Insatiable (Sex, Love, and Rock & Roll Book 3)

by Michelle Hazen

  I pull almost all the way out, teasing both of us with just the tip until she starts biting at my lips in frustration. Then I sink all the way in, jerking my hips in tiny, powerful movements that finish her off only a minute before I follow.

  I fall backward somewhere in the middle of my orgasm, Ava curled and shaking through aftershocks on my chest. I decide this is a good thing, and I close my eyes.

  “Hey,” she whispers after some time. Seconds, weeks, goats. Whatever.

  I winch my eyes open. I don’t know how I managed to earn the sight of her like this, but I’d buy her every twinkle light in the universe if it gets me back here again.

  Ava’s hair is an explosion of lopsided curls, her eyes soft. She smiles. “You’re going to kill me, but we’ve only got twenty minutes before we have to leave for the venue.”

  I drag my head up enough to look at the bedside clock, and then say something Jera’s Granna would kill me for uttering in front of a lady.

  Ava giggles breathlessly. “Think anybody’ll notice if I perform from a wheelchair?” She pokes me in the side. “I’ll say it’s your fault.”

  “I imagine they’d believe you.” I pull myself to sitting, my abs burning like they’re made of exposed nerves rubbed with acid. “Make that fifteen. I was supposed to call my sponsor before soundcheck, and Gertie’s not the kind of person you just text.”

  Ava doesn’t respond, and I wince, looking down at her. “Sorry. Moodkiller.” Everybody with an internet connection knows my story. Fame + Drugs = Crash and Fucking Burn. Though I probably don’t need to bring it up when my chaste Prince Charming act is as scattered as our clothing.

  She tucks her hands under her cheek and watches me. My movements seem suddenly foreign as I ditch the condom in a wastebasket. Is she trying to decide where we go from here? Or is she regretting wasting her time with a junkie still on the wobbly edge of sobriety?

  “Can I ask you a question?”

  My stomach clenches, but I make myself meet her eyes, clinging to Danny’s words. What I did doesn’t have to define who I am, not if I try hard enough. “Always,” I tell her, and hope I can keep that promise.

  “Why did you quit?” Ava asks. “I mean, how did you know you were ready to change?”

  I blink. Nobody ever asks why. “I don’t know if I was ever ready. I mean, I’m the same person. I want the same thing I always did—just to feel good, you know?”

  I clear the bed of the leather dress she didn’t wear, and scoot back against the headboard. Quickly, I pull a corner of the sheet over my lap to cover my hard-on that hasn’t entirely subsided. Not that she’s helping that, her bare breasts swaying as she props her head up on one hand.

  “I know, but so many people never try,” she says. “You take them to rehab and they just leave, or they lie and go through the motions until they get caught again. But you—you really just did it.”

  I laugh unevenly, reaching automatically for my six-month chip. My fingers close emptily, brushing the hair of my leg. My chip is in my pants, on the floor by the couch. “For now. And yesterday.” Even the word yesterday brings a wash of relief, because yesterday’s success is mine, and no one can take it from me.

  “But how, when it’s so hard for...some people?”

  We are only as sick as our secrets. Which is why I’ve only kept a single one from my filthy past. I take a breath, my head going light and dizzy. “I—” Not today. We’re too new and what happened in New York is not just my secret. I’ve got no right to trust her with Kate’s safety, especially not right now. “Something really bad happened,” I say instead, keeping it vague. “It made me realize I was too far gone, that I would take all my friends down with me. I still didn’t quit. I ran. Hid at this tiny, godforsaken motel in Challis, Idaho, of all places.”

  I try to swallow and can’t, the clamp of my throat letting me know I’m dangerously close to embarrassing myself in front of her. But I want to share at least this part of the truth. I want her to like me, but I want her to know me, too, the way other people don’t.

  So I tip my head back against the wall and stare at the ceiling as I make the confession I’ve practiced in a hundred meetings. “I gave up my band, my life, rather than give up the drugs. But Danny tracked me down.”

  “Why doesn’t that surprise me?” she murmurs, scooting up until she can lay her hand on my chest.

  I cover it with my own and tip my head toward her, the edge of a smile touching my mouth now that the worst part is out. “If there’s anyone more stubborn than Danny, it’s Jera. And there is no one on the planet better at making shit happen than Kate.”

  “Or you,” Ava says. I make a sound of disagreement, but she interrupts me. “I’m glad they wouldn’t let you leave them.”

  “I already ruined me, but I couldn’t ruin them. So I went to rehab, and I worked the shit out of the steps. But the day before I disappeared...” My stomach churns. I don’t want to lie. And yet, she’d be happier never knowing what I did. We all would. “It was the worst time of my life.”

  The words fall inadequately between us, but how do you explain something like that?

  Ava wraps her arm around me and holds on with surprising strength. “So what was the best?”

  I kiss her forehead. She wouldn’t believe me if I told her, and it’s too early for that, too. “When we got signed. We almost went with another company earlier, and it was this whole mess between Jera and me about who should front the band. When we finally got a record label that believed in our music, and Jera told me she wanted me to be the lead singer...that was a damn good day.”

  I scoot up a little taller against the pillows, torn between holding her and wanting to see her face.

  “What about you? Best and worst?”

  She sits up, wrapping her arms around her knees. “Worst was when my sister died, no contest.”

  My mouth drops open. “Your sister is... Holy crap.” I close my mouth and try to reel it in, but it’s way too late. “I...shit, Ava, I’m so sorry. The way you talk about her, I guess I always assumed she was back at home, in college or having kids or something.”

  Her lashes sweep down. “It’s okay. It was sudden, but not really unexpected. I guess I’d just rather talk about when she was alive, so that’s what I do.”

  I cup my palm over her foot, rubbing her ankle softly with my thumb because I’m not sure if it’s okay to pull her into my arms right now. “Best,” I prompt, eager to move past my blunder.

  “Oh, that’s easy. The concert I played with the first rock songs I ever wrote myself, the one all the reviewers say marked my change-over out of pop.” She looks up at me and smiles, a glow touching her face. “I was fifteen, and as soon as I opened my mouth to sing, all the pieces of me fell into place for the first time. I could see who I wanted to be, was close enough I could just reach out and grab her. The crowd went wild, supporting me every step of the way. Everything felt...right.” She drops her head, toying with my fingers as she laughs. “God, that seems like forever ago now. Concerts are just another day at the office now.” She rolls her eyes. “Poor me, right? Having a freaking midlife crisis at twenty-two.”

  “Aren’t most people having a crisis at twenty-two? I mean, you get out of college and do the big, ‘Then what’?” I shake my hair out of my eyes. “Unless you’re us, and you don’t have time to worry about if you’re building the life you want, because you’re already five minutes late for soundcheck and you’re still naked.”

  Ava glances at the clock and then leaps out of bed. “Shit!” She glances around, but none of her clothes made it into the bedroom.

  I lean over and swipe my boxer briefs off the floor, pulling them on even though I destroyed the elastic.

  She hesitates halfway to her suitcase. “Jax, about tonight. I—”

  Her phone rings from the side table where she left it during our date, shrilling with the DEFCON-3 ringtone I’m pretty sure Curt programmed in for himself.

  “Yeah, apparently not eve
ryone lost track of time like we did.” Ava rolls her eyes and swipes it off the table. “Yes?” To me, she mouths, “Later.”

  My heart leaps, even as I struggle to piece together what she might have been about to say. Are we going to get a “later”? Pride and dread rip through me like a bad cut of cocaine, because I don’t know how long I’ll get with her before the endless craving of my body betrays me.

  How long can I be a good man?

  Chapter 16: That Damned Old Rock and Roll

  “Let’s review,” I say to Ava as I reach for the doorknob to let us out of her hotel room.

  “Let’s change hats first,” Dean suggests, stepping in front of his client and swapping her slick little fedora for a black Stetson, patting it down over the loose brunette curls of her wig.

  Ava pouts. “What was wrong with that one? It was cute!”

  “If we were going for cute instead of low-profile, you’d be taking me on your date, not Decha.” Dean puts on her fedora and winks, deadpan like he has no idea the hat is two sizes too small for his bludgeon of a head.

  I lift an eyebrow at the little Thai bodyguard waiting by the door. He might be shorter than Ava, but the precise way he moves is straight out of a kung-fu movie. “I don’t think anybody is going to mistake him for a tourist, either.”

  “Yeah, but I’m wearing skinny jeans.” Decha smirks. “Nobody ever sees the ass-kicking coming from skinny jeans.”

  “Exactly. You’re wearing skinny jeans, in Nashville.” I flick a finger at the Wranglers that are too clingy on my ass, but that Ava seems to be really enjoying. “This is the country of bootcut.”

  He lifts the camera around his neck and waggles it. “Tourist, much? Promise, nobody’s gonna take a second glance at me.”

  Until he feeds them that camera and then round-houses them over the Shelby Street Bridge, that is.

  My phone double-vibrates in my pocket, texts coming in one on top of the other. I half-turn so Ava won’t see me check it. The first one’s from Jera. Shit.

  We’re drowning. Rescue requested.

  A separate text appears above the first.

  Ignore her. We’re fine.

  I swallow. Jera and Danny volunteered to film this “Day on the Bus” feature with a popular YouTuber so I could have the night off with Ava. But Jera has a tendency toward nervous babbling, Danny has a tendency toward nervous stonewalling, and there’s no good way to tell YouTube that mostly what we do on the tour bus is jerk off, argue, or sleep.

  Ava opens the door and tugs at my hand. “Come on, you promised me a date, and I don’t want to spend the whole thing with you on your phone or bromancy bantering with my bodyguards.”

  I glare at her. “What exactly is bromancy about Dean leaving a set of vice grips folded into my underwear last week? My lawyer’s halfway through the restraining order.”

  “Yeah, you just try to hide behind your little scrap of paper, son,” Dean rumbles. “Have her back by midnight and in one piece or you’re even more fired than Decha.”

  The hotel room door swings closed behind us. Decha ducks around us, strolling separately toward the elevator with a cat-quiet step that makes me think he sold something to the devil for a pass from the laws of gravity.

  Ava grins up at me. “Sorry. I just wanted to get out of there before he made me change my boots.”

  “Yeah, they’re not the definition of low profile, are they?” I take a sideways glance at the bolts of silver lightning cutting through the tooled black leather of her cowboy boots. Her swingy silver halter top matches, just kissing the waistline of her tight black jeans. My phone vibrates in my pocket, jostling the growing swell of my cock, and I ignore them both.

  “Nobody thinks AVA and pictures a cowboy bar. It’s the perfect disguise.” She half-skips a couple of the steps on the way to the elevator.

  I laugh, my stomach easing at the sight of her excitement. “At least nobody who doesn’t know you probably ate a hundred grand in routing costs for Kate to get us an extra night off in the home of your favorite TV show.”

  She holds a finger to her lips, eyes sparkling. “Hush. Now what were we reviewing, before Dean interrupted us?”

  “Ah, right. The guidelines of Fun comma Not Work.” I lead her onto the elevator. “No writing, no research, no performing.”

  She gives me a look as my pocket hums. “Seems like ‘No phones’ was on that list.”

  “Check,” Decha says, breaking his tourist act, since we’re alone in the elevator. He pats his camera bag, which holds Ava’s phone, per our agreement. Well, non-Curt-related emergency, since I slipped him a Benjamin not to see any notifications from that number.

  “It definitely was.” I pull my phone out of my pocket, sneaking one look at the screen as I hand it over. There are three new ones from Jera. I catch a glimpse of something about her hiding in the bathroom from her own lameness, and one text from Danny.

  You better not be checking your phone on a date, asshole.

  I flip the screen face-down as I shove it into Decha’s hand. Once Danny seemed to realize he was taking all his stress out on Ava, he eased up on her. Now, when I’m trying to spend more time with him and make sure he’s okay, he’s always nudging me off the bus, quietly making space for me to be able to see her, instead.

  Ava frowns at the humming phone as Decha zips it into his camera bag. “Is something wrong?”

  “Nah, just an interview the band took for me. They’re a little nervous.”

  “You mean they have no idea what to say without you.” She gives me a look. “Do you need to go? You could run over and give them a quick sound bite. I can wait.”

  My shoulders hunch. Jera’s so hard on herself about this stuff. Like press stuff should come as naturally to her as songwriting. But it’s just a little YouTube spot, not the Rolling Stone. And they told me I could have the night off. “Are you kidding? I wouldn’t squeeze into these Wranglers for just anybody.” I give her a wink. “No way am I giving up an hour of actual privacy.” And no way am I going to run off to do another interview and come back with time for nothing but a quickie and a couple hours of sleep.

  We’ve been together for nearly a month, and this is the first time we’ve gotten to do something without cameras in our face. By the time we get any downtime, I’m always three-calls-to-my-sponsor-past-dying to get her naked, but tonight I’m determined. I’m not going to let my stupid sex drive make her think the bedroom is the only place I want to spend time with her.

  “Your call. But if your band needs you, I get it.”

  I snort. “Sure you aren’t letting me bend the rules so you have an excuse to perform a song or two tonight?”

  She slants me a rueful look. “Not so much. I love my job, but lately, I’m not sure it loves me back.”

  A pang tugs at my chest. I’ve been doing my best to make this tour fun for her, but every night, it seems to take her a little more energy to push herself up onto the stage. “Dancing is okay,” I say, “but other than that, we are off duty. Let some other musicians work tonight.”

  She nods once and peeks up at me from under the brim of that completely fucking adorable hat. “So...Bluebird Café?” she asks in a tiny voice.

  There’s no way. It’s crowded as shit, and with a rock-savvy crowd that will recognize us in an instant. “Next best thing?” I offer, steeling myself against the possibility of disappointment in her dark eyes. But instead, she just squeezes my hand harder, and says three words that drop my stomach all the way into my borrowed boots.

  “I trust you.”

  WHEN AVA CATCHES SIGHT of the stone façade of The Station Inn, she lets out a shriek that draws every eye for half a block.

  I swoop down to kiss her before any of them get a look at our faces. “You like?” I murmur against her lips.

  “Are you kidding? This is Charles Esten’s favorite venue!”

  I vaguely recognize the name from the credits of the TV show I’ve watched with her a couple times. I nod like I planned tha
t, kicking myself the whole time for not being a good enough boyfriend to schedule a whole night for her around spots associated with the Nashville series.

  It must fool Ava, because she kisses the breath out of me before bounding toward the entrance. She even lets me pay our cover, which I never get to do in public because it’s off-brand for her super-feminist persona.

  Decha was in line two people behind us, and it takes him a second to get in. I glance back, wondering if it would blow our disguise if I grabbed my phone to shoot off an anecdote or two to Jera she can use to fill airtime. But Ava catches me looking and tilts her head with a concerned look. I give her a cocky smirk to throw her off the scent, doing an exaggerated once-over of her admittedly highly distracting outfit. I squeeze Ava’s shoulder briefly, the heat of her skin grounding me, and then thread my way through the low-ceilinged room, looking for an open table. It’s smaller than I thought, the kind of intimate venue where you can hear the ice cubes rattle from the back tables. It’s been a long time since I played a bar this small. I didn’t think I’d ever miss it.

  The band is between songs, the cowboy-hatted singer thanking the crowd. “I was hoping to try out a little new material on y’all tonight, if that’s okay.” Low whistles interrupt. “Great, so this one is called—holy fuck, that’s Jax Sterling!”

  My head jerks toward the stage, and only then do I realize I’ve stepped into a patch of light between tables. My pulse does a happy little somersault, and then I kick myself for ruining Ava’s incognito night out.

  At my side, she shrieks and grabs at my hand, like she just noticed me. “Oh my God, I love you, Jax! Can I have your autograph?”