Savage: A Rockstar Romance (The Rock Legend Series Book 1)

by L. V. Lewis

  Malik continues to stare at me so I say, “Just enjoying the music, man.” It isn’t a complete lie. I crush the beer can. “I need to get some fresh air. Later.”

  I make a beeline for the door before a puzzled Malik can respond. If I’m going to remain at Sky’s party, I need to remove myself from earshot of The Savages medley hits, which the deejay will undoubtedly play. His M.O. is to play a trio of songs by various artists, which means there’s still a couple left to be played.

  This wouldn’t be so bad except every song I’ve ever written has a story behind it, which doesn’t trigger fond or particularly productive memories. If I don’t go, I’ll either end up snorting a few lines of coke or opening up a vein.

  I can hear Kim’s voice in the background vocals, which isn’t making things any easier. It’s like hearing a fucking ghost, and causes my throat to close up each time. Hearing her sweet melodic voice complementing my own is enough to kill me.

  The bass emanating from the speakers shakes the LA mansion like an earthquake registering at least 3.0 on the Richter scale. I’ve been smart enough to steer clear of these types of parties since I started working for I’m Your Man, Inc.—escaping the temptation to return to a semblance of my former self and all that.

  I exit through the French doors onto the patio and take several deep breaths. Several partygoers are outside enjoying the relative quietness and the cooler temperature. There aren’t any sexy bodies out here dancing, although, it’s apparent some of the revelers came outside for privacy to engage in those wickedly illicit behaviors they don’t want others to see—things they simply couldn’t wait to get back to their homes and hotel rooms to do.

  A few couples swim in their underwear, their clothing strewn over the loungers they’ve abandoned. A group of rambunctious twenty-year-olds have unabashedly taken over the gazebo—the pungent odor of marijuana wafting through the air and seeping from their pores.

  Oh well! There goes my fresh, clean air. I move upwind from the fragrant pot odor so I don’t entertain the notion of joining them. Not my scene anymore, but temptation still lurks everywhere.

  Sure, I had a beer, but I’ll be okay if I keep it at one. I’m fine around a bit of booze—it’s when drugs are involved that I’m afraid I’ll fall off the wagon. But if my type of rock is played, well, my entire body reacts as if it has a hard-on, which only my drug of choice abates. In these situations, I’m hard-pressed at resisting the allure of the drugs, giving myself up to it and taking a hit of something.

  Rock music calls to me like a siren’s song. It’s both a blessing and a curse, and it has taken me five long years to emerge from the darkness I found myself in when I bottomed out. It was that darkness that resulted in Kim’s death and could have quite easily been mine, as well. It still could kill me and that is a fact I live with each and every day.

  Convinced I’ve given the deejay plenty of time to switch artists, I head back into the party. I need Sky. I miss her. She made promises to me with her seductive lips and body after the concert, and I intend to cash in on them. Sex is the one pleasurable, addictive thing I can still do that doesn’t hurt me in the long run.

  I grasp the ankh necklace around my neck—one of the last gifts Kim gave to me. It’s engraved with our initials. If things happen the way I hope they will, I’ll remove it tonight. I always do when I’m with a woman out of some fucked up deference to Kim’s memory.

  I loved Kim and she loved me out of a desperation borne of co-dependence and history. Because of that love, I haven’t been able to conjure up feelings that remotely rival what I had with Kim for any other woman. That is why I’ve concentrated solely on clients through IYM, and steered clear of women who desire longevity in a relationship. That is something I simply can’t do right now.

  I stride back toward the door, passing yet another couple hiding behind a topiary. The woman is on her knees giving the guy a blowjob. His hand is on the top of the woman’s head, guiding himself into her eager, open mouth.

  I look away, but not fast enough.

  “Yeah, that’s right. Keep it moving, buddy,” the guy hisses.

  I glance down doing as he says, then I hear a scuffle, as if the blowjob-guy is pushing his partner away and following me.

  I speed up, not sure what his intentions are. I figure I pissed him off by getting too close to the action.

  “Hey, wait?” I hear him scrambling behind me.

  His belt buckle clinks as he struggles to make himself presentable and keep up with me. “Hey! Hey Sav!”

  Fuck. I haven’t answered to that nickname in five years.

  I stop and prepare to turn around and address him.

  Then Sky steps out of the French doors. She looks around—presumably for me.

  The blowjob-guy has caught up with me. He grabs my arm.

  Sky spots me and starts heading my way so I pull roughly away from the man. Jesus!

  “Listen, buddy, my name is Brody Kent. Got it?” I inserted just enough venom in my voice to hopefully disabuse him from calling me by my long-dead stage name.

  He frowns, peering at me through bloodshot eyes tight from alcohol and marijuana use. He sways on wobbly legs and slurs, “You look just like a guy I used to know, except he had dreads down to his ass and a long-assed goatee. But you’re heavier…I mean, healthier than he was.”

  I shake my head. This is ridiculous. “I’m not your guy, buddy.”

  Sky puts her arm through mine. “Who’s your friend?”

  The drunken, blowjob-guy turns toward her and I bristle. He mutters, “Juust a-a c-case of missstaken identity. Soooorrry.” He then walks toward the topiary where he ostensibly left his blonde partner behind.

  I know him. Watching him stumble away, I remember. He’s the owner of a nightclub Kim and I used to frequent on the Sunset Strip during our early days. Close fucking call.

  “What time is this shindig over, again?” I ask.

  “Someone’s anxious,” Sky says with a sexy smirk. “It’s over when I say it’s over, so how about now? I’ll have the deejay announce last call, and I’ll get Malik and his team to start encouraging people to leave if that doesn’t do the trick.”

  I hug the beautiful woman standing in front of me. “You don’t have to end everything so abruptly on my account. I was just going to go upstairs and wait for you to join me.”

  “That sounds like an excellent idea,” she says with a smile. “I was getting tired anyway.”

  I tease her, “I don’t know, Sky. We have work tomorrow, so maybe this can wait until we get on the road?”

  The truth is I’m not sure if I’m trying to give myself an out, or her. Sky is already moving into “more than just another client” territory. If our time together develops into something more, I don’t want it to be fucked up by my inability to commit or restricted by my job with I.Y.M. This could get complicated real fast.

  She pouts, irritated by my resistance. “Did Friday night not give you any indication at all of how… deprived I am?”

  I have to wonder if the adrenaline rush from performing earlier, along with the champagne she’s consumed has dulled her filters and affected her judgment. For some reason, it matters a lot that she doesn’t regret being with me. I know it’s crazy, but seven more weeks together will feel like an eternity if shit goes sideways. Cupping her cheeks in my hands, I kiss her again. I hope it softens what I say next. I look into her beautiful green eyes, and she already seems a bit more sober—or at least I hope.

  The mood shifts. She’s got to know something serious is coming.

  “I need to tell you something. Actually, I need to tell you a lot of things, but this you need to know now—before we go any further.”

  Fear creeps into her gorgeous eyes and rightfully so. Also, vulnerability and a fierce determination to accept what I’m going to say, regardless of the consequences. She makes me feel wanted in a way that I’ve never felt before—unconditionally.

  I begin my confession, “The other night when
you asked me if I was an alcoholic or something?”

  “Yes,” she replies, apprehensive about what I’m about to say.

  I continue, “Would it matter to you, if I was?”

  This isn’t a conversation I wanted to have at this juncture of our relationship, but it’s important for her to know what she’s getting into if she decides to be with me.

  A wide-range of emotions flit across her angelic face. She looks at me with real compassion, which is something I’m not used to getting from women, especially when sharing an awful truth about myself with them. She remains quiet and I begin to think she’s not going to answer me.

  She finally says, “Would it matter to me personally? No. Would it matter to the ‘Skylar’ brand? Probably. Especially if it was ever to get out-of-control and cause a scandal. How long have you been sober?” Her expression is soft…gentle…understanding.

  I look down at my boots. I can’t bear to look at her anymore for fear I will see disappointment and regret in her eyes. “I’ve been clean for five years... Alcohol wasn’t my drug of choice, though. My weakness was opiates. I was an addict.”

  Surprisingly, she doesn’t flinch. “Thank you for telling me, Brody. But if you’re telling me now because you think there’s a possibility I’ll change my mind about you, you are mistaken. That’s not going to happen.”

  Ironically, her eagerness to believe in me, regardless of my confession, pisses me off for some reason. “Why the hell not? Aren’t you afraid I’ll crush your heart?”

  She becomes angry after sensing mine. “Yes… and no. I’ve been hurt before by a man who didn’t have an ounce of integrity. I figure if I’m going to take a risk, I’m going to do it for someone who tells me the truth—all of the time—no matter how bad it is. I know it must have been extremely hard to share this with me, but you did—now, instead of making me wait until we’ve been together for 20 years.”

  I look up. Amazed at her words. “You think we’re going to be together for 20 years?”

  She shrugs. “I don’t know. I hope so. Don’t be an ass.”

  For some reason it turns me the fuck on that a chick has my back like that. Sky isn’t as demure and traditional as she projects, especially when she’s got a few drinks in her. I’ve barely finished this thought when she pulls me up to her by my lapels and kisses the fucking shit out of me.

  Her lips taste like champagne and that fruity lip gloss she wears over her lipstick. Uh oh! My lower head is engaged now. There’s no fucking way I’m going to be able to refuse her invitation.

  She grabs my junk through my jeans. I didn’t know she could be so… bold. “You’ve got balls of fucking steel, Skylar Samuelson,” I say as soon as our lips unlock.

  “The sooner I get the deejay to make that announcement, the sooner you’ll be able to confirm whether or not that’s true.” She takes my hand and pulls me toward the French doors.

  SIX

  SKYLAR

  DAY EIGHT

  Della and Malik agreed to manage the cleanup crew so I could retire early. They both care about me enough to want me to have a normal life, and they are discreet.

  I muster up my nerve in the hallway, knowing that Brody is waiting for me in my bedroom. I’m so ready for Brody that I’m trembling like a vibrator on the highest damn speed. I pause, take a deep breath, and enter.

  My gaze locks on him immediately. He’s shucked down to his skivvies and is lounging on my neatly turned down bed. I’m struck by how appropriate he looks in my bedroom. He’s been in here before but not in his current state of undress. Damn, he’s hot. His body looks like that David sculpture, just scaled down a bit. He’s got that wiry rock star body—with generously toned muscles courtesy of his MMA activities.

  I lock the door, step out of my heels, and leave them where they fall. I slowly traverse toward him, removing one piece of my clothing at a time, and carefully studying his impossible physique. There’s a magnificent bulge in the middle of his very snug boxer briefs. I can’t wait to sample the surprise hidden underneath. I am so taken aback by his sexiness that I struggle with the zipper on my dress.

  Brody leaps off the bed, and meets me in the middle of the room, wrapping me in an embrace and claiming my lips before he does the honor of unzipping me. He pulls away and turns me around. “Let me help you with that.”

  There’s too much damn furniture in this room but we kiss, grind, and make out in the middle of the floor as if it’s been too long since either of us had a good fuck, and lying on the bed might just make the lust go away.

  I love that Brody isn’t timid or gentle. I hate when I’m treated like I’m a porcelain doll that will break at the slightest bit of pressure—just like my ex, Connor did in the beginning. The funny thing is, Connor wasn’t so gentle after all—in the end. Annoyed, I push my thoughts of Connor away.

  Brody tugs my hair, which helps me focus on the here-and-now. With my head back, he has easy access to the delicate flesh on my neck, which he sucks like a starved man. Hmm… I may need concealer tomorrow but it’s a small price to pay. The sweet spot between my legs begins buzzing as if his lips were there instead of on my neck.

  He raises his head, and his eyes venture toward my bed. He backs me there as he devours my mouth with his own again. I taste him, and the faintest flavor of beer on his tongue.

  My lips are swollen from his ravaging, but I don’t care. I’ve needed this type of action since Connor’s last tentative attempt at making passionless love to me seven months ago.

  The back of my calves touch the bed, and there is nowhere else left to go.

  He peels off my bra, and I seductively slide my black lacey thong down. Together we remove his tight briefs. His manhood springs free and I begin to salivate.

  We climb onto the bed and intertwine our bodies. We are a mass of naked limbs licking, sucking, and causing an explosion of sexual tension between us.

  I learn something new about him, he likes to bite. He nips me with lips, covering the sting of his teeth in places I never expected. My chin—my nipples—my elbows—my sex. Yum.

  It hurts so good. Brody’s tongue soothes every bite, and his hot, wet mouth works me with the fervor of a man confident in his sexual abilities. I grasp his head, my lower body pulsating to meet his eager mouth. I need the imminent orgasm zipping through me like I need air to breathe.

  I go limp.

  He raises his head and grins at me. “Got any new adjectives for me, Ms. Samuelson?”

  “Fu-uck.” I say it like it has two syllables.

  “Close enough.” He rolls a condom onto his spectacular erection, and impales me before I can complete another thought, let alone utter any additional words. When did he secure that prophylactic?

  I manage to mutter a surprised, “Ohhhh!”

  He stops moving—his brow furrowed. “You have done this before, right?”

  Being so enthralled by how he’s filled me, I have trouble choosing words. “I… Yes. Of course.”

  He pierces me with his tropical sea blue eyes. He’s not convinced. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes… my ex and I...well, we didn’t get to spend a lot of time together. We both traveled. A lot. Umm… can we not talk about this right now?” I say with not even a modicum of patience. I need him to get back to business. Also, I’m not comfortable having this conversation during sex—especially about whether or not I’ve really had sex before, and explanations about my ex’s inability to take care of business.

  He looks uncertain, but his reluctance quickly fades once he begins to move again. “More thrusting, less talking. Gotcha, birthday girl.”

  “You really thought I was underage?” I laugh so hard, I almost swallow a grape whole. Della left us a fruit-and-cheese tray from the party in the fridge, which Brody retrieved after we took another leisurely stroll over each other’s bodies. We’ve achieved some kind of record, on my part, when it comes to the number of orgasms I’ve had in one night.

  He is drawing lazy circles around my n
ipples after having eaten grapes and bits of cheese off my breasts. I hope I taste just as good to him as he does to me.

  He removes a stray hair from my forehead. “Mmm… have you seen yourself, Sky? Without the makeup you really do look like a child.”

  Slightly irritated, I respond, “Well, Mr. Kent, that’s because I’m naturally a ginger. The paleness is distracting.”

  He props himself up, surprised at my admission. “Wait…you colored your hair black?”

  I nod. “Yeah, technically, my hair is reddish brown.”

  “Either way, why?”

  I confess, “Skylar the Pop Star is supposed to be Goth, but my label thinks that would be too severe, especially since my songs test better with pop fans.”

  He nods. “So, now you color it to keep the ‘Skylar’ persona alive for your fan base?”

  I look away, embarrassed. “Pretty much.”

  He shakes his head. “The shit artists do for fans.”

  Now, I’m curious. “Didn’t you ever do anything to please your fans?”

  He stiffens and starts to pull away, but I move closer and don’t allow him to leave.

  “I don’t mean to pry,” I say. “But, if you ever feel like telling me more about your musical past, I’ll definitely listen. I won’t judge.” I lean in and kiss his lips because they are full and sexy like a young Mick Jagger’s. Honestly, though, Brody’s got better skin than him and he is definitely more handsome. Sorry Mick.

  Work is going to be so much more pleasant now that I get to act out all of the fantasies I’ve been having about Brody. I feel like a kid in a candy shop who is on her way to having multiple cavities.

  “So, how did you know that I like it rough?” I ask. Connor never had a clue, but Brody moved right in, after that initial hesitation, and fucked me like he meant it. Both times.

  “I was observant on Friday night when you talked about debauchery and shame.”

  I lean over and softly bite his cheek. “I’m so glad you figured it out because I hate having to ask for something like that.”