Free and Bound (A Club Volare New Orleans Novel)

by Chloe Cox

  “Whatever, she was a slut.”

  “Who?” Molly asked again. She was practically on the tips of her toes.

  “Bethany,” Ian said, shaking his head. “She’s a nice person, Sierra. And Declan and Soren are like brothers. They grew up together, even lived with each other for a while when they were kids. Declan didn’t give a shit when Bethany started dating Soren, believe me. He was happy for ‘em.”

  Bethany. Molly had a name to go on. She had something. She could work with this.

  “Still a slut,” Sierra said, and crossed her arms.

  Molly tensed. Some women loved to use that word. Some men, too. Molly had always hated it, but now she couldn’t hear it without hearing the last time it had been hurled at her, and now this was twice in a row, like Sierra was really invested in the whole thing, instead of just…being catty. Molly wondered if Sierra had any idea how much damage that kind of casual cruelty could do. Molly was more than familiar herself.

  Ian looked thoughtful. “I guess Bethany’s not touring with them this time, huh?”

  “I don’t think so,” Molly said carefully.

  “Too bad. Haven’t seen her in a while.”

  Sierra’s eyes flashed some jealous crazy, and she grabbed a hold of Ian’s arm. “Baby, take me to watch the show so we can be there when they get done. I want to meet Brian right away.”

  Ian smiled sweetly at Molly and waved as Sierra dragged him off. That boy was obviously smitten, the poor bastard, and Molly knew all about that feeling of helplessness. That’s why she was avoiding the stage. She knew better now.

  Molly spent the rest of the show tucked away in a little corner on the floor, hidden behind an unused amp, writing out notes on her phone. Not the easiest way to write, but she was lost in it anyway. It was just the subject matter. She could think and write about this band—about Declan—for ages without coming up for air, the material was just so rich, so fascinating. Molly smiled, thinking about how much Lydia would love this when she read it—telling Lydia stories at night, when things were bad with their parents, was how Molly had gotten started writing. There was nothing more natural to her than this. She didn’t even notice when the music stopped.

  Or even, really, when people started trickling into the backstage area.

  She didn’t notice much until there were a giant pair of red-splattered boots right in front of her.

  Declan stood over her—towered over her—his chest gleaming with sweat, his abs contracting with every heavy breath, his eyes…pissed off. He reached down to tilt her chin up, his fingers threading through her hair again, bringing her body right back to that ravaging kiss, and said, “Where were you?”

  Eleven

  Declan was riled up with nowhere to let it out. She hadn’t bothered to stick around. Never mind that he hated the idea of her walking around in a venue that obviously wasn’t one hundred percent safe. He’d told her to stay right there and she’d what? Wandered off to take a fucking nap?

  He seethed, and reminded himself that Molly Ward wasn’t his sub. Not yet. He couldn’t discipline her in the way he wanted, but that didn’t mean he didn’t deserve basic common courtesy. He’d carried her through a mob, for chrissakes, and she’d walked off. He’d kissed her, yeah, but she was the one who’d made it smolder. She was the one who’d made it the best show it could have been.

  And now she was there, kneeling at his feet, taking that naturally submissive position, and he didn’t know if he wanted to kiss her or throw her over his knee.

  “Do you know what I would do to you?” he asked her. “What I would do if you didn’t have this stupid idea that we can’t fuck? That you can’t be my sub?”

  He saw the flush come over her, and knew she was feeling just what he was feeling at that moment, the charge he felt from his skin on hers. Just the tiniest touch, and he was fucked. Her soft hair around his fingers, her face upturned toward his…

  “Please don’t tell me,” she whispered. “You know this is…already difficult, for me.”

  Molly didn’t move except to put a hand on his, the one that held her by the back of the head. She didn’t try to dislodge his hand, didn’t tell him to fuck off. Just looked right back into his eyes.

  Oh Good Lord.

  “Get up,” he said. She did. He bent down quickly and lifted her onto the unused amp so she was at eye level with him and pinned her there between his arms.

  “Tell me why you left,” he said.

  “No,” she said right back.

  Declan grinned in spite of himself and dug his fingers into the edge of the amp a little bit more, feeling the muscles in his arms flex. He would have a lot to work off later.

  He said, “You know I’m going to get it out of you.”

  He loved how she looked when she was being stubborn. She tucked her hair behind her ear—God—and said, “I needed to write.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “It is not bullshit,” she said hotly. “I had a job to do, just like you did your job when you went out there and…”

  Molly faltered, her eyes going soft. He guessed she was talking about how he’d dominated that crowd. Declan had gone out there, high on her kiss, and used her to get his stage mojo back, just like he had at Volare. It worked like a freaking charm. More than that, he was himself again. Dom and performer, all in one. It had saved the show, kept people from getting hurt.

  So why did she look upset thinking about that?

  “You were just doing your job,” Molly finally said, looking down.

  “Look at me,” he ordered. She did. Immediately. “You helped me do my job.”

  “What?” she said.

  Declan cocked his head to the side. “Don’t pull that innocent crap. That kiss.”

  Weakly, she said, “You kissed me.”

  “And you made it count,” he said, moving his hands to the tops of her thighs and leaning in again, the way he had when she’d been on his bed, so freaking close. He could not get close enough to this woman no matter what he did. He contented himself with looking deep into those big brown eyes and said, “And you fucking know it.”

  He could smell her.

  She put a hand on his chest, lightly, as if to push him away. She didn’t. Instead he felt the pinch of her nails as she dug into him.

  “Those were extraordinary circumstances,” she said.

  He shook his head, not bothering to hide his smile. “You doubled down.”

  “Extraordinary circumstances!”

  This close to her, Declan’s senses got sharper, clearer. Some part of him had the presence of mind to wonder what the fuck he was doing—was this another mistake? Another danger, something he’d fuck up, someone who’d turn out to be broken in just the ways he couldn’t fix? He’d made rules for himself, too, after Bethany, rules he’d meant to keep. But this wasn’t that. This wasn’t love; this wasn’t emotion. This was pure, raw, physical connection, the kind that brought the release they both so obviously needed.

  “I need you in the fucking audience,” he rasped.

  “What?”

  “I need you watching in order to do my job. And you need to watch to do your job. You can’t write a book about Savage Heart if you hide in a corner while we’re being Savage Heart.”

  “I have to watch?” Molly said, smiling. “Is that a new rule?”

  “Fuck yes it’s a new rule.”

  That smile just got wider. She said, “What new rule do I get?”

  “You don’t get any more rules,” Declan grumbled, squeezing her thighs. His hands were big enough to span them, get his thumbs someplace interesting.

  She made a tiny little sound.

  Declan ran his hands up to her hips, her waist, and pulled her a little closer. His lips brushed her temple, her forehead. He let them linger over her earlobe, the line of her jaw.

  So. Close.

  She trembled under his touch. Her nails dug into him a little more.

  Finally, she spoke.

  “Oh God,” sh
e said. “Don’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “You know why not. I have reasons…”

  “They’re bad reasons, and you know it,” he whispered. “I can show you who you are.”

  Then he looked down and saw her close her eyes, her face screwed up with conflicting emotions. He could smell how turned on she was, but it still wasn’t time yet. This wasn’t right. She needed to come at him full throttle.

  So he kissed on her on the forehead and said, “When you’re ready.”

  Molly buried her face in his chest and inhaled, her fingers clawing at him. She was probably just overwhelmed, but he held her, just because. His dick hated him.

  His dick hated the guy who came crashing into their little moment even more. The guy came stomping into their little hidden nook like a teenager, thrashing and hitting the walls, ripping at his hair, and Declan first thought, Not another psycho. He put himself between the new guy and Molly until he realized the guy was crying.

  And that he knew him.

  “Ian?” Declan asked.

  “Oh Jesus,” Ian said, looking surprised and embarrassed, his cheeks still wet with tears. Dude always got red-faced when he cried. “I’m sorry, man, I didn’t mean to—”

  “What happened, Ian?” Declan demanded. Ian was a good dude. Ian had hung out with them before, Ian had jammed with them, Ian had been one of the only guys who Soren had actually liked and trusted. He’d said that Ian was really in it for the music, didn’t have a starfucking bone in his body, wouldn’t know how to do it if someone drew him a diagram.

  “You don’t want to hear about it, man,” Ian said miserably. He wiped his nose on the back of his hand.

  “Um, is it Sierra?” Molly said in a tiny voice.

  Declan turned around. What the hell? Who was Sierra? And how did Molly know about…whatever the hell was going on?

  “She went off to fuck Brian,” Ian wailed. “First thing, just went right up to him. He didn’t even see me; I was talking to Gage. I turn around and they’re walking away, and she’s already got her hand down his pants!”

  “Who the hell is Sierra?” Declan asked. He was beyond confused.

  “Declan,” Molly said, shaking her head. “Sierra is—was—his girlfriend. Of seven months, right, Ian?”

  “Almost eight,” he sniffled. “I knew she had a thing for Brian, you know, she was a freaking fan. Whatever, I get it. But I thought…”

  “You thought it was the real deal,” Molly said. The sympathy in her eyes nearly killed Declan, and he wasn’t even the guy who’d gotten his heart broken.

  Ian leaned back against the wall and let himself sink slowly down to the floor. Before he’d looked anguished, angry, upset. Now he just looked depressed.

  “She was just using me the whole time, wasn’t she?” he said. He sounded out of it. “She knew I knew you guys from back before you hit. She asked me the whole time, ‘When are you gonna get me backstage? When am I gonna get to meet Savage Heart?’”

  Declan hated this. He didn’t expect anyone to have much sympathy for guys like him, famous guys who could pull almost any woman they wanted, even though it made it impossible to trust anyone. But the worst part was shit like this. Because sometimes you wanted to get laid, and things like this happened. He knew Brian had no fucking clue he was doing Ian’s girlfriend right now. But that didn’t make it any easier for Ian.

  “All right, this isn’t happening,” Declan announced. He grabbed Ian under the arms and hauled him to a standing position. “Any woman who would do that to you isn’t worth it, Ian. Yeah, I know that doesn’t make it feel better,” he said. “So instead I’m taking you out. Right now.”

  “What?”

  “C’mon, we’ll get you cleaned up, then we’ll get you drunk.”

  “Declan,” Molly whispered. “Rehab.”

  Oh shit. Rock stars fresh out rehab probably weren’t supposed to go on bar crawls with buddies on the rebound.

  Damn.

  He stared at her, the girl trying to dig into all his secrets, the one who was supposed to expose him, giving him that conspiratorial little grin.

  She just kept getting better and better.

  “Ok, Ian, what do you want to do?” Declan asked. No matter what, he was gonna take this guy out and give him something else to talk about besides losing his girlfriend to a groupie fuck.

  Ian thought about it for a moment. “Waffles,” he said.

  So they had a party at the waffle place.

  As soon as Ian started to look a little better, even laugh a little bit, Declan stole his phone and started texting everyone he could think of. Soon the place was full of Ian’s friends and acquaintances, all of them excited to be partying with Ian and his friend Declan Donovan. All the employees at the waffle house got in on it, too, and Declan bought midnight breakfast for everyone.

  People brought booze, but nobody cared. Declan told her he wasn’t going to begrudge Ian a breakup hangover for the sake of bullshit rumors.

  And the whole time, Molly kept thinking, This looks something like a guy you can trust.

  A guy who went out of his way to help out some poor dude who’d been dumped, a guy who used his fame and wealth to make that poor dude feel better, even when he was exhausted after a show, even when Molly knew she’d driven him crazy. He’d driven her crazy, too. She could still remember how hard his dick had felt through his jeans when he’d pinned her up against that amp.

  You’ll never get what you want from sex if you don’t trust anyone to give it to you.

  Declan had picked her up and carried her through an angry mob. He’d stopped, said “when you’re ready,” like he was so damn certain.

  NO, these are crazy thoughts. He was still Declan Donovan, rock star. He didn’t belong to her, and never would. He belonged to everyone, the way she’d seen him, on stage.

  But did she have to trust him with her heart?

  Why not her body?

  Instantly she felt heat pooling between her legs. Was that possible, though? He’d said he could show her who she was. Wasn’t that the same as trusting him with her heart? Letting him in like that, to help her discover…

  Molly’s spidey sense went off, and she looked around. And then she frowned. A redhead and her brunette friend were, to put it delicately, trying to drape themselves over Declan. It grossed Molly out, and she frowned. She wasn’t one of those women who got catty for no reason. Maybe it was the way they were throwing themselves at him with no sense of whether he seemed to be into it. Maybe it was because the brunette had brought her child to this shindig and Molly was judging the crap out of her, fairly or unfairly, or maybe it was the way seeing children always made her a little bit sad. But she smiled to see him disentangle himself, and then went right back to worrying.

  Oh man, she was tired.

  “Why so sad, beautiful?” Declan asked, slipping into her booth so that she was pleasantly squeezed between him and the wall. There were worse places to be in the world.

  “Not sad,” she said, wondering if he knew she was lying a little bit. “Thoughtful.”

  He seemed to watch her. Doing his own thinking. She wished he wouldn’t press on her being sad, not tonight, and in a second he seemed to get it.

  “You do a lot of thinking,” he agreed, and ran his finger through the remaining syrup on her plate. “But since you’re too chicken to ask me any questions so far—”

  “Hey!” she said, pulling her plate back. “I’m not chicken. And no syrup for men who call me chicken.”

  He smiled delectably and licked the syrup off of his finger. God.

  “I’ve got a question for you. Who is it you’re always trying to call?” he asked.

  That threw her for a loop. The only person she was obsessive about contacting was Lydia, but she hadn’t known he’d noticed that. What was she supposed to say? Any explanation of why she was so worried would involve telling him about her past. Molly was not prepared to go there right now.

  “Too tough
for you right now, huh? Chicken,” Declan said, pulling the plate back in front of him meaningfully. “I’ve got an alternative question. How come you’re scared to interview me?”

  “Who says I’m scared? Maybe I’m just doing research,” she said.

  “You’ve interviewed everyone else and avoided it with me,” he said, amused. “I think you do want me to tell you what I’d do to you for lying to me if you were my sub.”

  Yes.

  “No, I don’t. Look, questions for the other guys are easy,” Molly said quickly. “Questions for you are hard.”

  “Chicken.”

  And Declan grabbed her hand and pulled her up and out of the booth. That man had become awfully familiar with manhandling her, and Molly just did not have it in her to tell him to stop. She enjoyed it too damn much.

  The parking lot was unseasonably cold, and Molly realized they had no ride. They’d come here in Ian’s car—Declan had left instructions for Sierra to get a ride home—and now it was just the two of them, out in a parking lot, while a rocking party raged on in the waffle house.

  “What are we doing out here?” she asked.

  “That’s your question?” he teased. “I called Davey. We’re waiting for the bus. I’m freaking exhausted, and we have to make time on the road tomorrow. Hey, you cold?”

  She was shivering, and not in a good way this time. Her usual shorts and tank top was not cutting it. Declan didn’t wait for her to answer, but instead stood behind her and wrapped his arms around her. The contact alone… She didn’t know if she was better or worse off, feeling warm and wanting him all at the same time. She sighed and leaned her head back into his chest.

  “Why do you keep turning down groupies?” she asked. “Did you know I was watching you?”

  Yeah, pretend that’s all about the book, Ward.

  “No, I didn’t,” he said, and she could hear him smiling. Like he’d won something. “I used to bag all of them. Decided to stop about six months ago. That’s a big question, though, Mol. You ready to give me a big answer in return?”

  Molly swallowed. In the span of less than twenty-four hours, she had been convinced she was going to die, she’d been saved by the one man who could make her feel…well, the way she felt right now, in his arms, she’d been kissed, she’d partied with a rock star, and now she was facing some difficult truths about herself and what she wanted.