Manhandled: A Rockstar Romantic Comedy (Hammered Book 2)

by Cari Quinn

  “Oh, no you don’t.” She gripped the back of my neck and dragged me down. “No way are you stopping now.”

  “Faith, we—”

  She sealed her lips over mine and slid her tongue lightly along mine. I tried to back up. I really did, but then I just couldn’t. I twisted my fingers into the belt loops of her jeans on either side of her hips, resisting the urge to simply rip them until her button popped and her zipper busted.

  Because they weren’t coming off intact if I didn’t rein it in.

  “I smell coo—whoa. Sorry!”

  We broke apart and I fisted my hands in my hair.

  Shit.

  “Ah…I’ll just come back.” Devon twirled toward the stairs.

  “No. I’m going. You guys catch up.”

  “Quinn—”

  I strode out of the kitchen and down the hall to the office. I was a sack of shit. I should have said no. I should have walked out of the damn room as soon as she’d offered me up that fucking cookie.

  “So stupid,” I muttered to myself and swiped my hand down my face. My cock was as hard as a steel post. In fact, I could probably nail in the post with it.

  “Get it together.” I dragged in a breath and forced my shoulders to ease. I reached up and blew out a long breath as I got into position for the opening posture for my usual Tai Chi exercises.

  It was the only thing that had put me back together after going through rehab eleven years ago. After the rebar had punctured my shoulder and pinned me to the floor.

  The night I hadn’t been able to get to Noah’s wife in time.

  I forced myself to move through the steps of the routine I’d done a million times.

  My body was washed in sweat, and I’d done all thirty-seven of the advanced form movements. Each style flowed into another until my brain quieted, and my muscle memory kicked in.

  The music from the other room, Faith’s laughter, Faith’s voice, the memory of her taste—all of it faded to the back of my mind. Where the memories lived, but didn’t tear at me until there was nothing but screams.

  Finally, I bowed my head and moved to the desk. There was work and duty waiting for me. Things I understood. Things I excelled at.

  I answered emails, made a few requests from Lucy, our expert hacker, and monitored the security system. I made my final walk through for the night, and found Faith and Devon asleep on the sectional couch in the great room.

  I should have woken them up.

  I should have sent them to their beds.

  I should have done a lot of things tonight.

  Instead, I let them sleep and made an extra sweep around the perimeter of the house. I needed the air. The lemon trees and jasmine from the hill beyond her house was a far better scent to hang onto tonight.

  By morning, I was more fully under control. I hadn’t slept worth jack, but at least I could function.

  Right now that’s all I could ask for. I’d been trained to live without sleep. And I had a lot of planning to do for the next few months. I’d finally gotten schematics for all the venues they’d be going to through October.

  There were a lot of them, and I hid myself away while the girls reacquainted themselves with each other for the rest of the week. There was a lot of laughter, a ridiculous level of board games, and I was more than happy to let Devon do some of the cooking.

  If that meant I could hide away and ignore the fact that I went to bed aching for a woman I wasn’t meant to have, and woke each morning cursing the same woman, then I was all for it.

  Long calls with Aidan, Indie, and Lila Shawcross from Hammered’s record label kept me busy. The logistics of a tour were a nightmare to begin with, add in the bonus stalker and everyone was on edge.

  Except Faith.

  She had a countdown going. I got the Post-It Notes on my door every morning. It was an effective dick deflater, that was for sure. The fact that we hadn’t heard a single rumble from Faith’s attacker had me even more on edge.

  It was having the opposite effect on Faith. I’d overheard more than one conversation with Devon, letting me know she was more convinced than ever that it had been a fluke.

  My gut said nothing about this was over.

  Finally, it was the night before we were leaving. Devon and Faith had been cooking all day. We were having a picnic on the deck. At least she hadn’t requested to leave the house, but I hated having her in the open like that.

  There was no reason to believe her stalker wanted to kill her, but the fact that she’d used Ketamine to try to walk Faith off the property during Hunter’s wedding didn’t give me warm and fuzzy feelings about her attacker. However, Faith also didn’t need to be stressed out every hour of the day.

  It was my job to manage the stress, and keep her safe. Tomorrow was coming whether I wanted it to or not.

  So I ate the early Labor Day feast that the girls put together. I manned the grill for burgers and brats, I enjoyed their banter at my expense, and I soaked up a perfect sunny day in Los Angeles.

  And somehow I kept myself in check as Faith walked around in a bikini top with white stars over blue triangles of material that molded to her perfect breasts. And I almost ignored the fact that she wore red denim shorts that went an inch past her ass.

  Devon wore the exact opposite ensemble, and while very attractive, she didn’t make me wish for an ice bath to control my dick.

  When the sun set, and the girls broke out s’mores fixings, I relaxed for the first time in weeks. It probably helped that Faith had put on a hoodie. I wasn’t a saint, for fuck’s sake.

  I even had a beer while we sat around the fire pit.

  “I’m heading to bed. I’m just buzzed enough to sleep instead of cry.”

  “Aww, Dev.” Faith struggled out of her nest of blankets in her Adirondack chair. “You won’t even notice I’m gone. You’ll be too busy painting seventeen hours a day.”

  “I hope so.” They hugged and Devon even dropped a kiss on my cheek. “Night Quinn. Take care of my girl.”

  “I will.”

  “I know it.”

  Faith pulled her chair over near me and curled back into her cocoon. “So, how’s my itinerary look tomorrow?”

  “Eight AM flight.”

  “Ugh.” She tipped her head back. “At least we don’t fly commercial.”

  I lifted my beer. “Can’t say I mind the private jet.”

  “The tour bus got old by the third world tour. Especially when getting to some of the venues meant traveling on roads that a donkey wouldn’t pass.”

  I grinned around the lip of my bottle. “Adventure, right?”

  “Oh, it was an adventure when the axel broke on the twenty-eight-year-old bus in the middle of Brussels.”

  “How long did it take to get rescued?”

  She laughed. “We were rescued by a bus full of nuns.” Her teeth flashed in the firelight. “They taught us folk songs through the country side. Zach got his first set of bongos from Sister Mary Percy. I think I still have the picture somewhere.”

  “Definitely not a boring life.”

  “No. Why I love going to work every day.”

  That smile was the reason why I’d make sure nothing ever happened to her. Even if I went crazy in the process.

  21

  Keys

  I woke just as the sun was creeping over the hills. I’d been so excited about the thought of touring that I hadn’t done my usual farewell to the house. I took a leisurely shower and made sure my bathroom was clean.

  I went through my writing notebook on my patio. I was excited to share a few of the songs with the guys. A few others would remain just for me. I smoothed my fingers down the scribbled lyrics for “Idiot” with a smile.

  My bags were packed. Tour clothes were much different than the clothes I wore around the house. Makeup, boots, blinged out jeans, concert shirts, and dozens of pairs of Chucks were included. My lucky leather jacket, denim jacket, and vintage white denim jacket were packed for the various photo shoots I’
d be required to attend.

  My jewelry case was packed, and my three classic iPods were full of songs to get me through the long days of travel.

  The last step was playing “Rain” on my piano. It was the first song I’d ever composed. No words, just music. The song was quiet and lovely. So different than the music I wrote with the guys. It was just for me.

  Just for my house.

  Just for the goodbyes.

  When I closed the cover, I turned to find Quinn in the doorway. His eyes were a little sad, but he didn’t say anything.

  “Ready to go?”

  “Just need your bags.”

  I grabbed the smaller ones, then patted his chest. “There you go, Hercules.”

  “Hercules, Warden, what’s next?”

  “Jeeves?”

  “I left myself open for that one.”

  “Yeah, you did.”

  I flew down the stairs and dumped my bags in the hall, then jogged to Devon’s room. I swung open her door without knocking. She was under her covers with her favorite quilt over her head. “I know you’re awake.”

  “No.”

  I dropped onto her bed. “Yes.”

  “No. Then you can’t leave.”

  I pulled the blanket off her head. Her bottom lip was already stuck out. “Don’t do that.”

  “You did when I left for Ireland.”

  “Okay, that’s true. I’m used to being the one doing the leaving.”

  “And it sucks.” Devon threw her arms around me. “I’m going to miss you.”

  “I’ll be back before you know it. Besides, you need to find us a rocking costume for the masquerade. Or, even better, make us one.”

  She sniffed. “I could do that.” She pulled back and hugged her knees. “I have some really cool silks I could dye to make us masks.”

  “See. Now you’re thinking. And you’re far more talented at that stuff that I am. Maybe a freaky Harley Quinn costume. You know, from the movie.”

  “Oh, yeah. You can be Harley and I can be a manic Queen of Hearts.”

  “Awesome.”

  Devon clapped and dragged her sketchbook off her nightstand. “Project,” she said in a sing-song voice.

  “I expect photos of all drawings.”

  “Pinterest board,” we said in unison and laughed.

  I stood up. “I’ll FaceTime with you when I get to Boston.”

  “You better. Take care of you.”

  “Take care of you,” I said back. I left her to her pencils and mutterings. Devon was always better if she had a big project to fill her head. I blinked back a few tears and met Quinn in the hallway.

  He’d already loaded my things and was flicking his keys in and out of his palm. “Good?”

  “I’m good.”

  The ride to the private airport was much quicker than the one to LAX. Hunter was on the tarmac when we pulled up. Cujo, his Morkie terrier, was sticking out of his hoodie as he said goodbye to Kennedy. Since I didn’t need to see kissing this early in the morning, I waved and headed into the plane.

  Owen was curled into his favorite chair, already asleep. He was practically narcoleptic when it came to travel time. Zach had Matilda, his favorite guitar, next to him on the couch, and a pile of music magazines. Wyatt was sitting in the oversized captain’s chair at the front of the plane, his iPad open, headphones already in.

  Bats came up the stairs, his eyes exhausted. “Hey Keys.”

  “Hiya Bats. Rough night?”

  He grinned. “Saying goodbye to everyone.”

  “I bet.”

  He waggled his eyebrows and fluffed my hair as he went to the back of the jet. He stretched out on the couch opposite of Zach.

  I didn’t have one set place to sit on the plane. I was a restless flier. I decided to start out in one of the chairs. I patted Patrick as I walked by then waved at Saint, our tour chef.

  The familiarity ignited the flame I’d been missing lately. I needed these people around me to keep sane, to feel alive.

  Oh, that’s a lie. He makes you feel alive.

  I ignored that little voice. The warden made my skin feel alive, my hormones feel alive. It was just temporary.

  It had to be temporary.

  I heard a familiar yip and smiled.

  Hunter climbed on and let Cujo free, who ran down the aisle to Indie.

  “Control your toy,” she said with an annoyed voice.

  Hunter snapped his fingers and Cujo scampered back to him. He patted the top of the tiny dog’s head. “She didn’t mean it.”

  She stomped her battered cowboy boot. “I’m going to step on the stupid thing one of these days.”

  “He bounces back,” Hunter said. “I do it all the time.”

  I scrunched down in my seat. “Come on, Cujo, you can sit with me.” The dog leaped into my lap, then up my shirt to treat me to a tongue bath. I tried to push him away, but it was no use. “So, how was the honeymoon?”

  Hunter dropped into a chair near me. “Amazing. Never thought a hut could be so glorious.”

  “Right. A hut.”

  He shrugged. “Yeah, it was two thousand square feet. Still was in the middle of nowhere.” He held his hands up like a photo frame. “Water on all sides. So…still a hut.”

  “Had a lot of sex, huh?”

  He dropped his arms. “Must you cheapen things?”

  I giggled.

  Hunter blew out a breath. “How are you?”

  I looked down at Cujo, his blissed out face utterly adorable as I scratched behind his ears. I knew Hunter didn’t care about anything other than stalker central news. “I’m good. Not a peep out of this idiot punk. I really think it was a one time thing.”

  A shadow fell over the aisle. My attention shifted. Quinn filled the doorway. His gaze scanned the entire plane, all of the people that meant more to me than life, and landed on me all in the space of a few seconds.

  I’d been living with him for weeks, knew the feel of him in the room, knew the moment a rule was coming my way. And still, my breath stalled as he walked toward me.

  He’d changed.

  He’d been in bodyguard mode when we left the house. Suit, crisp white dress shirt, aviators. He thought that made him fade into the background, but instead it always made him stand out to me. Because I knew his jacket was cut to hide his gun, I knew under that crisp cotton and no-nonsense wool was a lethal body that could immobilize someone in less time than it took to blink, and that dangerous side of him made my body come alive in ways I didn’t want to face.

  This Quinn might be worse.

  Ancient jeans molded to his hips, thighs, and…I swallowed hard. Well, everywhere. Stress tears shown at the corners of his pockets, and knees. Not tears created by a designer. No, these were years of abuse and wear from Quinn.

  I didn’t even know he owned jeans.

  The frayed bottoms of his jeans stretched over motorcycle boots.

  Honestly?

  My eyes scanned back up to make sure I hadn’t had a stroke or episode or something. Nope, all that ripped denim glory was still there. An old belt that matched his battered boots was cinched at his lean hips, half hidden by a red T-shirt with faded letters spelling out Ommegang. He still wore a blazer, but that actually made it worse. Because there was still some of the Quinn I knew there.

  At least if he was wearing an entirely new ensemble I could look at it like a costume. Now, I simply wondered if I knew him at all.

  “What?”

  I blinked. “Huh?”

  Quinn stood in front of me. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “Who are you?”

  “Your boyfriend, remember? You’re the one who said it. I was pretty sure a guy in a suit wouldn’t fit that description.”

  “Right.” Wow, head in the game girl. “I didn’t even know you owned jeans.”

  He shrugged. “My parents run a horse farm up in Saratoga, New York.”

  “Another thing I didn’t know.” And now I was picturing hi
m on a horse. I needed another shower.

  “You all right?”

  “Sure. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “I’m going to talk to Patrick about the next few venues.”

  I resumed petting my wiggling seatmate. “Knock yourself out.”

  He slid an absent finger around Cujo’s ears for a quick scratch before passing me by. No, my belly wasn’t doing the Macarena because he was good with animals. Absolutely not.

  Sweet baby Ray.

  It was the jeans.

  It had to be the jeans.

  I glanced at Hunter and his lips twitched.

  “Shut up.”

  “I didn’t say anything.”

  I dug out my headphones as the captain gave us the head’s up we were leaving in fifteen minutes. Cujo curled into the little spot between my hip and the side of my chair. He definitely had the right idea.

  Lights out.

  22

  Quinn

  We went right from the airport to the venue. There was no show tonight, but the band wanted time to rehearse. New songs and some sort of addition to the stage. They’d had a band meeting during the last hour of the flight.

  Patrick had requested some research help while we were at the amphitheater. With the sudden influx of issues thanks to Faith’s stalker, Ripper Records was getting more diligent about security with their artists.

  We sat at the sound board and poured over the names of people who had been offered up to head security.

  Patrick ran a hand over his buzzed head. “I hate asking for help, but I don’t trust the rental services we use for security anymore. Not even just because of the shit stain who tried to kidnap Keys, but the ticket sales alone warrant more security.”

  I nodded. “Agreed.” I tapped the short list of names he had. “I’ve worked with Gabe Matthews before. He’s my number one pick.”

  Patrick pulled out a stapled packet. His eyes raced over the background I pulled from Roth. “Yeah, he was one of my top two. I’ll have him come in for an interview.”

  “Sounds good.”

  He tucked the sheaf of papers into his back pocket. “Backstage is a shitshow. This place may have changed its name, but it’s still the Woods.”