Reckless
by
Priscilla West
Copyright © 2014 BNXWorks LLC
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
Copyright © 2014 BNXWorks LLC
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Warning: This work contains sexual content and is written for adults only (18+). All characters depicted in this story are over 18 years of age.
Table of Contents
Chapter One: Trouble
Chapter Two: Bamboozled
Chapter Three: Hot-headed
Chapter Four: Hungover
Chapter Five: The Suit
Chapter Six: On the Bus
Chapter Seven: Pushing Buttons
Chapter Eight: First Stop: Chicago
Chapter Nine: Arrangements
Chapter Ten: The Jax Effect
Chapter Eleven: The Mile-High City
Chapter Twelve: Pyrotechnics
Chapter Thirteen: Heated
Chapter Fourteen: Shooting Star
Chapter Fifteen: Surprised
Chapter Sixteen: Dessert
Chapter Seventeen: Deep
Chapter Eighteen: Along for the Ride
Chapter Nineteen: Return of the Living Dead
Chapter Twenty: Seeing Things
Chapter Twenty-One: Wet 'N' Wild
Chapter Twenty-Two: Ice Cream
Chapter Twenty-Three: Talk
Chapter Twenty-Four: Alone
Chapter Twenty-Five: Over
Chapter Twenty-Six: The Reapers
Chapter Twenty-Seven: One Small Lie
Chapter Twenty-Eight: Burn
Chapter One
TROUBLE
I’d been expecting a quiet Saturday night out at the bar, but it was fast turning into chaos.
I waited with bated breath, the sound of my own heartbeat pounding in my ears, the anticipation in the air so dense I could cut it with a knife. I couldn’t see the stage from where I was sitting because the audience was near shoulder-to-shoulder packed, but from the eerie—almost reverent—silence that passed over the crowd, I knew the band had taken the stage and were about to play.
Then I heard something.
A thump.
Followed by another.
And another.
The bassline echoed off the walls, resonating with the crowd’s thrumming energy, its infectious rhythm building in a slow crescendo, raising the excitement in the bar higher and higher.
The explosive sound of drums broke through the bassline and people began shouting and pumping their fists in the air to the beat like an angry mob. I looked to Jen for her reaction and saw her eyes wide and mouth in the shape of an ‘O’.
I wanted to see the band badly. I’d been to enough rock concerts to know that half the performance was the music and the other half was in the way the band worked the stage. They must’ve been a local act because I didn’t know what they looked like and hadn’t seen them perform before.
After getting up from my barstool and stupidly jumping a few times on my four-inch heels—which only got me closer to twisting my ankle than seeing the stage—I realized we’d have to get closer.
"Come on!" I shouted to Jen.
Yanking my purse off the counter, I grabbed her hand and headed toward the crowd. Distantly, I registered a voice behind me saying "I have a really bad feeling about this, Riley!" but I ignored it.
It had started as a typical night out in downtown Manhattan with my co-worker Jen. On our way to our usual drinking spot, we took a detour and stumbled across a sign advertising for the Wallabee Pub—a grungy dive bar that must have been one of the last places in Manhattan where Jen and I had never gone on a Saturday night. The sign had a cartoon kangaroo dressed in a tuxedo and sporting a purple mullet. It was cute and we felt adventurous, so we decided to check it out.
I’d been in the middle of complaining to Jen about a new travel assignment I’d been given at work when things in the bar quickly got weird.
A guy appeared on stage and announced that "The Cocks" were going to play a secret, impromptu show in ten minutes. As soon as the words came out of his mouth, pandemonium erupted. People started screaming with excitement and flooding the dance floor in front of the stage. Phones, lit up by thumbs, looked like fireflies in the dim lighting, a few girls fainted, at least one vomited, and Jen and I sat at the bar, completely dumbfounded. Curiosity led me to look up the band on my phone, but I scowled when all the search hits that came up were pictures of dongs.
I pulled Jen into the crowd, and something whizzed by our heads, making us do a double-take. Was that a shot glass? We shouldered on, but before we even got past the first row of people, a flurry of beer mugs, bras, and shirts bombarded us. People were undressing and alcohol was flying. My pulse began to race. The situation was quickly turning into one of the wildest concerts I’d ever been to.
And I’d been to Coachella.
"I’m getting half a Victoria’s Secret store thrown at me!" Jen shrieked, pushing her glasses higher on her nose.
The night felt crazy even to me—I couldn’t imagine what Jen must think of the crowd here at the Wallabee. Other than the occasional night out for drinks to release work tension, Jennifer Benton fit the straight-edge image of a professional accountant to a tee—pixie haircut, thick glasses, and pant suit included. Since I was more lively and rebellious, we complemented each other well; I pulled her out of her shell, and she pulled me out of trouble. Well, at least some trouble, anyway.
"Suck it up!" I said. I knew this wasn’t really her scene, but tonight, we were going to let loose. It was hard to see in the low lighting, but I pulled her along as we dipped, ducked, dived, and dodged our way through the hail of clothing falling around us.
Just when I thought the worst was over, a thin white material enveloped my eyes. "Ugh! I got some guy’s underwear thrown in my face!" I cried, throwing the garment off into the crowd and spitting cotton threads from my mouth while Jen laughed at me. Not only were the girls getting wild, but apparently so were the men—the few that there were. I shuddered, imagining the half-naked guy who owned it flopping up and down to the beat, his penis doing the same.
"I think we should turn back to the bar, Riley. This is dangerous!"
"No, we can’t give up!" I said, pulling my friend along. "I’ve seen worse. We’ll be fine!"
We squirmed past feverish bodies, avoiding randomly thrown paraphernalia while the pace of the music increased. Our urgency grew with the beat and within moments, I’d lost both my heels and had torn the hem of my little black dress. My breathing was ragged, and I was sweating like I’d just been in a sauna, but I didn’t care. Curiosity was my kryptonite, and I was determined to make it to the front of that stage—minor setbacks be damned.
Right as I elbowed my way past a pair of headbangers, the music stopped.
A moment passed in complete silence. Then, a distinctly masculine voice broke through.
And this is how it feels when I lose myself in you
And this is why I’m caged and bound, frozen by your secrets
And this is where we hide, when we’re lost inside
And this what I do to fight my way back to you
The tone was intimately low but carried a dangerous edge of intensity, effortlessly shifting between smooth legato and fierce gutturals as the beat picked up again. High-pitched female screams from the
crowd followed each verse.
I’d been to a lot of concerts, but I’d never heard a voice like that before.
Heart racing with more than anxiety, I was suddenly reminded of an old myth I read in high school: man-eating half-bird-half-woman creatures who would use their beautiful voices to lure men to their doom. Back then, it seemed like a silly story—what voice could have that effect on people? But now, listening to another soaring chorus, I was beginning to rethink that opinion.
Was I listening to a male Siren?
Jen and I continued fighting our way to the front. I no longer had to pull her along, rather, she was pushing me forward, the Siren’s voice taking effect on both of us. I released my grip on her hand for just a moment and a rush of sweaty bodies separated us. I spotted her among a flurry of guys and girls jumping up and down, banging their heads to the beat.
"Jen!!" I cried, as I shouldered my way to her. People thrashing to the music’s rhythm moved in front of me and blocked my view. I lost sight of her.
"Riley!"
I barreled toward the direction of her voice. As I caught a brief glimpse of her plastic frames through a narrow gap, I stretched my hand out to her.
Her hand extended—almost far enough, but not quite. I touched the tips of her fingers then she was pulled away by the sea of people. "Go on without me!" she cried as bodies collapsed on the opening.
"Nooo!" I tried to push my way back to Jen, but it was like trying to swim through raging rapids. My pulse raced, and my stomach knotted. She’d been right. This was a stupid, dangerous idea. I should’ve listened to her. I wanted to give up on getting to the stage and focus instead on getting Jen and myself out of the crowd and back to safety. As I shouldered past a girl on top of a guy’s shoulders—a teetering, terrifying human totem pole in the middle of the crazy crowd—the Siren began singing again.
Give yourself to me
I still need you
I’m falling, falling hard
Give yourself to me
I will save you
I’m falling, falling
Give into me
Give into me
His voice was hauntingly beautiful, each verse devilishly raw and sublimely angelic. The chorus filled me with such intense yearning I began to doubt my own sanity.
His voice beckoned me, and I felt compelled to respond. Thoughts of my friend were quickly overpowered by fantastic lewd images of the possible owner of such a mind-blowing voice. I turned around and began heading for the stage.
I’m sorry, Jen. He’s calling me.
I silently made a vow. I’d get to the front. For the both of us.
Leapfrogging over someone who was kneeling down and crying, her hands clasped together in prayer, I bumped into the back of a topless girl. Before I could apologize, she turned to face me. Her silver hair showed her age, and there was a crazy look in her eye along with foam teasing the edges of her mouth. "You’re not getting near my husband!" she screeched, pushing me backward.
There was no way Granny Cujo could be the singer’s wife. I considered using my pepper spray necklace on her but quickly decided against it—using it in such a cramped space meant I’d get hit along with everyone else.
Before I could contemplate the situation further, she balled her fist and wound back. Adrenaline rushed through my system. I instinctively ducked her punch and stumbled forward, disappearing into the horde of people in front of me.
"Get back here!" I heard her shriek from behind me like a banshee. My heart beat pulsed in my ear a thousand times a minute, my lungs burned, and my bare feet ached. Only moments ago, I’d been complaining to Jen about my stupid job assignment, and now I was running for my life. Between the naked people and the rabid granny, the situation was insane.
But I couldn’t stop moving toward the stage.
The crazy woman’s voice grew faint, overpowered by the thumping music and the sound of my own breaths. Squeezing past a flailing guy who was desperately trying to hold his kicking and screaming girlfriend from rushing the stage, I broke out to the front section of the audience. There were still rows of heads in front of me, but I could at least see the stage.
It had nearly killed me in the process, but I’d made it.
After a few quick, panting breaths, I raised my eyes to the stage and nearly fell backward at the sight of the man singing.
Holy. Fuck.
Towering in front of the mic stand, he exuded a near-tangible aura of intense sexual energy. I was forced to squint, as if the spotlights shining down came from him, not the ceiling. Lean but packed muscles in his arms rippled as he jammed his guitar. Flowing black hair framed equally dark eyes beneath arrogantly slashed brows. He had a sharply angled nose, full lips, and a thin layer of stubble covering a jawline that could have been chiseled out of granite. I’d never seen a man so savagely gorgeous. It was difficult to describe him as anything but a god—a rock god in a dark v-neck and black leather pants.
My breath caught in my chest as my heart danced in my ribcage. I figured he’d be hot—judging by his voice, he had to be—but confronted with the full visual effect of him performing, I realized he wasn’t just hot. No, he was beyond hot. He was scorching.
A feverish heat ripped through me as he passionately belted a verse and whipped his shoulder-length hair back. He jammed a chord from his hips, closed his eyes, and belted out another powerful verse, sending the crowd reeling. Each move gave the impression of raw animal magnetism. He didn’t just ooze sex. He was sex, made flesh. Every motion of his figure, every movement of his lips, the way his inky hair tossed against his marvelous features, and those eyes—those intensely dark eyes—it was as if he was directly fucking every woman in the crowd with his gaze.
He started scanning the audience. He gazed over my section, but he paused and turned back to look right at me.
My heart stopped.
Our eyes locked as he began singing the down-tempo bridge.
Something passed in the air between us, and I could’ve sworn I saw a spark in his eyes. A charge of electricity ran through me. Then, just like that, he finished the bridge and shifted his eyes to a different section of the crowd, freeing me from his gaze.
Had it been my imagination?
I looked around and saw glazed eyes staring at him. Maybe I wasn’t the only one who’d thought he had made eye contact.
Stepping away from the mic, he bent toward the front row and pulled an eager brunette onto the stage. She took a seat in a chair at the center. Other girls tried to jump onto the stage with her, but burly security personnel in the front row managed to hold them back—though it looked like they were struggling.
The Siren set his guitar down, took the mic off the stand, and sang to the brunette, crooning seductive notes as she squealed and gripped the edges of her chair tightly. I felt a pang of jealousy, wishing I’d been the one he’d chosen to bring on stage. Midway into the second chorus, the brunette moaned in ecstasy, slid off the chair and collapsed to her knees with her head back, lids closed, and thighs clamped together—clear signs of an orgasm. A shiver moved through me. My last boyfriend couldn’t make a woman come if he had half a sex toy store and a map at his disposal. This guy could do it with just his voice.
The brunette slumped on stage, apparently no longer able to stand. Members of the stage crew had to come out and carry her away, but she had the biggest smile on her face.
Shaking my head, I was starting to regain my senses. It was clear that any "connection" I’d imagined earlier was all just part of the show.
The Siren picked his guitar back up and returned to the mic stand. He started another song.
I stood there watching, listening. Entranced. I was vaguely aware of other members of the band, but in the middle of such a stunning performance,, my attention only focused on him.
He sang about pain and pleasure, desperation and elation. The lyrics seemed deeply personal. I vaguely wondered whether he wrote them himself and if so, where his inspiration came from.
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When the set ended, I felt emotionally drained. How many songs did they sing? Two? Twenty? I didn’t know. I only became aware of the passage of time when the music stopped.
The male Siren unslung his guitar, tossed it backward to his bandmate, and hopped off the stage to the dance floor.
Without so much as looking back toward the stage, his eyes searched the crowd and then locked back onto mine just like earlier in the set. Tension coiled in my stomach as he began taking steps in my direction.
Toward me.
I wanted to move but couldn’t; it was impossible to pry myself from his gaze. The sea of bodies, rather than mobbing him, parted to create a path between us, the burly arms of security guards keeping them at bay.
The girl I passed earlier who was struggling against her boyfriend’s grasp squeezed past security, approaching the god from his right. Another girl approached from his left. They each latched onto one sleeve and yanked on the fabric. Within seconds, their panicking boyfriends were at their sides, tearing them away. But the girls held on tight and the god’s shirt split down the middle, one half going to each girl.
He didn’t react, and his steps didn’t falter. He continued moving toward me, his dark eyes maintaining their hold on mine.
My breath hitched in my throat. He was shirtless now, and I could see a melange of tattoos splayed across his sculpted chest and along his muscular arms. Nipple rings jostling with each step, he closed the distance between us.
I tilted my head up to look at him as he stopped a foot in front of me. My mouth dried and my throat constricted. He was so close I could smell him. Nerves in my head were misfiring and bolts of desire were shooting through my core. The scent of his sweat was like an aphrodisiac, warping my senses until all I could think about was the sweat of our bodies tangled together.
My heart was beating a million times a minute, and I was afraid it was going to explode from my chest. I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came out. My brain was a jumbled mess, coherent thought mixing with visions of me licking his bared skin from head to toe.
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