Heart Broke (Hard Rock Roots #8)

by C. M. Stunich

  First time, strip club. Second time, hotel. Third time, graveyard. This'll be one for the memory books.

  My mouth kisses across Sydney's skin, drawing goose bumps along in my wake. I shouldn't be here, doing this. At least that's what my brain tells me. I should be miserable, curled up at Blair's bedside or holed up in a dark room somewhere. But I don't want to be. This is the only fucking place in the world that I can imagine myself right now.

  I slip my tongue into Sydney's twelve gauge bead ring, letting it slide against her swollen clit. I want her so bad right now it's killing me. I could break this dirty little kiss and stand up, fill her with my cock and slam her into this headstone until we both come. But I want to take it slow, drag this out nice and long, sample every inch of her body.

  I doubt we'll get another private moment like this back at the house.

  My hands slide under Sydney's thighs and make their way towards her ass, until I'm cupping her cheeks in tight fingers, slipping my tongue into that warm wet space between her legs. I dive in deep, eating her out until the gasps coming from her throat are less husky porn star and more desperate, frantic.

  I can't take it anymore.

  I reach down and unbutton my own pants, drawing my cock into my hand. My fingers slide down my shaft as I pump myself hard, bringing an orgasm right up to the surface. And then stopping. If you go to that edge and then draw back, it only makes things more intense. And I want them to be. I want to be with Sydney all the way right now, let myself have a girl and feel confident that she's mine. And I've never wanted anyone like this before. Not once. Not even Naomi.

  “Dax,” Sydney purrs as I stand up and let her take me in her hands, her fingers feeling up the three ten gauge barbells that pierce the underside of my shaft. Frenum piercings they call 'em, but who the fuck cares? Not me, right here and right now, with Sydney's hands all up on me. I suck in a harsh breath. “You're a little naughty, aren't you?”

  “What gave me away?” I ask, the words slipping out in a rough growl as Sydney slides a thumb up my shaft, right over the three bars. It's hard to describe the sensation, like getting fucked three times in the dick. It doesn't make any sense, I know, but there's a reason I'm the drummer and not the lead, okay? I don't have to be a poet. “Was it the piercings or the cemetery sex?”

  “Maybe a little bit of both,” Sydney says, sliding off the headstone and kneeling on the ground in front of me. Bare assed and sucking cock in a graveyard. Holy crap. There's something seriously wrong with us, isn't there? But we're not hurting anyone, right? I mean, most of these graves are from like the turn of the century or something. The one behind Sydney's head says Doctor Shoemaker 1850-1895. Doubt there are any mourning relatives that'll be offended by, uh, our engagement here with Mr. Shoemaker. “You want me to forget the men I've been with? Let me help you forget the girls.”

  Sydney slides those bright pink lips of hers around the head of my cock, her blonde hair falling forward and teasing my bare skin as she draws me deep, all the way to my piercings. I can feel myself hit the back of her throat as I moan and let my head fall back. If I look at her while she's doing that … But I can't seem to look away for long.

  As Sydney moves her head back and the wetness on my shaft tingles with the rush of warm evening air, I drop my gaze down and catch her looking up at me from under a fall of dark lashes, curled and black with artfully applied mascara. Her real lashes are pale and blonde. As fucked up as I've been the last few weeks, I remember that. I remember seeing her face bare and free of make-up, that golden fall of hair tangled in disarray.

  Shit.

  I'm falling for this chick hard and fast.

  “Relax,” Sydney whispers, sliding her hand up my thigh, her nails bright in the silver darkness. “You're too tense, Dax McCann. You think too much, worry too much.” She grins big, her yellow earrings swinging as she tilts her head to the side and nibbles her way down my cock, biting at the skin with soft teeth until she finds the first of the three barbells. Before I can suck in another breath, she's tugging gently on the metal, swirling her tongue around the silver balls.

  Fire follows in Sydney's wake, burning a scalding hot trail down the ladder of metal and then right back up as she traces her lips with the head of my dick, smearing that perfect lipstick and then cleaning it off my shaft with her tongue.

  I let her take me close, drag me to the edge of orgasm and then stop again, my chest tight and my body quivering with need. I want to come, but it has to be inside of her. It just fucking does.

  “Done already?” Sydney asks as I give her a hand up and tug her against my chest. Our mouths meet and I taste candy and salt on her lips, a mixture of my seed and her makeup tangled between our tongues.

  “Not even close.”

  I lift Sydney up by the ass and park her on top of the poor doctor's grave.

  Her arms go around my neck as she grins and draws a condom out of my back pocket. I don't even remember putting it there.

  “I snuck it in for you,” she whispers, bringing it to her lips while she stares at me with that liquid blue candy gaze that makes my body ache for a hit. If I could smoke, snort, or shoot Sydney Charell, I probably would. It's kind of fucked up, but I can't help it. I want her all over me at the same time I want to be in her.

  Sydney tears the silver package open with her bright white teeth and then unrolls it down my cock with a painstaking slowness that makes my heart race and my hands clench tight on her hips. In the distance, I hear sirens blaring, echoing screams that tear across the quiet of the cemetery.

  I should be concerned about what'll happen tomorrow, next week, next month. I should be thinking about a million other things besides Sydney Charell, but when I meet her eyes, feel her full, ripe breasts pressing into my chest, my mind goes completely and utterly blank.

  Without another word passing between us, I move my cock to Sydney's cunt and push inside. She's so fucking wet that I slide right in, all the way, balls-deep. There's a gasp and a tightening of muscles before she relaxes a little and lets me move, fingers still threaded around my neck.

  I can't help but notice the splash of her tattoos against the darkness of mine, even with her body surrounding me, hot and tight and welcoming. Sydney draws me in with a breath, putting her hand on the back of my head and bringing our lips together again.

  My own hands curl tightly around her soft flesh and drag her harder into me, scraping her bare ass against the cement surface of the headstone.

  The movement makes Sydney gasp against my mouth, her breath hot and fluttering against my lips as I drive into her slickness, moving one of my hands between us to play with her clit piercing. The moans that fall from her lips are husky and rough, grating against my skin and drawing sounds from my own mouth as our bodies slam together again and again, turning Sydney to liquid in my arms as she tosses her head back, blonde hair fluttering over her shoulders.

  When she comes, she wraps me tight, squeezing me inside her body with the ricocheting waves of pleasure that flicker across her skin like a fireworks show. The explosion in her body triggers one in mine, making me come hard and fast.

  The orgasm hits me like a freight train, just one quick, violent bright burst and then there's a moment of clarity in my head as I hold a panting, quivering Sydney in my arms.

  This chick … pretty sure I'm falling in love with her.

  The jury's still out on whether that's a positive or a negative.

  When the sun comes up and cuts into the room, stabbing me ruthlessly through the eyelids, I groan and slap an arm across my face. Doesn't much help. There's still way too much fucking desert sunshine streaming in from the wall of windows to my right. Not exactly the best way to start a hangover morning.

  “Fucking Beverly goddamn Hills,” I grumble as I roll over and blindly search the nightstand for that remote thingy, the one that controls the automatic blinds on the window. It'd be too much to just pull them down myself, right? These fuckers are actually inside the panes of g
lass, so they can't be marred by the filth of human hands or the terror of dust. I grunt and curse as a half-full bottle of vodka rolls off the table and hits the floor with a crash, startling my bedmate.

  Bedmate?

  Shit.

  I roll back over suddenly and end up hitting my forehead against Dax's.

  “Fuck,” he curses as we both both pull back and rub at our sore spots. “Sorry.” Dax blinks up at me, at least as perturbed by the awful amount of sunshine as I am. Hey, I'm cool with warm weather, but I just don't want to look at it until I've had a handful of ibuprofen and a plate of bacon.

  There's this awkward moment of silence as we both stare at each other. Holy crap. I don't entirely remember how we got home last night, but I do remember our conversation at the cemetery. I remember fucking, and I remember saying yes.

  To dating.

  Uh oh.

  I swallow hard and sit up, tucking some hair behind my ear. Dax does the same. He still looks fucking precious, his eyeliner smeared around his face and his dark hair mussed, showing those blond roots of his. But Jesus Christ. I swore, swore, swore to myself that I wasn't going to get involved with anyone—especially not a dark drummer with a broke heart. Watching him hurt, that breaks my heart. It's too much responsibility.

  And yet … here he is, sitting in my boudoir, baby.

  “How'd we get back here last night?” I ask, stretching my arms above my head and realizing that I'm still dressed in yesterday's clothes. There are grass stains on my bare knees and dirt crusted on my black shorts, but whatever. I've woken up wearing worse—much, much worse. I don't see any cum stains which is always a good sign.

  “Honestly,” Dax begins as he leans back against the headboard, letting the blankets fall around his hips and revealing his bare chest to me when I'm so not ready to see it. It's too early for tight pecs and dark swirls of tattoos, hard nipples and abs that look like I could wash my clothes on 'em. Fuck. “I have no fucking clue. I can't remember anything past …” His voice trails off and we exchange a knowing glance.

  “Oh, please,” I say with a grin that makes my throbbing headache pulse just a little bit faster. Pain pills, I need pain pills stat. “You can say it. We fucked on somebody's grave. So what? I'm not religious? Are you? Didn't think so.” I kick my legs out of bed and stand up before he can even muster up a response. “Oh yeah.” I plant my hands on my hips and stare down at my boots. Still wearing those, too. Impressive. “About our conversation last night …”

  “It was fucked up,” Dax says, tucking his hands behind his head and staring across the room at the wall. His face is so serious though, like he knows how not-stupid it all was. “Sorry, I shouldn't have tried to pressure you into a relationship like that. It was bullshit. Don't worry about it.”

  I leave one hand on my cocked hip and point the other at him.

  “Listen here, you,” I start, moving around to the end of the bed so his gray eyes are staring straight at me. He blinks a few times and then leans forward, his muscles sliding beneath his skin in a way that's … well, criminal. I almost fan my face, but then, the frigging air conditioning is blasting into the room and making me shiver. Why live in the heat and then spend all day hiding from it? I'll never understand So Cal and I grew up here. Go figure. Guess what though? Our single wide didn't have no AC, okay? We didn't even have a fan. “I'm not playing games here, alright? I already told myself not to get messed up in all of this.” I swirl my orange fingernail in a lazy circle as Dax's lips twitch. “And I can already tell you're trouble, sweets. I could see it coming from a mile away, but you know what? You're here, and I kind of like you, alright? Besides, you have a nice long dick, a sexy ass bod, and a hatred for Turner Campbell that I can appreciate. If you want to date, let's date. Screw it. Why the hell not?”

  “Wow, I didn't realize you felt so fucking passionate about it,” Dax replies, his voice low and dark. I can't tell if he's pissed or … nope, he's amused. The left corner of his mouth turns up in a small smile. “Yeah, yeah, why the hell not?” Dax lifts up his arms in surrender. “It's as good a reason as any, right? I smoke too much dust and I don't question that. I sign a contract after a crazy TV producer tells me she's going to kill me, I don't question that. So why this?” Dax pauses and his smile flickers like a broken lightbulb. “Why this.” More of a statement than a question.

  I take a deep breath, but for once in my life, I'm kind of at a loss for what to say. Dax is hurting still. And that's okay. He has reasons to be upset. I remember him saying something vague about his dad last night. I'm going to have to dig until I get the full story. If it kills me, I'll dredge those secrets up and out of him. There's at least one thing that Turner's got right: secrets fucking suck.

  Good thing I don't have any. Nothing to exploit. Nothing to play with.

  Let's see how the Hammergrens like them apples.

  Brayden motherfucking Ryker is staring at me.

  Way to ruin what's starting off as a pretty decent morning. Well, other than the puke. But I only thew up a little and Dax didn't see, so things are still rockin' as far as I'm concerned. Still, no vodka tonight. Or ever. Ever is good.

  “Mr. Ryker,” I say as I cross my arms under my tits and glare back at the big redheaded brute across the hall from me. He's wearing a pale pink T-shirt that only makes him look scarier than usual. Or maybe it's just the holstered guns at his sides, I'm not sure. “Can I help you with something?”

  “Have a good time in the cemetery last night, Miss Charell?” he asks casually. Only … his casual also has a slight hint of menace imbued in it. Let's just say, I'm not the man's biggest fan. Chills flicker over my skin as I tap my booted foot against the floor and give Brayden Ryker a look that says I'm not playing games today.

  “So you're not as shitty at your job as you led us to believe?” I ask as he shrugs his shoulders and stands up straight, pausing next to a decorative side table and adjusting the blue and white vase that's sitting there. I watch him for a moment as he steps back and speaks quietly into an earpiece. I look at his face, back at the vase, and then at him again.

  Fuck.

  “Wait, wait, don't tell me—there's a camera in there?” I ask, but Brayden Ryker's ignoring me as he fiddles with the surely very expensive vahse. “Or don't answer me. That's fine, too.” I take a step back and glance up at the space above my doorway. There's a new camera here, too, and it's not so well hidden. I can clearly see it there, glaring down at me with a round bulbous eye. Christ on a cracker. This shit is actually happening, isn't it?

  What have I gotten myself into?

  “I hope you've given some thought to our conversation in the van, Miss Charell,” he says as I glance over my shoulder, checking to see if the bathroom door is still closed. Yup. Dax excused himself to take a shower and hasn't come out yet. I thought about joining him, but I thought he, too, deserved the chance to possibly throw up without my seeing. New relationship, new boundaries. We'll figure it out.

  “It's a little hard to think about something you don't quite understand, Bray. Can I call you Bray?” I don't wait for him to answer. Don't care. “If you really want my help, and I can't understand why you'd want or need it, then you're going to have to elaborate. Basically, you told me rich people are trying to murder me because they're bored or pissed or something like that. I'm a trailer park chick, Bray. I need the CliffsNotes version.”

  Brayden gives me a look that isn't nice at all. In fact, he looks downright frigging pissed.

  “Are you trying to take the piss with me?” he growls, but I have no clue what that means so I just stand there. Uh, West Coast American slang is all that's in my dictionary. Sorry. “Are you fucking joking?” he snaps when I don't respond. “Because I don't like it when smart people play dumb.” Brayden smacks the vase and it rolls off the table, crashing to the floor by his boots as he spins on me and descends in camo pants and that goddamn old-lady-pink shirt of his.

  “Cool it, dude,” I say, lifting my palms and backing u
p another step. I'd rather stand my ground, but hey, I know when to give a little. The guy's got pistols and all I have is a massive hangover and a sore pussy. I'm totally cool with the second half of the equation, but I don't really want to get in a fight with someone who's made of muscle. “I just want honesty, okay? Why'd you dump Cohen's body in Ronnie's bathtub?”

  “Because Paulette told me to,” he growls as he pauses a few inches away from me and runs a huge hand over his face. “And if yer smart, you'll also do what she says. Last time I refused a Harding or a Washington, they killed my daughter.” The shock that flickers over my face is impossible to hide. “Yeah, that's right. My baby girl.” Brayden's voice breaks and he sucks in a huge breath. “Now, I have to protect her sister. If that means following orders, then I'll follow them.” He pauses and scans the hallway with a practiced eye, the moss green of his irises darkening dangerously. “But that doesn't mean I have to do a good goddamn job at it.”

  Something Ronnie told me rings around my head like a pealing church bell.

  Sometimes, it's best to feign inadequacy and let the cards fall as they may.

  That's what Brayden said to Lola and Ronnie the night we all went to the club.

  Bingo, bitch.

  “So you purposely suck at security? At protecting people?” I ask, trying to puzzle my way through this. Lord knows if I don't, nobody else will. Dax and Ronnie are the next smartest people here and they've got penises. Can't count on them for shit.

  “When it suits me, aye, I do.” Brayden takes a step back from me, his breath harsh and uneven. I've never seen anything but stone cold professionalism in the man's rugged features before. Weird, much? I nibble my lower lip and look down at the cold marble floors. I know they're expensive and shit, but I hate them a little. Just a little.