“I don’t know how to thank you.”
“Ye can thank me by telling me yer name.”
“My name?” There’s no doubt now that he doesn’t know me.
“Ye do have one, don’t ye?”
“I…”
Dark eyebrows raise in expectation.
“Bree,” I whisper, holding my breath. Giving him the name I’ve been going by since I moved to the States. One less thing for the kids at school to tease me about. Because I found out very quickly that Beatrice wasn’t an ordinary American name. And the best thing you can be at a new school is ordinary.
“Bree,” he repeats, taking my hand and pressing my knuckles against his lips. “I’m Owen Gallagher.”
“I know who you are.”
He grins like he expected as much.
Half the world knows who he is now. But no matter how famous he got – the magazine covers, and TV interviews, the songs that topped the charts – he’d always be the boy that consumed my dreams. The boy who’d made me believe in white knights and fairytales. The boy who gave me hope when I had none.
The boy who broke his promise, and broke my heart.
He tilts his head and leans against the door frame, hands in the pockets of his ripped jeans, gray eyes studying me with a curiosity that has me wondering if there isn’t a part of him that remembers. That I meant even a fraction to him as he did to me.
His mouth opens like he’s going to respond, but instead, his expression changes to the broody, intense look he’s often photographed with. “Ye should have that shower. Ye look like ye’re frozen to the bone.”
I am, but I also don’t want him to leave.
“Thanks.”
He nods. “I’ll leave ye to it, then.”
I don’t realize I’m holding my breath, until the bedroom door shuts behind him, and I let it out in one long whoosh. Because I know that if he asks me, if I’m given the choice, there’s only one way this night will end. With Owen between my thighs, and my heart once again claimed by the only man who ever held it.
Chapter 3
Owen
Fuck, if I don’t sometimes hate the white-knight complex that seems to guide my every action. And hell, if I don’t want to storm back in that room and show her just how good I can be.
Lately it’s taken a shitload of booze to get me even close to in the mood. But right now, I’m sober as fuck, and I’m pretty sure the friction from my pants alone is enough to have me spilling my seed like a hormonal teenager. Especially when I hear the damn shower start, knowing the pretty little brunette with the soul-crushing blue eyes – and just the right curves to have a man begging for one taste – is naked, and wet, one room away.
But there was something in her expression when I looked past the initial lust that warmed her cheeks and had her breath catching every time she glanced my way that had warning bells blaring in my head.
Reservation.
Hesitation.
A touch of fear.
Not the typical response I get from women.
Shit.
My cock strains painfully against my jeans, and I wince, adjusting myself, the migraine from earlier starting to return.
I’m beginning to regret not requesting the mousy little concierge to bring me up a re-stock on my mini-fridge, because I doubt I’ll be sleeping much tonight.
I pull out a pill bottle from my pocket and flip the lid, popping the last two Tylenol in my mouth, and washing them down with the remainder of a half empty Heineken I find among the empty bottles. The warm beer makes me grimace, and my stomach grumbles, reminding me that I hadn’t eaten dinner tonight. Not unless beer and whisky were considered a food group.
A glance in the mirror that’s hung behind the television makes me wince. I rough a hand over the long scruff on my jaw, catching my own bloodshot eyes staring back at me, the dark circles that betray a year of sleepless, alcohol ridden nights.
Blaming the rock star life is easy. But I’ve been in this spiral since well before the band took off. And I know if I don’t change something quick, it won’t be long before I hit rock bottom.
And I know the impact will hurt like hell. And not just me. Everyone that cares about me, too. That thought alone has me wanting to pull my head out of my ass.
Maybe what I need is a vacation.
A chuckle vibrates in my throat at the thought. Because at close to thirty years old, I’ve never taken a damn vacation in my life. Not even as a kid. Sure, there were promises. My mother loved telling Cillian and I stories about all the places we’d visit. Places she’d take us if my father ever got off his lazy ass and made some decent money.
I wonder if the man she ran off with ever took her to those places. In a way, I hope she found some kind of happiness, even though she left our family with a gaping hole right at its center. Unlike Cillian, I don’t have any long-standing issues from her abandonment. She was selfish, without a motherly bone in her body, but I’m not jaded enough to think all women are the same.
But that doesn’t mean I’m willing to roll the dice and lay my chips down on one woman.
One night. That’s all I ever promise. I know it sounds cold and callous, but the women I bring to my bed know upfront there won’t be any flowers and serenading. I leave that shit to Aiden, and Cillian.
I pull off my hoodie and the damp t-shirt underneath it, cursing when I realize my clothes are in the bedroom. Any other girl and I’d be in that hot shower with her. I’m still not sure what the hell stopped me.
My stomach growls again. Food. That’s what I need to get my mind off the only other thing I want to eat.
When I hear the water turn off, I knock on the door.
She doesn’t answer right away, but when the door finally opens, I’m pretty sure all the blood that’s in my head rushes south once again.
Bloody hell, the girl is gorgeous.
Blue eyes blink up at me as she pulls her bottom lip between her teeth. I can tell she’s trying not to let her gaze drop to my bare chest, because I can see the hint of pink that warms her cheeks.
I’m not as prudent. I let my gaze travel down to the tight, black tank top that’s stretched across her breasts, and stifle a groan when I see her nipples pebble beneath the material. Fuck, she’s not wearing a bra. And I wonder if she’s wearing panties under the satin pajama pants that hug her hips and thighs.
The scent of shampoo fills my nostrils. Dark, damp hair…a tangle of invitation for my fingers to curl into, to tug back, as I drag my teeth across her neck.
“Owen?” My name is a breathless question.
Rubbing the back of my neck, I cough. “Thought I’d order a pizza.”
I meet her gaze, the ache in my balls only intensifying when I see the matched desire in her eyes. I place a hand on the doorframe and watch her gaze go to my bicep, then roam across my chest, down my abs, resting for a split second on the bulge between my legs, before she quickly looks away, tongue darting out across her plump lower lip.
We stand there for a moment, the heat between us more intense than I’ve felt in a long time.
I don’t know what it is about the woman. Sure, she’s hot. A raw mix of innocence and strength. But there’s something about the way she looks at me that stirs more than just arousal.
Take her, my cock begs.
A year ago, I wouldn’t have thought twice. I’d have had her laid out on the mattress, my face buried between her legs, until she was crying out, pleading for my cock. But something in the back of my head warns me the girl is more than just a quick lay.
I can’t explain the protectiveness that stirs in my chest. It’s a stark contrast to the primal urge to possess every beautiful inch of her body.
It isn’t until I hear her small moan, feel the heat of her breath on my lips, that I realize how close I’ve gotten to her. Her mouth parts in expectation, her breath hitching, heat radiating off her body in waves, tempting me.
“What do ye want, sweetheart?” I rasp, praying she’l
l answer with a simple You.
She doesn’t.
Her eyes widen, and she sucks in a trembling breath, as a hint of fear washes over her expression.
Shit. I pull back, straightening my shoulders, and breaking the connection. Fucking white knight winning again.
“On yer pizza.” I pull my cell from my back pocket, and start to dial my favorite Dublin pizzeria. “What do ye want?”
“Oh.” Her tongue darts across her bottom lip. “Anything…except mushrooms.”
Her nose scrunches up slightly when she says the last word. I don’t know why, but I make a mental note of the aversion.
I relay the order to the guy on the other end of the receiver, watching Bree as she moves to her luggage and flips through it. I think about grabbing a shirt while I’m in here, but the way her eyes keep drifting to my chest when she thinks I’m not paying attention, I decide against it.
“Should be here in thirty minutes,” I tell her when I finish the call.
She gives a small nod.
When her gaze locks on the ink that covers my left arm in a sleeve, I ask, “Ye have any?”
“What?” She blinks up at me.
“Tattoos.”
There’s a slight hesitation before she answers quietly. “One.”
My curiosity begs me to push, not only because I want to see the ink she seems almost ashamed of, but because I want to know it’s meaning, what caused the sadness I’d seen in her eyes before she turned away.
Her thumb rubs at her other wrist, drawing my gaze down to the coin-sized, faded mark there.
I’m not close enough to see what it is, but it looks like some sort of symbol.
I nod at her. “Does it have meaning to ye?”
“I thought it did. But I was young. Stupid.” I swear, there’s a hint of accusation in her eyes, like whatever put the emotion there is somehow my fault.
“We all have one of those.”
She keeps rubbing the spot, and speaks with a stoicism that contrasts with the emotion in her eyes. “I did it myself when I was thirteen.”
“Yerself?” I take a step toward her, more curious than ever to see it, but she draws back.
“Like I said, I was young and stupid. I plan on having it removed when I save enough.”
“Yer parents must have been pissed.”
She lets out a hard laugh. “Yeah. My…father.” The word comes out in a sneer. “He was creative in his discipline.”
Her words leave an unsettling feeling in the pit of my stomach, and make me wonder just how severe the punishment was.
She moves back to her suitcases.
“What brings ye to Ireland?”
Sifting through one of her bags, she doesn’t answer until she finds what she was searching for; a light, cotton robe, that she quickly puts on, wrapping it around her like a barrier.
“Family,” she mumbles.
“Ye’re Irish?”
Her lips press together, a narrow line denting between her brows. A small nod is her only response.
“Have ye been here before?”
She gives a small sigh, glancing out the hotel window with its view of Dublin, then answers. “A long time ago.”
I notice the way she seems to close in on herself with each question I ask, which makes me even more interested in what she’s not saying.
She’s trouble, my brain warns again.
“Most women like talking about themselves,” I say lightly with a small chuckle.
“Trust me. I’m not that interesting.”
“I doubt that.” Our gazes lock, the connection sparking between us again. Hot. Intense. Filled with secrets and intrigue. Everything I try to stay away from. Because the last thing I need in my life are more complications.
But, damn, if I’m not drawn to her. Want to know more about her. And hell, if I’m not aching, desperately to remove the clothes that separate us, and torture her with touches and kisses until she’s ready to tell me every deep, dark, intimate secret she’s hiding.
“Fucking pussy,” I mumble under my breath, knowing it’s exactly what Shane would call me if he heard my thoughts right now.
“Excuse me?” Her brows draw down.
I cough. “How long are ye staying?”
“I don’t know yet. A week. Maybe two. I haven’t decided.”
“No job, or boyfriend to go back to?”
She shakes her head, not willing to elaborate.
My phone vibrates, and I frown when Aiden’s name pops up on the display. But I know if I don’t answer, he’ll keep calling until I do.
“What?” I bark out, glancing over at Bree, who’s knelt over her suitcase, giving me a perfect view of her ass.
“Jeesuz, ye’re a fecking moody bastard.”
I grunt, not disagreeing.
“Wanted to make sure ye’re okay.”
“Emer make ye call?”
He chuckles. “Maybe.”
I rub the back of my neck and sigh, a mix of emotions flooding through me. I know they care about me. Hell, they love my sorry ass. We’re family. All of us. Even Cillian, with his often fucked-up way of showing it.
Maybe they’re right. Maybe I do need to make some changes.
I glance over at Bree, who’s standing by the window now, back half turned so that I can see her profile.
Maybe it’s time I made an exception to my cardinal rule – no emotions, no promises, no tomorrows.
And maybe Emer is right, and I need to make an appointment with Dr. Bishop to get my head reexamined.
I walk back into the living room, and start tossing the pillows off the couch, then pull out the metal box spring, frowning at the lumpy mattress. “Fucking perfect.”
“What?”
“Nothing,” I mutter.
A deep sigh echoes on the other end. “Everyone’s worried about ye.”
I sit on the edge of the make-shift bed, wincing when it squeaks with my weight, knowing I won’t sleep a minute tonight.
“Everyone can mind their own damn business. I told ye, I’m fine.”
Aiden grunts, and I hear Emer’s soft voice in the background, telling him to ask me about my headaches.
“And tell yer wife I’d have less headaches if she’d stop nagging at me.”
He coughs, then says lower than before, “Ye know I’m not going to say that.”
“Pussy.”
“Asshole.”
Silence.
“Now, if ye don’t mind, I’m actually busy at the moment.”
“Pizza and porn don’t trump heart to heart talks with yer best friend.”
“Shit, ye really are turning into a girl. And yeah, the three Ps always trump friends.”
“I only said two.”
“But ye forgot the best one.” I say with a grin, despite the fact that I’m most likely not getting any tonight.
“Like yer sorry ass is getting any,” he says as if reading my thoughts.
There’s a knock on the door, and I hang up on Aiden’s deep, rumbling laugh.
The kid delivering the pizza looks like he’s going to have a coronary when he sees me.
“Shit, ye’re Wild Irish. I was at yer concert last night. Bloody epic, man.”
“Thanks.” I force a smile.
“Would ye sign this for me?” He fumbles through his pockets and pulls out a scrap piece of paper that looks like an old receipt. “My girlfriend is not going to believe this. She loves ye guys.”
I don’t mind the fans. Sometimes, I actually enjoy the attention. But I could live without it. Live without everyone knowing my face. To be able to walk down the street and not be swarmed by a drove of groupies.
Fuck me for complaining about anything. My life is an excess of money, fame, women, and booze.
But it’s empty.
The funny thing is, I don’t really know what’s missing. Just that the hollowness inside me has been growing lately. I need something. I just don’t know what that something is. But one thing is certain
; the surplus of booze and easy women I’ve been trying to fill the void with isn’t working anymore.
“Ye need to find a good woman and settle down,” Emer keeps telling me. She’s said it enough that even Aiden and Cillian are starting to harass me as well. The irony is that the same woman who keeps telling me to settle down, is the one I judge all others by.
Pathetic.
It’s not the attraction. Shit, I’m not even sure that spark was ever there between Emer and I. It’s the trust, the knowing that no matter what life throws at me, she’ll have my back. She doesn’t put up with my shit, and when any one of us guys needs a good kick in the balls, she’s more than willing to give it.
She’s our strength. The anchor that held the four of us together during the worst of times.
But she’s not mine. Never has been. Never will be.
I tip the kid an extra twenty, then place the pizza box on the coffee table in the living room before walking towards the bedroom.
“Pizza’s here-”
I stop when I see Bree curled up on the bed, eyes closed, mouth slightly parted.
“Bree,” I murmur, studying the woman lying in my bed, and not knowing why she affects me the way she does.
I’ve been around a lot of women in my life. Not just the roadies and fan girls that pack into our green rooms after the shows, but models and actresses. Women who spend thousands just to have their hair dyed the perfect shade of blonde, to have their tits made a few sizes bigger than any man’s hand can cup.
This girl is none of that. She’s beautiful without trying. Sexy as fucking sin without even knowing it. And the heat when she looked at me, the matched desire in those blue eyes, stirred an almost primal possessiveness that I’ve never felt before.
Yeah, I’m losing it.
I turn the bedside light off, then pull the comforter over her shoulders, cursing myself silently for not having the balls to take what I want, what I need.
“Fucking white-knight complex,” I mutter.
She stirs, her lashes fluttering. Her brows draw down slightly when her gaze lands on mine, still cloudy with sleep. “Owen?”
I can’t help the smile that plays on my lips at the familiarity with which she says my name. “Yeah?”
Tempting Irish Page 3