by Quinn, Cari
She sang with her eyes open and then she sang with them closed. Either way, I wanted to shake her. This wasn’t her song. Wasn’t her show.
Fucking lead singers were prone to take over wherever they were. Most people just let them.
It’s Lindsey York’s play, and we’re all just actors. Just here to do her bidding.
Not me. I’d given her space to work her magic once before. Not again.
Her silken voice climbed, stroking the lyrics in a way that put a lie to every slashing note I played.
Dream on.
Dream of me.
It didn’t have to be part of the words for the sentiment to be true. She broke hearts and left fantasies in her wake. Didn’t matter if it was a big arena like MSG—oh, yeah, I knew she was in town for a show—or a smoky piano bar in the bowels of Brooklyn.
So much for not knowing why I’d been pulled out of my silent, tomblike apartment tonight. I was too much of a bastard to seek her out, but if I put myself in her path…
Except Ruin wasn’t. It shouldn’t have been. Yet she’d found her way here.
Now she was weaving her web. She knew how to hold an audience in her sparkly fingers. When she finally let them go, they would be dazed and grateful she’d ever held them at all.
As the end of the song neared—again—I heard the restlessness from the scattered customers beyond the screen. We were only semi-protected back here, though the place was emptying out the longer the night wore on. Only a few tables were full now. Just enough to give them a real show if that was what they were after.
Depended how far the little Barbie songstress wanted to go. She liked pushing buttons. Liked showing who was in control.
You’re not going to sing? Well then, make way for me.
It was time for her to make way for me this time. In every fucking possible way.
I let the song end. She swallowed, her throat bobbing as she obviously searched for something to say. When nothing came, she tossed back the rest of her drink and set the glass on the edge of the piano.
When I grabbed her by the hips and pulled her onto my lap, it fell to the floor and shattered, the pieces scattering like shrapnel.
I expected her to bolt. For someone beyond the screen to react to the broken glass and charge back here to see if the damsel was in distress from the asshole who played piano like a demon and rarely spoke.
He—me—was probably dangerous, and she was clearly an innocent.
I ran my fingertips down the side of her throat to pull back her hair. She wore a hat. Annoying as fuck. Her hair poked out messily from underneath it, but the strands were as soft as satin as my mouth found her skin.
Not in a kiss. In warning.
“You’re going to want to run. Do it now.”
If she’d reacted involuntarily at all—so much as a shudder—I’d have shoved her off my lap and gotten the hell out of that bar. But she didn’t. As if she could read my mind, she reached up to pull off the stupid hat, tossing it on the piano before she shook out all that marvelous hair in my face.
Some was still restrained in a halfhearted twist. I ripped it apart with impunity. Pulling harder than I needed to so she’d get the goddamn message.
I’m not one of your safe boys. I’m not even one of the ones you think are so naughty. I will decimate you.
It was all I had left after decimating myself.
She had on a stretchy little dress and tights, for God’s sake. The kind that looked like a sweater and were as thin as socks. I didn’t ask for permission as I yanked her against me one more time, reminding her exactly why I’d pulled her close.
It sure wasn’t for a chat or to share in the joy of the music.
Again, she didn’t quake as if she couldn’t handle what I was dishing out or as if she was afraid. She arched back against me, her fingers moving over the keys as I dragged my hands up her inner thighs. Christ, not tights—thigh-highs. Not even a garter, just a bite of elastic hugging her endless legs. I didn’t know if she was playing out of nerves or as a distraction for the crowd, but as my thumbs skimmed the thin panel of silk between her legs, she played a…Halestorm song. Pretty sure that was what it was. I dug my thumbs into her hot cleft, offering pressure and not much else, but she didn’t falter. Not then and not when I peeled the sticky fabric away to rub the flat part of my thumb against her clit.
The bold move might’ve sent the Lindsey I’d met some time ago running. She’d been full of games and teasing, but I wasn’t sure she was ready for what I had in mind. But this Lindsey just rocked into my hand, daring me to move, widening her long ass legs to straddle my lap and give me the room I needed to make her come.
Of course. Because that was my role. Playing piano for her while she sung. Rubbing her off while she writhed on my lap and made me fucking ache for my mistakes.
Namely not banging the fuck out of her the first time we’d met at Logan’s festival, so I wouldn’t have had to look at the pictures of her in the tabloids with my buddy and with Johnny-goddamn-Cage and who knows who else. If I’d already had her before I saw those pictures, the itch would’ve been gone. She was a beautiful woman, and lots of men wanted a big, juicy bite.
Even me.
Even though I knew I’d be just the latest in a line of her admirers.
At least she wouldn’t forget this night. And then my need for her would be slaked. I wouldn’t feel it gnawing inside me like a hunger I didn’t have a hope in hell of satisfying.
My thumb pressed harder, circling insistently as I held her panties wide open under her dress with the other hand. Considering how wet she was and the drafts of air moving through the room, every sensation would affect her. Would help her get where she wanted to go.
I thought I’d be giving her a push, but it turned out she was all about the trip without my help.
To prove it, the song switched from “I Miss the Misery” to “I Get Off.” Same band, whole different message.
“You’re not making the demands here, Duchess.” I set my chin on her shoulder. “Your chance of calling the shots ended when you came into my fucking corner.”
Deliberately, I slowed things down, making my touch a tease. The barest flick of my fingertips over her before I reached up and tugged on her nipples, pleased when her playing faltered. Just for a second. Long enough for me to return between her legs and slide a finger into her, so deep that her wetness coated me. She made a sound deep in her throat, and it vibrated through her and reverberated into my chest.
Echoing like a heartbeat.
Still, she continued her song. The position was odd for her, half sitting and half standing to straddle my lap, but no one would’ve known she wasn’t seated with her back perfectly straight.
She was a fucking goddess on the piano. Behind the mic. In my lap as she squirmed against my cock and tested my control even as I pushed her to the limit of hers.
One finger turned into two inside her and I alternated my pace with a twist of my thumb over her clit. Little glancing blows to give her a hint of what she needed. Her hips were never still and her thighs had my hand in a death grip, yet her playing was flawless. When she finished one song, she took a deep breath and launched into another.
This time? “Freak Like Me.” I nearly laughed. Fitting.
Good thing I was familiar with Halestorm. Otherwise, I’d have missed her little digs despite her body opening up for me like a flower turning up to the rain.
We’d just see how much she would open.
Slowly, I pulled my fingers from her. They were hot and sticky and when I brought them close to my mouth, the smell of her nearly laid me flat. So sweet and tangy and raw. But I wanted more than a taste. I wanted the whole fucking package, unwrapped for me.
I yanked at her panties. The expensive material—always expensive with her, from her red-soled shoes to her designer purse—tore into pieces and dropped to the ground like satin tears. Her body jerked when I reached for my zipper, yanking it down and freeing my cock from my
boxers. I dragged the swollen head against her ass, swallowing a curse as her back arched again, her miles of long blond hair tickling my dick.
My balls were throbbing and that little hint of sensation did not help.
She was supposed to stop me. To look back at me and say, what the fuck do you think you’re doing?
I’m not for you.
Never for you.
Her ass just tipped up at me tantalizingly, her dress rucked up so I could barely glimpse the backs of her milky thighs. I knew how wet she was. How easy it’d be to slide all the way in and drive her up onto her toes.
Then she reached back and clenched my leg, her nails leaving welts, and I stopped listening to what was left of my conscience.
She wanted rough? Message received.
Grasping my length, I lined it up with her soaked slit and shoved deep. One fucking stroke. Her body rocked forward, slamming against the piano and killing the music with a crash of the keys.
Concert’s over, fuckers.
I gripped her hips and pulled her back toward my lap. Groaning in her ear as she enveloped me to the root like a silken fist. She wasn’t playing anymore and I didn’t care.
I didn’t care who could see us beyond the half screen. People had left, but I knew some were still there. Listening. Probably watching. Desperate to know.
Give ‘em a show. She likes to be the star, doesn’t she?
She’d be the star for me. Sweet, seemingly innocent Lindsey York, spread open for my cock like a little fuck queen.
I hauled her against me, hard enough that she banged out a discordant series of notes on the keys. Quickly silenced.
Was anyone still listening to us now?
Relentlessly, I hammered into her, dragging back and pumping forward. She was so damn tight. Squeezing me. Dripping on me. Her breaths were choppy, and she reached back to grip a handful of my hair.
The quick scrape of her nails on my scalp. A tug at my roots. Neither dented the haze she’d caused. All I could feel was her cunt squeezing and releasing me, opening and closing around me, making me fight to get deeper, to make sure she felt me every time she sat down for a week.
She gasped and I wrapped my hand around her throat, drawing back her head so I could pant in her ear. “Just me. I’m the only one who gets to hear you come.”
She turned her head and pierced me with her brilliant blue gaze. “Then get your hand off my throat…you brute.” Each word was punctuated with an uneven breath.
I almost smiled, but I didn’t oblige her. My hand tightened so that her gasp vibrated against my palm. And she wet my dick even more.
“Dirty little duchess.” I licked up the side of her throat while my fingers pressed just hard enough for her to wonder how far I’d go.
She only rocked into me harder, her pussy in a vicious clench that made me work for it. Work for her.
Because she knew she was worth it.
I’d risked everything for her. For this.
My teeth sliced over her earlobe, dragging over the tiny gold and pearl stud. So classy while I fucked her like an animal.
“I’m close.” I barely heard the words, but I didn’t need them. Her body told me everything I needed to know.
“Nash.” My name was all breathy urgency and it made me ache even more.
Part of me had wondered if she even remembered who I was. But of course she did. She had to.
There was no way I could’ve craved her this way and she not even remember me.
No bloody way.
I let go of her throat to squeeze her breast, twisting her taut nipple between my fingers. One last drive into her and she went off around me, a moan escaping her before my hand clamped over her mouth. She bit me hard enough to draw blood even as her snug cunt drenched me, pulsing around me so wildly that my balls knotted.
I was at the end of my rope, and she knew it.
Her tongue swiped over the sting she’d left behind on my palm and I rocked into her one more time, burying my face in her mounds of rich girl perfumed hair. Her class was on the floor around her ankles now.
My cock drained into her unprotected pussy. I growled out a slew of words that probably made no sense. That meant something I’d never voluntarily say.
Mine. All mine.
“Your accent,” she whispered, drawing me back from whatever dark abyss I’d dropped into after my release. “It grew thicker when—”
“When I tainted you.” I bit her earlobe. “Now you smell like me. All over.”
The words jerked her to her feet. Leaving her body was like ripping off a bandage. Maximum pain, little warning.
Just like I’d entered her.
Just like I’d started all of this.
She yanked down her dress then bent to grab something. For a second, I thought she was searching for the shreds of her panties and choked off a laugh.
Instead, she grabbed her pile of shopping bags and her tiny little chihuahua-sized purse, sparing me the briefest glance before she jerked aside the screen and fled.
Not even bothering to do up my pants, I braced my elbow on the piano and smiled.
Guess the night hadn’t been a total waste after all.
Three
I slid back into the shadows.
He’d been lost to the demons tonight. The rage had been poking from his skin like razors today. He’d locked himself in the studio, then moved to the rooftop.
The place I couldn’t—wouldn’t—go.
When he escaped the fortress he’d built in the middle of New York City, I’d had no choice but to follow. It was my job to keep them at bay. Just like that night—it had been my job, but I’d failed.
I wouldn’t fail again.
No one should have to pay like I had.
Pay for the pieces of wild he could never seem to tame.
But there had never been a woman before.
Especially a woman who leaned into his darkness and shone like a lighthouse after his storms.
He didn’t deserve light.
We were built for the shadows.
He’d made sure of that years ago.
My fingers dug into the brick I’d melted into.
Suddenly, she pulled away from him and ran. Ribbons of ethereal blond hair flying in her wake.
The sting of blood seeped around my nailbeds before I relaxed.
Ah, she was a fuck and chuck.
That I understood.
It wasn’t like him to indulge, but we all had our needs.
I usually had to pay to indulge my own. Then again, no woman wanted to touch a monster.
The monster he’d made me.
Four
Present Day
The crowd pulsed under me as I stepped onto the wide white disk. As a precaution, I was hooked to a nearly invisible post behind me. Insurance and a nervy team of managers, agents, and money men required it. I was their asset, their jewel in an LED-laced box sewn together with enough crystals to pave a New York City block.
Normally, I could shove those realities into the back of my mind.
The people screaming for me—for my band—always made it worth it. I lived for the show. It was the oxygen in my blood and the fuel to get me through the less enchanting side of being in a rock band.
Murmurs flooded into chants for me.
For Brooklyn Dawn.
For part one of the stage opening below me.
Cooper Dallas, our drummer, pounded out the heartbeat that lured people out of their seats. The well-oiled glide of his massive drum riser parted the glittery curtain behind me. I couldn’t see him right now, but I knew this opening sequence by heart. I’d helped create it with the band and an obscene number of engineers. I couldn’t even count how many videos I’d watched in an endless loop to make sure this sequence stole my breath.
After five years in this industry, I’d seen it all. On our off days and during the brief hiatuses between albums, I went to as many concerts as possible to see what else was out there. Because my band
needed to be bigger and better. Brooklyn Dawn needed to be the best.
I refused to allow us to be anything other than legendary.
We’d clawed our way up and I would keep us there, even if it meant sacrificing sleep and relationships.
We were the third highest grossing tour right now. We could have been number two without a blink, but I didn’t allow the ticket prices to alienate our fans. I’d had to fight Donovan Lewis, the head of our record label, Ripper Records, and his marketing team on that, but in the end, the good press we’d generated had swayed the vote until it was firmly in my favor. That and an intense meeting between myself, Donovan, and Sabrina Price, our manager, had gotten us the rest of the way there.
My band hated dealing with the business side of things. They were more than happy for me to go ahead and play nice with the suits.
Of course I’d been bred to play with those types. The sole daughter of Michael and Christine York of the Park Slope Yorks, I’d been expected to act with a certain level of decorum. It helped me keep my cool when it came to contracts and negotiations. Because my bestie, Jamison DuCaine, was far too volatile for such things.
But tonight wasn’t for boardrooms and video rooms. No, tonight was for a sold-out crowd of people who had come to be entertained.
As Cooper’s drum beats rose to a fevered pitch, the massive mechanical arms of Jamie’s and Zane’s platforms slowly inched in from the left and right, crisscrossing the stage to meet in the middle for one brief moment. I smiled at the miles of Jamie’s red and black hair whipping up thanks to the fan on her triangular miniature stage.
Jagged and sharp as the woman herself.
The blood red light emphasized the long, lean lines of her legs encased in jet black leather. A scrap of leather covered her breasts. James—as she preferred to be called by anyone other than me—was as at ease in her skin as anyone I’d ever known. If she’d been allowed to play shirtless, she would. She never wanted anything to hamper her range of motion when it came to playing her guitar.
The extension of her in every way.
Her head dropped back as the powerful chords from her red Gibson echoed through the darkness.
