Wild Harts: Rockstar Shifters Box Set

by Lily Cahill

  Tiff had to tilt her torso to get past him without their bodies touching, but the man didn’t budge over. Dick. Then his hand was at Tiff’s hip, and she recoiled.

  “No VIP pass, no entry. Can’t have any old thing sneak in, now.”

  Tiff wrenched her head up to glare at the man. “I have a pass.” She patted her chest, where the lanyard had been hanging, but it was gone. Shit. Shit. Did she take it off in the bathroom? Tiff reached into the slouchy black bag hanging over her shoulder and fished around. She felt a back-up lens in there, a bunch of markers, even an old precision knife, but nothing like a pass. Tiff had wanted to go home, but she sure as heck was not going to let this goon turn her away.

  “I have a pass,” she repeated, stalling for time. She craned her neck to try and catch Lacy’s attention, but her friend was already across the room pouring something amber into a plastic cup.

  “Sorry, babe,” the man said. His lopsided grin looked more grimace than anything. “I can’t let you—”

  “She’s fine, Derek,” another voice said.

  Derek startled. Just slightly.

  And then Jax Hart was taking Tiff’s hand and tugging her into the room. Her heart flipped over in her chest at the way his fingers—large and warm and so … firm—slid along her skin. Jeez. He was gorgeous on stage, but he was even hotter up close, with his height framed by broad shoulders and muscles last seen on statues of Adonis. All the Hart brothers were striking, but where a couple of the brothers were bulky, Jax was lean and hard. Jax darted a look over his shoulder at Tiff, his intense, gray-green eyes practically smoldering, and she was fairly certain that look alone nearly made her come. It was altogether embarrassing.

  Tiff tugged her fingers free. “You didn’t have to—”

  “I wanted to.”

  “You didn’t even let me finish.”

  Jax crooked one eyebrow. It was unbearably sexy. He was all dark hair and angled features and arms that looked like they passed their free time wrestling Olympians. The Greek god variety, not the everyday kind. Tiff dropped her gaze, but that only made her eyes land on the tattoos marking up his forearms and disappearing into the sleeves of his snug, black T-shirt. Tiff ached to trace the dark, graphic lines of Jax’s tattoos and find their terminus. First with her eyes … then with her fingers … then with her lips.

  “Sorry that I rescued you from the skeevy door man,” Jax said, his voice dipped low and heavy with unspoken laughter. “Should I take you back there, or would you prefer a drink?”

  Tiff was helpless to resist. “Club soda?”

  “Club soda and …?”

  “Just club soda.”

  Jax shook his head and grinned, a grin that made Tiff’s knees quake. He held up a finger—one second—then sauntered over to the makeshift bar tucked into the corner of the room. Tiff took a breath and glanced around.

  The room was a box—no windows, sparse lighting, the cinderblock walls painted white. There were a few couches and loveseats, and a wheeled rack of clothing pushed against one wall. Some food and enough alcohol to stock a college rager filled two long tables along the other wall. Music—it sounded like Kanye—pumped from an unseen sound system, and there was a door ajar across from Tiff where she watched Derek slip through.

  And there were women. So many women. Doing shots, lounging on the couches, fawning over the three tall, broad men who were laughing and talking together. A thrill of excitement zig-zagged through Tiff. She was backstage with Wild Harts! She’d never met anyone famous in her entire life, unless you counted that chief photographer for The Washington Post, a man Tiff had met on a college internship. But right now, that guy totally didn’t count.

  Right this second, Jax Hart was bringing Tiff a drink. She smoothed her hands over her black tunic and peeked down to make sure her boobs were behaving in the V-neck. The tunic was simple, but it skimmed over her body and let her have fun with some quirky jewelry done in matte gold and rough-cut emeralds she’d scored at a market in Madison her last year of college. Tiff shook her hands through her hair—a nervous habit she’d picked up long ago from her mom. It was straight as ever, but at least it was shiny. Tiff slid her eyes Jax’s way, nervous to be caught staring.

  Jax was smiling and talking to Lacy.

  Tiff’s insides shriveled. Of course he was. He was just being nice to Tiff, that was all. Lacy laughed at something and let her hand fall lightly onto Jax’s arm. Jax darted a look toward Tiff, but she didn’t look away. She hitched a half-grin and raised an eyebrow, determined not to show this playboy that she’d hoped for something different, something impossible.

  There were two drinks in Jax’s hands, but Lacy still kept a hold on his arm as he led them Tiff’s way. Everything in her wanted to turn around and run away, to not witness Lacy flirt with Jax. But she didn’t move, couldn’t move. Not without looking like she was fleeing.

  “You didn’t slip something in that, did you?”

  Jax raised his eyebrow again. “No.”

  Tiff took the proffered drink and sniffed at it. “You can’t trust rockstars, you know.”

  Jax laughed. It was deep and rumbling, as big of a laugh as he was a man, and Tiff’s cheeks turned to fire. “You know many rockstars, do you?”

  Tiff raised an eyebrow of her own. “Hundreds. Thousands. I live in New Scandia, Wisconsin, we are a hotbed of rockstars.”

  “She’s joking,” Lacy offered.

  Jax didn’t look away from Tiff. “Yeah, I figured.”

  Lacy giggled and slapped playfully at Jax. “Hot and a good sense of humor,” she purred. “Why don’t they talk about that in the gossip blogs?”

  “So what do you do, when you’re not entertaining celebrities?” Jax asked, his question directed to Tiff.

  “Um, I—”

  “She takes photos,” Lacy cut in. Tiff pulled a face at her career description, but Lacy was barreling on. Her friend cocked her head and played with the wishbone necklace nestled in her cleavage. “I do hair. At a salon, you know?” Lacy pushed up on her tiptoes and fingered the curled edges of Jax’s dark hair. “I could give you a cut. You look like you have really strong, uh, follicles.”

  Jax frowned. “Yeah, us Hart brothers. Strong follicles are what we’re known for.”

  Lacy giggled, but Jax was already swinging his attention back to Tiff.

  “So you’re a photographer?”

  Tiff sipped her drink, giving herself a microsecond to internally squeal. A rockstar was asking her questions. Like, asking her questions. It was insane! She nearly pinched herself.

  “Yeah, mostly for business clients, so it’s all very advertising heavy, but my passion is nature photography.”

  Lacy rolled her eyes. “Don’t get her started on golden hour in the Northwoods or whatever or you’ll never get out of here.” Lacy turned to Tiff and raised both eyebrows. “Tiff, my very best friend, weren’t you saying you had to get home early anyway? Photography calls, etcetera.”

  “Oh! Yeah, I guess I—”

  “Don’t go,” Jax said suddenly. There was urgency in his voice, urgency and something else, something deeper and wilder that made Tiff’s heart beat very fast in her chest.

  Tiff looked up at him, drawn into the intensity of his eyes on her. She shifted uncomfortably, her body and mind at war. This man was clearly a player. And what had Ashley said? He had a bet with his brothers over how many women he could bed on the road? She was probably just considered a very easy target.

  “No, I should probably ….” She was already turning away.

  “Please,” Jax said, and he reached out for her. His large hand was warm on Tiff’s arm, but his touch was feather-light.

  “Jax.”

  Tiff swung around at the new voice. It was the drummer … at least Tiff thought it was the drummer. Chase, was it? Jax would probably lose interest if he knew how casual of a fan she was.

  Chase was just as tall as Jax, but thicker, from shaved head down to black-booted toe. Tiff didn’t know where to
look—at the multiple piercings or the double sleeves of tattoos. Instead, she looked at the phone that seemed dwarfed in his wide hand.

  “It’s Mac. There’s some … clan business.”

  Clan? Like, Highland Clan? But whatever he meant, Jax didn’t seem to care. He waved Chase off to focus back on Tiff just as Chase apparently noticed Lacy. He shouted over his shoulder for Bret, then chucked the phone. It sailed through the air and the other brother reached out and snatched it. Chase was already whispering into Lacy’s ear and leading her away.

  But that only meant Tiff was alone—truly alone—with Jax. She was suddenly at a loss for words. What does one talk about with a rockstar?

  “So, clans? Do I take that to mean you’ve got a secret kilt addiction you’re keeping out of the press?”

  Jax smiled again, and Tiff noticed dimples in each cheek. “Oh, that. We just mean family. I blame being from Montana. We’re all strange there.”

  Jax stared off over Tiff’s shoulder for a second. “Listen, do you want to sit down? Somewhere we can talk?”

  Tiff slid her eyes over to the couches, where a trio of girls were trying to entice two of the Hart brothers by making out. Only one still had a top on. For a quick second, Tiff wished she had that sort of confidence. She also wished her boobs were two cup-sizes smaller. You can’t have everything. Well, unless your name was Lacy Segal. Speaking of, Tiff realized suddenly Lacy and Chase were nowhere to be seen. “I don’t think ….”

  “Just to talk,” Jax said, that note of nearly pleading back in his voice. “No funny business.”

  That made Tiff laugh. How could he say that when over in the corner a woman was currently bouncing her breasts in one of the brother’s faces? Also, “Funny business? What are you, my Nana?”

  Jax’s cheeks colored. “Just something my uncle says.”

  “Well, I’d advise your uncle to try out some new phrasing.”

  Jax grabbed up Tiff’s free hand in his own. “Really ….” His eyes suddenly went wide. “I don’t even know your name!”

  Tiff looked up at this surprising man. He seemed so … normal. Other than being some sort of rumored sex maniac, Greek god come-to-life rockstar, that is. Tiff pressed her lips together for a second, then said, “Tiff. I’m Tiff Anderson. And who are you?”

  “Hello, Tiff. I’m Jaxson Hart, of the Montana No-Funny-Business Harts, and I want to talk to you.”

  But that was what gave Tiff pause. Why her? No really, why?

  “Why?” Jax frowned, and Tiff realized with horror that she’d spoken out loud. Her throat went bone dry. “Because you’re amazing, that’s why. Your eyes, they’re ….”

  Tiff tugged her hand free, confusion working between her dark eyebrows. Confusion, and disgust with herself. She was a mark, she had to be. Just now, the brothers would start laughing at the chubster who thought she’d actually enthralled a rockstar and Tiff would be sent home in shame. Tiff looked down at her beer-sticky toes and blinked back a sting of tears.

  Screw them. She wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.

  Tiff raised her chin defiantly and made a big show of rolling her eyes. “Nice try, jackass.” Tiff pulled her purse more securely onto her shoulder and pitched the nearly-full club soda. “You know, I might be a small town girl who doesn’t know any better,” Tiff snapped. “But I’m not an idiot, and I won’t be made one just so you and your brothers can have a chuckle.”

  “Wait, what?”

  “Oh, save it for a bumpkin who’ll actually buy it.” Tiff hitched a thumb toward the couches, where she noticed Ashley full-on making out with the lead singer. “Try those three over there.” And before Jax could respond, Tiff yanked open the door and let it slam behind her. She froze, sucking in big, deep breaths. And the tiniest part of her hoped she’d hear the door open behind her and Jax call her name, but it didn’t happen. Because of course it didn’t.

  Tiff stalked through the narrow halls backstage and emerged in the wings. She couldn’t find stairs down to the seating, so had to crawl down from the stage. It was dark and empty in the amphitheater. Tiff had her finger over the speed dial on her phone when she stopped and slipped her cell back into her purse. She didn’t want her deputy father or cop brother figuring out what just happened—jeez, what she’d wanted to happen.

  Tiff spared a glare for the indifferent stars above and started walking home. But suddenly, home and her dog and, hell, even ice cream were the last things she wanted.

  Chapter Three

  Jax

  JAX STARED AT THE DOOR, his hands opening and closing. He’d just been touching her—his mate, his incredible mate—and now …. What the hell happened? Did she not feel their connection like he did? It had felt like a rubber band from his heart to hers, tugging them together, pulling them close.

  Until it snapped. No, not snapped. It was still there for him, that inexplicable gravitational force pulling him toward Tiff Anderson. He wanted to be in her orbit always. But she … she’d shut the door in his face. Jax rubbed a hand impatiently through his tousled, dark hair and then hooked it around the back of his neck. A woman had never done that.

  Jax was surprised by how much it stung. And how much it made him want to work all that much harder to show Tiff what she meant. She filled his mind, his body. There were so many questions he had, so much of her life that he wanted to know. Did she like vanilla ice cream or chocolate? Did she dream of woods or water? Did she like it when a man kissed the nape of her neck? No, not a man. Him. Did she want Jax to kiss her there, kiss her everywhere? Just the thought of his fingers brushing her silken, black hair aside to kiss her long neck made his groin grow warm and tighten.

  He had to chase after her, find her. Why the fuck was he still standing and staring at the door? Jax shook his head and took two strides toward the door. A hand on his arm stopped him. Jax spun around and nearly growled at Derek before he took a deep breath and composed himself.

  “Yeah?” His eyes darted back to the door.

  Derek smiled, baring all his small teeth. “There are some chicks over there who want to say hello.”

  Jax shoved his hands into the back pockets of his jeans. Just like Derek promised, two women were leaning against a loveseat staring at him. Jax smiled weakly. A few hours ago, he wouldn’t need to be told twice. It wasn’t a secret that Jax enjoyed the company of women. Multiple times a night, if he could. But now … they weren’t Tiff. They were a sorry imitation of her. Jesus. He’d never expected to feel so strongly for a woman he’d barely spoken to. But it was undeniable.

  Derek’s hand grew tighter, more insistent. “Come on, Jax. You don’t want to leave fans waiting.”

  “I was going to talk to a fan, actually.”

  “The bigger girl?” Derek raised both eyebrows and laughed. The sound made Jax want to punch him straight into his too-small teeth. Derek must have sensed the change in mood, because he held his hands up and backed away a step. “Sorry, man. I don’t know your kinks.”

  “It’s not a fucking kink to find the curves on that woman gorgeous. And you don’t know a damn thing about me,” Jax growled back.

  Derek cocked his head. “Well, about that ….” Derek cleared his throat and turned to face the others. “Guys, I have news,” he called out. Bret disentangled himself from a very tan woman with peroxide hair and Drew pulled down his headphones. Chase was nowhere to be seen, but if the keening noises issuing from the back room were any indication, he was otherwise engaged.

  “This better be good, Derek,” Bret said. “I’m a bit busy.” The girl perched in his lap giggled and started grinding anew. Bret tilted his head back against the back of the couch and closed his eyes for a moment, then he gently pushed her aside.

  “So,” Jax said, annoyed to still be standing when he should be running. Tiff was out there somewhere not being kissed by him, and he needed to remedy that. “This news?”

  Derek held up his phone. “The new numbers are in. ‘Honey Pot’ is number one for the fifth week in a
row. Rolling Stone is calling it the song of the summer and Billboard is calling it”—Derek peered at his phone and read out—“what is shaping up to be the debut album of the year from a group that embraces the long-missed grunge element but isn’t afraid of pop.”

  “Holy shit!” Bret jumped up, his eyes bright.

  Excitement jittered through Jax. His smile cracked wide on his face and he strode toward his brothers. He grabbed Drew’s hand to haul him up to standing and tugged him into a giant bearhug.

  “Fuck, man,” Jax muttered.

  Drew shook his head in silent wonderment. This was their third number one from their debut album Run Wild, but this sort of sustained interest, this sort of success, was beyond their wildest dreams. They had never expected this when they started playing together in tiny watering holes in Montana.

  The whole thing had started as a way to escape their home, and mostly their father. Every bit of success they’d found since felt not only hard-earned but one more way to break from Errol Hart. Jax and his brothers had worked their asses off for this, and damn, it felt good.

  Jax clapped Drew hard on the shoulder while Bret picked up the blond and proceeded to carry her behind the rack of clothes, tearing her top off as he went. She squealed with laughter and wrapped her legs around his middle.

  Energy snapped and fizzed in Jax. He wanted release. He wanted to bury himself in a woman and drink and get loud and fuck some more. Jax bounced in his heavy boots.

  “A drink,” a woman said.

  Jax twisted around to see two women crowded by his side. His eyes searched the room—Derek had disappeared again, Chase and Bret were busy, even Drew was tucked into a corner by himself with his headphones back on. It was just Jax and these two women. These two women who were staring up at him in a way that left little question as to their intent.