Addicted: A Good Girl Bad Boy Rockstar Romance

by Zoey Oliver

  “Jesus, Chelsea.” The words are hardly more than a sigh. Her mouth is like magic. She drags her dress back up her hips, revealing her slick pussy to my hungry gaze. Her panties must still be somewhere off in a corner where I threw them earlier. I can hardly focus on that, because while she’s sucking my cock she’s running her finger up and down her slippery slit, moaning into me, sending vibrations all the way to my toes.

  “Oh God, yeah, play with your clit, sweetheart,” I groan, dragging my fingers through her hair as her lips pump up and down my thick shaft, doing their damnedest to draw the cum right out of me.

  She’s already trembling when she slides two fingers inside herself and the display is so fucking sexy that I force my eyes closed for a second to stop myself from coming right then and there. But I know what she’s doing because the soft vibrations of her moans are going straight from her throat, through my cock, and into my balls, making them tighten.

  “Make that sweet pussy come for me just like I’m going to do as soon as we’re back in that hotel room.” I feel her gasp and then her fingers still, her eyes squeezing shut. The satisfied groan that comes next is all it takes.

  “Chelsea, I’m gonna—” I don’t get it out before I’m coming. Normally I like to give a girl enough warning to pull away if she wants, but full of surprises as she is, Chelsea takes it all, swallowing my cum before looking up at me with this smile that makes my heart skip a beat and my cock twitch toward her all at once.

  “Holy shit,” I sigh, sinking against the door. “Not that I’m complaining, but what the hell was that for?”

  She shrugs, pulling her dress down as she stands and demurely wipes the corner of her mouth like she’s worried there might be crumbs, not semen, there.

  “I wanted to… And I really appreciated you standing up for me with Kandy.”

  “But I thought… With Rosa… You’re not mad about that?”

  She shakes her head, grinning at me like I’m a little slow. “No. Rosa is my fight, but Kandy? Well, Kandy can go fuck herself.”

  I chuckle and pull her into my arms, shaking my head. “Who knew you had such a filthy mouth on you?”

  She arches an eyebrow at me and I burst out laughing. “Okay, fair enough. I definitely knew. Especially after that performance.”

  She’s still grinning, but her cheeks burn red as she smacks my shoulder and rolls her eyes. “Come on, let’s get out of here. I want to hear more about what you’re planning to do in that hotel room.”

  And just like that, I’m sporting a raging hard-on again. It doesn’t take much with this girl, but I haven’t even managed to stuff my dick back in my pants yet. She notices the struggle and grins that sly little smirk that’s probably supposed to look apologetic but is filled with too much pride to pull it off.

  “My my, so eager?” she says innocently, dragging her hand over the front of my pants again, only making me swell more, making putting my pants on even harder.

  “For you, always. But if you ever want to actually get back to the hotel room, you should probably stop being such a damn tease.”

  She gives me a playful pout but finally pulls away, letting me get myself situated as she picks her things up from around the dressing room.

  “I’ll be waiting for you out back,” she says, giving me a kiss on the cheek as she slips something into my pocket and walks out the door. I shove my hand in my pocket and feel the scrap of fabric. But that can’t be—

  I pull it out and it is. The minx stuffed her damp panties in my pocket. I shove them back and growl, my cock straining at the front of my jeans. This damn girl is going to be the death of me.

  But what a sweet way to go.

  Chapter 16

  Ian

  I’m backstage in my dressing room getting pumped up for another show—our seventh in ten days; we’re in Atlanta now—and I’m nervous as hell. Not because of the show, though. The tour’s been going great. The press has been amazing. We’re sold out of every show, the fans are loving it, Wish Givers is getting a ton of money, and Chelsea and I are closer than ever.

  But that’s why I’m so damn nervous. Because everything’s going too good. So good, in fact, that I’m planning on telling her tonight. Telling her that I’m crazy about her—no, more than that, I’m in love with her. She’s incredible. Smart, funny, talented, and insatiable in bed. Not to mention gorgeous and unafraid to call me on my bullshit. I can’t imagine there being a better woman in the world and it’s time I finally tell her.

  I know it happened fast, but it hit me hard. And I think she feels the same way. At least I hope she does. I guess tonight I’ll find out for sure.

  I still haven’t quite figured out how I’m going to do it, though. Before the show? After? During?

  I immediately dismiss that one. There are some people who would make big romantic gestures on stage, and maybe even some girls that would like that kind of thing, but I doubt Chelsea’s one of them. And besides, I don’t want her to feel put on the spot or trapped in front of an audience. The pressure of being in front of the crowd might be enough to force her into agreeing to something more than whatever unlabeled fling we’ve got going on now, but I’m not going to do that to either one of us. I want to know she’s in it for real.

  And if she’s not? I don’t want it to ruin the show. So after is the answer. But how I’m going to keep my nerves in check up until that point, I have no idea.

  I’ve been pacing restlessly for a while, but now I sit down on the couch and try to get my breathing under control. Do that meditation shit I learned in rehab. But instead of closing my eyes and thinking about nothing, I pull out my phone and scroll through my pictures from the last week and a half.

  There are lots of pictures of the two of us at different monuments and sights, but the ones I love the most are the candid shots. The pictures I took of her when she didn’t realize it. Her looking serious at a sound check, laughing with a fan backstage, lit up by the sun on the beach in Miami, curled up on my chest asleep in our hotel room. Each picture makes my heart swell more. I love her so much it almost hurts to keep it to myself, and that’s just crazy. I don’t think I’ve ever felt this way about anyone. But then again, I’ve never met anyone quite like Chelsea.

  She’s it for me, and I know it.

  Now I’ve just gotta find a way to tell her.

  It’s a few minutes before the show and I still haven’t seen her. I’m waiting for the call out to the stage, but I want my pre-show good luck kiss first and I’m wondering where the hell she is. Probably held up by Rosa again. I know she’s still scheming against me, trying to turn Chelsea away from me “for her own good,” but Chelsea hasn’t given her an inch and it’s led to some tense moments.

  The door bursts open and before I can even look up, I’m greeted with the sweet familiar scent of her and it makes me smile.

  “There you ar— What’s wrong?” I jump to my feet, hurrying over to her. It’s obvious she’s been crying, her eyes red and puffy, her makeup in streaks. Even her nose is running. My first thoughts are something happened to her parents or her sister’s out of remission or someone said something nasty again about her brother’s death being her fault, but when I get close to her, she holds out a hand to stop me and my blood goes cold.

  “Chelsea?”

  “Stay away from me,” she cries, her voice cracking as she hurls a plastic baggie at me. I catch it without thinking. Now my whole body’s made of ice. In the baggie, there’s a syringe, a lighter, a spoon, and a length of dirty shoelace—supplies that are all too familiar to me.

  “Where’d you get this?” I ask, my voice sounding like it belongs to someone else, someone far away from all of this. My hands are shaking just looking at the stuff in that bag and I have to put it down. I can’t just keep holding it while she’s looking at me like I’m a monster.

  “In your suitcase, Ian. I went to get a lozenge and found…” She shakes her head, tears streaming down her face again and all I want to do is wrap he
r in my arms, hold her tight, and tell her it’s all going to be okay. But I can’t do that. Because I’m frozen in place and she’s still hugging herself, shielding herself from me.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about—”

  “Oh, cut the crap. I know how this goes. You deny it and then just go behind my back again anyway. I’m not doing it, Ian. I can’t.”

  I don’t know what she’s saying. I’m so confused about what’s happening.

  Well, that’s not true. I know what’s happening. My past is coming up to bite me in the ass again and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.

  I try to come up with something to say, some kind of argument to make her see reason, but I know there’s nothing. Nothing I say will sound like truth to her. Not now.

  “I’ve already watched someone I love die from that shit and I won’t do it again,” she says, her voice trembling like a leaf in an earthquake. God, I want to make her feel better. I just want to hold her and tell her it’s not true. But she’s already built that wall up around her again and there’s no way I’m getting past it now.

  “Chelsea, I didn’t… It’s not what you think,” I try, but she just shakes her head.

  “Save it. We’re through. I hope it’s worth it.” And before I can get another word out, she’s storming from the dressing room, leaving my whole world shattered and upside down.

  Not twenty seconds go by before I spot Kandy outside the room smirking and she swoops in, looking sympathetic.

  “Ian, when did you start using again?” she says in that hushed tone that people normally reserve for funerals and hospital rooms. That quiet concern that always sounds patronizing.

  “I didn’t,” I growl, my head still reeling. “I’ve been clean five years and I wouldn’t throw that away now.”

  Kandy tsks and shakes her head. “Addiction is hard. My readers aren’t strangers to the struggle. You can be honest with me,” she coos.

  “Great. I. Didn’t. Do. It.”

  She gives me a sympathetic smile that somehow feels even more patronizing than before and shakes her head sadly.

  “It’s a shame about your relationship with Chelsea. I really thought you two had what it takes to go the distance. I certainly hope you don’t end up alone now. I know how dangerous that can be for someone in your… situation.” She pats me on the shoulder, that pitying look still on her face, but as she turns around, I see it morphing and she looks… satisfied?

  But I don’t have time to think about it, because I see Merrill running toward me.

  “What are you doing? We need you on stage!” he says, yanking me after him.

  I don’t even have a chance to process everything that’s just happened. My head’s spinning, my thoughts racing, shock sinking into every pore. Then I’m being shoved on stage and the crowd is cheering and I’m waiting for Chelsea, hoping this was all some bad dream or something, but she doesn’t show up.

  Instead, Rosa comes out and announces that, unfortunately, Chelsea’s fallen ill and won’t be able to perform tonight. It’s a blow to the gut for me. She really meant it. She’s avoiding me now, throwing her professionalism to the wind and leaving me out here hanging.

  No one’s here for a solo concert, especially not with me so off my game, but somehow I manage to flub my way through the set. It’s not a complete disaster, but I wouldn’t be surprised if half the audience asks for their money back. But I can’t think about that right now. I can’t think about anything other than Chelsea’s broken expression, the hurt and betrayal in her tear-reddened eyes. I can’t stop thinking about that baggie and where it came from. Could it possibly be left over from before? Did I not clean out my whole suitcase when I got back from rehab?

  I don’t know and it’s the not knowing that’s killing me.

  For some unknown reason—maybe they’re giving me the benefit of the doubt, or it really wasn’t as bad as I thought—the crowd’s calling for an encore. But I can’t go back out there. I barely made it through the set. There’s no way I can act like everything’s fine for an encore when Chelsea’s not there.

  So instead, I race to her dressing room, praying she’s still there, praying she’s ready to listen to what I have to say.

  But she’s not. Her dressing room is empty and as I’m walking out, I come face-to-face with Rosa, her face screwed into absolute rage. Her arms are folded and she’s blocking my way.

  “Don’t you think you’ve done enough?” she throws at me.

  “I haven’t done anything!”

  “You’ve done plenty. Chelsea’s reputation is going to take a big hit from this, not to mention the state she’s in because of you. I warned her this would happen and you wormed your way in anyway. I hope you’re pleased with yourself.”

  “I don’t care what you think. You’ve never liked me and that’s fine, but I’m not lying. Just let me talk to her. Let me explain.”

  Rosa narrows her eyes at me and steps closer, a threat in her expression. “If you care about her at all, you’ll back off and let this die down. There are four shows left, and if I’m lucky I can convince Chelsea not to pull out of the rest of the tour. But stay away from her, do you understand me?”

  I meet the challenge in her eyes with conviction of my own. “I haven’t done anything wrong,” I say, glaring at her.

  “Just stay away,” she says, clearly not believing me either as she walks away.

  “Goddammit!” I roar, slamming my fist into the wall. It doesn’t give me the satisfying break I hoped for. Instead, my knuckles are bruised and throbbing and the wall is left unblemished, taunting me along with everyone else.

  I’m pissed that no one will believe me, but more than that, I’m pissed at myself. Because if I were them, I wouldn’t believe me. Not with my history. Not with what I know about addiction. There’s really no reason for any of them to buy my side of the story, but that doesn’t make it any easier to deal with.

  Chapter 17

  Chelsea

  I’m not sure I ever really managed to sleep last night with my phone ringing constantly. I don’t know who leaked my number, but every reporter and blogger and industry person is calling for the juicy gossip. And even when no one’s bothering me, my phone’s still blowing up with notifications from all the news outlets reporting our split.

  Yeah. In less than twelve hours, the whole world has found out that Ian and I are through. And somehow everyone knows that our brief affair is over because he’s using again. Every time I see it in writing, tears swim in front of my eyes and I’m crying again. Until eventually I’m out of tears and my head hurts and I’m exhausted, but I can’t stop thinking about how wrong everything went.

  I turned the sound off my phone first. Then I had to turn the vibration off. And then, when the notification light was flashing like a freaking lighthouse in the dark, I turned the whole damn thing off and shoved it in my bag. This is why I have Rosa and PR people. They can handle this mess.

  That thought just makes me cringe though, because I know Rosa’s got to be feeling pretty smug with “I told you so” satisfaction. She warned me about this. She told me not to get in too deep, but I wouldn’t listen. And look where it got me.

  I’m still lying in bed, trying to force myself to sleep when the sun comes up. And I keep lying there well into the morning until there’s a knock on the door. I groan and roll over, ignoring it. Whoever is here can just get the hell out.

  “It’s me, and I have a key,” Rosa says. I groan again and pull the blankets up over my head. I don’t need her to see me like this. I probably look awful. I know I feel awful.

  It’s not fair that I can’t run away or tell her to leave. She swipes the key card over the door and I hear the lock click open before the knob turns.

  But I’m not coming out of my blanket cocoon and she can’t make me.

  I can hear her footsteps across the plush carpet and then she sits on the bed with me, making the mattress sag toward her.

  “Hey,” she says
gently. “How are you feeling?”

  I shrug, but with the blanket over me, I don’t know if she can tell what the gesture is.

  “Well, I’ve got some news you might like to hear…”

  I really doubt it. There’s nothing that can make me feel better right now. Nothing that could possibly ease this pain in my chest. The one that’s making it hard to breathe, hard to think without nearly falling into tears again.

  “Chelsea, will you at least look at me?”

  “You don’t wanna see me,” I mutter, burying my head in the pillow. Rosa’s been with me a long time. She’s seen the ups and downs. She’s seen me at my absolute worst and my absolute best. But still, something about this time makes me just want to be left alone.

  She sighs and pats the pillow. I’m sure she’s aiming for my head, but there’s no way to know where I am from her perspective.

  “I talked to the label and they’re going to go ahead and cancel the last four shows. The record’s still going to be released and all the proceeds are still going to charity, but at this time, they feel like the best course is to just let this partnership fade out of the limelight for now. Let the heat die off and then we’ll start working on another solo album.”

  My stomach turns at the thought of being in the studio again without Ian. It just seems wrong. The idea of going out on stage alone seems so lonely.

  And I know I should be happy that the tour’s over. I was already dreading having to force myself to go out on stage with him and act like everything’s all right in front of the fans. But I’m still disappointed. There’s a part of me that wants to cry even harder for the loss of our amazing music, for those shows we’ll never get to put on. The memories that will never be made.

  “Okay,” is all I say. Maybe with some distance, the solo thing won’t sound so bad. I’m not going to make any rash decisions today.