by Wynne Roman
Chapter Eighteen
Noah
I wake up next to Paige. She’s curled on her side with her back to me. My chest is pressed against her, my morning wood tucked against her ass. Never been more comfortable—or more certain about how good it would be to wake her up with my cock already inside her.
Sweet Jesus, yes. But . . . hold on there, cowboy, I warn myself. That’s too much too fast. No doubt about it.
Hell, last night was too much too fast. Not that I regret it. I don’t. Not one damn bit. But this is a major fucking turn of events.
How do I face her this morning? How do I even feel?
I can’t just lay here wondering. My body suddenly needs to move. It’s an old demand that’s seen me through some shit. I know answers will come with better blood flow and oxygen to the brain. And when we’re not on the road, I’m used to early-morning workouts.
Slowly, careful to leave Paige sleeping, I slip from the bed and step into the walk-in closet. I grab my workout clothes, an old pair of nylon shorts and a T-shirt, and pull them on. Shoes and socks, and then I’m ready for the building’s shitty gym. Even an hour on the elliptical machine should help.
It does—and it doesn’t. It gets the blood pumping and the oxygen flowing, yeah, but it also gives me way too much time to think. About Paige. About our past. About now . . . and—holy hell—if there’s a future.
What the hell is going on? The question keeps driving through my brain, demanding an answer. Why is my life changing in these weird, random ways, and what’s wrong with being the old me? Living as manwhore Noah Dexter was never a bad thing.
Or was it?
I think back to the way I used to live. To all those nameless, faceless women. To the single women, the threesomes, even a couple of foursomes, and the few times Zayne and I tag teamed a girl. The days and the nights, the quickies and the all-night sessions. The hand jobs and blow jobs and downright dirty fucking. It’s all a blur, and the saddest thing of all? I don’t remember any of it.
Oh, I might get a flash of a face or a piece of memory from a hookup, but that’s it. It’s there and then gone in an instant, and it never means a damn thing.
The women never mean a damn thing.
I should be ashamed, and I suppose there’s a part of me that is. At least when I look back. But at the time, there was none of that. Nothing occurred to me except my own pleasure.
Yeah, I always made sure the women came. It was like a pride thing with me, to give them the best O they ever had. That didn’t mean anything to me about them, though. I wasn’t even present in the moment. Mindlessly getting ‘em off required nothing of me emotionally.
Talk about wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am.
What a douche.
My body was there, but my mind? The most important part of me would be working out a new fill or a lick, or reliving a burst of applause from the last show. I’d think about the next performance and our set list. I could get lost in just about anything else, and then, when it was my turn to come, I’d lose myself in the pure sensation of pleasure.
That’s all it was. No intimacy required.
That is so not the fucking case with Paige. Every part of me is always there with her, every second of every minute. Especially in bed.
I pick up my pace a little bit. Feel the sweat start to drip down my chest and the first ache of my muscles.
Trying to run away from yourself? The inner voice sounds so goddamn smug. I grimace and keep going.
Okay, it’s a crappy thing to think, but it’s also kind of true. I would like to get away . . . if only there were someplace else to go. There isn’t. I know. I’ve been trying.
I get that some of my fucked-up feelings come from all the other stuff that Wycked Obsession and I have been through. The rumors about orgies with Bree. Knox’s greedy old man trying to make trouble, and London losing their baby. Zayne overdosing.
But I’ve got my own stuff on top of it. The chick who accused me of giving her an STD. Thank God I could prove I’m clean.
Then there’s Elyssa. That’s still an open, festering wound that I do not address unless I’m forced to. Doesn’t matter. I’ll prove myself innocent there, too. It’s just a matter of time.
Still, all this shit comes at me like a beating, blow after blow. Any sane man would start looking at his life, trying to figure out where it all went wrong. I’ve been doing that for a while now.
I think we all have.
The random hookups, threesomes or not, aren’t getting me a damn thing except the physical release. That was great for a few years, but now it all feels so fucking empty. The fallout isn’t worth a few minutes of satisfaction.
But what does that mean? Especially now, with this goat fuck of a situation with Paige? For every good thing, there’s a complication that can come back and bite us in the ass at any second. Drake, Marlie, social media gossip. Who the hell knows what else? This shit keeps coming and coming and coming, always out of nowhere.
And still I keep trying. Want to. Need to.
Paige deserves it. More than that, she’s worth whatever it costs me.
I pick up the pace. Need to sweat a little harder. Work my muscles until they burn. Do anything to keep from thinking about Paige and what all this means.
It takes until sweat is literally dripping from me, and my legs are almost not working anymore. It’s past my usual limit—at a better gym, I’d switch it up with weights and some resistance training—but it gives me what I need.
An answer. One I should have seen from the beginning.
Don’t overthink it.
Most people wouldn’t know it, but it’s a bad habit of mine. I hide it behind laughter and teasing and flirting, but when I’m alone, I always fuck it up. Make it worse. Find problems that aren’t there.
Be smart for a change, my better sense advises me. That sounds right, and I know how to do it.
Just let things . . . be. Be there for Paige, however she needs a friend. That’ll do as much as anything to heal any old hurt between us. Let her set the pace, the boundaries of our friendship, and see how it goes. Don’t push her, don’t test her. Just let her be.
And if I wanna fuck her again? If that body, that scent, that smile, all drive me crazy? It’s what I deserve. I’m no way good enough to be with her, anyway, so I’ll let her be.
But I know, deep down inside, that if she gives me any sign that she’s up for it, she’ll be in my bed again, and I won’t hesitate.
Paige
I wake up slowly, languidly . . . and alone. I feel it before I even open my eyes, and when I reach out next to me, the mattress is cool. Surprise filters through me, although I’m not quite sure why. I lay there a minute or two longer, and then memory gradually trickles back.
Noah made love to me last night, but he isn’t here in bed with me now.
Am I upset? Should I be? Or is it a relief—at least temporarily?
No answers, just the questions on repeat.
I roll onto my back, stretch, and then swallow a groan. My body feels well used but in a good way. Muscles ache, and there’s a twinge between my legs. Noah’s always had a magnificent dick. Not until Todd in college did I realize just how true it was that all men were not created equal in that department. Now, not only does Noah seem bigger, broader, but he knows exactly what to do with it.
Last night was deliberate, no time wasted for appreciation or exploration; we were both too needy. But if he ever decides he wants to go slow, linger over my body? Lord help me.
I blink and sit up slowly, dragging the sheet with me to cover my naked breasts. That sounds like I’m planning on having another chance with him. Like I think Noah is going to want me again.
Wasn’t last night a one-time thing? Didn’t I tell him that?
I know you have a different life now. You aren’t looking for a change. A girlfriend. You have lots of women you want to be with and who want to be with you. Beautiful, thin, accomplished women. But for just this one moment in tim
e, let’s give ourselves a chance to heal.
Isn’t that all it was about? Putting a proper end to all the things left undone and unsaid from the past? Setting our mistakes right again?
Maybe.
My gaze tracks from side to side, but I’m not really seeing anything. I’m thinking about that word instead.
Maybe.
That’s all I’ve got?
One night in Noah’s bed and a few minutes thinking about it—him—and I know the truth. A fact I’ve been hiding from for five years now.
I’ve never gotten over him.
I lose a deep breath. It sounds so dramatic when I think of it like that, but I guess it should. I’d convinced myself it was all about the bad stuff and Noah’s indifference to it. So maybe that was part of it, but the real issue is so much more.
I still have feelings for Noah!
Well, that is just unacceptable, I tell myself firmly. He has an amazing rock star life, and he has no room for someone ordinary who’s already brought trouble into his life.
So just get over it. Get over yourself, I insist firmly as I climb from the bed. Get dressed and get on with it, like nothing happened. Because in the overall scheme of things, it hasn’t.
I slip into the bathroom to take care of my most urgent needs. Pee. Brush my teeth. Comb my hair. I’ll shower as soon as I figure out what’s next.
My pajama shorts are on the floor next to the bed, while my sleep top is on the dresser where Noah threw it in the dark. I smile to myself, appreciating the memory but reminding myself not to get carried away.
You can have the memories, just don’t make too much of them.
I put on my PJs, take a deep breath, and open the bedroom door. Almost immediately the smell of coffee hits me, and I sniff.
If Noah got up and made coffee, I will love him for life.
He stands shirtless in the kitchen, his hair pulled back, and a pair of nylon shorts hugging his hips. He looks a little sweaty, making me wonder if he worked out this morning.
Damn.
“Morning, sweetness.” I can’t tell anything from his greeting. He sounds so . . . normal. “Coffee?”
“Yes, please.”
“We should probably go to the store sometime soon,” he remarks as he pours me a cup. “Coffee’s about the only thing I have in this place.”
We? Does that mean he’s planning on me staying for a while?
And what a stupid question! I don’t have anywhere else to go, at least not yet, and he knows it.
I take the cup he offers, careful not to touch him. I’m not sure I’m quite up to that yet. I wander over to my usual spot on the sofa and sit before I take my first, delicious sip.
“Creamer goes on the grocery list.” I’m pretty emphatic about it.
He laughs. “You got it.”
Noah wanders in my direction, sits in what’s become his regular place. He takes a drink of his own coffee. I notice, but I’m more interested in the tattoos on his chest. I’ve had glimpses, but this is the first chance I’ve had to really look at them.
One pec has the Wycked Obsession logo, a stylized W inside an O. I like it, wish I could touch it, but I’m easily distracted by the more intricate tattoo just below it, on his abdomen and circling around to his side. It’s an old-fashioned vinyl record that’s breaking apart into a bunch of musical notes.
God, that’s cool—and so Noah.
“What are your plans for the day?”
His question interrupts, but it’s just as well. A few more seconds, and I might have actually reached out to touch him. He sounds really casual, so I go with it.
“Besides the grocery store?”
“Yeah.” He grins, and my heart jumps a beat.
I gesture toward my phone on the coffee table. I left it there two days ago. I haven’t even touched it since then. “Guess I ought to turn it on and see if I have any more messages to deal with.”
Noah’s brows draw down. “Yeah, you need to do that when I’m here.”
“What?”
“I don’t trust that fucker Drake. Don’t want him to upset you any more.”
That’s sweet. But I keep my smile quick and light.
“Well, he could hurt my feelings, I suppose, but it’s not because of any great love I have for him. I told you that.”
He nods. “I know. Still don’t want him doing even that.”
I sigh. He’s right that I should probably have a witness to whatever else Drake might say—and something tells me that his childish sense of entitlement won’t let any of this go just yet.
I grab my phone, power it up, and check my voice mail. Three from Drake. I show Noah the screen.
“Speaker,” he says tightly.
I nod, press play, and then Drake’s smug voice fills the room. “How d’you like that, you fucking cunt? Now everybody knows about your fucked up shit. You’ll be lucky if you have a friend left, you ugly bitch.”
I close my eyes and take a breath.
“Sweetness?”
“I’m okay.” I shake my head and look at him. “Yeah, it sucked to listen to the words, but I don’t have any real emotional attachment to him or what he’s saying. I don’t like it, but—” I shrug “—I’m not devastated.”
Noah nods, but I recognize the leashed rage in his usually sparkling blue eyes. Today they’re dark, subdued, and sharp regret stabs through me, knowing I’m the cause.
The other two messages are much the same, and he left a few text messages— just in case I didn’t get it from the voice mails, I guess. I keep them all, like Noah asked, and then move on to social media. I haven’t posted lately so don’t really expect much there, but I should probably block Drake from things like Twitter, Facebook, and Snapchat.
I open Twitter first and block Drake first thing. In the process, I notice I have some new followers. Quite a few, actually, which is odd, because I don’t post much. I don’t waste any time on it, though, because I want to get Drake blocked everywhere.
Facebook is next, and I’m shocked by the friend requests there.
“What the hell?”
“What is it?” Noah asks. I can hear the concern in his tone.
“I’ve got—” I show him the screen “—all these new friend requests.”
“Know any of them?”
I scroll through the requests. “Some. People we knew in high school or from college, but a lot I don’t know.”
He stares, blinks, sighs. “Click on one of ‘em you don’t know.”
I do. It’s a young woman, maybe eighteen, beautiful, blonde and sexy—and her interests include Wycked Obsession. Her personal quote: I’m going to marry Noah Dexter someday.
My gaze searches his without me even being aware I’ve looked up. “They’re Wycked Obsession fans.”
Chapter Nineteen
Noah
God fucking dammit.
But I only say, “Well, shit.”
“Why?” Paige looks so fucking cute in her pajama shorts and top, her hair a little messy and no make-up. But the confused look in her eyes makes everything serious. “Why would Wycked Obsession fans friend me?”
I sigh. I love our fans, but there are definite downsides to celebrity.
“If I’m photographed with women, they’re usually anonymous, and it’s a quick, action shot. Casual. That picture of us—” I angle my head in her direction “—looks pretty tight. Plus, they outed you as my high school girlfriend, so—you know.”
Her spine stiffens, and she frowns at me. “No, Noah, I don’t know. I’ve never been in a situation like this before.”
I buy some time with a drink of coffee, but she’s waiting for an answer. She deserves one, even if I hate talking about this stuff. It makes me feel like I’m acting so . . . conceited.
“They see you as a link to the band,” I finally admit.
She nods, once. “Or you, because apparently—” she glances at her phone “Nickie Harman is going to marry you someday.”
I don�
��t mean to laugh, but I do. “Damn, sweetness.”
“It’s not funny, Noah! They want to friend me!”
I search for a neutral look. I get that it isn’t funny to her, but when you’ve been in the biz for a while, you develop a sense of humor over this shit. You have to.
“You don’t have to friend them back,” I remind her. “Delete them if you want. Or don’t respond. It’s your page. Do what you want.”
She nods easily enough, but I can tell she isn’t quite over it. She’s trying to process it all. It’s not easy, getting caught up in this celebrity crap. I want to encourage her to take my advice, depend on her sense of humor, but I let it go for now.
“Stuff is a little crazy right now,” I add. I do wanna reassure her if I can. “Try to let it go. Just until things settle down.”
She tosses her phone to the coffee table with a big sigh. “God. This is all so stupid.”
“I know.” I pat her knee, just a casual touch to say, I get it, but awareness skyrockets between us from the first touch. Her gaze jerks to mine, I can’t look away, and my cock stirs.
Damn. Not now! The last thing I need is to start thinking with my dick again. It’s too soon after last night. I don’t know how she feels about what went down.
I try to smile, even though it feels awkward. I go with it, because I have to. I got nothing else. I need to move my hand, pull away, but I have to do it right. Can’t give Paige the wrong idea either way.
My phone gives me an excuse when it rings a second later. It’s Baz’s ringtone, and I gotta admit, I’m kind of relieved. Both because it gives me an out to move, and because I’ve been waiting to hear from him.
I could use some good news for a change.
The phone’s across the room, so I move fast—because of the call or to put some distance between me and Paige? Not sure, decide it doesn’t matter, and so I answer.