard packaging and instructions. Stupid. She was stupid for taking so many tests, as if they could all be wrong, as if the doctor’s office could have been wrong.
It was just like when her mother left behind that hastily scrawled phone number. Chloe had called the number again and again. Even when Hailey shook her head and said Mom wasn’t coming back, Chloe had waited until her sister went to sleep and then dialed the number so many times she could hear the disconnected chime in her dreams. Her sister had always been smarter.
Getting pregnant at nineteen was stupid too, but Chloe couldn’t think about that right now. She was still here, in this place of uncertainty and possibilities. The maybe I’m somehow not pregnant possibility.
But she was. She’d known it since she missed her first period while on tour with Half-Life. She’d felt something, someone inside her, even though the Internet claimed it was too soon to know. In denial, she’d packed up and boarded a Greyhound without even sending so much as a text to…well, without telling a soul.
Sitting on the toilet, she put her head in her hands.
Options. She needed to consider her options. There should be a flowchart for this situation that asked you questions and led you to the right answer.
At the very top it would ask, What would you say if a cute guy offers to teach you guitar? Yes.
If he plays you a song about love lost and then kisses you, what then?
If you’re both drunk on lust, and he just wants to see what it would be like, just wants to feel you without anything between you, would you do it?
But she couldn’t blame it on him. She’d wanted to feel him too, and it had felt insanely good, impossibly sweet, like for the first time she wasn’t having sex, she was making love. He’d pulled out, but not soon enough, obviously.
Stupid.
She sighed. The next rectangle in the flowchart would ask, Did you get pregnant? And yes, she had. She could admit that now, after using up an entire shelf at the drugstore.
Next box in the chart. Do you want an abortion? No, not when she already felt the little alien inside her. Adoption? Better, but she wasn’t sure about that either. Her mother had left them, but Chloe had been okay because she had Hailey. Hailey to make sure she did her homework and Hailey to set her curfew. Hailey to hold her when she came home crying because she was pregnant. She couldn’t be sure her child would have that. And she refused to make Hailey be a mother to another child she hadn’t given birth to. So, the only person Chloe could count on to be a mother to this child was herself.
She wanted to be a good mother to her child. Strange but true.
All she had to do, then, was figure out how to be Hailey.
Where was her sister anyway? Weren’t you just saying you’d rely on yourself, not her? Okay, but still, it was weird. The ever-responsible Hailey had disappeared without telling Chloe where she’d gone.
Chloe left the bathroom and stood in the open doorway to Hailey’s empty room as if it might hold a clue, as if a brochure to Tahiti might have been left on the nightstand. Maybe with the tagline Stressed because your baby sister got herself knocked up? Well, come on down to our resort and relax. Chloe wouldn’t even blame her.
But it was weird.
The bed was made. Of course. The nightstand was clear of everything except a book her sister had been reading, with its pages dog-eared. The closet looked undisturbed, with not enough missing to really suggest a long trip. Even those sensible green crocs were in their proper cubby. Hailey loved those crocs.
A few minutes later the response came. I told you, I’m fine. Don't worry.
Well of course she was fine. This was Hailey, who always had her shit together, who always did the right thing. But it didn’t really answer the question. Where the hell was she?
A little bubble on the screen indicated she had other text messages from someone else. She didn’t want to look. She wasn’t going to look.
She looked.
Hey, I heard you left the tour
Did something happen? Are you okay?
Call me
She winced. Fuck. She could just imagine his expression too, a mixture of frustration and concern. She hadn’t even been sure he cared about her when she left. Maybe she’d just been a convenient lay.
She was used to being a convenient lay, really.
Between the guys at her high school and the random hookups at concerts, it had been a leapfrog game of sex that she’d found exciting at first. And then just tiring. Except for him. He’d been…something different. Something real, until she'd gotten scared and split.
She texted back: I’m okay. Call you soon. And then shut off her phone. Which was cowardly, but that was what he got for dealing with the irresponsible sister. Anyway, she would tell him. She’d have to.
Tonight maybe.
With a final, fruitless glance, she left her sister’s bedroom and went into her own. She was ready to fall onto the bed and possibly hide under the covers for the next nine months when something from the closet caught her eye.
Unlike Hailey’s tidy closet, Chloe’s was overflowing with clothes and bling. Satiny halter tops and a tiara. Heavy metal T-shirts and Mardi Gras beads. She kept most of her clothes for clubbing near the back. She just bunched them into a ball and threw them into a Rainbow Brite bucket. Except now they were all rolled into little symmetrical piles, and there was only one person who could fold fishnet stockings that neatly.
BANGED: Rock Stars, Bad Boys & Dirty Deeds Page 23