Revenge: The Complete Series (Erotic Rock Star Suspense Romance)

by Mimi Strong

  “Jess, tell me what’s going on.”

  This time, I can’t lie, so I tell him everything. First, I didn’t get to say goodbye to Dylan on my last night in L.A., and then I saw a photo of him looking friendly with a girl, and now he won’t return my calls.

  Chet pulls me into a hug. “This is nothing, trust me. Long distances suck. Sometimes you’re both so busy, you don’t see each other for days. You know that’s normal. He gets so obsessed when he’s recording a new album.”

  I sniff, struggling to keep my emotions under control. “He does get obsessed. You’re right.”

  “But he’ll be here soon, in Rome. You know he’s missing you like crazy.”

  “Yeah.” I pull away from Chet, because we’ve been hugging for too long. We have so much respect for each other, and I don’t want him to think of me as weak. “I’m just jet lagged.”

  His bright green eyes flick left and right, then light up.

  “There’s a cure for jet lag,” he says.

  I frown at him. Is there a cure for a broken heart? Because that’s what I really need.

  “Gelato,” he says. He nods toward a guy across the street from us, rolling a portable ice cream stand on a modified bicycle.

  I put on a brave smile. “We’ll have to test this jet lag cure and find out.”

  We each get double scoops. I don’t know if it’s the warmth of the Italian sun bouncing off all the stone streets and buildings, or just my homesickness, but this gelato is the best ice cream I’ve ever tasted.

  Chet moans, “Totally worth the thirteen-hour flight.”

  He finishes his gelato quickly and chases after the vendor to get some more.

  I grab my phone and check it for the tenth time in an hour.

  When there’s nothing from Dylan, I feel so angry, I want to smash the phone on the cobblestones.

  He was the one who pushed me to go to Rome. And now I’m here, waiting for him. All alone with my boss and his Italian shoe collection.

  * * *

  The next day, I do hear back from Dylan, but it’s only voicemail.

  I play the message again and again. The connection must have been bad, because parts of his message are cut out.

  “Hey, Blue Shoes. It’s me. I hope you’re—static noise—Friday. My publicist says I’m going to—static noise—which is unbelievable, right? I can’t wait to see you in Rome. Love ya!”

  I send him more text messages, telling him I couldn’t hear half his message. Is he really coming to Rome on Friday? Which Friday? Or does he just have something else happening on a Friday?

  Whatever’s going on, Riley and Amanda don’t have any answers either. We keep sending messages and photos back and forth, but the communication feels off. I have to guess by their responses that not all of my messages are going through.

  There must be something buggy with my phone using the network here in Italy. I thought the point of all this technology and paying a massive monthly phone bill was so that everything worked all the time.

  My phone issues are as frustrating as trying to explain to a bunch of old Italian executives why they can’t just shove whatever music they want down people’s throats. Young people have a million options, I try to tell them. They always want something new.

  These guys think all singers are basically the same. And they think if they make the girls even sexier, women will buy the music. I try to explain to them how there has to be some substance, underneath the candy coating.

  They don’t get it, though. They think life is just candy and then more candy with candy in the middle.

  After a week, I feel like I’m losing my mind. I’ve picked up on a few Italian phrases, and I have Italian thoughts in my mind.

  Quando è il matrimonio?

  That means when is the wedding?

  Everyone who sees my engagement ring keeps asking.

  I smile politely and try not to think about how Dylan and I have been playing phone tag for what feels like forever.

  Quando è il matrimonio?

  I don’t know when the wedding is. We haven’t set a date. Maybe we will get married tomorrow. This makes everyone laugh.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Dylan and I keep missing each other’s calls, but we do communicate a little every day by voicemail.

  I don’t want to make both of us crazy by asking him about the Avalon photo over a voicemail, so I don’t even bring it up.

  With every message, I record first, then listen back, then re-record it if I think I sound too desperate, or too casual.

  I feel like I’m fifteen again, with a stupid crush on some guy who’s stringing me along. Maybe Amanda was right that my lack of experience is a bad thing. I’d never had a boyfriend before I started dating Dylan. I did have a best friend who was a guy, but it was nothing like this.

  With every message Dylan leaves, I can hear the frustration in his voice. I feel it, too. Every time his voicemail picks up, I hope that it’s him and not a recording. My heart feels like it’s breaking when I realize it’s not.

  I’ve been in Rome for ten days.

  The jet lag has lifted, and my body has forgotten about the nine hour time difference. Except for the pain in my chest from missing Dylan, everything’s going okay.

  I’m watching the Deluca marketing team present their new ideas, and they’ve got some good ones, finally. Chet and I are starting to break through. They’ve brought in a new person, a girl about my age. She and I communicate well.

  My phone vibrates in my hand. I look down and see that it’s an unknown number from the L.A. area code calling.

  I race out of the Deluca meeting room and answer the call excitedly.

  “Dylan?”

  “Jess! Is that you? Finally.”

  I’m so relieved, I can’t even speak. The connection is crisp and clear. He could be on the other side of the hallway from me.

  “Finally, I caught you,” he says, his voice a throaty growl.

  My body shudders at the sound of his voice live. The distance between us disappears, and I long to reach out and touch him.

  I can hear shouts and giggles in the background. It’s ten in the morning here, so it’s one o’clock in the morning for Dylan.

  “Where are you? At a gig? Have you been in the recording studio?” I have to stop myself before I pester him with a thousand questions.

  “Just the Avalon again. They’ve got a regular gig for me to keep building up my fan base. They’re putting the footage online. Have you seen it?”

  “Footage? Sure, I think I saw something.” The picture of him kissing that woman springs to mind. Why is he asking me if I saw Avalon footage? Is he trying to figure out how much I know?

  My mind races with paranoia. My mouth is dry and my throat is tight. Is he hiding something?

  “Things have been crazy here,” he says.

  Crazy here. What does he mean? Is this a hint? My heart is pounding, my pulse racing in my ears.

  “Sounds like you’re having fun,” I say.

  “You know how it is,” he says casually.

  My legs feel weak. I keep imagining all sorts of subtext to what he’s saying. I know how it is? What does he even mean?

  I can’t stand up anymore, feeling this way. I find the wall with my back and slide down. One of the Deluca support staff comes running over to me in the hallway and asks if I’m okay.

  I signal for her to bring me water.

  “Acqua,” I croak.

  Dylan says, “What’s that? Are you learning Italian?” He sounds excited.

  “Just a few words.” I lick my dry lips. I should ask him about the photo, so he can put me at ease. But the words won’t come to me. I don’t want him to think I’m going to turn into some jealous freak every time we’re apart.

  “Say something in Italian for me,” he says. I can barely hear him over the sound of the crowd in the background.

  I say the only thing that comes to mind. “Quando è il matrimonio?”

  “Ma
trimonio.” He lets out a low chuckle. “Jess, we both know when that is. And I’m counting down the days.”

  I cup my hand around the phone and ask, “So the wedding’s still on? A week after I get back from Rome?”

  “Unless we get married there when I come to visit.”

  I hold my free hand over my chest. His gritty voice in my ear sends waves of pleasure into my body.

  “I wish I was there with you now,” he says, his voice low like a growl. “Where are you?”

  “At the distributor’s office.”

  A woman who works in their accounting department comes over to where I’m sitting on the floor and hands me a bottle of chilled water. She pats my leg and gives me a sympathetic look.

  I turn away from her and tell Dylan, “I miss you so much.”

  “I miss you too, Blue Shoes. Your voice, your sweet smile, and your body. I wish I could touch every inch of you.”

  Heat rises inside me as I think of Dylan touching me.

  “Remember that day in the emergency room?” he asks. “I had to have you. It was truly an emergency.”

  I squeal at the layer of silliness over top of his raw sexiness. I feel like I’m melting right now, falling apart at the mere idea of him touching me.

  “Of course I remember,” I whisper. “Someone could have come through those curtains at any moment.”

  “You love danger,” he says. “You love it when I grab you by the knees and spread your legs.”

  My voice catches in my throat. “Mm hmm,” I answer.

  His voice comes through the line, and I can practically feel his hot breath on my ear. “You love it when I grab your hair and pull your head back. When I kiss your neck. When I taste your throat and then move my way down. Unbuttoning your shirt. Grabbing your beautiful breast and putting your sweet nipple into my mouth.”

  “Mm hmm.” I hold the chilled water bottle to my forehead to keep from catching on fire.

  “You taste so good,” he says. “You feel so good. I’m losing control, just thinking about pushing up your skirt and sliding down your panties. I’m going to touch you slowly.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m spreading your legs, and I’m kissing you. All the way down your body. I’m tasting your sweetness. Flicking you with my tongue. You’re going wild, moving around. I grab your thighs and hold you down. I use my mouth and tongue to make you lose control.”

  I whisper, “Are you hard right now?”

  He murmurs, “I can’t go on stage like this.”

  “I wish I could help you.”

  “You’re too far away. If you were here, I’d be inside you right now. I’d pull you somewhere out of the way, but not too private. Just behind a curtain. I’d pull up your skirt and hold you against the wall.”

  I try to speak, but all that comes out is a soft moan.

  “I’d check first with my fingers,” he says. “I’d tease you, draw it out. Then when neither of us could wait any longer, I’d cover your mouth with mine while I slide into you. You’d hold on tight, your legs around my waist, while I drive you up against the wall.”

  I moan again.

  “You’d beg me to take it slow. But then I’d slow down, and you’d beg me to go harder. Harder. And I would. I’d give you everything you want. Everything you need. And the whole world would have to wait, on the other side of the curtain.”

  More people pass by me in the hallway, looking down at me with curiosity. I snap out of Dylan’s daydream and crack the lid off the bottle of cold water.

  “What’s happening there?” he asks.

  I take a long drink and wipe my mouth. “Ah. Just drinking water. I was in danger of catching on fire for a minute.”

  “I wish you were here, because I am on fire.” He groans.

  I smile, feeling proud of the discomfort I’m causing him. “When are you coming to Rome? Please tell me you’re coming tomorrow.”

  There’s a pause, and the background noise comes back. It sounds like a guy is talking to Dylan. I can’t hear what he’s saying. I’m so glad it’s not a girl talking to him, at least.

  “Yeah. Yeah, okay. One minute,” he says to the guy, then, “Sorry, Jess. I gotta go. As for my flight… the new album is going slowly, but I’ll fly out as soon as I can. I promise. Wait for me. I love you.”

  “I—” The call ends before I can say goodbye.

  I finish drinking the entire bottle of water, and then return to the meeting.

  The presentation goes well. I can’t stop smiling. The girl presenting the ideas probably thinks I’m happy with what she’s working on. I am, but mostly I’m in a daze from my phone call with Dylan.

  When I get back to the hotel room, I close the curtains, climb into bed, and pretend he’s there with me.

  His voice rolls through my mind, and I can feel his hands on my body.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The next morning, I wake up with a smile on my face.

  With every day that goes by, Dylan’s visit to Rome gets closer and closer. I don’t know when he’s coming, but it could be today. That would be just like him to surprise me.

  In fact, when I call him during my lunch break and get his voicemail, I imagine that he’s on an airplane, heading my way.

  The day’s meetings have gone about as well as can be expected.

  Chet seems distracted, though.

  We’re having a private lunch, just the two of us.

  I ask him, “Is everything okay with you? Have you gotten bored of shoe shopping already?”

  “Just homesick,” he says. “There aren’t enough sushi places in Rome.”

  We’re at a sushi place right now, but neither of us got a good feeling about the raw food, so we ordered cooked dishes. My teriyaki chicken was okay, but I’m missing homemade food. Dylan makes incredible marinated steaks on the outdoor grill, and I’d kill for one right now.

  “At least my side project is going well.” Chet’s green eyes dance, daring me to press him for details.

  “Side project? Do you mean the talent-scouting thing? Finding your dream girl, whose voice turns you into a puddle of lust?”

  He grins. “Jess. You make it sound so dirty.”

  “It is dirty,” I tease. “Musicians are sensitive and talented. They’re more than just sex objects.”

  He shakes his head. “I should have gone into finance. Life would have been much simpler.”

  “But not as fun.” I take a sip of my sparkling water and think about my own career expectations. I’ve always loved music, but I didn’t want to be a musician. When I took my business management program, I dreamed of one day working for a music label, but I didn’t really think it would happen.

  Now my dreams are all coming true.

  I should probably look around Rome for a wedding dress, because I’m going to need one.

  * * *

  At the end of another day of life and work in Rome, I climb into bed with my phone.

  There’s a new voicemail from Dylan, which I play and re-play.

  He doesn’t say anything in the message. He just strums his guitar and hums a melody. This song doesn’t have any lyrics yet, but I can still hear every word in my heart and soul.

  This song is about love, about us.

  I take a break from replaying the message to look up his Avalon performances. The publicist he works with has uploaded a ton of short clips under his YouTube channel. There are a few live versions of him doing one of the songs he was working on when I left. He sounds amazing. Of course. He is Dylan Wolf.

  He waves to the crowd and thanks them at the end of every song. In some of the clips, he sits on the edge of the stage and talks casually to people, mostly girls.

  My phone dings with one of those alert notices.

  I give my phone a dirty look. Thanks a bunch, phone. You gobble up half my text messages, then give me stuff I don’t even want.

  It’s another alert about Dylan, like before. This time it’s a link to another video of his Avalo
n performance. I didn’t see this under his YouTube channel, because it was uploaded by an anonymous user.

  When he’s finished playing, this video stays on longer. Dylan sits on the edge of the stage for a bit, then jumps off, into the crowd.

  A crowd of women flock around him. They’re rude, pushing each other away to get closer to him. Most of them are dressed for clubbing, but a few of them look like hookers.

  The ones with their big boobs sticking out of corsets are the ones who are the most desperate to get near Dylan. They toss their hair and move in like hungry jungle cats.

  He keeps on grinning, pretending to be surprised by all their fawning. I hate it when he acts like he doesn’t know the effect he has on women. They all go cray cray for his innocent act, of course.

  My grip on the phone tightens as my hand tries to make a fist.

  He pretends he doesn’t notice the girls pressing their bodies against him. He keeps talking to the crowd, asking if they liked the new song. I can’t hear every word he’s saying, because this footage was shot from a distance, but I catch snippets.

  “It’s getting late,” he says. “Shouldn’t you be at home, in bed?”

  They all scream and beg for him to take them home and tuck them in.

  “I can’t,” he says. “There are too many of you.”

  My cheeks start to burn. He can’t, because there are too many of them? That’s why? I know he’s joking, but it’s not funny at all.

  The women all scream. One yells, “We’re happy to share!”

  His eyes flick up to the camera. I feel like he can see me watching him, even though this is recorded. He seems to look right at me for a moment.

  I get a chill through my whole body and have to look away. I don’t want to watch this video. But I can’t shut it off, either.

  I look back at the screen, and a familiar face pops out of the crowd.

  It’s the same girl he was being kissed by in that other photo. This could be from the same night, for all I know.

  My heart is racing now and my mouth is sour. I can’t look away.

  The girl wraps her arms around his neck and pulls him close. The camera zooms in suddenly, into a closeup. I see their lips touch. Their lips touch and don’t pull away. The shot is tight on their faces, and nobody could deny they’re kissing. She might be a crazy fan, but he’s kissing her right back.