Wycked Escape (Wycked Obsession Book 3)

by Wynne Roman

“Hey, don’t worry about it, sweetness.” His smile seems genuine enough to soothe some of my ragged nerves. “It’s no big—”

  Pounding on the door cuts off the rest of his words, and he makes a disgusted noise as he frowns. “Fuck,” he mutters as he stalks over to the door and then flings it wide. “What took you so long?”

  “Good to see you, too, Beater.”

  I recognize Knox Gallagher the second he walks into the apartment. I never let myself go all fan crazy over Wycked Obsession like some girls—I just couldn’t—but anybody who’s into music at all has seen and heard them. Especially in Austin.

  Magazines, online, videos, radio, social media? They’re there, they’re big, and Knox is often their spokesman. He’s fierce and charismatic in an intense sort of way. Unforgettable, even if most of my attention was always on the band’s hot-as-sin drummer.

  That’s my dirty little secret. No one, especially Noah, will ever know.

  A woman follows Knox into the apartment. She’s gorgeous, with long, reddish-brown hair; bright, lively eyes; and an amazing, feminine shape. Her outfit makes her look so elegant; stylish, cream-colored linen trousers and a V-neck, sleeveless blouse patterned in pale green-and-white checks. She carries herself like a fashion model, and here I am: a troll in last night’s dress and panties.

  I want to slip back, escape the inevitable comparison, but I force myself to stand my ground. There’s nowhere to hide, so I’m better off not drawing any attention to myself at all.

  “Hey, London.”

  Noah steps up, gives her a big, welcoming embrace, and she hugs him back. With a smile and warm expression.

  Damn it, but I don’t like that, either—and I really don’t like that any of it bothers me.

  I swallow a sigh of disgust. I have no right to feel anything about Noah—except maybe gratitude—and these wonky feelings are getting all out of hand. They remind me too much of the days after we broke up, when Noah even talking to another girl would make me crazy. Worse, I’ve tortured myself over the years looking at pictures and reading stories about him and his wild ways.

  Even being with Drake never helped that way. We’d see a video or a tabloid story, and he’d always tease me. “There’s your old boyfriend. Bet he wouldn’t even recognize you now, with all those women he’s got.”

  I’d always laugh it off—or try to—and pretended the words didn’t hurt. They did, though, and now, seeing Noah in person again, a lot of feelings I’d lost touch with have come storming back into my consciousness.

  And my heart?

  “Sweetness.”

  The sound of my nickname catches my attention—thank God—and I discover Noah has released the other woman and is holding his hand out to me. I stare for a moment, reminding myself it means nothing, and then I step up next to him.

  “Well, well.” Knox smirks. “This why you went radio silent today?”

  “Paige, meet Knox Gallagher.” Noah makes the introduction without answering the question. “You might recognize him. He’s Wycked Obsession’s guitarist and a general pain in the ass.”

  Knox snorts but offers his hand. I take it, notice the strength of his grip and the calluses on his fingers, and smile a little. It all seems somehow . . . ordinary. Like he’s a real guy and not some mythical rock god.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Knox,” I say quietly.

  Noah doesn’t give Knox the chance to answer before he turns to the woman and says, “This is London Kennedy. She takes care of publicity and marketing and shit for the band.”

  “And me,” says Knox with a hot gaze directed straight in London’s direction.

  Whoa! These Wycked Obsession guys are direct. And sexy.

  London shrugs. “I guess I do.” Her smile is naughty.

  “Cut it out, you two.” Noah slings an arm around my shoulders. “I want you to meet Paige Hamilton. We . . . knew each other in high school.”

  Knew each other.

  Knew each other? I slant a glance up at Noah, but I can’t read anything in his expression. My shoulders come up, and a sudden stiffness in my joints has me trying to relax. But, damn! Why did he put it that way? Is he ashamed of our time together?

  “Knew each other?” Knox snorts a laugh. “That what the kids are calling it these days?”

  “Don’t be an ass,” snaps Noah without looking at me. “If you have to know every fucking thing, then, yes, she was my girlfriend. For two years.”

  “Two—” Knox smacks his hand over his chest “— years?” He winks at London. “Two fucking years? We’re gonna have to have a talk, Paige Hamilton.”

  “No.” Noah frowns at me, but it’s more resigned than pissed off. “Do not talk to this man. Ever. He is off limits to you.”

  I can’t help it. I have to laugh. I would have expected Knox to be all frowny and irritable, but he’s kind of amusing. And Noah? He’s acting all . . . I don’t know. Strange. Crabby and not so flirty. Not like himself at all.

  “C’mon, dude,” I grin. “You know you have no say over what I do or who I talk to.”

  Knox laughs with clear delight, London gives a little chuckle of her own, and Noah looks completely affronted.

  “Paige! Sweetness. Say you don’t mean it!”

  “She means it,” Knox insists. “Women always mean that shit.”

  “And why is that?” London asks with perfect seriousness.

  Knox sighs. “Because I’m not the boss of you. We’re . . .”

  “We’re what, baby?” She stares at him.

  “Partners.” It comes out almost grudgingly, and I swallow another laugh. “We’re partners.”

  “That’s right.” She goes up on her tiptoes for a quick kiss.

  “All right. Cut the relationship crap.” Noah gives a little shudder. “You’re freaking me out, dude.”

  “You ought to be paying attention,” Knox says, raising one eyebrow. “You might need to know this shit someday.” He shoots a look in my direction, but I ignore it. I know better.

  “Yeah, yeah.” Noah shakes his head. “So what’re you really doing here?”

  Knox frowns. “Giving you a message, since you won’t answer your fucking phone.”

  “Sorry.” But Noah doesn’t really sound like it. He’s more . . . impatient. “What is it?”

  “Meeting tonight. Six o’clock. Mom’s place.”

  “Tonight?” Noah looks from Knox to London. “Couple of hours isn’t much notice.”

  “Woulda been more if you answered your phone.”

  “I . . . fuck.”

  London laughs.

  Noah shoves a hand through his hair. He’d pulled it back while we were moving my stuff, and now it’s half pulled from its ponytail.

  “What’re we meeting about?”

  “What? You don’t wanna spend some time at my mom’s? Booze, pool, her cooking?”

  “I love your mom and her cooking. I love her more’n I like you, in fact,” Noah points out. “But it’s not like you invite us over to party at her place all the time. So what’s the deal?”

  Knox’s expression is serious enough, but there’s a devilish light in his eyes. I look from him to London to Noah curiously. Famous rock stars do not act like I thought they would.

  “Deangelo Moore,” Knox says.

  “The Angel?” Noah stares.

  “Yep.”

  “You shitting me?”

  “C’mon, dude, you know we been wanting to talk to him for a while now.”

  “And he’s busy,” insists Noah. “Booked solid, from what I heard.”

  “Apparently, he had a cancellation,” London offers. She hasn’t said much, but the more I hear her speak, the more I recognize an odd lilt to her voice. Not exactly an accent, but not completely American English, either.

  “Well, damn. Course we’ll be there.”

  We? He can’t mean me, too, can he? I mean, I have absolutely no business going along for a Wycked Obsession band meeting.

  “Noah, sweetie,” London says
carefully.

  So she calls him sweetie, too. Just like Bree. Butterflies shudder to life in my stomach, make me a feel a little awkward. Just how close is this group?

  Noah looks from London to Knox and back. “Oh, fuck.”

  “There is one more thing.” She takes a small electronic tablet from her purse.

  “Damn, do you ever go anywhere without that thing?”

  She smiles a saucy grin. “Maybe.”

  “I bet you don’t. In fact, you probably take it to bed with you!”

  “Shut up, dude! Don’t give her any ideas!”

  I chuckle but otherwise keep my mouth shut. I have literally nothing to add to any of this.

  “Since you haven’t looked at any of Knox’s texts . . .”

  London searches for something on the tablet, hands it to Noah, and he stares for a few seconds before he mutters, “What the fuck?”

  “You just can’t stop, can you?” asks Knox.

  “Come on, baby. That’s not fair, and you know it.” London slips an arm around his waist.

  “God. Dammit!” Noah looks at me, his eyes pained. Regretful. Unhappy.

  “What?” The word comes out on its own.

  “This.”

  He turns the tablet to show me the screen. It’s a picture of me, backed up against Noah’s chest. His arms are close around me, his hands resting just below my hips. My fingers curl over his, and we look . . . tight.

  A lot like the photo of him and Bree, actually.

  I blink, take in the rest of the picture. Drake and Marlie face us. She has her hand on his arm, and they’re both glaring at me.

  At us.

  Crap. This is probably nothing for Noah, but that’s not the case for me. No one knows me—nor should they. Now it looks like I’m just one more groupie looking for her fifteen minutes of fame with a rock star.

  I never wanted anything like that, and if Noah understands anything about me, he knows it.

  Chapter Eight

  Paige

  “Are you sure you want me along?” I ask when we stop in front of a ranch style suburban Austin home. It’s where Knox and Bree grew up, according to Noah.

  I resist the urge to glance down at myself one more time. I’ve been checking my look since the instant I finished getting dressed. I’m wearing a bikini under faded cutoff jeans and a rainbow-colored tank top. Mrs. Gallagher has a pool, and Noah said to take advantage of it while he and the band hold their meeting. I’m glad to take the advice.

  I mean, it’s a better idea than stressing about Drake and that whole mess, right? Now there’s that damn picture, and what am I supposed to do about that?

  Why think about it when there’s nothing I can do? I’ve kept my phone off since reading his texts and listening to his voice mails this morning. No reason to go through any more of that. Not right now.

  I need another day or two before I want to face that jerk again.

  Noah gets out of the vehicle and stalks around to open my door for me. He looks—acts—a little pissed off. Is he? Really?

  I’m not sure, even when he finally answers my question.

  “Command performance, sweetness,” he says as he leads me to the front door.

  His voice sounds tight, and he rings the doorbell without another word. Is it because he’s been called here to this meeting at all, or because he feels he has to bring me along?

  I swallow. The chance of the second one eats at my confidence, and I struggle to keep a neutral expression. He’s done way more than I have any right to expect from an old boyfriend, and the idea of being an unwanted burden—again—sends a surprising wave of disappointment through me.

  I blink, try to look anywhere but at Noah, but I can feel his gaze on me. Almost against my will, I find myself glancing up at him, and he bends down with an unexpected, soft smile on his face. “Personally, I want you along tonight, sweetness, no matter what.”

  I don’t want to smile, but I do. What does that mean? Then I forget to wonder when he runs a finger down my spine and an involuntary shiver races across my nerves. Worse, my nipples grow pert and hard, and the muscles of my core clench.

  Damn. Noah grins.

  The door swings open, and a beautiful woman stands in the doorway. “Noah!”

  “Hi, Missus Gallagher.”

  This is Knox Gallagher’s mother? She hardly appears old enough to be anyone’s mother. She looks maybe thirty, thirty-five, and I know Knox is somewhere around Noah’s age. Twenty-four next birthday.

  She’s not particularly tall—shorter than me—but with a nice, womanly figure. Her brown hair falls to her shoulders, her eyes are a brilliant green, and her mouth is wide with a chiding smile.

  “How many times have I asked you to call me Claire?”

  “Eerrr . . .” Noah’s eyes dart from side to side, and I’m surprised by his awkward tone. “I don’t know?”

  She drops her hands to her hips, and I realize she’s dressed a lot like I am in shorts and a tank top. I want to smile to myself, thinking of how wonderfully approachable this woman seems when compared to my own mother.

  Helena Randolph Hamilton wears pencil skirts and lab coats for work, and linen trousers and silk blouses for casual wear. They’re an appropriate armor for her, I suppose. I might even feel sorry for her, if her defenses didn’t also keep me at arm’s length and always have.

  “I appreciated the respect when you were boys and we first met, but you’re adults now.” Claire flashes a quick almost-smile that feels like it includes me, too. “Do you know how old it makes me feel when you call me Missus Gallagher or . . . well, never mind.”

  Something passes between them, something I don’t understand, and Noah nods. It’s really more just a tilt of his head toward her, and he does it only once.

  “Okay. Claire.” He smiles softly. “And for the record, old’s the last word I’d use to describe you.”

  “Thank you. Now, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” She gives him a youthful grin. “And still the charmer, I see.”

  “Aw, c’mon, Mi– Claire. You’ll make me blush.”

  She laughs. “You’ve never blushed a day in your life, Noah Dexter.”

  I can’t help it; I snicker. She has his number, that’s for sure. I doubt if anything he’s ever done or said has embarrassed him.

  “Oh, no.” Noah scowls at me. “You two are not ganging up on me.”

  “Introductions, please,” says Claire, ignoring his declaration.

  “Oh, sorry.”

  He does as she asks, and Claire couldn’t be nicer in her greeting.

  “Thank you for including me,” I say, truly humble over the whole idea of it.

  Her smile is genuine. “The kids’ friends are always welcome. The house is too quiet these days, now that I’m here alone. I love having y’all come by.”

  Noah jerks his head backward, toward the driveway. “Looks like everybody else’s here.”

  “All except the new boy.”

  He snorts. “Mi– Claire.”

  “Yeess?” She drags the word out, like she’s trying to make one more point about her name. I bite my lip rather than laugh. If this is any indication, this tiny woman has the men of Wycked Obsession positioned properly under her thumb.

  “Sorry,” Noah apologizes. “But Deangelo Moore’s not a boy. He’s like—I don’t know—thirty or something.”

  Claire laughs. “Sweetie, when you’re looking at forty-five on your next birthday, thirty sounds like a kid.”

  I’m still blinking in surprise to hear that Claire Gallagher is anywhere in her forties when a husky voice chuckles behind me. “I’m disappointed to hear that.”

  Noah and I turn at the same time, while Claire angles to one side to see behind us.

  A beautiful-looking man, tall with dark, creamy skin and close-cropped black hair looks back with a smile.

  “Angel! Dude.” Noah sticks out a hand and the men grasp wrists. “You look good, man.”

  “Thanks. Can’t complain,”
he says with a smile. “You killed it on your last tour.”

  “Yeah, thanks.” Noah nods. “We did okay.”

  “How’s your bass player?”

  “Good. Still in rehab, but he sounds better every time I talk to him.”

  “Excellent, man. Glad to hear it.”

  “Excuse me.”

  We all turn to Claire in unison, but she’s looking only at the man Noah called Angel.

  “Yes?” he asks.

  “You said you were disappointed. About what, may I ask?”

  He stares, and even I can tell his gaze runs the entire length of her body. She shifts, like she’s aware, too, and then he smiles.

  “That a beautiful woman would see me as more of a child than a man.”

  The air around us is suddenly charged, and I’m not quite sure what to do. Noah is the only one I really know, and he’s looking around us like he can’t find his balance or something.

  “I see. Well . . .” Claire’s voice cracks, and she pauses. “Uh, well, would you gentlemen care to come all the way inside?” Her tone becomes drier the longer she speaks, and the odd electricity begins to fade. “Or maybe you think my AC unit can make a difference in the temperature. Let’s see, Austin in September, still ninety? Yeah, I’m sure I can help.”

  Noah laughs. “Sorry, Claire.”

  I step out of the way to make room for Noah and the charming newcomer, and then Noah formally introduces Deangelo Moore to Claire and me. Claire clearly has an idea who Deangelo is and why he’s here, but I haven’t a clue. Of course, there’s no reason I should know anything about Wycked Obsession’s business, and it’s not my place to ask.

  If Noah wants me to know anything, he’ll tell me.

  Claire leads us through the house, a mid-century ranch style home that looks to have had at least a couple of updates in décor. The living and dining rooms look comfortable and lived in. At the rear of the house, there’s an eat-in kitchen with sliding glass doors that open out to the back yard. Beyond that is a rectangular-shaped pool.

  The patio is full of people, or that’s the way it looks to me. I recognize Knox, wearing board shorts, and London has on a cute blue bikini with white lace trim. I glance past them and spot the other famous faces.