“You know, a dangerous rock star. Swooping down unannounced.”
“Pouncing on an innocent, unsuspecting librarian.”
“Yes.” I cleared my throat. What was he doing with his hand? Now he brought a finger to my cheek, stroking me so lightly.
“She’s right.” Slowly, slowly making his way over to my mouth, he teased my bottom lip, grazing the edge. “I’m very dangerous.”
A slight gasp slipped from my lips. This couldn’t be happening. I wasn’t standing next to Ash Black in our break room, and he certainly wasn’t touching me, making me throb and ache and start breathing all jagged and quick as I leaned in to him.
“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, tilting his head down. “May I kiss you, Anika?”
“Oh,” my delighted sigh answered yes for me, and before I knew what was happening, he kissed me. His lips down on mine, so simple and easy, but it felt anything but. Melted chocolate, dipping and seducing, one taste simply wasn’t enough. Hand up to his shoulder, eyes closed, slow and insistent, licking, teasing at the edge. My lips parted and he nibbled, light, along my bottom lip plump between his teeth. It made me catch my breath, clutch his shoulder, that small movement, such a slight shift but so much promise in it. The blend of sweet and wicked, the heat he could stoke within me with the slightest gesture.
“So soft.” He caressed my cheek as if mesmerized by my skin. Light kisses, he trailed down my neck and I tilted my head back, eyes closed. This clearly wasn’t happening. All of my late night fantasies had taken over somehow. Maybe I’d fallen, slipped and banged my head and knocked myself out. This was what I was cooking up in my blackout. I’d wake up any second in a hospital room, my worried parents sitting at my bedside, my head feeling all thick and fuzzy.
But for now, the fantasy still reigned and Ash Black pressed into me, trailing hot kisses along my neck. The stubble on his cheek felt as rough and gritty as I’d wondered, adding a delicious edge to his adoring attentions. He brought his hand to my waist, still keeping it chaste, sort of, his fingers caressing my side, my lower back, my stomach. A moan escaped my lips as he licked me, sucking lightly at my tender flesh along my neck. I fisted his jacket and brought a hand to his chest, a wall of muscle and heat, hard and powerful and solid. He made a sound low in his throat and the way he touched me, kissed me, made me feel like I was amazing, a rare precious jewel he’d somehow discovered, completely unexpected and yet exactly what he’d been searching for.
I clutched his shoulder, his side, wanting him closer, wanting more of his heat, his hardness. He wrapped his hand in my hair, tight in his fist, tilting my head further back as he plundered my mouth with his tongue. With a step forward, he had me against the counter, his thighs pressing against mine, his musky, masculine scent enveloping me.
Dimly, I became aware of a buzzing sound, an angry, persistent sort of an alarm. But it blended with the roar of blood, the rush of our breathing, the steady beat of my heart. Until he pulled away and took his phone out of his pocket.
“Shit, sorry.” He turned it off, shaking his head. “My agent.”
“Hmm.” I bit my lip, trying to remember where I was. My break room. With Ash Black. What was happening, exactly?
“He keeps calling. There’s a thing going on.”
I nodded. He checked a message on his phone, letting go of my waist. I shouldn’t miss the contact so much. My lips, my body shouldn’t feel empty and suddenly cold, just because I wasn’t in the arms of a rock star anymore.
“Fuck.” He frowned, looking at the screen.
“Everything OK?”
He looked up, troubled. “Just some fallout. From a video.”
That’s right. I remembered a video my roommate Jillian had showed me. She loved Mandy Monroe. I found her songs too sugary for my taste, too packaged and sweet. I liked my music with more energy and raw passion. But Ash Black had been an asshole, hadn’t he? Breaking up with her in the middle of a restaurant while she cried.
“You saw it.” He watched me, concern now lacing his dark, gorgeous eyes. Such long lashes on a man. It wasn’t fair.
“I saw it,” I confirmed. “But I try not to believe everything I see on a YouTube video.”
He exhaled, I could have sworn from relief, though why he should care so much about the opinion of some librarian he just met I had no idea.
“Were you a jerk to her?” I had to ask. It didn’t matter, not really. I’d never see him again. He’d walk out of this break room in the next minute and I’d stand there touching my lips and wondering if I’d completely made up our kiss. So I knew I shouldn’t waste the last few words we said to each other on confirming some gossipy rumor. But I wanted to know.
He looked at me as if weighing his options. And when he chose honesty, I felt strangely proud of him. “Yes, I was a jerk,” he admitted. “But there’s a lot more to the story than those 30 seconds.”
I nodded, believing him. I couldn’t imagine what it would have been like breaking up with Stan if he had been able to post a video of me to an audience of millions. I didn’t think I’d ever said anything too mean, but I was sure he could find something, some ugly moment when I’d been returning his gym bag and looking grouchy and unappealing. I couldn’t imagine having every second of my life under such intense scrutiny. I almost felt bad sending him off again into it all, that mob of angry waiting photographers literally chasing him down the sidewalk.
“I have to go.” He sounded regretful, looking at me like he’d much rather stay right there. Maybe it was the quiet he liked. I understood that.
“Meet me tonight?” he asked, sounding strangely nervous and expectant. He had to have asked that of thousands of girls in his life. In fact, I bet he didn’t even have to ask most of the time, they just showed up at his hotel room or at parties. Wherever he was, I was sure women threw themselves at him with gusto. Then what was he doing standing there with me, looking absurdly vulnerable and concerned that I might reject him?
“You want to see me tonight?” I had to ask for confirmation.
“I want to see you again. I mean, this break room is amazing.” He gestured at the small, dented microwave. “I could probably heat you up a cup-o-noodles in that, no problem.” I had to laugh again. He didn’t even know how loud that microwave was, buzzing and humming like hive of angry bees. “But I’m staying at the Grand. Meet me there when you’re free?”
“You want me to meet you at your hotel?” This was like every Stranger Danger pamphlet my mother had ever handed me, and believe me, she’d really gotten her hands on a lot of material. Paranoid, over-protective, she’d drilled the word “no” into me from a very young age.
“We can have a drink down in the lobby,” he offered, seeming to sense my mother’s telepathic worry through the airwaves, traveling at light speed all the way down from upstate New York.
“Won’t you get mobbed?” I pictured the brash, aggressive faces of those photographers. He’d be like a sitting duck there, wouldn’t he?
“No, they’ve got good security. Someone can always still sneak in a camera phone, but they won’t last long if they take it out and start filming.”
Hmm. Ash Black was famous for being a bad boy. He had a long, well-publicized history of tearing through gorgeous women. And he was seductive as hell. Those were like the top three items on my mother’s long list of Things to Avoid in Men. I could still picture Mandy Monroe’s tear-stained face, sitting alone in that restaurant.
But then, here he was, Ash Black, looking at me with those bedroom eyes, crooking his sexy lips into an inviting smile. I could practically see him patting the back of a motorcycle seat. Hop on, he seemed to be saying. Let’s go for a ride.
I’d made myself a promise, hadn’t I? The next time anything like that happened, I’d say yes.
“OK.” As the word slipped out, I felt a thrill of excitement.
“Yes,” he exclaimed, victorious. Maybe it had been a while since he’d asked someone out? That was what he was doi
ng, wasn’t it? Asking me on a date? “What’s your number?” He held his phone, all ready to enter in my digits. I gave them to him, still in a state of disbelief.
“Anika,” he repeated my name as he typed it in. I loved the way he said it, like a wicked promise. I could picture him whispering it against my skin, licking me and teasing me as he spoke. “What’s your last name?”
Bad girl, I shook my naughty thoughts from my head. “Ivanov.”
“Russian?” he asked as he entered it.
“How’d you guess?” If I were any more Russian I’d be wearing a fur hat and holding a bottle of Smirnov.
“Cool.” He nodded, typing into his phone. “Russian mafia, or…?” He kept his tone light, teasing, but I still felt like he actually wanted an answer.
“Come on.” I shook my head, slightly annoyed at the stereotype. “My father’s a super nerdy engineer. He’s the most straight-laced guy you’ll ever meet.” Wait, had I just implied that I thought Ash was going to meet my father? I blushed. “Not that you’ll ever meet him,” I stammered.
“I’m just joking around.” He grinned at me. “So, I’ve texted you the address. Meet me at the bar. Ten o’clock OK?”
I nodded. That should give me enough time to head home and change.
“The door’s down here?” He pointed to the hallway.
I headed down, keys out again to unlock the side exit. It led out into an alleyway and should provide him with the perfect getaway.
“All right then, Anika. I’m delighted to have met you.” He took my hand again, holding it in his warm, large palm. And what do you think the bad boy of rock did next? He took a page out of a turn-of-the-century etiquette book and kissed the back of my hand, his stubble, his lips leaving my skin tingling. “Thank you for agreeing to meet me tonight. I’m looking forward to it.”
I managed a response, some blend of “Yes” and “Oh!” and “Great.” And then I stood there and watched him pull the brim down on his hat, zip up his jacket and jam his hands into his pockets as if bracing himself for a dreadful onslaught. Giving me one last, fleeting smile, he buried his chin into his jacket and headed out into the cold.
As soon as he left, I doubted he’d ever been there at all. It was one thing to run into a celebrity on the streets of SoHo. It was quite another to have them ask you out, tell you you’re beautiful and kiss you breathless. But it seemed as if it had happened. I was supposed to meet Ash Black at 10 o’clock that night.
I knew motorcycles were dangerous, but I’d been wanting a ride on one for a long time now. Looked like I was finally getting my chance.
5
Ash
Gargling with mouthwash, I swished and spit. The things I’d do for my grandmother. Put on a button-down shirt with a collar, that was one. Sure, it was still black and I wore it with jeans, but I tucked it in and wore a belt. Plus I combed my hair and covered up the smell of alcohol on my breath with minty wash.
I still had to have a drink before I headed out to meet up with the family, that went without saying. If I knew Gram she’d be doing exactly the same thing right now, sipping a good, strong G&T with Plymouth gin and two slices of lime. We were all gathering together that afternoon at her Upper East Side penthouse, due to arrive in 30 minutes. It was our annual pre-holiday get together, just the intimate nuclear members prior to the Kavanaugh family fete for 500 tomorrow night.
Today the featured speaker would be our family attorney, Nelson Armistead. Nothing packed in the members of a wealthy family more than a lawyer discussing the terms of inheritance. More British than the queen, Nelson divided his time between London and New York. He’d managed our family’s affairs since the beginning of time. I trusted no one else with my money. He kept communications brief, direct and infrequent, and required absolutely no direction or oversight from me whatsoever. He was perfect.
Since my father’s passing from cancer in August, Nelson had had a lot to figure out. Not that Dick had left much to chance. He’d had everything mapped out. That was the upside of a horrible, painful, unforgiving disease that slowly wasted and ultimately killed you, you had a bunch of time to plan for the end.
My father and I had always butted heads, and that was putting it mildly. Just before he’d entered the hospital for the final time, he’d invited me to join him for lunch. I’d done it, knowing it would be our last. He’d explained to me, calmly and cooly, that he was leaving me nothing. First, he did this on principal. He didn’t approve of me or the choices I was making with my life. Second, I didn’t need it. I’d made millions upon millions from my own “messing around” as he’d called it.
To be honest, it had choked me up. He was right on both counts. It was refreshing to have someone say it instead of kiss my ass.
I’d craved his approval for the first half of my life, until I was about 13, the year my parents had divorced. My brothers, Gigi and I had been shunted off to England to live with Gram while our mother ‘regrouped’ and our father concentrated on his business. We barely saw either of them for almost two years. I believed that was page one in the “Get Your Kids to Hate You” manual. The only one of us who hadn’t turned on them was Gigi, but she only seemed capable of deep, abiding love so I didn’t hold it against her.
Mom had gotten back with the program, remarrying a stodgy lawyer and settling into an estate in southern Connecticut with her Gardening and her Hounds, capitalization intended due to the seriousness with which she treated both endeavors. Gigi had gone to live with them and, from what I’d seen, she’d lived out a fairly normal, happy childhood.
But by the time Mom straightened out, I’d gone round the corner already, off in boarding schools and launching phase two of my life: doing anything and everything I could to piss off my parents. Get kicked out of school? Check. Shave my head, pierce my ears, get tattoos? Check, check, check. Refuse any and all engagement with anything remotely resembling academic achievement? Well, I was a natural at that one. I guessed I had ADHD or something, nothing held my attention for long, but once you found a way to channel all that energy no one bothered giving you a label, diagnosis or meds. I’d discovered early on, if you put a guitar in my hands I’d never tire of it.
John Mayer had talked about it in a bunch of interviews, behind every great guitar player there was a nerdy teenager with no friends who stayed up all night perfecting his licks. I preferred not to reminisce about those lean years, the years I’d grown past six feet tall but still weighed 130 pounds. The years I’d been sent to prep school in England and had the shit kicked out of me more days than not. I was crap at football—both the American and the European versions—couldn’t sit still in a class for the life of me. Basically I was a hot mess until I met Connor.
The dirty Irishman and the unwashed American, we were a perfect pair, him on bass and me on guitar with a rotating cast of mates on drums. It didn’t matter, it was me and Connor that figured shit out, me and Connor that started our band, staying up all hours, playing everywhere and anywhere we could, from school parties in gyms to neighborhood fairs to busking on the street.
It was Connor who was still my best mate, my partner in crime, the bass player to my lead singer in our band The Blacklist. He’d even come up with my name, Ash Black, much cooler than Asher Kavanaugh. He was back in S.F., probably just starting his day since it was only around one o’clock on the west coast. I wished I were back with him instead of about to head out to the chopping block.
Except if I were in S.F. I wouldn’t have met Ana. Anika. That brought a smile to my face. I hadn’t met a girl that delectable in a while. I couldn’t remember the last time. Those mile-long legs, the swell and curve of her breasts above her trim waist. Even that prim and prissy collar on her high-necked dress got my motor running. It made the thought of undressing her more fun. Her pretty little dress and trim cardigan left more to the imagination, more wrapping to remove. What I could see I definitely liked, those wide, light toffee-colored eyes, her silky brown hair that slipped through my finge
rs. The way she opened up those lush dark pink lips for me, giving me full access.
I wanted a lot more of that. Tonight, I’d see her again. The thought of that would get me though our cozy family get-together. Then Ana would meet me at the hotel, first in the lobby and then up in my room. I couldn’t wait to see her naked, feel her beneath me, see if she liked it rough the way I guessed she would. I wanted to mark her, take her, fill her, hear her pant and scream and beg. How quickly could I melt that chilly exterior? She had a lot of heat right beneath the surface, a swift running stream just under the thin layer of ice. I couldn’t wait to break on through.
And get her to agree to pretend to be my girlfriend then fiancée and dump me publically, that too. That was the most important thing, of course, because nothing mattered more than my image, my reputation. But the second most important thing was Ana, her scent, her mouth, her skin, all of her, all mine.
§
I paused in front of my grandmother’s building, standing under the awning with the doorman. I didn’t want to go inside. I wished I hadn’t quit smoking. A cigarette would have given me the excuse to loiter.
“Cold tonight,” one of them noted.
“Yup.” I didn’t really know what I’d just agreed with, I just knew I needed another minute before I went in and up. They’d all be inside, all the beneficiaries of my father’s will. And me.
My father had passed away four months ago and you’d think that might have brought us together as a family, but, no, a massive inheritance brought out the worst in us. Aunts and cousins and people I’d never even heard of were all clamoring for a piece of the pie. Some guy claiming to be his out-of-wedlock son had even surfaced, a ranching dude from Montana. What a fucking circus. No wonder my younger brother stayed the fuck away from all of it, a mountain man in a cabin with a beard the size of a watermelon. He’d turned his back on it all the same as me, only where I’d sought the spotlight, he’d retreated as far as he could.
Undone: A Fake Fiancé Rockstar Romance Page 5