Just a Crush

by Tabatha Kiss

  Just a Crush

  A Heartthrob Hotel Novel

  Tabatha Kiss

  Contents

  Also by Tabatha Kiss

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Epilogue

  Also by Tabatha Kiss

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2019 by Tabatha Kiss

  All Rights Reserved.

  Cover Design by Cover Me Timbers

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the author.

  This is a work of fiction intended for mature audiences only. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  This novel contains explicit descriptions of erotic and sexual acts that some may find offensive, including perverse adult language.

  All characters are 18+ years of age and all sexual acts are consensual.

  Reader discretion advised.

  tabathakiss.com

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  Also by Tabatha Kiss

  HEARTTHROB HOTEL SERIES

  You can check out anytime you like,

  but you’ll never want to leave!

  Just a Touch

  Just a Kiss

  Just a Fling

  Just a Crush

  OLD HABITS SERIES

  Meet the Naughty Men of Clover, Kansas…

  Steamy, Small Town Romances!

  The Mechanic

  The Milkman

  RICH BITCHES SERIES

  Wealth. Power. Brunch.

  Pretty Little Thing

  Pretty Dirty Trick

  Pretty Ever After

  SWEET CRAVINGS SERIES

  Sugary Sweet. Sinfully Dangerous.

  Muffin Top

  A Muffin Top Christmas

  Hot Sauce

  A Hot Sauce Halloween

  THE SNAKE EYES SERIES

  Heart-pounding romances. Interconnecting stories.

  One unforgettable adventure!

  Bodyguard

  The Hitman’s Dancer

  Love and Wargames

  Bloodlines

  Hard Bounty

  No Fury

  THE BAD BALLER BOOKS

  Irresistible Sports Romances!

  Whiplash

  Deeper

  Home Run Baby

  THE MIDWEST ALPHAS

  Romantic Suspense in an MMA Underworld!

  Untouched

  Unbroken

  Undying

  THE LUMBERJACK DUET

  Wealth. Power. Wood.

  Lumberjack BOSS

  Lumberjack BRIDE

  THE PINK SERIES

  Meet Phoebe Pink. She has two boyfriends.

  In the Pink

  Pink Christmas

  For more, go to tabathakiss.com

  Where does your favorite couple fit into

  the Tabatha Kiss Universe?

  Find out in the newly updated Character Map!

  tabathakiss.com/charactermap

  One

  Jonah

  I etch a line into my notebook right next to another one just like it. This pen is running out of ink, each mark more faded than the last, and I honestly can’t think of a better metaphor for what’s going on in my head right now.

  I’ve got nothing.

  I flip the notebook closed and stab the dying pen through the rugged metal loops barely holding the thing together. The constant chatter on the tour bus makes it difficult for inspiration to spark and I ran out of daylight hours ago anyway.

  Welcome to Las Vegas.

  I read the sign as we pass it on the highway and exhale hard.

  Finally.

  The tour is officially over. Four months. Fifty shows across North America. Our fourth tour in three years. Needless to say, I’m exhausted.

  Soon, I’ll check into my hotel room at the Plaza, I’ll lay my head down on my pillow, and I won’t lift it ever again. Okay, that’s an exaggeration. But I want nothing more than to kick off my shoes, put my guitar firmly in its case, and sleep until next year.

  I glance around the bus at my bandmates. Knox sits a few rows ahead of me with one knee lopped over the armrest. His spiky hair pokes out above the seat, intermittently jutting left and right as he chats with his sister, Katrina, across the aisle. She thumbs the loose strings on her violin bow, barely paying attention to him behind the curtain of pure yellow hair cascading down to her navel.

  Addison lounges along the seat behind them with her head resting on a rolled-up hoodie. She passively adds to their conversation between page swipes on her Kindle.

  A deep snore vibrates beneath the voices from somewhere near the front of the bus. That’d be Bronson.

  And then there’s Jordan, our band manager. She hunches over her laptop a few rows behind me, poring over god-knows-what as she chugs that gigantic golden thermos she swiped from a Botsford Plaza gift shop in Seattle. Her eyes flick in my direction from behind her glasses and she tosses me a wave. I bob my head in recognition before shifting forward again.

  Criminal Records. Music’s hottest band. The summer’s most-played album. It’s a nice feeling. I won’t lie about that. Overnight success is rarely overnight. Years of practice in my family’s guest house went into getting where we are now. Hours upon hours of work and long, sleepless nights. Days upon days of my billionaire dad casually rolling his eyes at the mere mention of me not following in his footsteps.

  He raised me and my three brothers in his image; six-thousand dollar suits and all. We were all supposed to be the back-up dancers to his powerful diva, inevitably ripping each other apart to get to his position, but it didn’t quite work out that way.

  I told him at sixteen that wasn’t going to be me. I wanted to play music. I wanted to write songs and inspire people. I was born to be an artist; ripped jeans and all.

  He walked away from the dinner table that night and locked himself in his office to mourn the loss of yet another one of his minions. At this point, only one of us followed his path. Graham, my oldest brother, wore the Botsford name proudly, and he was happy to do it. He liked the job — still does — and I’m happy for him.

  Then, there was Hayden. He was the first to defy our father and I took careful notes from that awkward family dinner until the first time he hit a home run at Yankee Stadium.

  Shortly after that, my third brother, Ira, joined the Marines. You wouldn’t think a father would have a problem with his son volunteering to serve his country, but then again you don’t know Kingston Botsford like we do.

  Mom was ecstatic and supportive. Her
father served, her brothers served, and she was proud that one of her boys would carry on that tradition. I’m positive she said a word or two in private to our father about that because he hasn’t objected to Ira wearing the uniform since the night he announced his enlistment.

  Ira eventually came home and joined the family payroll as head of security at the Las Vegas branch — which reminds me. I need to call him and confirm which day I’m having dinner with him this week.

  I slide the pen from my notebook and scribble a note on the back of my hand.

  Ira Dinner. Question mark.

  By the time it became my turn to disappoint our father, I knew exactly which vein in his forehead to watch out for.

  And now, here I am, on a tour bus with my band’s logo on it, basking in the fruits of our award-winning, best-selling labor.

  How do you like me now, Dad?

  “Hey, Jonah.”

  I glance up to find Jordan leering at me over the rims of her glasses. I bob my head, silently showing acknowledgment.

  She smiles. “You’re tired.”

  “Your observational skills are quite astute,” I say.

  “And while his eyes may rest, his tongue never ceases.”

  She gently kicks my ankle on the floor and I shift back far enough to let her slide past to sit in the window seat beside me. I scan the myriad empty seats around me, all far easier for her to get to, and cringe on the inside.

  She’s got something she wants to talk about.

  “What’s up, Jordan?” I ask.

  Jordan plops into the seat and twists to face me. “I just figured I’d touch base with you before we drop you off. Let you know about... well, you know, upcoming meetings and gigs. Things of that nature…”

  “Gigs?” I repeat.

  “Yeah, you’re a band,” she says. “Generally, it’s my job as manager to get you gigs.”

  I exhale. “Our tour just ended.”

  She nods. “Right.”

  “We literally played our last show a few hours ago.”

  “You did. And you nailed it!” She makes a happy fist for emphasis.

  “Our fiftieth show in...” I pause to count but my brain stalls. “As many days, I think…”

  “What’s your point, Jo?” she asks.

  “My point is that maybe you should give us a break,” I say. “Let us have some time off to recharge. Maybe get some freakin’ sleep.”

  “See, now, I disagree. Because what we have here is momentum. Good momentum. Momentum makes the record label happy and when the record label is happy, we’re all very happy. If we stop now, we’ll kill the momentum, and that makes people sad.”

  “We’ll live.”

  “Okay, sure, it’s not exactly life and death, but... you’re kinda my odd man out here, bud. The rest of the band is totally on-board with our current upward thrust of momentum.”

  “Then, they’ll live without me.”

  Jordan pauses, halting mid-breath as she lowers her voice out of earshot of the others. “Jo...”

  “Yes, Jo?” I ask.

  “Please don’t quit the band.”

  I look at her, feeling the urge to laugh but I’m just too damn tired. “I’m not quitting the band,” I whisper, matching her new volume.

  “Because I’ve honestly been getting that vibe from you lately and it’s scaring the shit outta me.”

  “I’m not quitting the band.”

  “You’re my linchpin,” she says. “If you go, Knox goes. And if Knox goes, little sister Katrina goes. If she goes, there goes Addison, too. That leaves me with Bronson. Don’t get me wrong, he’s great, but one dude and a set of drums ain’t filling venues.”

  “I’m not quitting the band,” I repeat. “I just want some time off.”

  “How long?”

  “I don’t know.” I shrug. “Six months?”

  Jordan winces. “I can’t give you six months.”

  “Then, how long can you give me?”

  She looks up, visibly thinking hard as she mulls it over, though it’s more than a little obvious she’s just stalling before dropping bad news.

  Classic Jordan.

  “A week,” she finally says.

  For fuck’s sake.

  “A week?” I ask.

  “We have a pre-production meeting on Friday...”

  I shake my head. “You’ve gotta be kidding me, Jordan.”

  “And a gig on Tuesday.”

  “This Tuesday? Two days from now?”

  “No, next Tuesday. Nine days from now.” She taps my shoulder. “Little more than a week on that one, eh? You’re welcome.”

  I bite my tongue hard. “Where?”

  “At the Sin and Sand. They helped launch us in the beginning. Keeping a good relationship there is important.”

  Can’t argue with that. “And a meeting on Friday? For what?”

  Her hands turn up. “For the new album.”

  “What new album?”

  “Our new album.”

  “We don’t have a new album.”

  “Yes, that’s why it’s a pre-production meeting,” she says. “To plan the next album. All you have to do is show up with everything you’ve been working on and we’ll go from there. Easy peasy. I ran it by Fiona during the show tonight and she said we’re welcome to take over the guest house for the meeting, as usual.”

  I sigh. Thanks, Mom.

  “Well, I’ll save us all the trouble,” I say. “I’m not working on anything.”

  Jordan furrows her brow. “Yes, you are.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Then, what have you been scribbling in your notebook literally this entire tour?” she asks.

  I tighten my grip on it. “Nothing that’s ready enough for a production meeting.”

  “So, you have nothing?” she asks.

  “Nothing but a headache at the moment.”

  Jordan sighs. “Well, you have five days between now and then. You and Knox need to come up with something.”

  Before I can object, Jordan rises out of her seat. I close my mouth and slouch back, giving her enough space to slide out into the aisle again.

  Five days? Five days?!

  So much for my plan to get some sleep.

  “Jonah.”

  I glare up at her. She grins.

  “Just... you know... find your muse,” she says. “Tap into the tree of music and let it flow.”

  I scoff. “You make it sound so easy.”

  “Eh, I tried. That’s all I’m asking from you, too.”

  “Fine.” I nod. “I will try, Jordan.”

  She makes that happy fist again. “Excellent!”

  “No guarantees,” I say as she spins around and retreats to her seat at the back of the bus.

  I slink my head back and pull my beanie down a bit to cover my eyes.

  Find my muse.

  What a crock.

  I absolutely adore Jordan but she’s not the creative type. She’s business-minded and damn good at her job — always has been ever since she self-appointed herself our manager way back when we were in high school — but she’s always been a bit whimsical as to what actually goes into making music.

  It ain’t muses and tapping trees, that’s for sure.

  I wasn’t lying to her. I don’t have anything in this notebook. I’ve spent this entire summer spitting out everything that popped into my head but I’ve come up with nothing.

  I haven’t written a new song from start-to-finish in eight months if you don’t count the yearly song I churn out and dedicate to my mother for her birthday, but there’s no pressure there. She’s loved every note I’ve ever played since the day I first slammed a mixing spoon against a saucepan.

  But a new track?

  The long-awaited follow-up to the summer’s most over-played album?

  And all eyes are on me?

  Now that’s pressure.

  The bus comes to a slow stop.

  “Jonah, your palace awaits!” Jordan announces,
making the others chuckle around the bus.

  I slide my beanie back up and squint at the bright, flashing lights of Las Vegas as I crane my neck to look outside. The Botsford Plaza Hotel towers in the sky above our heads, a shining capital B at the very top.

  “Yay,” I say, pulling myself up to stand.

  “I’ll make sure the trailer drops the equipment off at your house in the morning,” Jordan adds from her seat near the back.

  I grab my duffel from the seat behind me. “Thanks,” I say.

  “See you Friday, bud.”

  I nod. “Friday,” I repeat through my teeth.

  Knox shoots a hand up into the air as I walk toward the front, equal parts stopping me and offering an end-of-tour high-five. “Wanna hang this week?” he asks.

  I slap it as hard as possible but he doesn’t even cringe. “Sure,” I say. “Just text me.”

  Addison throws her hand up as well but I don’t hit her nearly as hard (she’s very protective of her strum hand). “Bye, Jo,” she says.

  “Bye, Addy.”

  Katrina whacks my rear with her bow as I pass her and I hiss like a cat. Not quite sure why we do this but it has become a ritual regardless, including Knox’s protective brotherly glare.