INSATIABLE
Book 3 of the Sex, Love, and Rock & Roll Series
By
Michelle Hazen
Thank you for reading. If you enjoy this book, please leave a review.
All rights reserved. Aside from brief quotations for media coverage and reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced or distributed in any form without the author’s permission. Thank you for supporting authors and a diverse, creative culture by purchasing this book and complying with copyright laws.
Copyright © 2018 by Michelle Hazen
Cover design by Michelle Fairbanks, Fresh Design
Edited by Katie Golding, Goldnox Editing, and Sheila Athens, Author Accelerator
Copy editing by Keyanna Butler, Indie Author’s Apprentice
Beta Reading by Andrea Contos
Dedicated to Katie Golding,
Because one beautifully written review of a fanfiction led us to all of this. And all of this is pretty darn great.
Contents
Chapter 1: The Bad Guy
Chapter 2: Rock Stars From Mars
Chapter 3: The Whole Enchilada
Chapter 4: The Cover of Rolling Stone
Chapter 5: Own Your Body
Chapter 6: Fun is Good
Chapter 7: Domestic Bliss
Chapter 8: Oops I Did It Again
Chapter 9: Hit Me, Baby, One More Time
Chapter 10: Before
Chapter 11: Homeless
Chapter 12: Into The Dark
Chapter 13: Curtain Call
Chapter 14: Regret
Chapter 15: Good Intentions & Bad Religion
Chapter 16: That Damned Old Rock and Roll
Chapter 17: Withdrawal
Chapter 18: Insatiable
Chapter 19: Breathe
Chapter 20: Cardinal Sin
Chapter 21: Coming Clean
Chapter 22: Dirty Laundry
Chapter 23: Good News/Bad News
Chapter 24: Apologies
Chapter 25: Sparks Before the Sun
Dear Reader
Sneak Preview: Christmas With the Band
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Chapter 1: The Bad Guy
I am such an asshole. So late, and such an asshole. I yank on my boxers and dig through the tangled sheets, shoving pillows out of my way. Bingo.
From the foot of the bed, I retrieve two pairs of panties and hold them up. “Were you red or blue?”
Mia tosses her hair back and grins, snatching the lacy underwear out of my hand. “Red, obviously. That’s what the big girls wear.”
I wince. “Big girls, huh? So this must be the part where you tell me your friend in the shower is underage, and I cry into my scrambled eggs because I just became a sex offender.”
“Nah, she’s twenty-two. I just wanted you to remember me as the sexier one.” Mia pulls on the red panties, fastens her bra, and spins it around so she can poke her arms through the straps.
“Of course you’re the sexier one,” I say, low enough it won’t carry over the sound of the shower. “And the sweeter one, obviously.” She giggles at my impression of her, but we’re alone, so I let myself get serious for a minute. “How’s your grandma doing? Didn’t want to ask in front of Cherise because I wasn’t sure how well you guys knew each other.”
Mia’s smile falters. “Gram’s good.”
I swipe a fresh pair of boxer briefs out of my suitcase and glance up at her as I step into them. “That sounds like maybe not good.” Not good is also what I’m going to feel like when I step into the meeting I should already be in, and everybody looks...not surprised.
“She had to go to a nursing home.” Mia pulls her shirt on, avoiding my eyes.
“Ouch.” I steal a glance at her. “That sucks. But you need to make sure she has the best care she can get, right? Sometimes that means bringing in professionals.” I snatch up pants and shove a foot into them.
She turns her skirt inside out, then realizes she did it wrong and flips it again, stealing a glance at me through a curtain of blond hair. “You know, I didn’t really think you’d recognize me,” she says. “I saw you were coming to town, so I went to the airport, but I didn’t figure you’d spot me in the crowd. Or bother to say hi if you did.”
“Hey,” I say softly, and then grin at her once she gets the courage to drag her eyes up to mine. “You’re the sweet, sexy one. How could I forget?”
“Maybe because it’s been like a year since that concert, and you had a few drinks that night.” She wriggles into her skirt and I pull on my shirt.
My fingers fly over buttons, every one ticking off another second I’ve missed of my meeting. I don’t want to run out on these girls and make them feel cheap, but I’m never careless when it comes to my responsibilities to the band. So no matter what excuse I text, when I’m not there on time, my friends will assume I relapsed.
Soft fingers touch my cheek and I blink and look down into Mia’s face, last night’s eyeliner smudged under her blue-green eyes. “Thank you,” she whispers.
“For what? The first orgasm, or the fourth?” I give her a half smile, already calculating how long it’ll take me to jog to the Hilton across the street, where the meeting is being held.
Mia kisses my jaw. “For remembering me.”
Discomfort clings to my skin like a wet bathing suit. What the hell is wrong with the world that a girl would thank me for not forgetting her name?
I set Mia back from me an arm’s length. “Hey. I remember you because you’re amazing. If a guy ever doesn’t remember you after dancing all night and eating street tacos with you, please kick him in the nuts for me.”
Her eyes shine. “Seriously? You remember all that from last year? I guess you weren’t that drunk after all.”
I avoid her gaze, because I’m not about to tell her the real reason I make a point to remember girls. My libido’s always been high but since I got clean, it’s skyrocketed. It's not an addiction, because sex is healthy and normal. And so am I—as long as I get laid.
A lot.
My lifestyle and sex drive would wear out any girlfriend, and my band travels to dozens of cities a year. If I had to memorize a new girl for every time I visited someplace, my brain would explode. Cherise was a nice value-add last night, but I already feel like an ass because the only thing I really got to know about her was that she likes Hello Kitty and guys who play with her hair.
I drop a kiss on Mia’s forehead. “I’m so sorry, but I’m late for a meeting. Will you tell Cherise she rocked my world and make sure she gets a cab home?” I shove money into her hand and head for the door, glad the shower’s still running so I don’t have to say my goodbyes to two girls. I hate the look in their eyes when they want more, and I know I can’t deliver.
Mia pulls off her shirt.
Don’t look at her tits. Think about your responsibilities.
Think of Jera. Think of how scared your drummer probably is about where you are right now. Think of how disgusted she would be if she knew you were in your hotel room with two groupies.
My dick is not thinking about Jera.
Mia’s hand curls around the bulge in the front of my pants, her lips trailing up my throat and reminding me of all the places her tongue went last night. “You’re so sweet,” she whispers. “You aren’t like the other guys.”
I catch her wrist, and mentally award myself a Nobel Peace Prize for willpower. “Mia, any guys who wouldn’t be nice to a girl like you are asshats. I can’t even be happy they’re making me look good, because I’m too busy being pissed you’re sleeping with asshats.” I step away.
&n
bsp; Her eyes are hazy, and she licks her lips and drops to her knees.
I throw my head back against the foyer wall with a crack, trying to convince myself I shouldn’t do this. “Mia. I really, no bullshit, have to go.”
“What, you don’t think I can get you off quick?” She runs her tongue around the head of my cock, which—dammit!—should not be in her hand already.
Danny.
I can picture our bassist’s face like it’s right in front of me. Chill, no condemnation. But I can’t tell what would be in his eyes—if he would be worried too, or if he expected me not to show up. Danny’s always one step ahead of everyone, and he never looks surprised. The question is, does he believe the best of me, or the worst?
Mia’s mouth surrounds my cock: warm, velvety and comforting. God, I wish I could carry her back to bed and fuck her until all this wild energy drains out of my head. She’d like it, too. She needs an escape from reality as much as I do.
Except once, just once, I want my band to look at me like I’m somebody they’re proud of. And I already know that day is not going to be today.
Mia’s right. She’s so fucking good and I moan from behind my gritted teeth, pounding the wall behind me with one clenched fist. Her mouth doesn’t judge, doesn’t hurt. It just softens and accepts me inside, her tongue worshipping me.
With a long groan, I release everything: coming hot and thick down her throat as her fist pumps me, begging for more. And for just one second, everything is perfect.
I FLY THROUGH THE ELEVATOR doors as soon as they open a foot and then I’m running. Through the lobby and toward the glass doors up front. My eyes widen at the sidewalk choked with people out there. Did a tour bus just pull up? I slow and spot some tee shirts with our band name, The Red Letters. One girl has a sign that says, “I love you, Jax!!! Mrs. Melissa Sterling XOXO” and the rest is hearts.
I veer off behind a fountain. I can’t go out there—you can’t exactly tell fans you’re late for a meeting and don’t have time to sign autographs, or suddenly the video’s on YouTube with the title, “Jax Sterling hates his fans.” If I’m going to get through this quick, I’m gonna have to give them a show.
I flip around and jog toward the stairs, getting into one of those embarrassing standoffs with a bellhop when we both step to the right to get out of each other’s way.
“Sorry, man,” he says, his gaze flicking from my face to the fans outside.
“Hey, can I borrow your hat?” I snatch his uniform cap off his head, calling, “Thanks!” over my shoulder as I push through to the stairs and take them three at a time.
I cram the hat on my head and sprint past a clock. The second floor boasts a restaurant and lounge. It’s deserted but—score!—the door isn’t locked and I push through, dodging tables with upturned chairs toward the balcony seating overlooking the hotel entryway. When I get there, I stop and wipe my forehead, then take two deep breaths, forcing my heart rate to slow.
Hyperventilation does not equal sexy.
I step over to the balcony and let out a slow wolf whistle. One of the girls glances up and shrieks, both her hands leaping to her mouth as she immediately starts to cry. That wins her a crooked smile, the one I usually reserve for women about five years older than her.
I take off my bellman’s cap and flip it out to the girl, aiming so it twirls lazily through the air as the whole crowd jumps for it. Gotta be fast now—I vault over the balcony, drop until I’m hanging off the edge and let go, hopefully before anybody got a picture of me dangling like a pre-teen out of a tree house.
The fans rush me, the hat having done its job by distracting them long enough to give me a clear landing zone. I blow them a kiss and run, dodging through the taxi line and past the valet parking booth, praying to God those obstacles will keep them from pouring into the street. And if they do, that none of the poor sweet girls get hit by a car.
I make it across the street and into the Hilton, but the adrenaline of the run wears off halfway up the gravy-slow rise of the elevator to the top floor, leaving nothing in its wake but a void made of doubt.
I grip the handrail and tell myself it’s just one meeting. Today’s the start of seven days of pre-tour logistics planning for our double-headliner extravaganza with AVA, but I’m pretty sure Ava herself isn’t flying in until later in the week. Good thing, because if this were the day I was supposed to meet her, I’d take the elevator back down and lie in the street.
I’ve loved rock and roll since I was born, but something about it changed for me the first day I heard one of AVA’s songs on the radio. Back then, she was thirteen, I was seventeen, but she was already famous, because how could she ever be anything else?
She sings with the throaty heart of Aretha, the style of Beyoncé, and the near-supernatural touch for songwriting of Bob Dylan. She’s a leather-bound badass, a musical goddamn genius. Somehow before we go on tour together, I’ve got to learn to look at her without getting the kind of hard-on that will knock on the bottom of the table like an uninvited party guest.
The elevator pops open and I run a hand through my chin-length hair, not at all ready to face my bandmates and every ugly assumption they’ve probably made by now. Why should they trust me, after what happened in New York? Besides, I’m never late when I’m sober, and I can’t exactly tell them I was trying to help a groupie find her panties.
By this time even our levelheaded manager, Kate, will have started to freak out. That is, if they haven’t already voted me off the island for a different frontman with a better voice, a prettier face, and less baggage. Blond and blue-eyed with an electric guitar isn’t exactly hard to replace.
I make myself leave the elevator and reach into my pocket, gripping my sobriety chips until the muscles in my forearm pop. There are two: one for ninety days clean, one for the thirty after that. With my left hand, I reach up and knock on the door.
An older guy answers, talking on a cell phone. He jerks a nod at me and I follow him inside.
Walls sweep out into a circular foyer, nearly blinding with all its gilt and marble, and a chandelier brushing the top petals of the arrangement of calla lilies, which is big enough to block the entire room beyond. My steps slow as I make my way around them.
My bandmates are all clustered at the near end of a conference table, and Jera shoves her chair back so hard it starts to tip over. “Jax!”
Danny snaps an arm out across the arms of her chair so it doesn’t fall, but she’s already bounding up. She hits his arm like a clothesline in the gut, knocking all the air out of herself.
“Shit. Sorry, Jimi,” he mutters, using a nickname pulled from the acronym of her name. Her father christened her in honor of Jimi Hendrix, Eric Clapton, Roger Waters and Art Garfunkel. As cool as that pet name is, it only belongs to her and Danny, because I can never use it without sounding like an idiot.
They detangle from each other and Jera rockets across the room toward me, her sun-streaked brown hair flying. She hits me in a hug that’s all sleek drummer’s arms squeezing the daylights out of me. I hold her, giving an awkward smile over her head to the people behind us. The whole table’s full: our manager, Kate, the older guy on the cell phone, two girls with sleek leather notebook covers, and a dude with a laptop.
“Sorry I’m late. I got mobbed by fans outside the hotel and—”
Jera pulls back, tears in her hazel eyes. “Where the hell have you been, Jax? People have been posting pictures of you at some rave and there are shots of you getting into a taxi with a bunch of girls, and—” She breaks off, grabbing my chin and yanking it down so she can inspect my eyes. But then her gaze catches on something under my collar and she reaches to investigate. “Is that a bruise? Oh my God, Jax, did—”
I knock her hand away. “Will you chill?” A chair creaks in the silent room. Everybody at the table is either staring at us or very conspicuously not staring at us. “I didn’t mean to be late. I went dancing, yes, but—”
The tiny drummer glares up at me, swipi
ng at her eyes. “Seriously? You’re going to tell me you got ‘mobbed by fans’? For forty minutes? We got through those same fans in less than ten, Jax, okay?”
I try to swallow back the anger rising in my throat. I expected the lecture, yeah. Later, when we were alone.
Jera takes a steadying breath. “Look, this is okay,” she says. “It’ll be okay. I know it’s hard, but everybody slips, your counselor said it was to be expected, and you can start the program again from here.”
“I am not drunk.” My voice is low, and I take one step back from her. Just one.
The older guy says into his cell phone, “Hey, let me call you back.”
“I am not high,” I say clearly.
I look up and my eyes collide with Danny’s because of course he’s right behind Jera. That pisses me off so much I can’t even see what I was afraid of—if he expected me to fail, too. Or if one person, one damned person, could believe the hell of rehab I went through meant something.
“I am late.” I spread my hands, and it pisses me off even more that I’m shaking. “That’s all. Thanks a fucking bundle for your faith in my sobriety, and for not embarrassing me in front of a bunch of strangers!” By the last word, my voice has gone to a full-on roar, and Jera flinches.
Danny’s hands come up to steady her shoulders. I want to punch him for leaving me alone on this side of the room.
“You know what?” I say. “You can have your meeting. And I bet you’ll be happy to have it without a crazy junkie you have to pretend not to watch out of the corner of your eye.”
I spin around and I’m the fuck out of there. My legs are working just fine now as I steam past fancy furniture, white flowers that smell like air freshener and ass, then blue flowers, white walls and—where is the goddamn exit in this place?
This isn’t the foyer. Everything’s white, not gold, and instead of the rounded entryway, I am standing in between a living room and a hallway. I just stomped off in the wrong direction, deeper into the suite. Now I’m going to have to go back through the conference room, where they’re all probably talking about my behavior in whispers. Jesus fucking Christ I’m tired of those whispers.
Insatiable (Sex, Love, and Rock & Roll Book 3) Page 1
