What I really want right now is to fuck her mercilessly until her eyes roll up and she’s fuck-stunned from being pounded over and over. But with a steadying breath, I grab her hand again, loosely this time, and lead her through the dark corridor backstage to my green room. As we approach, a busy looking guy with a clipboard claps at me as he proclaims to the heavens like his redemption just emerged from the dimness. “Oh good, you’re here. I’ll be happy to get you anything you need tonight, Mr. Perkins. Anything now?”
I growl, still on edge. What I need . . . is what I can’t have. “No. Just give me fifteen, ten, and five-minute warnings. That’s it.”
He nods, smiling broadly. “You got it.” With that, he hustles out to the next thing on his list, leaving us alone again.
Shit.
I can still feel my cock throbbing in my jeans, and I know Elise can see it, the way she’s looking down at my jeans.
And we both know that if we rush . . . yeah, we could get it done before I go on stage.
Chapter 9
Elise
What the fuck, Elise? You can’t be doing shit like that, no matter how irresistible Keith is. Work . . . remember work? The interview series that is going to jump start your career, maybe get you a gig with a real magazine, not celebrity trash fodder. Get your shit together. You don’t get paid to feel that thick, throbbing cock pumping in and out . . .
Wait. Okay, start over.
Stop thinking with your hormones and think with your head! Get your shit together and do your fucking job!
Better. Mental pep talk complete, I move around the room, feeling Keith’s gaze follow me, burning into my neck, my back, my pussy and my . . . well, everything. My words aren’t helping. The power in his eyes is breaking me down.
I need to reset us, calm down the flames still licking at my insides, the need pulsing in my clit. Taking a deep breath, I dive back into reporter mode, locking the door on my inner sex-starved bitch for now.
“Green room, huh?” I ask with forced sarcasm. “Seems pretty . . . standard. No bowls of just blue M&Ms, buckets of Popeye’s chicken legs, or fancy champagne. What’s in your rider for requirements?”
Keith hasn’t moved, standing stock-still as he watches me, making me feel like prey that he could pounce on at any moment, or not, solely at his discretion. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t resist him.
“No rider,” Keith says in a low, sexy purr. “The venue always comps my beer and some bar food after the show and supplies water bottles before and during. But I’m not some asshole who needs caviar and Cristal. I’m just here to sing songs, shake hands, and go home.”
I nod, taking it in. He’s so much a dichotomy. On one hand, he’s commanding, on the other easygoing. It’s . . . unique. “Seems easy. Maybe even too easy.”
Keith chuckles, his eyes flashing again with humor, desire, and power. “Definitely nothing easy about me.”
Before I can question that statement, there’s a knock at the door, and Keith turns his head, breaking our eye contact for the first time since we entered. “It’s open.”
The door opens slowly before a herd of guys comes barreling in, loud and big and . . . loud.
Really, it’s just three guys, but it’s a small room, so their appearance and energy make the room feel claustrophobic. Keith moves to greet the group, a big grin on his face as he bro-hugs and back-pats each one. “Hey, Slim, you’re not going to have that nickname much longer.”
“Man, fuck you,” Slim, a slightly chubby guy who’s wearing a jean jacket, says with a laugh. “Good to see you. You don’t want to know what the other offer I had for the weekend was.”
“What?” another of the guys asks. “I turned down playing backbeat for a folk-opera fusion. Let that sink in . . . Folk. Opera.”
“Try a studio session for a Prince tribute band,” Slim replies with a shudder. “I mean, I can play bass to anything but . . . fuck me, a slow-dance version of When Doves Cry? Fuck my life. And Prince would be pissed as hell at the hatchet job they’re doing.”
After a round of laughter, Keith turns to me. “Elise, these are the guys. We’ve been playing gigs together for years. Guys, this is Elise. She’s a reporter, doing a couple of articles about me.”
One of the newcomers, a lean guy with long, shaggy blonde hair makes a whooping noise, grinning widely to show off perfect, square teeth that are almost a little too big, giving him almost a feral look. “Ooh, writing an article about our Country Star? Want me to tell you all of his dirty little secrets? I’m Jim, by the way. In my day job, I’m the lead singer in a blues band.”
I grin, my eyes jumping from Jim to Keith as I shake Jim’s offered hand, teasing. “Actually, that’d be great. Maybe you can give me all of his juicy secrets?”
Keith jumps in, his voice amused but still brooking no argument. “Shut your mouth, Jim. You too, guys.”
He looks at the other two. Slim, whatever his real name is, nods, and Keith continues. “She’s interviewing me. Got it?”
There’s a hint of possessiveness to Keith’s tone, and something else I can’t quite place . . . a warning, maybe?
But the three guys seem to catch Keith’s meaning loud and clear, whatever it is. They nod in unison, and Jim speaks up. “Got it, boss man. But maybe I could share some gig stories? Tell her about the time that chick crowd-surfed up to the stage and damn-near jumped your bones before security could snatch her off the stage?”
I’m grinning, already visualizing how that snippet is going to add some flair to my next article about Keith’s performances. “God, yes . . . tell me more about that!”
He glances to Keith, obviously silently asking permission, and Keith gives the approval, shrugging. “Well, you damn-near already told it, so you might as well go ahead.”
The next thirty minutes are spent listening to Keith and the guys banter, joke, and reminisce about past tours and shows. I finally figure out that Slim and Eric are one and the same, and it’s interesting to hear about their time on the road together as they obviously have a long history and a deep friendship.
“Wait, let me ask you one thing,” I interrupt Eric as he goes on about a time he was painted up on stage. “You guys talk about lots of different music. You’re not just country?”
“I prefer country,” Eric says, “but with us mainly working in the summers, we can pick up other gigs that sound interesting . . . or pay well. Besides, while Keith won’t admit it, he can do a pretty stellar Sweet Child O’Mine if you get him drunk, or sometimes if you just beg hard enough.”
I blush, thinking about begging Keith for anything, and say nothing. As I listen to another tale, Shane asks Keith, “Hey, remember that time Sarah brought us all chili dogs and we ended up puking ten minutes before the show? God, that show sucked.”
I wouldn’t have even caught the namedrop if the temperature in the room hadn’t just plummeted at the same time the tension in Keith’s entire body sprang tight. Shane cuts his eyes to me, wide and panicked. He looks like he wants to crawl into a hole and make sure someone’s hidden all the pointy things nearby.
I look at Keith, questioning. “Obviously, a story there?”
Keith glowers but finally relents, although her voice is ice. “Sarah is my sister. She comes on the road with us in the summer sometimes, kinda acts like my assistant. She’s not to be included in the article. She has her own life and doesn’t need mine fucking hers up.”
He gives me a hard look, daring me to disagree with his decree. I give him a tiny smile, acquiescing for now but knowing I’ll need to do a bit of digging to make sure there’s nothing hinky about the sister he was obviously hiding. I mean, if there’s nothing there, why not just say up it up front? “Fine.”
Before the tension in the room can settle, the kid with the clipboard pops back in without knocking. “Fifteen minutes.”
Keith hops up before the kid can leave, calling out to him. “Hey, can you take my guest out to her table? It’s reserved up front.”
> The kid actually looks at his clipboard for a moment, and I have a split second where I kinda want him to say no, just to see what Keith will do.
But eventually, the kid waves at me with his board. “Follow me,” he blurts out before muttering something under his breath.
I glance at Keith, who is searching my eyes for something, his eyes narrowed like he’s analyzing me. I’m not sure what tell-tale sign of my possible dishonesty he’s looking for, so I smile warmly. “Have a great show! Break a leg . . . that’s what you say, right?”
Finally, he relaxes slightly and speaks dryly. “I’ll see you in a few. I’ll be the cowboy on stage in the hat.”
I shake my head, rolling my eyes. “I’ll be the girl in the front row, yelling ‘yee-haw’ louder than everyone.”
Keith actually smiles as the guys laugh. “Good lord, woman. Do not do that. Or you’re likely to get kicked out for being drunk.”
I grin, considering doing it just to mess with him.
As the kid sets me up at my table, a fresh bottle of beer magically appears from a passing waitress. I yell out ‘thanks’ but she’s already gone.
A few minutes later, I’ve taken some notes on the show attendees. Most are fans wearing t-shirts from Keith’s last tour, with a pair of radio djs wearing polos with their KCTY call letters on the chest and a slew of half-naked women all giggly and girly as they wait impatiently for Keith’s appearance on stage. I try not to feel catty about them, but I can’t help it . . . some of these bitches need a muzzle and a tranq dart.
Shit, maybe I’m the one feeling possessive.
When Keith finally emerges, it’s a riot of noisy yells and clapping. As he greets the crowd, I can see just how comfortable he is on stage, his energy creating a buzzing sort of high among the crowd. He starts singing and it’s magical. I didn’t tell him this, but once I got this assignment, I did my homework like any good reporter.
I’ve listened to all his biggest hits, both the ones that sold millions and the ones the critics raved about, which ironically aren’t usually the same songs. I’ve heard him sing about parties, about women, about dads, about long drives home, and more. But none of those hours spent with Keith blasting through my earbuds prepared me for this. His deep tenor is amplified until it vibrates my chest, making me feel his words, both physically and metaphorically in my heart.
I can see how the emotions of every song resonate for him, both upbeat and subdued. It’s amazing how in this entire room full of people clamoring for a piece of him, it feels like he’s singing just to me, and I’m sure if I asked every person in the crowd, they’d feel the same way.
It’s in the tilt of his head, the way his eyes slowly move across the space, connecting with people, how he even winks at a couple of those giggly women with a sign proclaiming Keith, we love you!
As he sings his latest hit about the girl he wants but can’t have yet, he bends down low, right in front of me, reaching out a hand. Even though I held his hand earlier, when I touch him on stage like this, larger than life, I swear I light up just like a teenybopper at a Justin Beiber concert.
And I don’t care. I’m swept away because he really is singing to me right now. Baby, take my hand; we’ll buy a little piece of land; it’ll be just me and you; forever, if you say, ‘I do’.
Okay, obviously not singing to me like he means what he’s saying, but his eyes are locked on me until the end of the song, and then he kisses the back of my hand like the gentleman he’s decidedly not. With a wink, he tears off across the stage as the band changes tune and Keith starts belting out his most famous party anthem.
I’m still swooning a bit, plopping back in my chair when I feel a tap on my shoulder.
I look up to see a young guy in a button-up and jeans standing there, and he smiles and leans in, whisper-yelling in my ear. “I’m Ethan. I’m with the bar crew. Mind if I sit with you for sound checks?”
I nod, mouthing “Sure” as I gesture to the chair. He sits down and I go back to watching Keith rock the crowd for a few songs. My legs are still shaky, knees knocking under the table as I catch my breath from singing along. Keith is strutting his stuff, grinning and playing his heart out over to the right side of the stage, but I notice a tight look on his face when he looks back at me, eyes bouncing from me to Ethan.
I shrug in an attempt to let Keith know it’s no big deal, because I really don’t mind sharing the primo table, but he seems stiffer than he was just a moment ago. He finishes out the song but keeps playing a guitar riff as he resets the microphone center-stage right in front of me.
When he stops, he takes the microphone, his eyes radiating power that takes over the room. “Thanks so much, everyone. I have to tell y’all a secret if you think you can keep it quiet.”
He looks straight at me, daring me to say no as the audience responds en-masse with a resounding ‘yeah’.
Keith nods, adjusting his hat a little to pull it down, making him look like an old-time gunfighter or something. “I love playing shows just like this one . . . small venue, tight-knit crowd, with everyone singing along. It’s closer, intimate when I can hear you singing and see your smiling faces. So I just wanted to say . . . Hello.”
Without even pausing, he rolls right into one of his older and lesser-known songs, but somehow one of my favorites. Hellooo, girl; C’mon over here and let me get to know you; Hellooo, girl; gimme five and you won’t believe what I can show you . . .
As Keith hits the chorus, Ethan leans over, whisper-yelling in my ear again. “Was the transition from music to speaking to music okay for you? I think it sounded a bit tinny on the right.”
I nod at him, smiling and mouthing ‘it’s good’ and returning my attention to an obviously scowling Keith. Shit, what’s wrong with him?
After a few more songs, which feel forced and not quite as casually comfortable as the vibe had been earlier, Keith wraps up and takes a bow. I rise with everyone else, clapping like a maniac and sticking my fingers in my mouth to let out a piercing wolf-whistle instead of the yee-haw I threatened.
Keith smiles at the crowd but doesn’t even glance at me as he struts off stage. Piped-in music begins playing as people get up and take to the dance floor, building on Keith’s energy to get their groove on.
Ethan nods and gives a little wave as he heads off to talk to a guy behind the soundboard at the back of the floor. Honestly, I don’t know what to do. Should I go backstage the same way I came out? Wait here for clipboard kid?
I drain the last of my beer, now hot from being ignored while I focused on the show, and I decide to find my way back. After all, I’m supposed to have all-access to Keith, so surely, they’ll let me backstage?
When I get to the edge of the floor, I see Keith’s bodyguard and make my way over. “Hey, I’m Elise . . . from earlier. Can I go meet up with Keith now?”
He doesn’t even answer. Hell, I’m not sure if he looks at me since his eyes are covered in sunglasses, but he bumps his head to the left so I take that as a yes and quickly scoot on through to the curtained backstage area.
I’m a little fuzzy on how to get to the green room, but I’m shuffling along in the dark when two hands reach around from behind me, one grabbing loosely at my neck and tilting my jaw up and the other firmly around my belly, pulling me back against a hard body.
I’m frozen in fear for an instant before I hear Keith’s voice growling quietly in my ear, “What the fuck was that, Elise? What kind of games are you playing?”
Before I can speak, he moves his hand over my mouth, muffling my questions . . . my explanation of whatever has set him off. Keith grinds against me, and I can feel his cock, thick and hard, even more so than during our stolen kiss before the show, and I’m instantly on fire for him. All the flirting and eyeballing we’ve been doing is coming to a fever pitch between my legs, my pussy thrumming like a guitar string.
I arch my back, circling my hips, wanting to feel him, wanting to make him lose control the way I am. I whimper, trying
to beg if that’s what it takes, but before I can, he continues.
“Leaving me with your taste still on my lips, and you’re already sitting with some asshole for my show? Think you can cock tease me and make me jealous? Guess what? It worked.”
I try to shake my head, wanting to tell him that it was just a sound guy, but he doesn’t give me a chance, and I can barely form a coherent thought anyway because he’s licking and nibbling my neck.
“You’ve been wanting me since the first second we saw each other,” he whispers as he works his way up to my ear. “You’ve been dreaming about it, haven’t you? And I’ll let you in on one of those juicy secrets you always want—I’ve been wanting to fuck you since that first night too.”
The words explode in my brain, and I moan against his hand as Keith’s lips move lower, to the curve between my neck and shoulder. His hand on my waist fumbles with my button, but he gets it undone.
“Shove your jeans down,” he growls. “You were naughty, so take your punishment like a good girl, Elise.”
I don’t know what punishment he has in mind, but fuck, yes to whatever it is. He can fuck me right here in the middle of the backstage area if he wants. Hell, he could shove me down on the dirty stage in front of the crowd and I’d happily take him. I’m that gone.
I push my jeans down, leaving my lace thong because he didn’t tell me to take my panties off, and on some instinctual level, I want to do what he says. Exactly what he says.
I feel his hand, broad and rough, caressing the cheek of my ass, and it makes me shiver in anticipation.
Before I realize what he has in mind, he lifts his hand, popping it back down on my cheek with a loud smack. I cry out, but the sound is muffled as he presses his hand tighter across my mouth. And then he does it again, and again . . . three times total, and I’m a quivering mess.
I’ve never felt this on fire before. My pussy’s quivering, almost dripping down my inner thigh as I give him total control. Keith is undeniable, a force of sexual nature that I don’t want to resist. I just want him to fuck me, hard and pounding and mind-blowingly . . . and make me his dirty secret.
Dirty Laundry Page 7
