Hard SEAL: A Dark Bad Boy Next Door Romance

by Jessica Ashe

  Naomi

  I’ve been dumped.

  I discover my newly-single status by scrolling through my Twitter feed.

  Right now, my notifications are full of my fans expressing their heartfelt condolences in 140 characters or less, combined with plenty of offers of new relationships. Soon, the dick pics will start coming. Poor choice of words, Naomi. On a normal day, I only get one dick pic—usually flaccid for some reason—but when I’m single or newly single they come at me in the hundreds.

  What do these men expect to happen? Do they really think I’m going to see a picture of their dick and send them a message begging for sex?

  Dear Sam, I know I’m one of the biggest stars on the planet and can have any man I want, but when I saw that low resolution picture of your semi-erect penis I went weak at the knees. I have to have you. When can we meet up? N xx

  I’m tempted to send that message one day. My guess is that most guys wouldn’t know what to do next and I’d never hear from them again.

  Kenneth hasn’t bothered to get in touch and dump me officially. I only have his tweets to go off, but they don’t leave much room for doubt. His latest simply reads:

  Sad to say my relationship with @NaomiP is over. No hard feelings. We’re both going our separate ways.

  No hard feelings? A poor choice of words on his part, given the problems he had in the bedroom department.

  Kenneth certainly knows how to pick his moments. In thirty minutes I go on stage at Wembley Stadium for the first date of my three-month residency. It’s not like I particularly care. I barely like him, and I sure as hell don’t love him. Still, no girl wants to be dumped, especially not in such a public fashion.

  “Fucking asshole.” I say the words out loud—it makes me feel better.

  I give it a week before he hooks up with someone else. He’s an attention whore, and coming from me that really is saying something. If he cared about me at all, we could have prepared a joint statement and both retained some degree of dignity. Now I have to go out on stage and perform for two hours with everyone analyzing my every facial expression to see if I break down in tears.

  My dressing room suddenly feels suffocatingly hot so I turn the temperature down on the thermostat and wait for the icy-cool air to start pumping in through the vents. I could do without this right now.

  I look around at the selection of food and drink that I insist on having in my dressing room for every performance. The drinks are healthy enough. It’s mainly bottles of water, with a Diet Coke as my reward for when I’m finished. The food is absolute trash though. For whatever reason, I crave certain American candies when I’m abroad. My dressing room always has to contain Hershey’s Kisses, Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, and a huge bag of jellybeans. I never eat that food when I’m at home in LA, or at Mom’s in New York, but the second I leave US territory, I crave it.

  God only knows how I keep my figure slim, although I suppose all the dancing around on stage does help. I usually save the snacks for the intervals, but right now I really need some jellybeans. I crack open the packet and grab a handful of jelly…babies? Shit. Instead of jellybeans, they gave me jelly babies, some weird British candies that look like Gummy Bears. I don’t like Gummy Bears.

  “Lance,” I yell. Probably shouldn’t be shouting right before I go on stage to sing for two hours.

  My security guard bursts through the door with a panicked look on his face. “What’s wrong?” he asks, looking around the room in case an attacker is hiding somewhere.

  “They gave me jelly babies,” I reply.

  “Okay,” Lance replies slowly, clearly not understanding the gravity of the situation. “You like jelly babies.”

  “No, I like jellybeans. Go yell at the woman in charge here and tell her to bring me some.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Lance is good at being discreet, but I know I’m still going to get labeled a diva. I try so hard not to be like that, but all it takes is one bad day and suddenly a year of good behavior gets thrown out the window. Screw it, I don’t care if people think I’m a diva. At least that way I might actually get my damn jellybeans.

  I check my phone and find a message from Kenneth. Good to know where I stand on his list of priorities. Twitter, then Facebook, then me. I guess it could be worse. He contacted me before posting on Instagram. I should feel privileged.

  Sorry babe, but I just don’t think things are working out. I’m sure you agree. I’ll see you around though.

  In other words, I’ve served my purpose. He got the publicity he needed for his new movie, and now I’m surplus to requirements. I start typing out a reply, but then delete it and throw my phone against the sofa instead. He’s not worth it, so why am I angry? I don’t have any right to be this angry. He used me, but I’m hardly innocent in all this. We started dating just before I announced my tour and it didn’t do my ticket sales any harm.

  I laugh to myself and shake my head. That’s all I can do, really. It’s the world I live in.

  I date celebrities because they’re the only people I have regular interaction with. It’s not like I deliberately time things for maximum publicity; that just kind of happens. Of course, if you believe everything you read online, then I’m a publicity-hungry whore who will do anything and anyone to sell her latest album. Nowadays, I barely even bother to fight it. There are people out there who just want to see the worst in others. I have my fans; I can hear them now, screaming at the top of their lungs as the awful warm-up act plays.

  The door opens and I look up expecting to see the stadium manager walking in looking contrite and holding a bag of jellybeans. Instead, a sweaty, shirtless man walks in backwards dragging a large speaker on wheels into my dressing room.

  He doesn’t notice me as he stops and wipes the sweat from his brow. There are two types of men in this world. Men whose sweat grosses me out, and men whose sweat makes me want to slide my hands over their slick muscles and lick their skin. This guy definitely falls into the latter category.

  Regardless of how easy he is on the eye, he still can’t be in here with me. I have people to keep people like him away. Serves me right for sending Lance off to sort out the jellybean situation.

  I keep staring at him, my eyes shooting lasers at his back, while he resumes dragging the large speaker into the room. It’s a two-man job and he looks like he’s struggling by himself. I’m assuming he’s lost, because my dressing room is definitely not a storage space for spare speakers.

  “Can I help you?” I ask dryly, when it becomes apparent he’s not going to notice me.

  He lets go of the speaker and turns to look at me. I expect to see a look of recognition on his face, but there isn’t one. Usually people stare at me for about a second, and then their eyes go wide and their mouths hang open. A few seconds later they’re usually pulling out phones and demanding selfies.

  “Who are you?” he replies.

  I guess it’s my turn to be wide-eyed and open-mouthed. He’s standing there shirtless, wearing just a pair of jeans with the top of his boxer briefs poking out over a brown leather belt. He looks so unfazed by me that for a moment I wonder whether it’s me who’s in the wrong place. Then I look down at my tailor-made selection of drinks and candies and remember that I’m the star here and he’s in my dressing room.

  “What do you mean ‘who am I?’” I snap angrily. “You’re in my dressing room.”

  “This isn’t the electrical storage room?”

  “Does this look like an electrical storage room?”

  He looks around slowly, taking in the makeup table with a large mirror, sofa, and the rail with six different outfits hung up ready to be worn during and after the concert.

  “No, I guess it doesn’t.”

  “Then perhaps you should push that speaker back out of here before my security guard comes back and kicks your ass to the curb.”

  “All right, calm down, love.”

  “Calm down? You’re in my dressing room.”


  “It’s an easy enough mistake to make.”

  “How? Didn’t you notice my name on the door? I’ll give you a clue, it’s written in a big fucking star.”

  The man looks over at the open door. “So it is. Sorry, sweetheart, but I came in arse first. Didn’t notice the sign.”

  “Don’t call me sweetheart.” Because it makes me want to jump on you. I’m still only used to hearing English accents in films, and his sounds nothing like Daniel Craig. There’s more of a Jason Statham vibe to it: rough and only just comprehensible.

  “Fine,” the man replies holding his hands up in the air defensively. “Sorry...” He looks back at the name on the door. “Sorry, Naomi Price. I’ll be on my way.”

  I stare at him as he bends forward slightly and starts pushing the speaker back towards the door. “Don’t come back,” I say quietly but firmly. I don’t know why I say anything at all. Maybe it’s my desire to always get the last word in. More likely, I just don’t want him to leave.

  His body is covered in muscles and most of them are covered in tattoos. The bright lights from my makeup table shine on his sweaty skin, leaving me staring at his wide shoulders as his muscles tense up to push the speaker back towards the entrance.

  The speaker is half way through the door, when he stops pushing and stands up straight. He turns and almost catches me staring at him, but I quickly look away and act impatient.

  “You know what you need?”

  “Yes, some jellybeans.”

  He furrows his brow in confusion, but then shakes it off. “Actually, I meant you need a good rogering.”

  “Who’s Roger?”

  “I mean, you look tense. You need to get your leg over.”

  “Get my leg over what?”

  The man rolls his eyes and sighs. “Bloody hell, woman, you need a good shag.”

  That one I understand.

  “And you’re kindly offering to do the honors? How generous of you.”

  “I am busy tonight,” he replies. “But I reckon I can squeeze you in.”

  “You’re busy tonight? You hear that noise?”

  He stares at me intently before shrugging his shoulders. “What noise?”

  “The noise of tens of thousands of people screaming.”

  “Oh yeah. I’ve been trying to block it out.”

  “Those people are all here for me.”

  “So… you’re saying I need to wait my turn?”

  “No, I’m saying that I don’t have time for this shit right now. You need to leave.”

  I have to be onstage in twenty minutes. I’m already dressed, but only in a skimpy little skirt and boob tube. It wouldn’t take much effort to drop my panties and let him have his way with me. We do have time, but it doesn’t matter. Even with all the time in the world, I can’t just screw some random good-looking guy who bursts into my dressing room.

  Not even if I really need it. Kenneth and I only saw each other once every two or three weeks, and some of those meetings had been in public, leaving little time for fun. The fact that neither of us really made the effort to have sex probably says a lot about the quality of that relationship.

  When we did have sex, it felt like more of a box-ticking exercise. It’s how I imagine it might feel when a couple is determined to have a child and has to have sex more than they otherwise would want to. We did the deed and talked politely afterwards, but the passion was nearly nonexistent.

  This man lugging the speaker isn’t lacking in passion. He might be an arrogant asshole, but he’s a passionate one, and he elicits the same from me. I’ve barely spoken to him for two minutes, and I already hate him.

  However, hate is a form of passion, and right now it’s one I’m sorely tempted to act on.

  He doesn’t seem to know who I am. He’s talking to me like I’m just some random girl he’s met in a bar after too many drinks. There’s a chance he won’t go and sell his story to the papers. He could bend me over, fuck me hard, and walk out of here never to be seen or heard from again.

  Maybe. But I can’t be sure.

  I have to assume everything I do will get leaked to the press. It’s how I live my life. Sure, it’s suffocating at times, but it’s how I make my fortune. This residency alone will earn me millions, so if I have to give up the chance of a quickie bent over my dressing table, then so be it.

  “You know,” the man continues casually, “when I proposition a woman they don’t usually spend so long thinking about it.”

  “I’m not thinking about your offer,” I lie. “I’m just wondering whether or not I should have you fired.”

  “You can’t have me fired. I’ve not done anything wrong. I’ve made you an offer, which you’re free to accept or decline as you choose. You’d be fucking crazy to decline it, but it’s up to you.”

  “I’ve had people fired just for looking at me funny.”

  “You must think you’re pretty powerful.”

  “I am powerful,” I reply sternly. I’m rich, and with money comes power. It’s kind of a package deal.

  I cross my arms over my chest and pout, looking every bit the spoiled princess he no doubt thinks I am. I’m not always like this. I don’t usually have to be. One of the good things about being rich—and therefore powerful—is you rarely have to prove yourself to anyone. Unfortunately, it only works if the person you’re speaking to knows you’re rich and powerful.

  “If you say so,” the man says with a shrug of the shoulders. “Personally, I prefer my women to be a little more grounded. I take back my offer.”

  “You…you’re taking back your offer?”

  “That’s right. You had your chance, but now I’m going to get back to work.”

  “But I declined your offer. You can’t take your offer back after I’ve declined it.”

  “I just did. Besides, you’d better get out there and entertain your fans. I’m guessing most of them need to be in bed by ten.”

  I have half a mind to push him towards the door, but I know he’d love it if I put my hands on him. I doubt I’d be able to move him anyway. Besides, the last thing I want is to drop a microphone because my hands are covered in sweat.

  “Just leave. Or do I need to call security?”

  “I’m going, I’m going.” He pauses and looks down at the table covered in candy. “Mind if I grab a jelly baby?”

  “Lance,” I scream at the top of my voice. I take a small amount of satisfaction from the puzzled look on the man’s face, as I hear Lance running down the hallway towards my dressing room.

  “Ms. Price? Is everything okay in there?”

  I look over at the door and see Lance trying to squeeze past the loudspeaker which is blocking the entrance.

  “I’m just leaving,” the man says. He pushes the speaker—ignoring the fact that he almost sends Lance sprawling to the floor—and wanders casually out of the room.

  “Are you okay?” Lance asks. He’s holding a bag of jelly beans which I snatch out of his hand. “Do you want me to go and detain that man?”

  “No, I’m fine.”

  I picked Lance as my main security guard precisely because he can look discreet. He’s not as big as your typical celebrity bodyguard, but he more than makes up for that with a fundamental desire to protect me at all costs. He’s ferocious, but even so, he might have his work cut out trying to detain that stranger.

  “It was a misunderstanding,” I explain. “Thanks for the jelly beans. You can leave now; I need to get my mind in the right place before I go out there.”

  Lance nods. He knows I need time to myself before I go on stage. He’ll stay by the door and probably be angry at himself all night for letting the man get into my dressing room. It’s my fault; if I hadn’t asked for those damn jellybeans it would never have happened.

  I set a timer for ten minutes on my phone and lie down on the sofa to meditate. It’s a new thing I’ve been trying out; ten minutes isn’t a lot, but it helps me clear my mind of the negativity that constantly fills my head the
se days.

  I close my eyes and count my breaths, starting again from zero every time I get to ten. The timer is there in case I fall asleep, which has happened before. I’m sure some of my fans expect me to be late on stage as part of the ‘rock ’n roll lifestyle,’ but I’m not sure meditating counts as a very rock ’n roll excuse.

  The most important part of meditating is not thinking and letting your worries drift off into the ether. I’ve never been very good about that part. Instead I think about what’s getting me down and try to convince myself it’s not worth worrying about. There are three main things getting me down right now.

  One: people are attacking me online and writing nasty things; they’re just jealous. I have all the money, success, and fame I could ever have asked for, while they’re stuck bashing away on a keyboard in their parents’ basements.

  Two: I don’t have any privacy and can’t be myself; it’s a small price to pay for the opportunity to entertain millions of fans. I’d like privacy, but I also like being able to sing on stage and have people sing along with songs I’ve written myself.

  Three: I miss my father. There’s not much I can do about that one.

  I listen to the roar of the crowd. The noise is nothing compared to the eruption that will take place when I walk into the spotlight. This is the point where I usually picture the crowd and get myself psyched up. Like I said, although I enjoy meditating, I’m not very good at it.

  Instead of picturing the crowd, all I can see is the man who burst into my dressing room earlier. If I didn’t know better, I’d almost assume he was a gift from my manager. Katrina’s been known to send me presents when I need to de-stress, and she always knows what I want. That man is exactly what I want and need right now. Shame he’s off the table. He was off the table even before he withdrew his offer.

  I shake my head and grind my teeth together in anger as I think back to him casually saying he didn’t want to have sex with me anymore. The nerve of the guy. He’s going to get home tonight to his crappy house and realize he just insulted one of the biggest singers on the planet.

  I relax my mouth and brake out into a slight smile. He probably doesn’t even care. Most people trip over themselves in front of me, but not him.