Heart Broke (Hard Rock Roots #8)

by C. M. Stunich

  When the dress comes down my legs, leaving me in nothing but a bra and panties, I sit up again, sliding one strap down my shoulder and then the other. I try to take it slow, but with the pulse of the music and the throb of alcohol in my blood, I have no idea how long I'm sitting there.

  When Dax frees his cock, my lips part with a pop and I find my breathing getting heavier, deeper, huskier. I touch my breasts, run my fingers through my hair, and then I fling the bra off and hit him in the chest with the flimsy piece of lacy fabric. As usual, I save my panties for last, crawling back to Dax and setting myself on his knees, before I start to push them down, working them off my hips and down my legs. They get caught on one of my heels, but I don't care. I leave them there as I spread my legs and straddle Dax's lap, leaving him just enough room to play with himself.

  When we kiss, I know he tastes Naomi on my mouth, but I'm not jealous. He's over her, I know that, and his declaration of love, I felt something in his words. But I also know that, maybe, he's just a little bit curious. That's okay. He can taste her on my mouth.

  I look over my shoulder again and find Naomi watching, waiting, her naked body a curve of perfection against the dark leather seats of the limo. Turner's tattoos are bright, wet with sweat, as he takes her hips in his hands and gives me a sultry smirk, pressing a kiss to Naomi's neck. She gasps and then, still looking right at us, slides herself onto Turner's cock.

  I wait just a moment longer before I turn back to Dax, look him straight in the face, and do the same. The hot, thick warmth of him between my legs makes me throw my head back in ecstasy, giving me a crazy upside down view of Naomi riding Turner. I watch them for several seconds, enjoying the color of his tattooed hands tracing down her back, cupping her ass, holding her tight.

  When Dax presses a gentle bite to my collarbone, I lean forward and look down at him, rolling my hips with the music as I ride him. My hands are splayed out on that perfect midsection, trailing up to his chest and along his pecs, finding the edges of his tattoos. His hands go right to my ass and squeeze tight, encouraging me to move faster and faster. In the back of my mind, I realize that nobody in this car is using a condom, but what the hell ever, right? Sex, drugs, and rock 'n' roll is on the menu tonight.

  I lean in and kiss Dax again, tracing the edges of his tongue, his teeth. When I feel hands on my back, sliding up my spine, I don't stop. Naomi's lips are on one shoulder, Turner's on the other. Holy shit. I feel like a goddess in that moment, some ancient feminine deity of excess and sex.

  I let them touch me, pulling back for just a moment and watching as Dax's eyes stay locked on mine. There might be two other people around us, but the only person he's looking at right now is me. I even, for just a split second, let Naomi lean up and press a kiss against his mouth. It's enough to make me jealous, to make Turner jealous, but that sort of thrill feels fucking hot in the moment. I like the way the emotion travels through me, curls my fingers around Dax's shoulders and encourages my body to push harder, draw him deeper.

  When Turner pins Naomi to the seat next to us and they start fucking again, I throw my head back and let the pleasure flicker over my skin like butterflies. Dax comes before me, his muscles tensing hard as the orgasm racks his body like beautiful dirty torture, forcing him to draw me closer to his chest as his hands grip my ass.

  I don't stop moving, the bars in his cock hitting all the right places while I rub my clit against his pelvis. When my own climax comes, it comes hard, hitting me almost as hard as the bullet that smashes through the seat to my right.

  Because, of course, no evening of partying would be complete without someone trying to shoot at us.

  “GET THE FUCK DOWN!” Brayden Ryker's voice echoes in the tight confines of the limo as the four of us duck on the floor, the whirring noise of the sunroof closing the only sound I can hear besides my labored breathing.

  “Fuck,” Dax growls, tucking me in close to his body. With the four of us mostly nude, covered in sweat and saliva and … you know, other things, I feel ten times more vulnerable than usual. “Is this blood?” Dax lifts his hand up and splays his fingers wide, panic flaring in those gray irises as he reaches down and smears his thumb across my upper arm.

  “Stop that,” I hiss, pushing him back and looking down at the wound. The bullet just barely grazed me, leaving behind a long, angry red streak that burns like a mofo. Holy. Motherfucking. Shit. I just barely escaped with my life. My life. “I'm okay,” I say when Dax squeezes me close, pressing a kiss to my hair, breathing a million curses against my skin.

  A second shot shatters the glass of the sunroof, raining shards down on our bare skin.

  “Motherfucker!” Naomi yells, sitting up and crawling to the window that separates us from Brayden. “We're in the middle of the goddamn city! Who the hell is shooting at us?!” She snatches her shirt from the floor and jerks it over her head as Turner adjusts himself, putting his cock pretty much directly in my face. It's certainly not hard anymore.

  I reach out and smack him on the ass.

  “Move your fucking dick out of my face,” I say as I struggle to sit up. Dax keeps me pressed down, rolling us away from the broken glass and towards the bar that lines one side of the limo. When he sits up, he pulls me along with him.

  “Lay down and make yourself as small as possible,” Brayden snaps at Naomi, causing her to scowl even as she listens to his instructions.

  “Come on, baby,” Turner says, pulling her over to me and Dax, huddling close. My skin stings from a million cuts, blood sliding down my arm in warm rivulets. The drugs, the alcohol, yeah … those are fading fast. I blink a few times, clearing my vision.

  “I doubt that was random gang violence,” Naomi mutters, running her hands down her face as she glances over at me. “Shit, are you okay?”

  “Fine,” I say as Turner yanks my arm into his lap and stares at the wound.

  “Jesus Christ,” he murmurs as I pull my arm back and lean into Dax. “What a frigging nightmare. Can't we catch a break? Just one goddamn break?”

  “I've never been shot at mid-coitus,” I joke, but nobody laughs. That's okay. Didn't expect them to, just trying to lighten the mood. I stare at the gray carpeting, at the tinted black glass fragments that litter the floor at my feet. Looking up, I see that the sunroof is still mostly intact, shattered and fractured sure, but not in so many pieces as I'd have expected. Bulletproof, glass? Must be.

  “Just stay on the floor and don't screw around,” Brayden snaps as he radios someone with his fancy-schmancy headset and gives instructions to the driver. If I crane my neck a little, I can see that the window on the driver's side of the car is also shattered, fractured but still whole like our sunroof. Wow. Just … wow. “We're on our way back to the house now,” he says, glancing over his shoulder and giving the four naked idiots (myself included) a look. “Maybe next time you'll think twice about going out?” he asks, but nobody answers him.

  Dax scowls; Turner spits; Naomi curses under her breath.

  Me, I glance up at the shattered sunroof, pretend I can see the lucky stars above—and count them.

  By time we get back to Beverly Hills, we're all questionably dressed and shaky on our feet, pushing open the door to the limo to find Ronnie storming across the courtyard in a rage. The twinkling white lights in the trees and the swaying palm trees do nothing to make that look any less terrifying.

  “What the FUCK were you thinking?” he asks, getting right in my face, grabbing both me and Turner by our upper arms. “You can't just disappear like that. If you're going to run off and be irresponsible, at least give me the goddamn decency and respect of a courtesy call.”

  “Whoa, okay Dad,” Turner says, leaning away from his friend, but not bothering to pull his arm back. I think that, deep down, he knows Ronnie could whip his ass in a fight. “Didn't know we had a fucking curfew.”

  I open my mouth to respond when I realize he's just pissed about us running off, that he doesn't know about the newest shooting incident. U
h-oh. The second his brown eyes see the blood on my arm, flick up to the broken windows on the car, I see him putting the puzzle together.

  “Hey,” Dax says, resting his hand on Ronnie's with a warning look. “I think they get it, okay?”

  Ronnie releases Turner and me like he's been burned, taking a step back and turning away. His fingers run through his long dark hair as he takes several deep breaths. He lost Travis and survived, Asuka and survived. I really don't want to put him through any of that crap again by dying. Nuh uh. No thank you. These stupid boys—including my beautiful, dark little Dax McCann—are the only family I have left. I reach down and curl my fingers in his, looking up to find his gray eyes boring into mine. I can't read his expression, but that's okay. Tonight is turning out to be … weird. Really, really weird.

  “What—” Ronnie starts as he spins back to look at us, but Turner's already waving him away.

  “Later,” he says as he glances over at Naomi. She's staring off into the distance, towards the wall that lines the edge of the property, over the top of it. From where we're standing, we have a pretty good view of the neighborhood. White lights twinkle like stars, fading away into the red and orange streaks of cars in the city. “We'll talk about it later.”

  “Are …” Ronnie begins and then pauses, lifting up his hands in surrender. “Never mind. Go get some rest, you probably need it.” He takes in our disheveled appearances with a raised brow and a twist of his lips that says he suspects to get an interesting story later.

  I cross my arms under my tits and watch as Naomi pulls her gaze from the horizon, giving me and Dax a long, lingering look. I'm not sure if it's about the sex or the shooting or what, but I return it, doing my best to smile as I reach out a hand and give her shoulder a squeeze.

  “You okay?” I ask, but she only raises a blonde brow at me and straightens her crooked tank, the Real Ugly tattoo on her belly slick with sweat in the late evening heat.

  “You're the one that got shot this time,” she says with a small smile, watching as Brayden Ryker storms by, giving us a look that could kill, shaking his head in disappointment. I flip his back off as he heads over to the gate and speaks to the guy there, both of them turning and surveying the candlelight vigil crowd outside. “I think a hot shower and something to eat will do us all some good,” she adds with a sigh, raking her fingers through her hair.

  “Yeah, so let's fucking go,” Turner says, reaching down to take her hand and giving Dax and me a look as he passes. We watch them leave, and then look back over at Ronnie.

  “Someone sniped us through the sunroof,” I say as I make a faux gun with my fingers, shivering as I remember the bullet cutting into the leather seat on Dax's left. All these sniping jokes we've been making lately don't seem quite as funny anymore. “I took a hit on the arm, sort of.” I shrug my shoulder and let my friend look over the wound for a moment, his eyes narrowing before he steps back and lights up a cigarette. “They took a couple more shots, but I guess Brayden's actually trying to do his job right now. The limo had bulletproof glass.”

  “Jesus, and I thought things had gotten crazy here,” Ronnie says with a small smile, looking up and taking in both our shocked expressions. “When we heard you guys had ditched your security detail,” he begins and then shakes his head again. “After the memorial concert, I just … please don't do that again.”

  I feel a sickening flush come over my cheeks and exchange a look with Dax. He looks a little chagrined too. But even though the day ended with a literal bang, the rest wasn't bad. Not at all. I squeeze Dax's hand a little tighter.

  “I can't believe that just happened,” Dax says, lifting up his rumpled shirt with his other hand and wiping away the sweat and smeared lipstick from his face. There's some glass in his hair that catches the light from the strands in the trees, making him look like a fucking angel there for a minute. “I mean, not like it hasn't happened before, but I guess people trying to kill you never really loses its shock factor.”

  “Sydney!” Trey shouts from the front door, stumbling down the steps without his wheelchair. He's got a single crutch under one arm, but he looks pretty fucking capable. I let go of Dax's hand and move up to meet him before he falls flat on his face and breaks his nose, letting him hug me tight with his free arm. He smells like Doritos and cigarettes, but mostly like home, family. Holy crap, that bullet really scared the bejesus out of me, didn't it? Here I go getting all sentimental and crap. I make myself take a deep breath to calm down. “What the hell happened out there?”

  I glance over my shoulder at Dax, but I'm not sure exactly what to say, so I settle for comedy. Comedy's always good, right?

  “Turner, Naomi, Dax, and I had an orgy in the back of the limo,” I say, leaning in to give Treyjan a kiss on the cheek. “And then we got shot at.” I smile brightly, wave for Dax to join me and head up the steps into the house.

  What I need now is a glass of wine, a good movie, and my head pillowed on Dax's chest.

  I won't let myself admit that I'm afraid. Not even a little.

  Crazy Sydney isn't scared of anything.

  I pause in the entryway to find Paulette Washington looking at me with a smile on her face.

  Okay, so I'm not scared of most things. This chick? Not so sure about her.

  “I can't believe we almost fucked Naomi and … Turner,” I say as I lean against the doorjamb to the bathroom and watch Sydney brush her teeth. It's such a normal, usual, everyday thing that it helps ground me. And as I do it, I feel like I'm getting to know Sydney through the little things, the way she sets a timer for three minutes and brushes religiously until it goes off or the way she swishes mouthwash for all of two seconds before spitting it in the toilet.

  “Almost meaning what?” Sydney asks as she leans down and rinses her mouth with cool water from the sink, flipping her pale pink hair back as she stands up and giving me a look. “Meaning … you have no idea how far things would've gone if we hadn't been shot at?”

  “I …” I start, but I'm not really sure how to answer that question. Sydney smiles wickedly and steps close, sliding her hands along the back of my neck, burning a trail along my skin with her fingertips. When she looks up at me, I forget everything about last night. I don't even care what happened. All I care about is Sydney Charell.

  I lean down and capture her mouth in a kiss, one that gets her hands moving, roaming down my arms, tracing along the waistband of my pajama pants. In a second, I have her up on the counter, her legs around my waist, my cock slipping out into my hand.

  I thrust into her heat without preamble, leaning down and kissing along her collarbone, enjoying the way she lets her head fall back. The warm, wet feel of her body wrapping around mine is so good that I ignore a knock at our bedroom door.

  “Fuck them,” I whisper as I capture her face in my hands, kiss her again, move slow and purposefully until her moans are music, until she's shuddering in my arms and I'm filling her up in a way I've never done with another woman.

  The knocking continues.

  “What the hell?” I snap as Sydney and I pull apart and she straightens the oversize sleeping shirt she's wearing, padding over to the door and cracking it open. Her bare ass peeks out from beneath it as she bends forward. I keep my eyes on that and refuse to look at my bloody white T-shirt from yesterday. There's no sense in thinking about what might have happened to Sydney, to me, to Naomi or Turner. How many of us are actually going to live through this?

  I curl my hands into fists at my sides and force the darker thoughts from my mind.

  “Yes?” Sydney asks as I move up behind her and use the space in the door to glare at Brayden Ryker. “Can I help you with something?” The man gives us both a long, lingering stare that says maybe he regrets bringing us in on his plans, like maybe he should've just let us die. The look gives me the chills.

  “Paulette needs everyone downstairs in the front yard. Now. Make it quick.”

  Sydney flings the door open as he walks away without an
explanation, boots loud on the tile floors.

  “Hey!” she shouts as Lola appears from the room across the hall, a cigarette hanging out of her mouth and an orange dress draped over her shoulders. It has a smiling pink cat on the front of it, and it's seriously one of the weirdest things I've ever seen in my life. “You're not going to tell us what this is about, asshole?”

  “Something bloody fucked as usual,” Lola says with a roll of her eyes. “Can't imagine it's anything good.” She looks us both over in our rumpled pajamas and smirks. “Certainly not as good as what was going on in that limo of yours last night.”

  “Oh yeah?” Sydney asks, flipping up the front of her shirt and laughing at the shocked expression on Lola's face. “Don't you just wish you were there?”

  “Is that a bloody heart?” she asks, the cigarette falling from her parted lips to the floor. Lola stomps it out with her fuzzy pink high heel as Sydney grabs my wrist and drags me back into the bedroom. “Oi!” Lola shouts as the door slams and Sydney pushes me up against it.

  My hands come down to rest on her hips as our eyes meet and I lean in for a kiss.

  “You want to get coitus-interrupted by Brayden Ryker knocking down the door?” she asks with a devilish grin, pulling away and bending down enough that everything is on display. I have to grit my teeth to keep from ravishing her again.

  “Should we get dressed?” I ask as Sydney roots around on the floor for a pair of clean panties and a bra. She even sniffs the armpits of some of them. Is that normal? Do women do that? “Because, to be honest, I don't care if the cameras capture me shirtless and disheveled. Screw them. They want to film me moping around in dirty pjs, have at it. I'm not going rock star glam everyday for that bitch—especially not after the night we just had.”