“Of course you’re scared to fail.” He smoothed a lock of hair out of my face, gently. “Because you want it so much. But failure is impossible, Jessa.”
“How do you know that?” I asked, incredulous. “I wrote those lyrics for Love Struck when I was just a kid. I mean, literally a kid. The band, they were kind of kids too, barely twenty-two, twenty-three when they made it big. But I was sixteen when I wrote those words. I had no idea what I was doing. The beauty of that was there were no expectations of me, and I wasn’t worried about what anyone would think. I just wrote. And you might not think so, but I paid attention to what went on after I left the band, Brody. I’ve seen the balance on my trust account; all the royalties I make from the songs. I know Love Struck is sitting up there on the list of top debut albums ever, right alongside albums I grew up listening to. That is fucked up.” I took a steadying breath. “What if I commit to writing with the band now, on the new album, and everyone has these expectations that we’re going to do another Love Struck, and it flops?”
“Shit. Is Jessa Mayes talking shop with me?”
I rolled my eyes. “So?”
“Are you really asking me for career advice?”
“Maybe.” I chewed my lip. “Just a bit.”
“This has to be the first time I can ever remember you asking me for my thoughts on your career or your talent.”
“Yeah, well, you’ve given me plenty.”
“Sure. But you’ve never asked. You’ve never really listened, either.”
“So tell me,” I said softly. “I’m listening.”
“Alright,” he said. “The truth is, no album Dirty has ever put out since Love Struck has done as well. But we’re not exactly suffering. We’ve got hits on every album. None of them touched the success of ‘Dirty Like Me,’ but they don’t have to. That song is a thing of its own. And the market is different now. The focus is more on single songs than the albums. We can’t expect to touch the kind of album sales we could even five years ago. Worst case, with or without your involvement, the band cuts another album that, overall, ranks up there with everything they’ve done since Love Struck. Dirty isn’t gonna shit the bed, no matter how much they’ve been struggling with writing this new album. I know that in my gut, in my fucking bones, Jessa.” He gave me a squeeze. “You know what else I know in my bones?”
“What?”
“You belong with us. You belong writing songs with Dirty.” His blue eyes scanned my face, softening. “Every great artist has doubts about their talent sometimes, Jessa. But what you did as a sixteen-year-old girl, unfiltered, uncensored, and without overthinking it, was magic. And sweetheart, I know you’re a great model. You’re fucking gorgeous. Sometimes I look at you, and it’s like I’m… I don’t know… looking at a dream.” He shook his head, like he couldn’t believe he’d said that. “Was that cheesy as fuck?”
“Let’s just say you’ll never make a living as a lyricist,” I teased.
“Right. Well, my point being, you’ve been extremely successful as a model. I know it. You’re beautiful. Like the kind of special beautiful they don’t even have words for. Or at least, I don’t. But I will tell you this. You’re a better writer than you are a model.”
“Shit, Brody,” I said, wrapping my arms around his neck and molding my body to his. “You do love me.”
“Jesus,” he murmured against my lips, “she’s a little slow on the uptake, yeah?”
I smiled and he kissed me, slow and deep. I melted right into that kiss, into the taste of him, as his warmth enveloped me. As always, I got the feeling he was claiming me with his kiss; that I was his. Always would be… always had been.
“You still haven’t told me,” he murmured against my lips.
“Told you what?”
“What I wanna hear.”
“And what do you want to hear?”
“Move in with me,” he said between kisses. “I want you here. Need you here… always.”
I held him tighter, pushing back against the reactive fear. “What happens if I say yes?” I whispered.
Because I really, really wanted to say yes.
“We celebrate,” he said, walking me backwards across the room, “by breaking in your new furniture.” Then he laid me down on the couch, laying himself right on top of me. I loved the feel of him; his weight crushing me, forcing out everything else, even the breath from my lungs… everything but him. His strength, his warmth, his manly-woodsy smell. “Then we go back downstairs and call it a moving-in party, yeah?”
“Yeah. I like the sound of that.”
He did too, apparently, because he had my jeans off in record time. “Jesus, you still wearing panties, princess? When are we gonna break you of this habit?”
I laughed and squealed a weak protest as he tore them off. I stopped laughing as he kissed his way up my thigh, wrapped my legs around his hips and smoothed the head of his cock against my pussy. I writhed in response, wrapping my arms around his neck.
“You sure about this?” I asked him as he filled me, gasping as I adjusted to the sensation—the fullness and the slight shock of it, followed by that familiar rush of heat and pure pleasure.
“What? Why?” His eyes found mine, a little dazed as the pleasure took him over, too.
“I own a lot of clothes.”
“Okay,” he breathed, but I was pretty sure his brain had left the building as he started screwing me slowly against the couch.
“We’ll have to ship them up from my place in New York,” I said as he kissed his way down my neck, and my body flooded in a wave of sensation… a tingling, buzzing warmth that shot to the tips of my nipples, the tips of my toes.
No man had ever made me feel like this. This alive…
This loved.
“No problem,” he said, losing himself in kisses on my skin. “You smell like heaven…”
“And I have some stuff down in L.A. that I’ll need to get…”
He flickered his tongue over my grateful nipple and I momentarily forgot what I was saying. I arched beneath him, strung tight, wanting more.
“Cool…” he mumbled. “Jesus, you taste like sex…”
“And… over at my brother’s.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And Roni’s.”
“Great,” he said, kissing his way back up to my mouth.
“And I still have some stuff in storage at Dolly’s.”
His eyes caught mine. “Don’t make me regret this, princess.”
I laughed. Then I caught his lip with my teeth and wrapped my legs higher around his waist, urging him deeper. He groaned as he sank into me, settling his weight between my thighs.
“I won’t,” I said. “I promise.” I lapped my tongue against his, making him moan. “Now fuck me,” I whispered, “and make it good, so we can get back to our guests.”
I stood outside, in the dark, just beyond the light thrown out the windows from the party room. I listened to the rhythm of the party within, the happy voices of my friends and family, as I gazed out over the city.
My city.
Here, just taking a momentary breath on the edge of it all, I felt right where I belonged.
A part of it all, but separate. In my own skin, my own space. Finding my way… but I no longer had to do it alone.
When I was a kid, I’d found music. And through music, I’d found a way to love myself. Over the years that love had faltered, but I was healing now, and finding my way back to me again.
I knew it wasn’t going to be an easy road. Like Elle had often told me, hearts need time to heal.
I knew everyone was thrilled to have me back, but they’d also lost Seth, again, and it hurt. I knew it did, even if they’d spare me the sight of it. They’d feel it, when they thought I wasn’t looking.
And there was still a void there. Seth Brothers had left big shoes to fill, and everyone in and around the band—Brody included—seemed to feel it was time they get filled, for good. I didn’t envy them in that process. Set
h had mad talent; that was never in question.
I just hoped they could find the right man or woman for the job. Soon. So we could all move forward.
The music and voices swelled as a door opened behind me. I turned to find Brody standing on the patio.
“You okay?”
He was worried; I knew he was. Still worried I’d start to pull away, even while I was standing right here. So when he came to me and put his arms around me, I leaned into his embrace. “I’m great. Just taking it all in, you know?”
“Good,” he said, kissing my neck.
“Just thinking about my new room. I love it, Brody.”
His arms tightened around me.
“You took a risk decorating it, you know,” I teased. “What if I’d said no?”
“Then I’d turn it into a crash pad for Jesse, for when Katie kicks his ass out.”
I snickered. “Bet he’d love the chandelier and pink furniture.” I turned in his arms and looked through the window. I could see Jesse and Katie. He had his arm around her waist and he was listening, with a big, dumb grin on his face, as she told Dylan and Ash some story, her cheeks pink with excitement. “But she’s never kicking him out.”
“That’s good,” Brody said, turning my chin until our noses touched, his face tipped down to mine. “Because the room is yours.” He kissed me then, sweetly, his lips lingering as he breathed me in. “The house is yours,” he said. “Everything I’ve got is yours.” He drew back just enough to lock his blue eyes with mine, his eyebrows furled. “Don’t leave me again, Jessa. I know I said I’d wait, but I can’t really stand forever without you.”
My throat got a little tight as I swallowed. Forever without Brody?
No fucking way.
“I’m not going anywhere, Brody.”
Then I told him the words he’d been waiting to hear… the words I should’ve had the courage to say to him, so many years ago. “I’m home.”
Epilogue
Seth
Six months later…
“You know Dirty’s looking for a new guitarist?”
Mark slid onto the barstool next to me with his phone in his hand, and my chest burned a little at his words; that creepy heartburn feeling I got whenever I heard mention of Dirty.
Davey, sitting on my other side, leaned over to look at the phone. “Fuckin’ news site,” he grunted. “You know they’ve got porn on the ’net, right?”
Trent cackled, stomping up behind us in his cowboy boots. “Yeah. We’re gettin’ real tired of all the videos of your old lady though. Seen ’em all.”
Big Jake, behind the bar, ripped the phone from Mark’s hand. “Who needs porn when you’ve got this.” He touched the screen, spreading his fingers to enlarge an image.
“Hey, Big J,” Trent said, knocking on the bar, “gimme the usual.”
The bar had shut down for the night, customers cleared out and it was now just the four of us, sweaty and spent from a long night of playing music under the lights, and Big J, cleaning up. Everyone was drinking but me. And Trent, because he didn’t have his beer yet. But Big J was too transfixed by Mark’s phone to pull beers.
“Whadya say, Becks?” Mark asked me, and I felt all eyes converge on me. “You see yourself in the big time?”
No, I did not see myself in the big time. Or at least, Todd Becker didn’t.
Seth Brothers had temporarily retired, and Todd Becker was now in the house; I’d appropriated the name from my dead father, just a regular name for a regular Joe. Though my parents were far from regular.
It wasn’t forever, but it was for now and it suited me fine. Todd Becker didn’t have to deal with lawyers and paparazzi and accusing stares wherever the fuck he went. Todd Becker was nobody. He played in a dive bar down south for shit pay, but no one really knew who he was or where he came from.
Which meant I could be left alone to do what I loved—play guitar.
As long as I kept my beard grown in like a thicket and my hat pulled low, no one gave a shit who I was. No one cared who any of us were so long as we showed up to the gig and played what was expected, which was CCR covers. So long as we knew “Born on the Bayou” and “Proud Mary” and “Bad Moon Rising,” we were fucking golden. Around here, I was just the quiet dude who played guitar and slept in one of the tiny rented rooms above the kitchen, and perpetually smelled of barbecue because of it.
“What is it?” Davey leaned over the bar, angling for a look at the phone again and scanning the article. “One of those stupid reality shows?”
“Documentary series, whatever the fuck that means,” said Big J. “They’re filming the auditions.”
“Gettin’ thirsty here, J,” Trent complained, still waiting on that beer.
“You’re good enough, Becks,” Mark said. “You should do it.”
“Yeah. To hell with the guitarist position, though,” said Big J. “They don’t hire you, just take Elle to bed. I’ll never get the fuckin’ chance.”
Trent, impatient, headed behind the bar to pull himself a beer.
I sipped my water. My heart was beating steady and slow, but hard, as I asked, “Rhythm or lead?”
Davey burst out laughing. “Jesus, you’re cocky, you think you can fill Jesse Mayes’ boots.”
“I’d like to fill his ex-girlfriend,” Big J mumbled, still thumbing through the article and drooling over Elle.
“You know, I met her once, in an elevator,” Davey said, settling back on his stool. “’Bout five, six years ago, when I was playing out in L.A.. She’s prettier in person.”
“You didn’t fuckin’ meet her,” Mark said.
“I saw her,” Davey clarified.
“Dirty?” Trent snorted, pulling up a stool and taking a grateful swig of his beer. “The fuck is that? You wanna go play with punks?” Trent was a hillbilly, so in his mind Dirty was punk, Zeppelin was glam, Nirvana was noise, and all of it was trash. He only tolerated CCR because it paid the bills around here.
“Dirty’s not punk,” Mark said, then elbowed me, waiting on some kind of reaction. “You should try out, at least.”
“Yeah,” Davey said, “if they come ’round here.”
Big J was shaking his head. “Says they start this week in Vancouver, finish in L.A.. Not comin’ near here.” He handed me the phone and I took it.
What the fuck.
I did my best to look totally unmoved as I scrolled through the article, my heart battering in my chest. But I couldn’t fucking believe it.
At the top, there was a photo of Dirty, obviously recent. It was Zane, Elle, Jesse and Dylan. And yeah, Elle looked gorgeous. As always.
No Jessa in the picture, though.
I knew they’d asked Jessa to join the lineup, before they asked me. I knew she’d been writing with the band. I’d assumed she was filling the role, permanently, and I could live with that. It made sense.
But a fucking open audition? A documentary series? What were they, desperate or something?
Or was this some kind of publicity stunt?
If it was, kind of felt like it was tailor-made to slay me.
I’d accepted being asked to leave. Again. At least, I’d swallowed it as well as I could. I could step back and wish them well and not begrudge them a thing—mostly—if what they truly wanted was Paulie or Jessa or Ash instead of me.
But some random stranger, some nobody joining Dirty?
If it was wide-fucking-open, anyone had a shot at it. Anyone.
Even Todd Becker.
And that got me thinking…
Last time, I didn’t fight for it when I had the chance; when Jessa gave me that chance. And that shit had been eating me raw for the last six months. I’d lost weight, lost sleep, lost a big fucking heap of self-respect. And I knew it, suddenly, with my next breath.
This was my last chance.
Third time’s a fuckin’ charm.
Maybe it was a chance I didn’t deserve, but if that guitarist position was still open, it could still be mine.
<
br /> The way I saw it, Dirty had been playing my songs, without me, for far too fucking long.
They’d also been my family during some of the best—and worst—years of my life, and that kind of thing wasn’t shrugged off so easily when you were an orphan. I knew I’d fucked them over, thanks to my addiction, but Dirty was and always would be my family and my band.
I knew they’d wanted me back, too, before Jessa told them whatever she told them about me.
That I was a fucking rapist, apparently.
I stood up, so suddenly my barstool tipped over and crashed to the floor. I tossed some bills on the bar, picked up my guitar case and headed for the door.
“Where you goin’?” Big J asked.
“Vancouver,” I said.
“You know that’s in Canada, right?” Mark called after me.
I didn’t answer.
“Hey, asshole. You got a passport?” That was Davey.
I didn’t answer that either.
“You got two fuckin’ dollars to rub together?” Trent shouted, amusement in his voice. “You know, case you get cold?”
They all laughed. I kept walking.
“Shit,” I heard Davey mutter. “Think we just lost our guitarist.”
“Good one, too,” Mark mused.
I turned to shoulder through the door and took one last look at the guys I’d been playing with these last few months but didn’t really know. They didn’t know me either, and I liked that fine. Easier to disappear when the time came.
Well, the time had come.
I knew this wouldn’t be easy; I just didn’t care about that anymore.
I tipped my hat at them. “Later, boys,” I said, and walked out the door. But I didn’t plan on seeing them later.
I was going back to claim what was mine—and this time, I wasn’t letting it go without one hell of a fucking fight. Which meant Todd Becker was about to give the performance of his life.
Dirty Like Brody: A Dirty Rockstar Romance (Dirty, Book 2) Page 34