Ever After (Dirtshine Book 3)
Page 35
“Vvvmmblyyy—”
“That didn’t sound like you’re right, Frankie, I’d hate to be wildly underdressed and incite speculation again about whether I’ve relapsed,” she teases.
“Mmmmmmmph.”
She takes her hand off of my mouth.
“It’s not my fault that tabloids are monstrous just because I was wearing ripped jeans and hadn’t slept well,” I protest.
She points at our apartment’s one bedroom, trying not to smile.
I do as she says and head back, but I smack her ass on the way.
The release party is at a huge rented mansion in the Pacific Palisades, up in the hills by the ocean. If it were day time we’d have a spectacular view of the ocean, but it’s night so the view is of Los Angeles, the city below us spread out like a puddle of lights.
I look at it as the hired car winds up the narrow road, and while there’s a thousand things on my mind — behaving myself at this release party, whether the new Dirtshine record will do well, the months-long tour we’re about to embark on, how the fuck one even begins to plan a wedding — what I’m really thinking of is a sleepy pub in a sleepy village, of Frankie telling me that she didn’t think I belonged there.
And how even though we were strangers then, she was right. She already knew me better than I knew myself.
The car pulls up in front of the house, and I take her hand. Our label put this all on, meaning it’s a whole fucking production: there’s decorations, cameras, and for fuck’s sake there’s even a miniature red carpet.
“You ready?” I ask, taking her hand in mine and kissing the back.
Frankie wrinkles her nose, then sighs.
“Yeah,” she says.
I get out, turn, offer her my hand. She’s wearing tall heels, so she’s only half a foot shorter than me, and she wobbles a bit as she exits, hand tightly on my arm as we walk down the stupid red carpet and into the house.
Just inside the door is another enormous photo, this one the four of us looking rock and roll as fuck, and the whole night I keep catching myself looking at the thing.
There’s a part of me that refuses to believe this is real, that after all those lows they’ve really taken me back, but there I am. Standing next to Gavin, head turned, staring off into the distance like I’m too cool to be bothered looking into the camera.
I also know that no matter what the publicity photos make it look like, it’s been no fucking fairy tale. There’s been blood and sweat and tears and other bodily fluids, tragedies and fights and shouting matches. For fuck’s sake, Gavin and I got into it last week over whether we should do club or arena shows in Glasgow on this tour.
“You still staring at your pretty face?” Gavin’s voice says behind me, and I blink.
I was talking to some overweight, middle-aged man about how he allegedly almost played guitar for Springsteen but then decided to go to law school instead, but it seems the topic’s changed and I’m not paying any attention.
“I have got wonderful bone structure,” I tell him, and he laughs.
“Cheers to that, you broody motherfucker,” he says, and we clink glasses. “You do look loads better in that spot than Eddie did.”
“I heard he left you for a jam band,” I say, taking a sip of ginger ale.
“Something like that,” Gavin says. “Darcy’s still angry about it.”
I laugh, because I know Darcy’s still angry about it, even though she didn’t really like Eddie in the first place. She just doesn’t like being left, I think.
Gavin leans one elbow on my shoulder, takes a sip of his own drink.
“Smile,” he says. “We’re being photographed again.”
“Christ, you’d think everyone had seen enough by now,” I mutter.
“You always were a basket of sunshine, mate,” Gavin teases, and I can’t help but laugh.
After the party finally ends, we find ourselves at Darcy and Trent’s loft. Even though Gavin’s got a much bigger house, for some reason, we’ve always come here to hang out instead, and now the six of us are sitting around on her couches, disheveled and tired.
The girls are half-drunk, Trent’s had a single glass of whiskey, and Gavin and I are dead sober, per usual.
“Why do we even have feet,” Frankie says, slouching on the couch, wiggling her toes on Darcy’s coffee table with a beer in her hand. “If they’re just going to hurt. Why can’t we fly?”
“Every single time I swear I’m wearing flats to the next thing, and then I don’t,” Marisol joins in.
“What about roller skates,” Darcy says. “It would be so efficient.”
“Yeah, you should definitely have several glasses of champagne and then put on roller skates,” I tease her. “That would go smashingly.”
She sighs.
“Stop crushing my dreams, Liam,” she says.
We don’t do anything but sit around and bullshit. Trent makes some joke that makes Frankie laugh until she gets the hiccups, and Marisol accidentally tells us about the time that Gavin fell into their pool while trying to take a picture of a sunset.
It feels like it used to, when we were driving around in a van, playing tiny shows. Frankie and Marisol are here now, but they feel like they fit, too, and even Bowie the cat seems to enjoy our company.
It’s nearly sunrise when Frankie and I leave Darcy’s flat, walking down to the sidewalk. I’m holding her shoes and she’s got her skirt in both hands, doing her best not to trip over it while we wait for a car.
She leans against me, nuzzling my shirt.
“I’m gonna sleep all day,” she says. “I think the last time I stayed up all night was to finish writing a paper about Elizabethan bodices.”
“You bad, bad girl,” I tease, and she laughs softly against me.
We stand there for a few minutes, just waiting, the sky lightening in the distance. I’m tired and drained and happy and relieved and nervous and excited all at once, running my fingers up and down her back as she tries to burrow into me for warmth.
And despite myself, despite the years since it happened and the ocean between then and now, I think about the bridge and the train and the car and the American girl. About darkness that seemed so complete I thought it would never end, and how now I’m standing here watching the sunrise with her.
Every single day, I’m glad she came along. Every single day I’m glad I didn’t jump.
Frankie yawns, and I wrap my other arm around her, kiss the top her head.
“I’m gonna fall asleep in the car,” she says, her voice already fading.
“I love you,” I say.
She snuggles in, puts her arms around my waist.
“Love you too,” she says softly.
We stand there, locked together. The sun rises, our car pulls up.
True to her word, Frankie falls asleep as it takes us home.
The End
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Never Enough (Dirtshine #1)
No feelings. No strings. No falling for anyone.
I’ve been clean for months, but my record company’s not satisfied. Apparently it isn’t enough to only kick a heroin addiction - they’re insisting that I find a girlfriend as well.
If I don’t, they pull Dirtshine’s massive record deal.
It’s supposed to show that I’ve changed my ways, that I’ve turned over a new leaf, all that rubbish. But I’ve had it with suit-wearing wankers telling me what I’m to do, so I’m on the verge of telling them to go f*ck themselves.
And then she shows up.
Marisol locks me out of my own concert by accident. She’s wearing a suit at a rock show, searching for her lost law school textbook, has no idea who I am…
...and for the first time in years, I’m hooked.
She’s smart, driven, and utterly gorgeous. The sort of girl who earnestly believes in following the rules and hates when others don’t.
I’m a huge rock star, recovering addict, and general f*ckup.
Our relationship is for show, and that’s all. But with every smile, every laugh, and every breathtaking glance at her curves, I want her more.
Two months is all we agreed to. But it’s never going to be enough.
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Always You (Dirtshine #2)
One kiss could ruin everything.
Darcy’s my best friend. She’s my f*cking savior, my light in the dark, beautiful as hell and talented as f*ck and every bit as broken as me.
And I f*cking yearn for her. I have for years. I see the way she looks at me, what’s behind her eyes.
I know what she thinks about alone, in the dark, because how could I not know.
It’s getting worse. Every second, every heartbeat, every moment we spend together and every secret we share makes me want her more. Even though I know that one kiss could ruin everything we have, I need her.
But to get her? I’ll risk it all.
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I was hired to protect her, not make her scream my name.
From dodging bullets in Afghanistan to working for the Secret Service when I got out of the Marines, I know danger pretty well.
Or I thought I did. That was before my latest assignment came with a whole new kind of danger.
Her name? Ruby.
She’s the gorgeous-as-hell, opinionated, spitfire daughter of Senator Burgess. Her family’s beyond strict, but for a girl who’s so innocent, she’s anything but sweet.
Wicked green eyes, curves that beg me to touch them, and a smile that makes me think dirty, dirty thoughts.
Her father’s a nightmare — a totalitarian who rules his family with an iron fist. He decides what clothes his daughters wear, what books they read, where they can go — hell, who they marry.
Ruby can pretend with them, but she can’t pretend with me. I can tell there’s more to her than the demure southern belle she’s supposed to be in public.
But I’m a professional, hired to be her bodyguard. I know better than to fall for someone I’m supposed to protect, but with every glance, every accidental touch, every word she says to me, I just want her more.
I want to tear away the innocent good girl veneer, and make the real Ruby scream my name as she rakes her nails down my back.
It’s f*cking dangerous. If we get caught, there will be hell to pay — and it’ll be even worse for her.
But I don’t think I can stay away.
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Some fairy tales start after midnight.
The crown prince and I have nothing in common.
He's a rugged, battle-hardened soldier who spent four years in an elite military unit. I met the King and Queen for the first time wearing leggings and a sweatshirt.
But there's the way he looks at me, eyes blazing with hunger. Like he knows every dirty thought I've had about him - and he likes them.
I don't know how long I can resist.
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Playing with fire gets you hot, but playing with a fireman gets you wet.
Fighting wildfires is dangerous as hell. If I f*ck it up I get a hundred-foot wall of flame coming at me with nowhere to run, no escape, and no rescue - but it’s still the best damn job in the world.
Clementine’s that ex. The one I haven’t seen in eight years. The one I thought I was going to marry until she dumped my ass while I was on active duty in Afghanistan.
The one who’s suddenly next door when my crew has a few days off in her tiny town, and who’s impossible to ignore.
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About Roxie
I love writing sexy, alpha men and the headstrong women they fall for.
My weaknesses include: beards, whiskey, nice abs with treasure trails, sarcasm, cats, prowess in the kitchen, prowess in the bedroom, forearm tattoos, and gummi bears.
I live in California with my very own sexy, bearded, whiskey-loving husband and two hell-raising cats.
www.roxienoir.com
roxie.noir@gmail.com
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