by Nikki Wild
“I hope you’re right,” I said, glancing over my shoulder as someone started giving me the five-minute signal. “I’m so worried that I’ll just end up being terrible. Like I won’t be good, now that I’m not doing what I was before.” I made a fist and brought it to my mouth, and then I bit it. “What if the drinking was what made me relax enough to perform?”
Liz smiled. “Can I tell you a little secret?” She reached up, threading her fingers through my hair. I couldn’t help but look deep into those eyes and smile back—my heart melted just like it did every time.
“You could tell me anything, as long as you keep looking at me like that,” I said as quiet as I could—just enough so that only she could hear me.
“If every artist stopped themselves just because they were worried they wouldn’t be good enough, then they’d never get anything done,” she said, brushing her thumb along my cheek. “You can do this, Julian. I believe in you. And when this baby is born, it will too. You’re my hero.”
“And you’re mine,” I said as I pulled my wife in for a slow, gentle kiss. Her lips burned like summer against mine. My heart slowed, and for the first time that night, I felt like just maybe I was going to be all right. I enfolded her in my arms, cheekily resting my hands on her backside as I deepened our kiss, biting at her bottom lip before pulling away.
“What was that for?” she asked, a grin gracing those beautiful, bitten lips of hers. I liked the way her cheeks colored as she stared up at me, eyes hooded. “I need to know so I can do it again.”
“I’ll let you know after the show’s over,” I assured her, flashing her that almost-famous grin of mine as I pulled her into one more kiss. “Good Lord, I don’t know what I’d do without you, Elizabeth Bastille.”
“I do, but let’s not talk about that right now,” she said, gently bumping me with her hip as she turned around to look out onto the stage. “Wow. I never imagined I’d be standing here with you, like this. Not even in my wildest dreams.”
“Now we can go around standing together wherever we want to,” I teased, sliding my arms around her waist from behind and pulling her close. The thrum of the crowd passed through her and into me. I wondered if our little one could hear it. “Isn’t that nice?”
“I think there’s only one place you want to go right now,” she laughed, pressing back against the stiffening bulge in my pants. “God, do you ever get enough?”
“Not from you, I don’t,” I said, chuckling as I started to nibble at her earlobe. The smell of her was intoxicating—I wasn’t sure what scent she was wearing, but it was driving me crazy.
“Later!” she squealed, slapping at my hands as I started to caress her hips. “You’ve got a show to do! And I think the last thing these people want is for you to cancel a show twice in a row just so you and I can have sex!”
“Well, if they knew how good it was, I don’t think they’d blame me,” I whispered in her ear, drawing a faint moan from her before I withdrew my hands from her sides and turned her around.
“You are the worst, Julian Bastille,” Liz said, putting on a face of mock annoyance. “What am I supposed to do with myself now? I swear, if you weren’t my husband, I’d—”
“Kiss me?” I interrupted, pulling her in close one more time, our lips meeting as I held her nice and tight. Her body melted against mine, and behind me, I could hear some of the crew hooting encouragingly, to which I responded with a sly thumbs up behind Liz’s back.
“The worst,” she whispered as we pulled apart, her face burning red. “You’re so lucky I love you.”
“Now that we can agree on,” I said as the stage manager called out for the one-minute mark. I tried my best to stifle the panic rising up inside of me again, taking Liz’s hand in mine and giving it a firm squeeze.
“One more for luck?” I asked, smiling down at her, anxiously bouncing on my heels as I started to hear the manager counting down.
“You don’t need luck,” she said, pulling me in tight one more time. “But I’ll kiss you anyway.” And she did.
“And one for you,” I said, kneeling down in front of Liz and slowly lifting up the hem of her shirt to expose her belly, and our child within it. I gently pressed my lips against it, holding them there a few seconds before standing up again and smiling at my wife.
“I supposed it’s show time,” I said. Then I took a slow, deep breath as I stared out at the lights and listened to the sounds of the fans screaming my name. But there was only one woman I wanted to hear say that name… and if I was good, maybe she’d even scream it for me.
I put on a grin as I stepped out onto the stage, throwing my hands in the air as the crowd roared, some of the women’s voices reaching heights that might have been too much for human ears to even register. I let it all wash over me, closing my eyes for just a moment as I stood among the noise and lights, basking in it before opening them once again and screaming into the microphone.
“Hello, Essex! Are you ready to rock?”
And as the crowd let out another roar, I couldn’t stop myself from smiling. This was what I loved about my job, and now, at long last, I had someone in my life I could share it with.
You’re not done yet! I’ve included some sexy extras in this ebook for all my loyal fans! Turn the page to read ILLICIT BEHAVIOR, my bestselling rockstar romance. And keep going from there because I have a few more surprises in store including a copy of my bestselling motorcycle club romance (Saved by the Bad Boy) and a few other surprises! Thank you for reading and I can’t wait to hear what you thought about Fall Into Me!
-Nikki Wild xoxoxo
My entire catalog is FREE TO READ for anyone with a Kindle Unlimited subscription! You can check out all of my sexy bad boy novels by clicking RIGHT HERE!
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Novels by Nikki Wild
Bad Boy Sports
Play Dirty (A Bad Boy Football Romance)
Running Game (A Bad Boy Football Romance)
Bad Boy Fighters:
Knockout (A Bad Boy MMA Romance)
Bad Boy Bikers:
Saving Landon (A Bad Boy Biker Romance)
Saved by the Bad Boy (A Devil’s Dragons Biker Romance)
Pride and Pregnancy (A Devil’s Dragons Motorcycle Club Romance)
Taming Grizz (A Devil’s Dragons Motorcycle Club Romance)
Roughneck (A Bad Boy Motorcycle Club Romance)
Rough Rider (Outlaw Kings Motorcycle Club)
British Bad Boys:
Royal Prick (A Bad Boy British Romance)
Arrogant Brit (A Bad Boy British Sports Romance)
Rock Hard (A Bad Boy British Rockstar Romance)
Played (A Bad Boy British Romance)
Bad Boy Rockstars:
Illicit Behavior (A Bad Boy Rockstar Romance)
Rock Hard (A Bad Boy British Rockstar Romance)
Bad Boy Stepbrothers:
Lust (A Bad Boy Stepbrother Romance)
Richard (A Bad Boy Stepbrother Romance)
Bad Boy Billionaires:
Protect And Serve (A Bad Boy Billionaire Romance)
Pretend Married (A Sexy Billionaire Romance)
Part I
Bonus Novel: Illicit Behavior
A BAD BOY ROCKSTAR ROMANCE
Copyright 2016, Nikki wild
All Rights Reserved
My entire catalog is FREE TO READ for anyone with a Kindle Unlimited subscription! You can check out all of my sexy bad boy novels by clicking RIGHT HERE!
Do you want new release notification, a chance t
o be an ARC reader, special limited time discounts, and FREE EXCLUSIVE Nikki Wild content? Click here to sign up for my WILD mailing list today! Signup is easy and I will NEVER send you spam or share your e-mail address with anyone.
1
Trent
“Dude! These groupies are totally ready to go!” My dreadlocked bastard of a bohemian guitarist laughed, splashing his bottle of beer in an arc.
The two hot young girls wrapped around him cooed a chorus of flirtatious giggles. They must have been just barely eighteen, clad in tight, low-cut shirts that made their silky, angelic breasts practically burst out of the seams.
Despite my lack of interest, I wasn’t about to rain on his parade. I lightly raised my own bottle of music festival beer to him, shaking my head.
“You go on ahead, man. Not feelin’ it tonight.”
No matter where we went, fans were throwing themselves at us – and my band-mates were always eager to take the free, willing pussy back to the bus for a fresh bang.
In fact, my bassist and drummer were already back there now, getting their freak on with a few nameless groupies now.
“Serious?” Waylon asked drunkenly.
His limber playing hand slid under a skirt and along a tanned, tender ass, drawing a blush from the groupie’s cheeks. The sight made my cock almost twitch.
Almost.
“You sure you don’t want to try a piece of this Alabama ‘tang?” He pressed on. “Plenty to go around. I’m not greedy.”
The groupie twosome puffed their chests and wiggled provocatively for me, giving me the deepest pair of sultry, lustful looks that they could muster.
They looked cute.
Cute, and too young to be acting like this.
“Think I’m just gonna relax and ride the vibe,” I reaffirmed. “Go get your dick wet.”
“If you say so!”
“And ladies,” I continued, turning towards the girls, who settled down and looked at me almost fearfully. “Don’t keep him up all night. This guy needs to be shredding licks same time tomorrow.”
They nodded respectfully, but Waylon jumped up to his feet, his dreads scattering around his face briefly.
“Ain’t gonna happen. This train rides ‘til sunrise! Ain’t that right, ladies?”
They chuckled with big, goofy hero-worshipping grins on their faces. He scooped them up against his sides, and soon they stumbled off towards the back of the after-party, heading for our bus.
Joke’s on them, I thought to myself. Waylon’s a two-pump chump on a GOOD day.
Truth of the matter was that I’d been in a funk. For the last few weeks, I had turned down sex left, right, and center from even the most flexible little minxes.
A constant stream of the hottest goddamn chicks around went fucking wild for us on the regular.
And why shouldn’t they?
We weren’t just anybody.
We were Trent Masters and the Whiplash, the hottest fucking rock band in America.
On national radiowaves dominated by DJs making music off of laptops, mainstream child stars glammed up and given backing bands, and egotistical personalities lacking substance and spitting shit…we brought something better.
Something harder.
Something real.
Something apparently sorely missed.
Our latest album, Twelve Machines, was flying off the shelves across the country. The last two singles went platinum. Hell, talks of a Grammy nomination were already in the pipeline.
I was on top of the fucking world.
Or I should have felt like I was.
But all I felt was empty inside, and even the quick fix of endless sex didn’t quell the tension.
It was hard to think I was taking advantage of these girls when they grinded up against me at after-parties like this, always seeming so desperate to give my cock the old spit-shine.
It just didn’t feel right.
But… I couldn’t tell what I wanted instead.
What I needed.
I drank another swig from my bottle of beer, watching the other bands delight in the attention. We were in town for this badass music festival called the RipFest, and we’d shared the stage with some serious rock legends and decent upcoming talent.
They were having fun. Even the older, crustier guys looked like they were having a blast, likely filled with enough drugs to bring down a Bull Rhino in its prime.
It’s not like I wasn’t grateful… I was just… Lost.
The constant attention was overwhelming – too much of a great fucking thing. I had to be careful about the shit I said, because rock stars were even closer to scandal in this day and age.
Everything constantly recorded, rumors spread with the speed of a tweet and the snap of a camera on some girl’s iPhone.
It was all about being careful and avoiding the wrong kind of spotlight. Blogs are eager for clicks, and the whole world is ready to tear you down to build an audience.
I’d paid my dues.
No more practicing in oily garages and filthy bars. No more struggling in hard labor and backbreaking jobs to make ends meet. I wasn’t going to let some little misstep tear me down.
Despite the bullshit, the throne on this rising fucking star felt grand.
But as the light grew brighter…the shadows only grew filthier. Despite all the fame, all the success, all the money and women and the fancy toys. I knew the truth.
The world is a filthy place.
And I am the reigning king of the filth.
2
Angel
Summoning every drop of charisma that I could find, I smiled and plunked down the glasses at the four-top bar table for the graying, slovenly bikers. I rattled off the orders as I sloshed the drinks in front of them in turn, each of them smiling grotesquely.
“Four drafts: Bud, Bud, Miller Lite, and Abita. And four shots of Fireball, because why not,” I added mirthlessly.
“Thanks, darlin’,” the closest biker chuckled, lifting his shot and suddenly grabbing a nice handful of my ass.
I flinched and drew back from him, preserving my pride – and my job – by not responding poorly to the harassment.
“Can I get you guys anything else?”
It was less a question, and more a growl.
“One other thing.”
He dropped his menu on the ground, and looked at me expectantly.
“Step onto that.”
I was used to this by now, and I suppressed a heavy sigh and a filthy look. Instead, I stepped meaningfully onto the discarded menu.
“We’ll take one of you,” he grinned.
“You can’t have one of me.”
“But darlin’, you’re on the menu!”
They broke into riotous laughter, as if this was the cleverest fucking joke ever.
It was pretty funny the first time someone did it to me. Months ago… People are less original than they think. I heard this one twice a week.
“Looks like we’re fresh out,” I responded, scooping the menu off the floor and strolling away.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw their laughter die down, and they were looking at me with annoyance for not playing along.
To hell with ‘em.
To hell with everything about this stupid goddamn job.
I hated working this ancient, decrepit dive bar. The money was just good enough to keep myself afloat, and bartending was fun enough, but not somewhere like this.
If it wasn’t bikers, it was rednecks.
If it wasn’t rednecks, it was thugs.
If it wasn’t thugs…
A shiver went up my spine. I didn’t like to think about that.
Old Greg owned this place, and he was a friendly enough guy. Hell, he’d been a godsend. A lifelong resident of this backwater little town, he was old enough to be my grandfather. His best patron was our sheriff – someone who turned a blind eye when I was brought onboard to tend bar at sixteen.
At least that was no longer a problem. I’d tur
ned eighteen pouring drinks.
When it was slow and I was cleaning glasses or wiping surfaces, I dreamed of exactly what you’d think a bright, young girl who dream about in a place like this:
Getting the hell out of Riverton.
That was the name of this place. The town, not the bar. Well, the bar too, technically.
Riverton Bar, in Riverton… On Riverton Avenue.
Remember when I said people aren’t original?
That applies to the friendly ones, too.
Dropping the drink tray off at the stack, I passed back around the counter and checked on my other patrons – several working-class stragglers, downing cheap beer specials, an older fellow nursing a whiskey neat, and a few older crones sipping heavy martinis.
Satisfied, I began taking stock of my liquors. I was gonna have to pop open a bottle of Crown soon, and we were still out of half our rum…
While I checked things off on my clipboard, I noticed someone approaching the bar. I didn’t think much of it, and I continued my work for a moment. I was busy, and the shadow could see that.
Whoever it was, he could wait a minute.
Ticking a couple of more checks, I finally turned around to see the same biker from before – the jester of the group.
Well, more like the leader, from the way the other bikers regarded him. He was leering at me for some reason, and I felt a pit deep in my stomach.
“You forgot something,” he grumbled.
“Sorry,” I answered, letting my tone demonstrate how unapologetic I really was. “My memory’s a bit fuzzy. What was it?”
He sat an empty shot glass on the counter.