Hard SEAL: A Dark Bad Boy Next Door Romance

by Jessica Ashe

  I wouldn’t mind being paid a little more, mind you.

  The hourly rate working at Wembley Stadium isn’t bad, but I only have one more night shift there. This time, I should probably do my best to avoid Naomi. I’d love to get Emma an autograph, but I’d also like to not be arrested. Something tells me she won’t appreciate another impromptu visit.

  Chapter Three

  Naomi

  I’m mentally exhausted, and that was only my second show of the residency.

  Physical exhaustion I can handle, and I expect it. Usually after a performance, I’m so drained I can barely move and I end up flopped on the sofa until Katrina comes in and kicks my ass. That’s a good thing—it means I gave my all out on the stage. I’m stressed, but my body doesn’t feel drained.

  Did I do enough for my fans? The fact I’m still standing suggests I didn’t give it my all out there. I feel sick just contemplating it. Each person out there paid at least £40, which I think is over $50, and for some of them that is a hell of a lot of money. Add in all the travel costs, and potentially a hotel room for the night and you’re talking about hundreds of dollars to see me sing. The thought of me going out there and only giving ninety percent is abhorrent.

  Fortunately, in this day and age there’s one easy way to find out if you messed up. I open up Twitter on my phone and start looking through my notifications. The tweets I’ve been tagged in are nearly all positive. That’s fairly common; people don’t tend to tag me in a tweet if it’s nasty. Unfortunately, that’s not a universal rule, but it applies most of the time.

  Even after searching my name, I find mostly positive messages, and the ones that mention tonight’s performance are glowing. Some of the tweets talk about my performance in the context of my breakup.

  Naomi Price bounces back from broken heart with stirring performance.

  Naomi Price shows no sign of weakness as she wows fans.

  Articles about my breakup with Kenneth are being churned out on a regular basis. When we were together, I made sure to post lots of romantic photos, and Katrina tipped the press off when we were going on a date. I did my job a little too well; the world thought we were the perfect couple when really we were barely a couple at all.

  Now everyone wonders why we broke up. The nicer articles suggest we were both too busy to maintain the relationship. That’s sort of true; we were both too busy to start a relationship in the first place. Plus I don’t find him all that attractive. I mean, obviously he is attractive, in that clean-cut, A-list actor way, but he never did rock my world.

  Other articles take sides. Some suggest Kenneth was using me to boost the profile of his new movie, and others suggest I was doing the same for my new album and tour. The articles are nasty and often vicious, but they’re probably the closest to the truth. Neither of us ever admitted out loud that the relationship was a fraud, but we had an unspoken agreement. We knew what we were doing; it just would’ve been nice to get some advance notice when it was going to end.

  There’s a knock at the door and Katrina pokes her head through. “Can I come in?”

  I wave her inside and reluctantly put my phone down. It’s an addiction, and one I’ve struggled to fight. Barely an hour goes by when I don’t look at my notifications just to check that my image is still intact. Every morning I dread waking up and checking the updates in case shit went down while I was asleep. So far, so good, and Katrina deserves most of the credit for that.

  “How was I?” I ask Katrina. “Tell me honestly.”

  She always does anyway. Katrina had barely any experience managing singers when I hired her. Plenty of more experienced managers were knocking down my door hoping to get the job, but Katrina did something none of them did—she criticized me. Constructive criticism, of course. She critiqued my songs and elements of my performance. She spotted I wasn’t comfortable on stage playing the guitar and singing at the same time, and she encouraged me to focus on just my vocals. I’d been skeptical, but she was right. My success today proves that.

  “You were good,” Katrina replies. “I’ve seen you do better. You hit all the right notes, but some of the dance moves were a little off. Looked like your mind was elsewhere.”

  I can sing my songs in my sleep. No amount of mental distraction would make me forget the words, but dancing is a different story altogether. Dancing has never come naturally to me and even though we keep it to a minimum, I have to move about on stage more than I like. When my mind is not in the right place, I make missteps and then fight to recover. It isn’t a pretty sight, but few people notice in the passion of a concert.

  “I’ll do better tomorrow,” I promise.

  “Is everything okay? I feel like we haven’t really talked since the breakup with Kenneth. I didn’t know that was on the cards. If you’d told me, I could have dropped a few hints to friends of mine in the media and got our side of the story out first.”

  “That would have required me to know. We were both taken by surprise.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry, I didn’t realize. Is the situation beyond repair?”

  I shrug. “Maybe not, but I don’t want to repair it. Kenneth and I are done. End of.”

  “Can’t say I’m disappointed. He didn’t appreciate you. Let me know when you’re ready to date again, and I’ll set you up with one of the hundreds of eligible bachelors beating down my door desperate to meet you.”

  “Thanks, but I think I’m going to put dating on the back burner for a while.”

  Dating is more hassle than it’s worth. Maintaining my own pristine public image takes a lot of work, so having to do that for two people is kind of exhausting. I know I could hire people to do it for me, but the personal touch makes a huge difference. Besides, my fans deserve better than getting my messages through a social media manager. Speaking of which….

  “Katrina, can you take a few pictures?” I hand her my phone and strike a pose that looks natural and horrendously uncomfortable at the same time. Katrina takes a couple of pictures, but instead of handing the phone back, she grabs the bag of jelly beans from the table and throws them into my lap.

  “Let’s get a picture of you eating jellybeans.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  Predictably, the story of me ordering Lance to get jellybeans found its way to the press. Lance has a fair idea who leaked it, but there’s not much we can do. Any attempt to silence the story will just make things worse.

  “It’s a great idea,” Katrina insists. “You can’t come out and deny the story, but if we post a playful picture it will make it look like the whole thing’s been blown out of proportion.”

  “Okay then,” I say with a nod. I’m not entirely convinced it’s a good idea, but what the hell, I get to eat jellybeans. I open the bag and grab a small handful, before shoving them into my mouth slow enough that Katrina can get the picture.

  Katrina passes me the phone and I go about uploading a couple of pictures to Instagram with a few cheeky comments in the caption.

  “You need anything else from me?” Katrina asks.

  “No, you can leave. Go call that husband of yours. Last time I met him, he told me off for keeping you from him.”

  “He misses me when we’re overseas,” Katrina replies. The big soppy grin on her face makes it clear she misses him too. I hope to feel that way about someone one day.

  “I’ll be fine. I’m just going to get showered and dressed, and then jump in the car. The bed in my hotel is so comfy. I can’t wait to get back to it.”

  Shame I’ll be the only one in it.

  Katrina leaves and I get undressed for the sixth time in the space of three hours. The shower in my dressing room has weak water pressure and reminds me of the one back home in my mom’s house. It’s not exactly an enjoyable experience, but my body is covered in sweat and there’s no way I’m going outside sticky and smelly.

  Once out of the shower, I wrap a towel around my body and head to the rail to grab my post-performance clothes. Th
ey’re missing. Great. I have the clothes I wore on the way in, but I like to wear fresh ones after a show. At least I have my jellybeans this time.

  I grab the hairdryer, and turn it on full blast. It sounds like there’s a rocket taking off nearby as my head is blasted with hot air. I don’t have to do any of this myself if I don’t want to. There was a time, back when I first hit the top of the charts, that I let my people do everything for me including drying my hair. I changed a lot in a short space of time, and Mom called me out on it. After that, I started looking after myself again when it came to the basics.

  I turn the hairdryer off and place it back down on the dressing table. Something feels different. My fingers wrap around the handle of my hairbrush, when I hear a voice behind me.

  “Hello.”

  I spin around quickly in my seat with the hairbrush held out in front of me like a sword. It’s a man’s voice, but Lance would only come in unannounced if there was an emergency. Besides, Lance doesn’t have an English accent.

  I look up and see the strange man from yesterday standing casually in front of me.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” I ask, before yelling “Lance,” at the top of my voice.

  “Is Lance the security guy?” the man asks.

  “Yes, and I’d suggest you run when you see him because he’s going to kick your ass.”

  “I’ll bear that in mind, but Lance won’t be around for a while. He’s on an errand.”

  “What errand?”

  “It doesn’t matter. I won’t keep you long; I’m sure you have a hot date with some pretentious actor to go to.”

  “You couldn’t sound more jealous if you tried. Anyway, I thought you said you were never coming back.”

  “I can make an exception for you. Besides, I need a favor.”

  “You need a favor from me?” I ask incredulously.

  “Yes please,” the man says with frustrating smoothness. His eyes flick down to my chest so I grab the top of my towel and make sure it is held firmly in place.

  “Let me get this straight. You’ve barged into my dressing room unannounced for a second time and instead of having you fired, and potentially pressing charges, you think I’m going to do you a favor?”

  “If you wouldn’t mind.”

  “Why on earth would I do that?”

  The man shrugs. “Because you’ll do anything for your fans? I’ll do you a favor in return if you like.”

  “What on earth could you have to offer me?”

  A grin stretches across his face as he crosses his arms over his chest flexing his large biceps. “I’m sure we could come to an arrangement.”

  “I thought you withdrew your offer.”

  “Consider it reopened. Although like I said, I need something from you in return.”

  I shake my head in dismay. I’ve had indecent proposals before. Real ones, with serious amounts of money involved. When you move in the circles I move, it’s not uncommon to come across a billionaire with more money than sense. I’ve been offered far more than the $1 million Demi Moore got in the movie, and I’ve never even been slightly tempted.

  I like to think at the age of twenty-three I still have a few good years ahead of me. I’m not quite at the stage where I need to do favors for sex.

  “Lance will be back soon and he’s going to kick your ass.”

  He’ll try, but damn, this guy’s huge. His arms must be twice the size of Lance’s.

  “I suggest we get on with it then.”

  Before I can reply, the man has peeled the tight T-shirt from his skin and pulled it up over his head. He throws the shirt at me and I cringe as the sweaty fabric touches my shower fresh skin. The t-shirt smells, but it’s not a repulsive odor. It’s not exactly like a good aftershave either, but I like the muskiness of it. Eventually, I throw the t-shirt back at him with a great deal of reluctance.

  “What do you want?” I ask. “And it had better be clean.”

  “Your autograph.”

  “You want my autograph?”

  “Yes, is that so strange?”

  “Kind of,” I reply. “No one really asks for autographs anymore. It’s all selfies now.”

  “I guess I’m just old-fashioned.”

  “Who’s it for?”

  “For me.”

  “You’re a fan?” I ask dryly. I grab a pen and find one of the programs for the concert in my purse.

  “Of course.”

  “Okay then, I guess you’d better tell me your name. And just to be clear, I’m only asking so I can make the autograph out to you.”

  “Um, okay. My name’s Emma.”

  I look up at him wearily. “Your name’s Emma?”

  “Okay, my name’s Damon. That’s what you’ll be screaming later. Here’s the thing though, I’d like you to address the autograph to Emma?”

  “Fine, I really don’t care. What should I write? ‘Dear Emma, your boyfriend is a cheating scumbag, love Naomi Price.’”

  “Emma’s not my girlfriend. She’s just a…friend.”

  “Whatever.” I write out a short message and sign my name.

  I kind of miss doing this. I met one of my heroes when I was a kid and I got her autograph. I guess it would’ve been cool to get a photo with her too, but I still have the autograph at Mom’s house and I treasure it to this day. There’s something more personal about an autograph.

  “Thanks,” Damon says as he takes the signed program.

  “You can leave now. And put your shirt back on.” Because then I don’t have to strain my eyes keeping them at eye level.

  “You kept your end of the bargain; don’t you want me to keep mine?”

  “I have absolutely no desire to have some sweaty, smelly guy grind away on top of me thank you very much.”

  “I don’t have to be on top.” He looks me up and down, before his eyes come to a rest on mine. “Come to think of it, you need a good hard fucking from behind.”

  I let out an exasperated laugh and shake my head. “You really think you’re something special, don’t you? Do you think you’re the first tattooed, muscular ‘bad boy,’ I’ve been with?”

  He shrugs. “Maybe not, but I guarantee you I’ll be the best. Definitely better than all those nice boys you keep dating.”

  “I could tell you some stories about those ‘nice boys’ that would disgust you. There’s more to them than meets the eye.”

  There’s not. If possible, there’s even less.

  “I still think you need to let your hair down. I’m sure you’re staying at some expensive penthouse; seems a shame to let it go to waste.”

  “So tempting, but I’ve just had a shower. I wouldn’t want to get all sweaty again. If it weren’t for that, I’d be all yours.”

  My voice isn’t quite as sarcastic as I’d like it to be. No need to guess why. In a world free from consequences, Damon and I would jump in my limo and go straight back to the hotel where I would let him have his way with me. I’m used to having most of the power in relationships, and just this once I’d love to surrender myself to a man who doesn’t give a shit about who I am and what I can do for them.

  But this isn’t a world free from consequences. I can’t have a one night stand even if I want to.

  I shout for Lance again, and this time he opens the door and comes inside. He looks shocked to find out I’m not alone.

  “Can I help?” he asks staring at the back of Damon’s head.

  “Please escort this man to the exit,” I say. “He’s just leaving.”

  “With pleasure.”

  Lance grabs Damon’s arm and tries to pull him towards the door. Damon resists, and for a second I think there’s going to be trouble. I look pleadingly at Damon, and eventually he smiles and lets Lance guide him out the door.

  I quickly get dressed and wait for Lance to come back. I can’t even leave my dressing room without an escort. That’s not me being a diva; I really can’t go anywhere unattended. I either get mobbed by adoring fans, or threaten
ed by aggressive ones. Another downside to success.

  “Sorry about that, Ms. Price,” Lance says as he returns. “I got a call that your mother was asking to be allowed backstage so I went to let her in.”

  “My mother’s back in America.”

  “Yeah, no one was there. I guess it was just a hoax.”

  And no need to guess who started it.

  “Never mind,” I reply. “Can you bring the car around? I’m ready to leave. Actually, on second thoughts, I’m going to step outside to get some fresh air.”

  “Certainly, ma’am. Where would you like to go? I may need to get a few men to cover all the entrances and exits.”

  “I’m just going to the staff entrance out back.”

  “Okay, that’s easy enough to monitor.”

  “I’d like to go alone.”

  “Alone?” Lance asks as if it’s the strangest request in the world.

  “I’ll be fine, Lance. It’s deserted out there, and you can wait just inside the door. I’ll scream if I need you, and you know I can scream with the best of them.”

  Lance reluctantly agrees and escorts me to the back exit. The place is dead; everyone has long since gone home to be with their families and get a good night’s sleep.

  After getting dressed, I step outside and my first reaction is to be surprised at how cold it is. It strikes me that I’ve been in London for a week, and yet I have no idea what temperature it is at night. I’m barely outside for more than ten seconds at a time before being shoved into a limo, or snuck into the back of a hotel.

  I take a deep breath through my nose and exhale slowly as if I’m in the middle of the yoga session. The crowds have all dispersed and it’s a quiet night, with the only noise coming from the odd car driving nearby.

  Then I realize I’m not alone.

  “There you are; I’ve been looking all over for you.”

  I turn in the direction of a woman’s voice and realize she’s not talking to me. A woman in a short skirt walks towards a man standing at the end of the street, her heels echoing loudly with every step. He has his back to me, but a nearby streetlight illuminates his outline and its one I immediately recognize. It’s not a body shape I’m likely to forget.