Give Me Hell

by Kate McCarthy

  “Because you asked so nicely,” I answer, rising up and removing my boxer briefs before tossing them to the floor. I lift her hips and shift forward. Aligning my cock, I sink inside with one smooth thrust. Wet heat is a vice that sets my every nerve on fire.

  “Hard and fast,” she commands, so I rock against her with a painful, leisurely pace instead.

  “Asshead.” Mac’s curse is muttered and slightly breathless, and it makes me laugh.

  “If I told you to slow down, you’d probably go faster than a rabbit, wouldn’t you?”

  “Stop complaining,” I say as I pull almost all the way out and punch back in with a hard thrust. She gasps with pleasure. “You like it any way I give it to you.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Because you’re always wet for me. All I have to do is look at you and you start dripping,” I goad, increasing my pace.

  “I do not!”

  “You can protest all you like, Princess, but your body betrays you.”

  “You’re so full of it.”

  I bury my head in her sweet-smelling neck, full on thrusting now and laughing at the same time. “Au contraire, my dear. It seems you’re the one full of it right now.”

  “Oh good lord!” Mac snorts and then moans. “You’re determined to have the last word tonight, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.” I lift my head and look down into her eyes. “And if you have any sense, you’ll let me,” I say, slowing the drive of my hips. “Otherwise, I won’t let you come.”

  “In that case.” She cups my face in the warmth of her palms. “You’re domineering and loyal and incredibly sexy, and I love you, Jake Romero.”

  My hips still completely. Her words soak deep beneath the layers of my skin until they reach my bruised heart. I lift a hand, brushing a wayward tendril of hair from her brow in a soft, gentle gesture. “I love you too.”

  There’s your last word, her gleaming eyes say silently.

  Ah hell. I surge forward, unable to play any longer. My thrusts become hard and fast, setting a frenetic pace, one she matches. Then the image of that mock gun pointed right at her flits through my head, and I falter.

  The effort of suppressing the Ross situation all night has made my anxiety build, and now it’s broken free from the restraints and surges through my head in a flood. I want to kill Ross for his sinister gesture. I want to hunt him down and tear each limb from his body until nothing remains but pieces. He wants to destroy what I love, a punishment, before he destroys me too. I can’t live with this threat hanging over us. Ross hasn’t let my exodus go like I’d hoped. He’s held on to it all these years, letting it build into a need for retribution.

  “Jake?”

  I lift my head. The question in Mac’s eyes makes me realise I’ve stopped completely. And worse, started going soft, even though she feels perfect.

  Mac trails her hands down my back and grips my ass with needy fingers as she wriggles her hips.

  “I’m sorry,” I say around the lump in my throat, my insides heavy.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Just stress,” I mutter, grinding my hips, trying to recreate the easy pleasure of just moments ago. This is a first. My body is failing me and my stomach clenches with the frustration of it. I bite back a filthy curse.

  “The tour?”

  We leave for Spain in a week—the first leg of an international tour headlining for Sins of Descent, one of the biggest bands in the world. Mac has been in the throes of planning every detail for weeks. We’ll be gone for weeks. I’m looking forward to it. Getting her out of the country. The timing of this tour couldn’t be more opportune.

  “I guess.” Sweat breaks out across my shoulders. Her tight heat feels incredible, yet my erection is gone. Completely. “Christ,” I mumble. I lift my body from hers and pull out with a jagged breath.

  “Jake, it’s okay,” Mac soothes, seeing my aggravation.

  “It’s not.” Drawing back, I sit kneeled on my backside, my stupid dick hanging like a useless lump between us.

  “It is,” she insists though her eyes are clouded.

  Avoiding her confusion, I shuffle backward between her legs and dip my head, stroking her pussy with my tongue. At least I have this. She tastes sweet and musky, her texture sleek like velvet. It’s more soothing to me than any of the verbal platitudes she’s trying to offer.

  “You don’t have to …” she pants, trailing off with a moan.

  “Shut up,” I order between licks. I do have to. Leaving her unsatisfied galls me. And I love this. Every stroke of my tongue, every thrust of my finger inside her, is a physical adoration. Whenever Mac snaps at me, or fights with me, I remember her like this. Her body agitated. Her moans breathless. Her skin hot as the sun.

  “Don’t stop,” she gasps.

  As if. It would be easier to stop a freight train with my bare hands.

  Mac comes against my mouth, her back arching, hips leaving the bed. When she comes back down to earth, I lift my head. Her eyes are glazed, her body languid.

  “You’re amazing,” she mumbles.

  “I know.”

  “Come here.” I flop down beside her and pull her against me. “Do you want me to—”

  “No.” I cut her off before she can finish the embarrassing question. “I’ll be fine, babe.” My lips press to the warmth of her brow. A quick kiss before I squeeze her body tight to mine. “Just give me an hour to nap and my trusty sword will be poking you before you can even blink.”

  “Do me a favour?”

  “Mmm?” I mumble into the side of her face.

  “Don’t ever call it a sword.”

  “Why not?” I mock complain. “We can play pirate and busty wench. I can steal you away on my ship and tie you to the post in my cabin. I’ll bend you over, lift your skirts, and fuck you silly with my heroic sword as the seas rage around us.”

  My cock twitches at the outlandish image and its heady relief. Fuck. We need to introduce some kind of role play into our lives.

  Mac groans with exasperation. “I think you’re forgetting something.”

  “What?”

  “I’m not busty.”

  I reach over and grab a handful of tit, squeezing the delectable mound. “Damn, you’re right. Maybe you should get a boob job.”

  Mac sucks in a sharp breath. “Excuse me?”

  My greedy hand cops a slap and I retreat, laughing. She knows I’m teasing.

  “Maybe you should try growing some muscle on that weedy frame of yours,” she retorts.

  I flex a bicep. Mac tries to wrap both hands around it but can’t get her fingers to touch. “Not big enough, huh?”

  “Not nearly,” she jokes, letting go and settling into my side. “How are you supposed to give me my Dirty Dancing moment with those puny twigs?”

  “Ha! You’re a closet romantic!” I crow. Evie plays that movie so much my eyes will bleed if I have to suffer through it one more time. Who knew Mac was secretly watching it a thousand times too? “Should I start calling you baby now?”

  “Fuck off, Romero.” I can’t see her face; it’s buried in my neck, but I feel her grin against my skin.

  “No?” I drag her body on top of mine. Mac sits up and straddles my hips. I take advantage and tickle my fingers down her sides. She hunches, giggling. “Nobody puts my Princess in a corner.”

  We tease and play for a few minutes before settling down. Mac eventually drifts off at my side as I trail gentle fingers through her hair. It’s hard to imagine not having this every day. That she might not want this every day. Moments like these are heady for me. They heighten my love for her so much it hurts.

  When I’m sure she’s asleep, I climb slowly from the bed, careful not to wake her. After tugging on my underwear, I jog down the carpeted stairs and walk to the kitchen where my phone rests on the counter. I pick it up and dial. It’s late but I don’t care.

  “Romero. Son,” Steve Valentine answers in a groggy voice after three rings. “W
hat’s up?”

  I lean over the kitchen bench as I reply, resting my elbows on the counter. “I want to know if you have any update on the Ross situation.”

  I’ve been told that father and son don’t keep in touch. Alan has no contact information for Ross. And according to Elijah, Ross finding him in the parking lot of the Florence Bar was a random approach. Ross was trying to hit him up for money, which makes sense, considering Elijah is just three short months away from a considerable inheritance.

  “I tried phoning Alan earlier,” he tells me, “but I got voicemail. He’s at the annual Governor’s Ball, so I imagine he hasn’t any new information. Hang on.” A muffled clang comes through the phone. “Let me check my emails.”

  He taps at his keyboard for a few moments before he replies. “He’s sent a quick message. Intel shows Ross returned to Melbourne yesterday. They located his flight details, and they have video confirmation of him exiting Melbourne airport.”

  My relief is so acute I sag against the counter.

  He’s gone, I repeat to myself. He’s gone.

  “You have nothing to worry about,” Steve assures me. “We’ll keep tabs on him. That gesture he made last night was probably nothing more than him trying to get to you. And it worked.”

  “You’re right.” I sigh deeply. “He got to me.”

  “Relax, son. He won’t be coming back, but if he does, it won’t be without us knowing about it first, okay? Get some rest. You have a tour soon. You’re going to need it.”

  JAKE

  The tour is a success. Every show sells out. Our debut LP skyrockets from the exposure and goes platinum. It’s surreal, as though it’s happening to some other band and I’m just watching on. The celebratory party is held on a tour bus as we drive through the night along a dark road from Pennsylvania to Michigan in the United States. Even Mac is screaming and jumping up and down at the news. Champagne sprays over us in a fizzy shower that soaks our clothes and swamps the floor.

  It leaves us hungover for our last show of the tour and likely contributes to the meltdown Mac has after we finish up our final song. I should have seen it coming. She’s been increasingly exhausted as our tour progressed. Quick to snap and generally irritable with faint bruising under the tender skin of her eyes. As our band manager, I can’t imagine how intense and demanding it is for her to handle a tour of this magnitude, but I’m suggesting a holiday when we return. Somewhere tropical. White sands. Blue water. Pina coladas. Massages. It’s the type of rejuvenation we both need.

  I jog down the stairs by the side of the stage and head backstage after the show. Fans scream as I walk alongside the hip-high fence barrier that separates us from them, their arms outstretched, willing to touch any part of us they can get their hands on. Some hold pens and pictures, hoping for an autograph. Most hold phones up high and snap whatever photos or video they can.

  Jared is with us, forming part of our personal security detail. He shields Evie heavily, his body a barrier as they lead the way. She’s just over six months pregnant now, and while she’s barely showing, Jared still protects her belly as if Satan himself is going to rise from the Underworld and snatch it away.

  I’m last in our procession, trailed only by Mac. The threat of Ross seems a million miles away, but I can’t shake it and glance behind to make sure she’s close. Her eyes are glued to her clipboard, and she’s talking into her headset. Ripped black jeans, a worn Jamieson tee shirt, and a purple lanyard around her neck complete her outfit. Her hair is in a messy side-braid with the back fastened in an untidy knot, and her expression is resolute.

  She’s been dealing with idiots and assholes for weeks, yet she’s managed to bite her tongue. I fear it’s coming to a head soon. Her pressure valve has reached critical levels. My princess is about to blow. God help whoever gets in her path, I pray silently.

  It happens sooner than even I can predict when I’m grabbed from the side while distracted. For a moment I’m stunned, an exhausted kind that renders me ineffective for a fraction of a second. Apparently that’s all it takes for an arm to snake around my chest, another to slither right into the front of my jeans and grope my junk, and last but definitely not least … Mac to notice.

  “Oh hey now,” I say laughingly to whomever has me from behind. The hold isn’t a strong one, and the arms and hands are slender and feminine.

  I’m pulling myself free when Mac steps forward. Her eyes are flat. She’s taking in the fanatical fan behind me like she’s Muhammad Ali sizing up a lesser opponent. “Hold my clipboard,” she barks and slaps it against my chest.

  I grab it and watch, speechless, as Mac reaches the barrier and cocks back a fist with zero hesitation. Oh shit. I’m tossing the clipboard and grabbing for her, but I’m too late. Her white-knuckled hand punches forward in a blur. It connects with her target. Right in the bared midriff of the girl who had her hands on me. The girl folds instantly, hunching over the barricade but by no means down.

  “Bitch!” she screams at Mac as she gasps for oxygen.

  The violence stirs the crowd into a frenzy. They surge forward, a veritable human tsunami coming right for us. Mac appears oblivious, caught up in her anger as the girl rushes the barrier. Her hair is grabbed in two wrenching handfuls. Mac pushes her backward as the girl bares her teeth and bites at Mac’s shoulder.

  She makes contact and Mac shrieks as those furious fangs sink into her skin. Mac shoves her back and jabs another fist for good measure. Her punch lands in the girls face and she goes down. Security rushes forward as I grapple through people. My arms slide around Mac. I forcibly yank her backward.

  “I’m going to sue you for assault, you ugly cow!” the girl screams from the ground, both hands covering her eye.

  “You just try it, bitch,” Mac growls, jabbing a finger at her as she wrestles against my hold. “I’ll counter sue for sexual assault. They’ll add you to the list of sexual offenders.” Her finger jabs again. “I’ll ruin your entire life, you fucking sexual predator!”

  “Oh my god,” the girl moans. “You’re crazy.”

  “You better believe it!” Mac shouts, tugging free of my restraining grip. She jabs me with her finger. “This is my man!” The whole band surrounds us. They collectively still at her thunderous declaration as if we’ve reached the eye of a storm. Cooper is off to the side, phone high, capturing it all on video for later. “And that’s my dick you had your hands all over!” Gasps and laughter break out around us and my eyes close. Oh my fucking god. Mac starts for the girl again, muttering, “I’ll cut your goddamn fingers off.” I grab her from behind again, my arms a manacle as they lock tight around her waist.

  “Stay away from me, you psycho!” the girl screeches as security helps her upright.

  Deep chuckles escape me. I turn my head and rest the side of my face against the back of Mac’s head as I shudder, overwhelmed with hilarity.

  “What are you laughing at, asshead?” she mutters at me in a low voice, turning her head so she can eye me sideways. “You were letting her do it. We are so done.”

  My mouth falls open. “But—”

  Travis, the second half of our personal security duo, gets between her and the barricade. “Mac! What is wrong with you?”

  “She needs to eat,” calls Quinn, who’s pushing her tiny body through everyone. Her expression is exasperated, as if she’s spent an hour trekking the Sahara to reach us. Her outstretched hand holds a McDonald’s cheeseburger.

  Mac seems to sag, losing some of her fight as she reaches for it. Just as her fingertips touch the edge of the paper wrapping, Jared steps in and slaps it from Quinn’s hand. It drops to the ground. “Are you kidding me?”

  “Ouch,” Quinn squeaks. His slap must have caught her on the fingers. She yanks her arm back like a naughty child caught in the cookie jar.

  Travis vibrates with anger. He steps forward, eyes on his brother. Uh oh. “You just hit my wife, you fucking dipshit.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t—”

 
That’s all he gets out. One meaty fist flies out and in the blink of an eye, Jared is staggering backwards.

  Holy mother of god. The Valentines are all out of control. Nothing explains Mac’s temperament better than this. She’s the only girl and learned the hard way in a house full of combative brothers.

  Evie gasps when the punch connects. She’s standing with Henry, on the fringes of the altercation. They’ve managed to collect the cheeseburger from the floor. It’s ripped in half and they’re both busy chewing. Evie’s future baby daddy will lose his shit further if he sees that. And Cooper is still filming. Frog commentates from beside him as Jared straightens and returns the punch.

  “Stop!” Quinn cries.

  No one pays her any mind.

  “Jake,” Mac bleats, her voice feeble. She stumbles a little, heaving. Her skin is white as snow. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

  Her entire body turns away. Bending at the waist, Mac pushes free from my arms and vomits over the stage floor entrance.

  Worry floods me in a weighty surge. Mac is never sick. I lean over and rub her lower back. Cooper is still filming, his camera now aimed in our direction. I shoot him an irritable glare. “Turn that shit off.”

  “And that was our tour,” Cooper declares as he stands by the television in Casey’s loft in Sydney, sharing his edited video. Our eyes are on the screen as Mac finishes her puke. It ends with Jared coming between her and the camera, his brows pulled tight as I lead Mac away. His hand comes toward us until it fills the screen and a curse renders the air. A long beeeeeep sounds and the screen goes black.

  Rolling white credits follow as a Jamieson song begins to play. Dutiful clapping fills the room. Casey and Grace are seated on the couch. They stayed home during the tour so Grace could finish her chemotherapy. She’s pale and thin now, her bones so fine they’ll snap with the slightest pressure. It makes my chest tight. How does Casey stand it? I can barely breathe just looking at her.