by Amber Lin
“Please do,” Paige whispered.
Maddy let her legs fall apart. She was still wearing her yoga pants from rehearsal earlier, but that was fine. She wasn’t going to let Paige use her mouth this first time. It was hands only, like the massage from earlier. Not even dirty. Not even real. She pointed to the floor between her legs. “Come here. There’s a certain spot where I have all this…tension. I think you can help me release it.”
Paige’s expression was pure lust by now, no surprise or hesitation. She went right to work, the good little assistant, her fingers working and rubbing Maddy’s cunt through the stretchy fabric.
Maddy sighed and let her head fall back on the sofa. Yes, she would get what she paid for. And she’d even return the favor, just to be nice. And because Paige was cute. Touching her, making her moan would be a treat.
And then Maddy would put on something scandalous and attend her own party. She’d already cried, already stretched. She was already getting fucked, and on any other night, it would have been enough. But this was her birthday.
A mournful little laugh escaped her, almost like a sob. It was her birthday, and she was going to have fun.
*
When Madeline Fox texted him an address to her party, his first inclination was to ignore it. He might have to do this stupid engagement scheme, but he was under no obligation to jump at her beck and call. Not yet.
He wanted no part of whatever new publicity stunt they’d cooked up. It was bad enough they’d ambushed him at his concert; he wasn’t on duty until their morning-show appearance. But curiosity got the better of him, and it would be a chance to talk to her. Maybe without Ward around to work her manipulative mojo on his guilty conscience, he’d figure a way out of this farce.
The address she’d texted him was for a club in the warehouse district. He should’ve just taken a limo instead of his rental car, but he didn’t want Moe to know he’d decided to go to the get-together after all.
At first he thought he’d plugged the wrong location into the GPS, but as he walked closer, he could hear the faint pounding of an electronic beat. Dim lights flashed behind the dusty windows near the roofline. If this was a fucking trance club… He ground his teeth and flexed his fingers. No. He had to put an end to this now if he could. It was too much to ask. Kissing in her video was one thing, but a fake engagement?
A couple stumbled out, and he caught the heavy door before it swung shut behind them. A wall of sound and heat pressed against him. The air, thick with sweat and smoke, reminded him of the crowd backstage after a three-encore performance. Last night they’d only done one encore.
A burly bouncer with arms like cordwood stopped him before he could take another step into the mass of writhing bodies. He could barely hear the man’s growl over the pounding music. “Private entrance. Invitation only.”
Shit. Where the fuck was Madeline? He’d have to tell the bouncer he was her guest. With everything that implied, it would play right into their hands, and that was the last thing he wanted to do. He was still his own man. He decided to pull a douche-bag move and drop his own name. “I’m Krist fucking Mellas. That enough invitation for you?”
The bouncer tapped his earpiece and took a step back. “You’re on the list.”
How the hell had she gotten him on the list so fast? He’d waited until the last second to confirm. He’d only texted her ten minutes ago. She must have put him on the list yesterday even though he’d said he wasn’t coming. As if she knew him better than he knew himself. Damn her for being right. She was far too comfortable pulling strings—probably Ward had gotten the whole engagement idea from her.
The place was packed with hot bodies in various states of undress, gyrating on the dance floor. Let one of them play her fake boyfriend.
But he knew that wouldn’t work. His own words echoed in his mind, forcing out the shitty music and spiking his blood pressure. Because they’re not Krist fucking Mellas. She needed to be linked to someone important. If she ran off with a backup dancer, it would be just one more screw-up in a long line of disasters.
He scanned the club, seeing only chaos. An ocean of bare skin, arms and legs, sometimes more. Slick bodies. Heads thrown back. Abs and asses. And so much glitter. Fuck, he had to be ten years older than most of the people here. No, he felt ten years older. It was probably more like five. Even five was a lifetime. His jeans and leather jacket suddenly weighed a hundred pounds. He couldn’t do anything about the pants, but he tugged the leather off and thrust it at the bouncer. “Take care of that.”
Another dick move, but if he was playing the role, he might as well stick to it. He considered peeling his shirt off too. When he was onstage all he needed was a pair of low-slung jeans and a snarl. Not exactly club wear, but at least he wouldn’t stick out like the old man at the party. He yanked the shirt over his head and tucked it into his waistband.
Stripped for battle, he stepped into the fray.
The crowd buzzed around him, a living entity greater than the sum of its parts, prickling under his skin.
He’d find her. She’d be right at the goddamn epicenter. A tiny succubus, with bubblegum lips and sharp nails he could still feel scoring his arms. She fed off this kind of energy. A frisson of recognition tingled low in his belly. So did he.
Though his brand tasted more like ashes than candy.
The tempo of the music changed, slowed, and the crowd shifted with it. Bodies pulled closer together. The song reminded him of something he’d heard before.
A club mix of a classic-rock track. He bristled. His worlds colliding.
Someone snaked an arm around his waist and pressed her breasts against his back. Not naked breasts, breasts covered in something scratchy. Lace? Beads?
“You came,” she shouted. Madeline. Her breath, hot and whiskey laced, puffed against his neck as she dragged her hand up his chest and flicked the silver barbell darting his nipple. “Naked.”
Fuck. It was only a flick, but he stiffened. The jolt of her touch, more pleasure-pain than it had any right to be.
“You shouldn’t be drinking.” He twisted in her grip, unable to break free. Not with the press of bodies pinning him from all sides. Not with her body everywhere at once.
She crushed her pelvis against his hip and shimmied herself around to face him. Breathless, glassy-eyed and grinning. She used one hand to gather up the tangle of damp hair clinging to her neck and the other to hook his belt loop.
With a swivel, she dropped low to the floor, bouncing there in time to the slow beat. Then she rolled back up. Dancing. Using his body like a stripper pole.
Every tug on his pants reminded him that there was barely a half inch of fabric separating her hand from his cock. And she wanted it.
You can’t always get what you want.
“I came to talk.” He shouted it, but the noise of the club swallowed his words. She just kept moving, writhing against him, mouthing the words to the song. Like that was all she could do. Lip-synch and move. Perform. Before she could drop down again, he wrapped an arm around her, holding her in place with her forehead pressed to his chest so he could get close to her ear. “I came to talk. Can we go somewhere?”
She nodded against him. She fished a phone out of her bra and tapped the screen. The song playing morphed into something else, something even slower with haunting vocals. The crowed thinned out as if by magic. People were still dancing around them, but enough melted off to the bars set up against the walls of the warehouse that he could move again.
She tugged hard, leading him through the throng. He followed, forcing himself not to watch her ass as they went. Not the way it curved under the scrap of beaded fabric wrapped around her hips. Not the rhythmic bounce as she swayed toward their destination. No, he snapped his eyes up and ahead. He didn’t need her ass—or his cock—complicating what had to be a very simple exchange.
She pushed through an unmarked door, and he tumbled into the dark closet behind her. The door slammed shut, muting the noise t
o a dull thump.
“I’m so glad you made it,” she slurred, snaking her arms around his neck and digging her fingers into his hair. “My present.”
Goddamn it. He wasn’t a gift-wrapped dick for her amusement. That was what he’d been in the threesome with Lock and Hailey. That was all he was to the press. He wouldn’t also be her puppet, fucking any pussy he could find, sucking any dick wagged in his face.
He shrugged out of her arms and pinned both of her grabby hands in one of his own. She giggled like this was a game. Did she take anything seriously?
He yanked her closer so he could look her in the eyes, so he could be sure his message penetrated. Her laughter melted into a moan, and that only pissed him off more. “This isn’t going to work. I don’t give a shit what our PR teams cooked up. I’m not playing your fake boyfriend, fake fiancé, fake anything.”
For a second, the hurt he’d seen flashing in her eyes when they were tangled onstage flickered up and blinked out. Then the fog cleared, and she frowned, more puzzled than defiant.
He released her hands, afraid he’d squeezed too hard. She opened her mouth and closed it. He braced for an argument. A pleading whine. An assistant summoned to stuff him into a box where she would keep him forever and ever. Fuck what he wanted.
He was fucking tired of being used. By Lock and Hailey. By the press. And now her. “So just find another boy toy.”
She smiled, her glossy lips pulling back to reveal blinding white teeth. He smiled just like that sometimes. A stage smile, devoid of emotion. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Bullshit.”
She shrugged and pushed him backward toward the door. “Believe what you want. We’ll set up a meeting with Ward. Get this all worked out. Tomorrow. Right now, I have to get back to my party.”
“It’s always your party, isn’t it? You should slow down before you burn out.”
She tweaked his nipple again, but there was no heat in the exchange. “That’s me, Party-Girl Barbie. Thanks for the career advice.”
The DJ had switched back to an up-tempo track while they’d been in the closet, so Krist skirted the edge of the throng to leave. He saw the bouncer who’d stopped him earlier leaning against the wall. His exit. A few more steps and he’d be back outside and that much closer to freedom.
At least for the time being. He already knew there’d be nothing to work out with Ward. He was stuck. And he’d just made a pretty shitty impression on his soon-to-be fiancée.
A record scratched, the awful sound halting the music and freezing him in his tracks with his hands on the door. The DJ’s voice thundered through the club. “Can we get the birthday girl up here?”
Fuck. This wasn’t just an underground club. It wasn’t just a private party. He knew, even before he turned around to see them lifting Madeline up into the sound booth. It was her birthday, and he’d been an absolute shit. Again.
He’d apologize. Tomorrow. After they settled things, because even if it was her birthday, he wasn’t going through with this scheme.
*
Maddy wobbled as her feet landed onstage. The hands on her back and legs disappeared. She stared at the disco ball above her. How had she gotten to this point? Onstage and totally wasted for her birthday. Tears pricked her eyes, but it was her party, wasn’t it? She could cry if she wanted to.
But then Krist would see.
“Sing us a song, birthday girl,” the DJ shouted into the mic.
She ignored him and scanned the room, where a spotlight swept over the crowd. Scanned for Krist Mellas, who was already so full of himself he thought she’d arranged a fake engagement, of all things. Ha!
As if she needed him to get engaged. Maddy got hundreds of proposals a week, and even if most of them were mailed in creepy notes from stalkers or yelled at her as she walked the red carpet, they still counted. She was a catch. She was a goddamn sex symbol. Maxim had called her the Marilyn Monroe of her generation, so Krist Mellas could go fuck himself.
Although, apparently someone had arranged a fake engagement. She’d have to deal with that, have to deal with Krist, have to deal with the fact that he hated her, deal with the fact that another year had gone by and she was still in the contract…
Oh shit, her eyes were filling. Someone thrust a microphone into her hand, and now the crowd was chanting. “Sing. Sing. Sing.”
Her throat tightened to the point of pain. It was her birthday, and all they wanted was a free fucking show. What was she supposed to do, sing “Happy Birthday” to herself? There were depths she wouldn’t sink to, not even for applause.
She squinted against the glare, gaze skipping over wild eyes and punch-drunk smiles. They weren’t even separate bodies for her. The mass of people formed a single beast, an animal with a hundred hands in the air, two hundred feet stomping on concrete, so fierce the warehouse trembled. But she could control it. That was her, the crowd whisperer.
Then she saw him, turning away from her, near the door. Krist.
Anger filled her, the righteous fury of a woman scorned—or of a performer ignored. How dare he insult her and then walk away? How dare he not stay and watch?
“Thank you all for joining me on my special day,” she crooned into the mic, even though the crowd didn’t give a shit about her birthday. She didn’t either. “Thank you to DJ Todd and Black Jack behind the bar,” she said, waving to the bartender who was midpour. She’d never met either of them before today, and they both seemed like assholes. Didn’t matter. “And most of all, thank you to the very special guest who came to perform a private show. Please give a warm, birthday welcome to Half-Life bassist Krist Mellas.”
The crowd went insane, just like she’d known it would. It stomped its centipede feet and roared its elephant trunk and gnashed its lioness teeth. She pointed to the back, and DJ Todd swung the spotlight to the door, shining it right on Krist, bouncing light off his well-inked chest.
He stood stock-still, a lighthouse in the stormy sea, his gaze locked on hers. The rigid lines of his body raged at her from twenty feet away. The hard set of his jaw mocked her desperate desire for a kiss. No wonder he’d accused her of masterminding Ward’s stupid engagement scheme. Other nineteen-year-old girls made moon eyes at their crush from across campus. Only Madeline Fox arranged for hers to kiss her on the set of her new music video.
She raised her eyebrow in challenge. Maybe she deserved his scorn, but she couldn’t take the hit without snapping back. This was the animal kingdom, and the one who fought hard was the one who survived.
It felt like an eternity as he considered whether to leave her hanging. It would be the tabloids’ lead story tomorrow. Jilted at her own birthday party. She held her breath, almost wanting him to leave.
Then she could hate him.
But he didn’t leave. He stalked toward her, every inch the rocker badass. The kind of badass who wasn’t interested in a pop princess—unless they were in a back room. A back alley. Unless he could hide his face in her hair and his dick in her cunt. She knew he wanted to have sex with her…but that’s where the attraction ended.
He had no respect for her as a person, an artist. A fake engagement would be humiliating for him. The other kids on the playground might think he had cooties. She leveled him with a cold look as he launched himself onto the stage.
“What the fuck?” he muttered.
She read the words on his lips more than heard him. It was impossible to hear over the rumble of the crowd, but she could fix that. She slipped two fingers into the waistband of his jeans and tugged. His eyes widened as he fell into her.
“Dance for me,” she whispered, her lips inches from his.
He scowled at her, yanking the microphone from her hand. He kept it low enough not to catch his voice in her ear. “I don’t dance.”
Liar. She’d seen him sway his hips. She’d watched him dip to the crowd. He was a magician and Mata Hari rolled into one, but telling him that would mean admitting she’d watched his career since
his first record deal.
Instead she leaned close. “It’s easy. Like fucking. Just keep moving your hips until I scream your name.”
She’d said it to piss him off. He obviously hated the way his dick got hard for her.
But instead of getting angrier, the corner of his mouth tilted up in a crooked grin. Lord. If she’d thought his frown was hot, that smile was a fucking wildfire. It lit her nerve endings one after the other, spreading over her skin and stealing her air.
“I’ll try that,” he said with a finger to her chest, a few inches shy of her breasts. “Now get out of the way if you want a show.”
Her eyebrows shot up. He was going to do it? She’d been waiting for him to storm away in a hail of curse words and musical snobbery, but he stepped over to the DJ and shouted something she couldn’t hear.
Stunned, she hopped off the stage. What had she done? Dread settled in her gut, and she braced herself for public humiliation. She could just imagine what song he had picked. “Voodoo Doll” would do the trick. Or maybe he’d go with a classic, like “Maneater” or “Killer Queen.”
It didn’t matter. She wouldn’t wouldn’t wouldn’t cry in front of him.
But then the first chords came on, the C and G. The G and C. Simple, childlike strains that heralded the opening of “Happy Birthday.” His voice didn’t sing as much as growl. It rolled out from the speakers like thunder, almost too low to hear, sensation sliding down her spine.
She watched, rapt, ignoring the bodies bumping and shoving all around her. He sang to her while he worked the crowd. He was the modern day Marilyn Monroe now, and she was the president. This was music legend in the making, in the corner of an abandoned warehouse in a private party.
It was over too soon, leaving her body canted forward, the hair on her neck standing up. Her eyes had shut as she strained for one more rumbled word, but all she heard was the DJ with some suck-up bullshit about Half-Life being able to perform at his club anytime they wanted. As if.
Her eyes snapped open in time to see Krist wind his way through the crowd, away from her. Toward the door. He was trying to leave again, but oh no. Not after that. He’d basically fueled her female equivalent of wet dreams for the year, and for that, he deserved more than a dry send off.