Wycked Escape (Wycked Obsession Book 3)

by Wynne Roman

  Her texting app is open. I scroll through the unanswered texts. Fifteen—no seventeen—of them. Things like, Talk to me baby, it’s not what u think. It gets worse from there.

  Drake: C’mon, Paige, dont be a bitch.

  Drake: Jesus Christ, do u rly think ur pussys so grate I wouldn’t want to switch it up?

  Drake: Call me, u cunt!! Ur gonna b sry if u dont.

  Drake: What the fuck?! Dont forget the apts in my name!!!

  Drake: I can make ur life hell, don’t push me!!!

  Drake: Where the fuck r u? Ur car still at the bar. Call me!!!!

  Drake: Marlie’s a better fuck than ull ever b!

  That’s the last one. No big surprises. Drake’s always been a predictable fucker. That doesn’t mean it isn’t still ugly.

  “And the voice mails?” I ask in a calm voice I’m proud of.

  “More of the same, except he mentions you in a couple of them.” She doesn’t look at me.

  “Do I need to listen?” I exit out of the texting app.

  She shrugs. “If you want. Just the same stuff, except how he’ll kill us both if I’m with you.”

  Like that’s a threat that’s gonna bother me.

  “You keep ‘em?”

  “Yes.” Finally she peers up at me.

  “Good. Don’t delete a goddamn thing.” I don’t trust Drake or the Johnsons one damn bit.

  She breathes deeply. “All right.”

  I sink down on the sofa next to her, giving my brain a few seconds to race with all sorts of idea. Good ones, bad ones. Things I really want to do to Drake, what I can probably get by with, what Paige ought to do. And, finally, what might actually be smart.

  Funny how good it feels to think about something that might give me a chance to take some action. Shit in my own life is about as fucked-up as it can get right now. The label, our manager, the band—everybody gets a say in what I can and can’t do. But this—helping Paige—is like taking back some kind of control. Maybe not for me, but somehow, in some way, I can try to fix things for somebody.

  After I reach that point, the answers come pretty quick.

  “Okay.” I nod once. “Here’s what we’re gonna do.”

  “We?”

  I nod again, really more angling my head toward her. “We.”

  “This isn’t your problem.”

  “Not so sure about that, sweetness, but it doesn’t matter. Not letting you handle it alone.”

  “What? But . . . why?” She looks at me. Just stares, with those deep hazel eyes, and then she asks again, “Why?”

  There’s so much I can’t say. Not right now.

  “Because you shouldn’t have to do it alone.”

  That’s it. All I have. I mean, how the fuck could it happen that assholes like Drake Johnson and Marlie Davis could pull the kind of crap they have, and I’m the only piece of shit she has backing her?

  “Anyway,” I continue before she can say anything, “we’ll go over to your place, pack up your clothes, and collect whatever girly stuff you need.”

  “I . . . what?”

  “You can’t stay there.”

  “Well, no.”

  “So we’ll get what we can. Whatever you need right now. I’ll help you with the rest later.”

  “Yeah, well, that sounds just great, dude—” her expression is blank, but her tone carries a hint of sarcasm “—but where do you suggest I go after that?”

  “Back here.”

  “What?”

  Her voice is heavy with surprise. She’s asking the same questions a lot, but I figure she’s still kind of messed up. Confused. Who wouldn’t be? Doesn’t matter, so I just shrug.

  “Best idea for now. This is a security building. Drake’s got no clue where I live, so he can’t find you. In fact, we’ll leave your car where it is so he can’t track that. That ought to piss him off.”

  “But . . . your place? You live here!”

  “So?”

  “Pretty sure you don’t want to share with an old girlfriend. Besides.” She looks around a little wildly and points. “It’s only got one bedroom.”

  “First.” I hold up a finger. “It doesn’t have to be forever. We can make a better plan once you have your shit. Second.” I flip up another finger. “It’s no big deal. You can take the bedroom and I’ll sleep on the couch.”

  “But—” she starts again, but I cut her off.

  “But what, sweetness? I’ve slept in a lot worse places than this couch.” I pat the cushion next to me. “Used to sleep sitting up in a piece-of-shit van with no shocks. I can spend a couple of nights here.”

  “I . . . shit.”

  I smile to myself. Guess she ran out of words.

  “I can always sleep in the bedroom with you, sweetness,” I suggest in a silky voice. “Bed’s plenty big. And—”

  “Oh, stop it.”

  “What?” I give her an innocent smile with wide eyes, and she surprises me when I get an almost real smile in return.

  “I just don’t understand why you want to help.”

  So much I could say. So much I’m not going to say. Yet. We will have a conversation. I promised, and I owe it to her. But we got bigger shit on the agenda today.

  “Wanna get you out of there,” I say instead. “Want you to be safe. Isn’t that enough?”

  “That matters to you?”

  Her question hits me kinda hard. I deserve it, but that doesn’t mean I like it.

  “Yeah, sweetness, it does. I know I haven’t always acted like it, treated you that way, but you do still matter to me.”

  “Oh. Well . . .”

  She doesn’t know what to say. I can tell by the way her eyes dart around the room, her fingers twitch, the way her tongue pops out to touch her top lip. My cock stirs, remembering what that tongue can do, but I ignore it. Gonna keep ignoring it, too. That fucker got me in enough trouble the way it is.

  “We good?” I ask.

  “Yeah. Sure.”

  “Okay, then. Let’s go take care of shit.”

  Turns out it’s pretty easy to get in and out. Paige grabs her suitcases and a couple of garbage bags, and we work as a decent team to fill ‘em up. It goes quick when you don’t fold anything.

  Maybe she wants out of here as bad as I want her gone.

  The apartment is nice enough, I suppose, with modern architecture and a homey décor I figure must be her doing. Only thing totally out of place is that it’s a freaking mess, stuff thrown everywhere. It’s totally opposite of the Paige I know.

  “This Drake’s doing?” I wave my hand through the air.

  She shrugs. “Looks like he was here last night.”

  Asshole. Doesn’t look like anything is ruined, just a temper tantrum kind of mess.

  I latch her suitcase and hoist it off the bed. “Want the bedding?”

  “No!”

  “What?”

  “He fucked her there.”

  I look from the rumpled bed to Paige. Disgust twists her features.

  She glares at me. “Can’t you tell? Smell her?”

  I sniff, catch an odor of a cheap, heavy rose perfume mixed with some rank musk. Definitely not Paige’s fresh, sweet, lightly flowery scent.

  “Fuck.” I can’t think of anything else to say. It’s a shitty thing to have done, even for Drake Johnson.

  “Let’s get out of here.” Her voice has no emotion. Her face is blank, too, and I can’t read her anymore.

  Damn. But I don’t say it. Just keep my mouth shut and give in to the need to get her out of here and away from where her boyfriend—ex-boyfriend—fucked her over. Again.

  She leads the way from the apartment. We load her stuff into my Range Rover, and I check my phone for the time. Not bad. Thirty minutes.

  But—shit—another text from Knox.

  Bandmate and lead guitarist in Wycked Obsession, Knox Gallagher appointed himself as the asshole in charge—what he calls himself—back when the five of us hooked up. There’s Knox, lead singer Ajia
Stone, keyboardist Rye Myles, bass player Zayne Prescott, and me behind the drums. Knox wanted to take care of shit when we formed the band, none of the rest of us gave a damn, and so we let him have his way.

  We’ve all come to regret it at times. Like now.

  Prick’s been texting me all day, and I’ve been ignoring every damn one of them. Just not in the mood for his brand of control today. I don’t look at this one, either.

  I get Paige into the SUV, stick my phone in the center console, and head out of the parking lot. We take a quick detour past the bar where her car’s still parked—everything looks okay—and then start for my place. My phone rings a minute later.

  The phone automatically hooks up for hands free, so I glance at the Range Rover’s control screen. Bree.

  Well, fuck.

  I punch the connect button.

  “Hey, there, baby girl.”

  “Noah!” she squeals happily. “You answered!”

  Paige catches my attention when she shifts in her seat. I glance over, and she looks back at me with that blank fucking expression I’m starting to hate.

  “You think I wouldn’t? I always answer your calls, baby girl.”

  “You didn’t answer any of Knox’s texts.”

  “Didn’t read ‘em, either.”

  “Noah!”

  “What?”

  “You know what it means for the rest of us when anybody crosses him.”

  I snort. “He giving you and Ajia a hard time?”

  “Just me.” She sighs, and it’s loud. Looking for sympathy she knows only somebody in Wycked Obsession’s inner circle would understand.

  I grin. “Poor baby. He made you call?”

  “Yes,” she snaps. “And stop making fun of me. You know how I hate having to do stuff for him.”

  I laugh as we pull up to a stoplight. I slide a glance in Paige’s direction, but she doesn’t even crack a smile, even though she can hear everything Bree says.

  What the fuck does that mean?

  “Sorry, baby girl.” I go back to the conversation. “Been busy today. What’s up?”

  “You haven’t read any of Knox’s texts?”

  “Nope.”

  “You been on the Internet?”

  “Nope.”

  “None of the gossip sites?”

  “No. Fuck. What’s going on?”

  Bree sighs. “Well, sweetie, you aren’t gonna like it, but you’re gonna want to take a look. Fast.”

  Shit. “Can’t look now, I’m driving. Tell me what’s going on.”

  “Nuh uh. I’m not telling you shit. You go look for yourself.”

  “Damn it, Bree! Is it Elyssa?”

  “No. And that’s all I’m saying!”

  “Baby girl . . .”

  “No. That’s it. You go look and then call my brother!”

  She’s gone before I can say another word. I look at Paige again. She’s still staring at me, but her eyes have narrowed so I can barely see the color.

  “What?” The word’s out before I can stop it.

  “Baby girl?”

  I give a little side nod. “Yeah. That’s Bree.”

  “Good for her.”

  “Bree Gallagher. Knox’s sister.”

  “She . . .” Paige blinks, glances out the windshield, then looks at me again. “The one all the rumors were about.”

  “You heard about that?” That pisses me off for some reason.

  “Yeah. I mean, it was kind of shocking. Orgies and incest and—”

  “All a bunch of fucking lies.”

  She stares at me like she’s trying to decide if she believes me. And I know why.

  Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

  Those goddamn threesomes. My history with Paige. And Marlie.

  “Fuck!” I smack my palm against the steering wheel.

  Paige jumps a little but doesn’t say anything. Good thing, because I don’t owe her the first goddamn explanation. Not about those fucking rumors. But if I don’t . . . she’ll get the wrong idea about Bree. Maybe even the band.

  “Bree’s a good girl. She’s like the sister I never had, and she’d never do anything like that. In fact, she’s with Ajia. You ought to have heard about that, too. The fucking gossip rags have covered it. She’s been in love with him for years, and they finally got together on this tour. The rest of it is pure bullshit made up by the tabloids.”

  “And Elyssa?”

  Fuck. She caught that.

  I shake my head. “Long fucking story. We need more Crown for that.”

  “In other words, none of my business.”

  Son of a bitch.

  “No, first things first.” I make the final turn onto my street. Thank God. “Let’s get home and get your shit inside. Then I’ll look at Knox’s texts and figure out what the hell crawled up his ass this time.”

  Chapter Seven

  Paige

  It takes a couple of trips to get my stuff into Noah’s apartment. We don’t talk as we unload the Range Rover, but it’s not an awkward silence, either. Maybe there’s just nothing more to say right now.

  Or, maybe Noah’s thinking about stuff going on in his own life. I mean, he’s entitled, right? Even if it means he’s remembering a phone call from Bree Gallagher or wondering about the texts from her brother.

  God, it irks me to admit it, but jealousy stabbed right through me when I heard him call her baby girl—and that’s just stupid. It’s not like it was something he ever called me, but his voice went all soft and tender, and envy flared.

  Geeze. I have no right to be upset over anything Noah does. We haven’t been a couple in five years. We haven’t even seen each other in all that time! But . . . damn it. I used to be the only girl he ever showed true affection for.

  And how stupid is that, to get upset over something so selfish? It’s been a long time since we had that kind of relationship! He’s got a different, fuller life now. He even said it: The sister I never had. Of course he’d feel love for her, and no matter what happened between us, he deserves every bit of it!

  So does she, for that matter.

  Stepping into the elevator ahead of Noah, an image of Bree pops into my head. Not just an ordinary picture of her with the band, like the ones I’ve seen from time to time, but it’s one image in particular. The one that accompanied the salacious headline: Wycked Obsession and Their Band Wife! Ménage a Cinq?

  That should have been shocking enough—and it was. Intentionally so. I’m sophisticated enough that I understood the reporter’s goal the instant I saw it. What haunts me now is the image of Noah standing behind her, his arms curved around her waist, and her back pressed against his chest.

  They looked so . . . close. Comfortable. Affectionate.

  Together.

  God, I need to lighten up. Let it go! I drop my eyelids closed for just a second, internalizing the advice.

  I get it. Intelligently. I mean, Bree’s with Ajia Stone now. So what if he’s not quite as hot as Noah? Gossip says it was always Ajia for her, that she crushed on him for years before they finally hooked up. They love each other, so what’s to be jealous of?

  Because she’s young and beautiful and so put together? She carries herself like she knows who she is and understands her place in the world of Wycked Obsession—and she probably does. Knox Gallagher is her brother, after all. She’s close with every one of the guys in the band; she’s been around them as long as they’ve been together, and she just spent the summer on tour with them.

  Me? I only know Noah, and that’s as my high school boyfriend. Not the sexy manwhore drummer of the hot new band out of Austin. I’ve even heard rumors that their last album, Wicked Is As Wycked Does, is sure to be a serious Grammy contender.

  Who am I to go up against all that? Nobody. A girl from Noah’s past, and pretty forgettable at that. No, I’m not a complete troll, but I’m nothing special, either. Certainly not enough of a woman to satisfy a man like Noah Dexter. I’ve already proved that.

  Stop it! My
heart skips a beat. Don’t do this!

  I know it’s good advice, but I’m too sensitive right now. It’s best to save it for later, when I have a little better perspective after last night’s fiasco.

  And, for crying out loud, why am I thinking about this stuff, anyway? All Noah did was help me out of an awkward situation. It’s not like we’re still a couple of kids and I’m hoping he’ll ask me to go steady.

  No. I want to shake my head, erase these stupid thoughts, but I don’t. I bite my bottom lip instead. I’m pretty sure that once I get settled and out of his hair, I’ll never see Noah again. We’ll go back to the status quo, and the world will regain its balance again. Noah in his rock star world, and me in my plain Jane life.

  Thank God the elevator door opens at that moment, scattering my thoughts like notes in the wind. Noah leads the way to his apartment, opens the door, and then takes the last of my stuff into the bedroom. It’s where he chose to put everything, and I’m not arguing. What’s the point? I’m only going to be here for a night or two.

  Besides, he always gets his way. I learned that a long time ago. It isn’t worth the fight when I know he’s going to overrule anything I say. Not today.

  “Plenty of room in the closet if you want to hang anything up.” Noah’s voice precedes him as he comes out of the bedroom. “Couple of empty drawers, too.”

  “Uh . . . okay.”

  I’m not sure what else to say. The whole situation feels so . . . intimate. On the other hand, while it’s true that I might not be staying with him for very long, I don’t want to have to dig through everything I own just to find a change of clothes, either. Maybe I can unpack just a little. Only enough for a couple of days.

  Noah pulls his phone from his pocket and starts swiping his finger over the screen. I remember then the texts from Knox that he’s supposed to be looking at.

  “Geeze, I’m sorry!” The words burst out of me, carrying with them a twinge of guilt that holds an embarrassed heat. “You put everything in your life on hold to help me. I—”