Wycked Escape (Wycked Obsession Book 3)

by Wynne Roman

  She swallows. “We hooked up about six months ago. I hadn’t seen him since graduation and thought he’d changed. I was wrong.”

  “Paige . . . sweetness.”

  I’m not sure what to say, but I think it should be something. She shakes her head in disagreement.

  “I found out last night he’s been cheating on me for the last couple of months. Noah was there—” she looks at me with an uncertain smile “—and helped me out of an awkward situation. Drake didn’t take it so well.”

  “Drake didn’t take it so well?” snaps Bree. “He’s the one who cheated!”

  Paige waves her hand like it doesn’t matter. I know better but let it go.

  “He’s also a spoiled narcissist, as I finally figured out. It’s not that I still care or anything—he blew that straight to hell last night—but I thought you should know. I wouldn’t want you to be surprised if this deal goes forward.”

  “You think it’ll be a problem if we decide we’re interested?”

  Paige laughs. “Not for Mister Johnson. He’s known for not letting personal stuff get in the way of business.”

  “Drake might try to stir up some shit,” I put in. “Not because of Paige but me.”

  Knox looks at London then at me. “That was him, wasn’t it?”

  No need to waste our time pretending that I don’t know what he’s talking about. “Yeah.”

  “What?” asks Ajia.

  “A photo showed up online overnight. It was Paige, Noah, and another couple.”

  “Drake and Marlie,” I start, but Paige finishes.

  “The woman he was cheating with.”

  “It looks a little like they’re . . . I don’t know, facing off,” notes London. “I spotted it, and Baz and I are keeping an eye on things. You know, in case the story has legs.”

  “Like we need more of that kind of publicity,” Knox grumbles.

  “I’m so sorry.” Paige’s voice is soft, just above a whisper, and her gaze is trained on her lap.

  I lean close and slip an arm around her shoulders. “It’s not your fault, sweetness.” I glare at Knox, who’s getting the same treatment from everybody else.

  “Uh, yeah. Sorry, Paige.” He apologizes, but he’s looking at London when he does it. “It’s not you. We just sort of had our share of shitty publicity on tour, and we’d like to keep a low profile for a change.”

  Paige looks at me, then Knox, and I don’t miss the regret darkening her gaze. “And I ruined that with my drama.”

  “No!” Bree glares at Knox one more time and leans forward. “I know how this works better than anybody. You don’t do anything, just live your life, and then—wham! Some nasty asshole crawls out of the woodwork, and you’re left defending yourself from lies and stuff you don’t even understand.”

  “Kitten—” starts Ajia, but Bree shakes her head.

  “You know it’s true, A. I don’t want Paige feeling bad for no reason because some creeper took a picture and decided to make a few bucks by selling it online.”

  Ajia sighs and shoots me a look of resignation. “Sorry, man,” he says, “but it’s true, and you know it. We haven’t been lucky that way since those first rumors about the ménage crap. It’s like they’re looking for shit to lay on us.”

  “And I gave them the perfect opening,” moans Paige.

  “No, you didn’t do anything.” I give her a one-armed hug. “And I’m not sorry for my part in it.”

  “Don’t worry,” says London kindly. “Baz and I won’t let it get out of hand.”

  Paige peers up at me. “Baz?”

  “Our manager.”

  “Oh, okay.” She nods. “I’m just sorry if I caused y’all any trouble.”

  It’s Ajia who laughs first. “Shit, Paige, don’t you know? We’re Wycked Obsession. We draw trouble like we’re our own worst enemies.”

  Chapter Ten

  Paige

  I’m quiet on the ride back to Noah’s apartment. I’m actually pretty embarrassed that everybody in Wycked Obsession now knows my secrets. Or at least the most recent ones. I mean, here I am, a nobody from nowhere, and this crappy stuff that happened to me could impact them. An internationally-known band.

  That makes no sense to me.

  Noah leaves me to my thoughts as he guides the Range Rover over the streets of Austin. I’m relieved he isn’t talking. Sort of. I don’t really want to discuss Drake and what he did, and so I’ve avoided even thinking about it as much as possible today.

  Being with Noah, meeting Knox and London, and then spending the evening with the whole band? It was easy. Fun. A relief. Bree and Claire and the others were so nice, friendly. Nobody seemed to think badly of me.

  Then I had to tell them the truth.

  Gah! I want to swear at myself, but that’ll just make me feel worse.

  How could they not hate me after hearing I might be responsible for some bad publicity? More bad publicity that they really don’t need.

  But they don’t seem to be. I don’t know why, because I kind of hate myself right now.

  What the hell was I thinking to hook up with Drake Johnson, anyway? I knew he had a reputation, and I stupidly let him convince me that it was all in the past. That he’d changed. Grown up. Was ready for a serious relationship.

  What bullshit. There were signs all over the place, and I either missed or ignored them. Times that he didn’t show up when he should. Not being where he said he was and then acting all offended when I questioned him.

  And, of course, the biggest one of all. Not moving in when he said he would.

  I told myself I was seeing him through old prejudices left over from high school. That he deserved a second chance. That, as his girlfriend, it was up to me to give it to him.

  I couldn’t have been more wrong. Why didn’t I listen to my instincts?

  How many times do I have to learn that lesson?

  It doesn’t matter. I got it now, and I keep my phone off more than I have it on, just to avoid any more of Drake’s crap.

  So why am I letting Noah call the shots? I’m a strong, independent woman. At least I want to be. Pretend to be. Am trying to be. So why have I allowed myself to be put into the position of giving Noah Dexter any say in what I’m doing, where I’m staying, and who’s there to witness my downfall?

  How is that smart? He was there the first time something like this happened, and he hurt me. Bad. Far more than anything Drake could do to my heart. But here I am, my instincts telling me to hold back. Letting him in again.

  Because he said we’d talk.

  I blink, thinking back. I vaguely remember that little gem from my drunkathon last night. I was going on about something—I can’t remember that part—and he said we’d talk later, when I was sober. That was a good call, because if we do it, I definitely want to remember it.

  The idea of having a heart-to-heart with Noah makes me nervous.

  What will he say? What will I say?

  I want him to tell me what he was thinking all those years ago, how he was feeling, why he wanted to bring another girl into our relationship. Why he continues to have threesomes—or is that another bit of gossip that the tabloids get wrong and exploit.

  I need to know these things.

  But do I want to tell him how I felt? What I was thinking? How much it hurt to know that I wasn’t enough for him? How my body physically ached when I saw him touch Marlie? How it all but killed my teenage heart when he picked lust—sex—over me?

  It sounds silly and childish and dramatic to think about it that way now. My thoughts tell me in no uncertain terms that I should have dealt with this long ago, but if I’m honest with myself, I have to admit that I probably couldn’t have. The pain was too sharp, too deep, and I was too young. I didn’t have the maturity or the tools to make sense of it then.

  And now?

  I’m distracted when we turn onto a street that has different streetlamps. They’re brighter, and the mottled light reveals my hands. My fingers twine in
my lap, twitch, separate, and then do it all again.

  I have no idea what I’m capable of right now, faced with stuff I’ve avoided for so long. Just being close to Noah makes me anxious, uncertain, like every mistake from my past is staring me straight in the face and I can’t blink.

  I should have known that hooking up with Drake was going to be the start of the worst luck ever.

  “I never loved him, you know.”

  Shit. Did I say that out loud?

  Yeah, I did. I know it for sure when Noah glances across the space between us.

  “You talking about Drake?”

  I nod.

  “What were you doing with him if you didn’t love him?”

  He doesn’t sound like he’s judging, and I don’t suppose he would. Noah’s got his own issues with the opposite sex.

  I close my eyes, open them again to look at him, and sigh. He’s staring back. Waiting.

  “I don’t know.” I shake my head. “I guess I thought it’d be . . .” I pause. “Safe?”

  I laugh after that, but it’s full of disgust and self-deprecation. “Stupid, I know. He said he’d changed, grown up, and there was something—I don’t know—maybe comforting being with a guy I had some history with. We laughed about the same things, knew the same people, had an idea of each other’s families, likes and dislikes. That kind of thing.”

  “Was it worth it?”

  “Fuck no.”

  Noah snorts and then coughs. “Damn, sweetness. You’re gonna have to warn me when you’re gonna drop the F-bomb.”

  That makes me smile for real. “Sorry.” But I’m not sorry at all.

  It feels weird to walk into Noah’s apartment, knowing I’m going to spend the night. Last night really doesn’t count in my mind. I was upset and then drunk pretty quickly after that. I didn’t know what I was doing.

  Tonight is completely different.

  “You want a shot of Crown?” Noah asks from the kitchen.

  “Ugh.” I shake my head and drop my purse on the entryway table. “No.”

  He grins and reaches into the cabinet where he keeps his liquor.

  Dammit, why does he have to look so hot? He’s wearing board shorts, a navy blue T-shirt that’s tight over his arms and chest, and flip flops.

  My thoughts circle back as I continue to stare. I still haven’t had a chance to check out any of his tattoos. Plus, I’m almost disappointed that his hair is loose, falling long around his shoulders tonight. I love seeing those earrings of his, especially that black cross that dangles from his right ear.

  I’d really like to hear the stories behind all of that.

  He pours himself a shot, tosses it back, and then places the empty glass on the countertop. “You tired, or you wanna stay up a while?”

  I wander over to the sofa. “I’ll stay up as long as you do. I’ll sleep out here.”

  He follows me. “No.”

  “No, what?”

  “You aren’t sleeping out here.”

  “Well, you can’t. This is a big couch—” I pat the cushion next to me “—but you’re a big man. You would not be comfortable.”

  “I told you, sweetness. I’ve slept in some pretty shitty places over the years. This will be just fine.” He smacks the cushion just like I did.

  “But that’s just . . . wrong. This is your apartment. You should be able to sleep in your own damn bed.”

  “And you’re my guest.”

  “Noah . . .” I try to think of how to get through to him.

  “Don’t you know by now, sweetness, that I only do what I want to?”

  I give a half laugh. “Okay, that’s true. But I still don’t like it.”

  “You don’t have to like it. Hell, last time Bree needed it, I gave up my bed for her, and that couch was a hell of a lot smaller that this one.”

  He gave up his bed for Bree? I know she’s with Ajia, that Noah says she’s like the sister he never had. But . . . still. He calls her baby girl, and he gave up his bed for her.

  Why does that irritate the hell out of me?

  “I don’t care. You’re not giving up your bed for me. If you won’t let me sleep out here, then we’re sleeping together.”

  I cringe inside the very instant it’s too late. Why did I say it? And phrase the words like that?

  And why am I so ridiculously jealous of every other woman in his life? They aren’t girlfriends, he hasn’t slept with any of them—I’m pretty sure—so why does it irritate me so much?

  But I suppose I know the answers to those questions. It’s because of old emotions that never got resolved. Things that happened all those years ago. That horrible threesome with Noah, Marlie, and me.

  Then, later, her lies. And our inescapable breakup. Neither of us ever admitted to our feelings. We were too cool to let each other see the truth of our hurt, heartbreak, and regret.

  Since then, there’s been my reluctance to trust men. His many, many women over the last few years. And, apparently most damaging of all, my refusal to acknowledge any of it.

  Until now.

  Until I’m forced to.

  Noah, meanwhile, is giving me a sly, teasing look. “Sleeping together, sweetness?”

  “In the same bed,” I snap, suddenly angry with myself as much as him. “Platonically.”

  “Oh, baby.” He slaps a hand against the middle of his chest. “You wound me.”

  “When’s the last time you slept with a woman and didn’t have sex with her?” I sound like such a bitch—I know it—and I don’t care.

  “Last night.”

  Crap. Okay, I deserved that.

  “Uh . . .”

  I close my eyes so I can remind myself that this isn’t all Noah’s fault. Not really. Maybe the shit from high school was primarily him, but this isn’t. It isn’t all mine, either, but I’m the one who seems to be making it worse.

  “Sorry.” I glance at him again, and he looks back expectantly, not a hint of judgment in his expression. “It’s been a rough couple of days.”

  He turns, adjusting our bodies until we’re facing each other, knee to knee. He takes my hands in his and directs those amazing baby blues straight at me. My breathing stumbles, but I draw it in as best I can.

  “I know it hasn’t been easy, Paige. Even if you didn’t love him, what Drake did was shitty. It had to hurt. Add in a hangover, moving out of your apartment, and then meeting a bunch of new people all at the same time—”

  “Famous people,” I stick in.

  The tenderness in his smile surprises me. “Famous people,” he agrees with a chuckle. “It’s a lot to take in. So let’s not make it any worse. A few hours of sleep in the same bed won’t kill either of us, and we can start fresh tomorrow.”

  “Start fresh? You mean . . .” A part of me is almost afraid to remind him, but now that I’ve remembered it, I can’t let go of the possibility. “We’ll have that talk?”

  Unease, maybe even regret, crawls over his expression. It’s there, I know I see it, but then he blinks and it’s gone.

  “Sure, sweetness. I promised you. God knows, I fucking owe it to you. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Paige

  I wake up early, my normal time. Yeah, this is the weekend—hmm . . . Saturday, I guess—but it’s an old habit. I probably wouldn’t even notice except I’m in a strange bedroom—Noah’s bedroom—and I’m alone in bed.

  I glance at the bedside clock. The numbers change to 7:57.

  When do rock stars get up before eight a.m.?

  I stretch, check my body. I wore sleep shorts and a tank top to bed last night, and everything seems to be in place. Not that there should be any reason I’m not fully covered. Nothing happened between Noah and me—and I’m not thinking about that or how the possibility either way makes me feel. Still, a boob popping out of a low-cut shirt in the middle of the night has been known to happen.

  The door to the bathroom opens, and the man himself walks into the room. He’s shower
ed, and his hair is pulled back, putting his earrings on full display. He’s even dressed, wearing tight jeans and a retro T-shirt with a cartoon character stepping forward like he’s coming out of the picture. The character’s foot is huge, and the caption says, “Just passin’ through”.

  “What are you doing up already?” I whisper, like it’s too early to talk in a normal voice. “It’s not even eight o’clock.”

  “I know, sweetness. Sorry. Rye texted. He wants to meet for breakfast, and then we’re all supposed to meet the realtor at that fucking warehouse.”

  I shot of unease darts through me. “Mister Johnson?”

  Noah shakes his head. “I don’t think so. Whatever realtor Rye’s been working with.”

  “I hope so.”

  “Don’t worry. Go back to sleep. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”

  He drops a quick kiss to my forehead, and then he’s gone.

  I . . . what?

  He kissed my forehead? Why would he do that? It speaks of affection, not sex.

  For the first time in five years, his lips touched me. My skin heats, all over. It happened so quickly, I didn’t get the chance to appreciate it in the moment. Now, my heart beats a little harder, my core tightens, and my nipples perk up.

  What the hell?

  I know better than to allow these kinds of physical reactions, but I feel helpless against them sometimes. They get the better of me, and I’m powerless to stop them.

  Do I even want to stop them?

  Swallowing a half-sigh, half-groan, I close my eyes. That isn’t enough, so I turn on my side and curl up in a ball as I remember last night, whether I want to or not.

  It was only a little awkward getting into bed, and that was all thanks to Noah. He let me use the bathroom first, gave me a bit of privacy so I could climb under the sheets, and even turned out the lights before he crawled in next to me.

  I didn’t get to see what he wore to bed, but assumed it was just boxers like the night before. That ridiculous girly part of me wanted to imagine his bare, tattooed chest and powerful legs. My better sense knew what a bad idea that was.