by Tracy Wolff
Not that she was going to say all that to some guy she’d just met—no matter how intriguing or sexy he was. Instead, she said simply, “It wasn’t that kind of breakup.”
He nodded before lifting the cigarette to his lips again. “I know how that goes.”
“Is that why you’re out here? Hiding from a bad breakup?”
He snorted. “More like hiding from myself.”
She studied what little she could see of him—the lean chest, the chiseled jaw. “Oh, yeah? How’s that going for you?”
“About as well as could be expected.” He took one last drag of the cigarette before dropping it to the ground and crushing it beneath the heel of his worn, brown Dingo boot. Then he reached for her. “Hey. Come here.”
She was an intelligent woman, one who’d met thousands of musicians in her day.
One who knew better than to fall for the line of some too-smooth roadie behind a club.
One who had a job to do at this very club, a job that she really needed to get started on.
But there was something in his voice, something in the way he held himself in the shadows—in the way he’d clutched that cigarette like a lifeline—that hit a nerve deep inside of her. Her own loneliness, maybe. Or the anger churning in her gut over this whole farce, and the father who had forced Caleb and her into it.
She loved rock. Loved everything about it. The way it was a fist in her gut, an angry punch to her heart, a tug between her thighs. For so long she’d tamped that down, had ignored and hidden and been ashamed of that part of her, because that wasn’t how a label rep was supposed to respond to music. It wasn’t how Bill Germaine’s daughter was supposed to feel.
But here, now, with the visceral beat of it pouring out of the club, she couldn’t ignore the need anymore. Tonight, when the show was over—when Shaken Dirty had played their set—she’d be her father’s perfect little soldier again. Business-like, no-nonsense, the woman she needed to be to show him that she could do this job. More, that she deserved a chance to do it. But for now, for this moment, she was going to say to hell with all the “shoulds” and “had tos” and just enjoy the hell out of the music and this man. This beautiful, sexy man who seemed to embody everything she couldn’t be, everything she couldn’t have.
And so, she went when he reached for her.
So she let him wrap his hand around her wrist and tug her gently toward him until she was standing between the deep V of his legs.
So she let him put his other hand under her chin and tilt her face up to his.
She couldn’t see his eyes. He was still in the shadows—they both were now—but that didn’t matter. Not when he was letting go of her wrist so that he could slide his hand from her hip to her waist to the sensitive spot on her lower back. And definitely not when he slid his fingers under her shirt and tickled the delicate skin of her back before dipping them slowly, inexorably, beneath the waistband of her jeans.
She knew she should protest, knew she should step back—she didn’t know this guy at all—but his words echoed inside of her. Slammed up against her own walls and all the things she kept hidden deep inside of herself.
Which was why, instead of protesting, she let him. Hell, she nearly begged him to do it, her head falling back to bare her neck to him even as her lower body arched against his.
He accepted the invitation, a dark, rumbly sound coming from his chest as he leaned down and pressed his lips against her collarbone. It felt so good. He felt so good, and it had been so long since she’d done this. So long since she’d given in—to a man or to this side of herself.
Sparks of desire caught fire inside of her at the first touch of his mouth, making her wet. Making her need. And that was before he licked his way to the hollow of her throat.
Before he trailed hot kisses up the side of her neck to the delicate spot behind her ear.
Before he nibbled softly at her earlobe, his breath hot and moist against her skin.
She gasped then, at the pain and the pleasure of it, her hands clutching at him as she arched her back. Offered him more. Demanded more.
“I like that sound,” he murmured, nipping sharply at her ear before lowering his mouth back to the point where her neck met her shoulder. “Let’s see if we can get you to make it again.”
She was so, so, so totally on board with that plan. Especially when he started licking at the sensitive bend, his mouth hot and soft and just a little bit wet as he sucked her skin between his teeth and gently bit down.
This time the sound she made was more moan than gasp—half arousal, half pained denial—and he laughed a little at her response, a stark, sexy sound that only made her wetter…and more desperate.
She pulled at him then, sliding her hands into his shaggy blond hair and tugging, hard. She wanted—needed—to know what those lips felt like pressed against hers.
He wouldn’t give in, though. Wouldn’t give her what she wanted.
Instead he teased her until she gasped. Until she whimpered. Until she begged. For his mouth. For his touch. For the release she could feel building inside of her from just the press of his mouth on her skin. From just the tangle of his fingers in her hair.
And then he was turning her, turning them. Pressing her back up against the wall and dropping to his knees in front of her.
Before she could even assimilate that, his mouth was on her breast, his teeth biting gently at her nipple through the thin layers of her T-shirt and bra.
“Please,” she gasped, fingers grabbing on to his shoulders to steady herself. “Oh God. Please.”
“I’ve got you, sweetheart,” he told her as he unbuttoned her jeans, slid his hand inside. “I’ve got you.”
As he lifted his mouth from her breast she remembered for a second, just one second, where she was. Remembered what she was there for and all the reasons why this was a really bad idea.
But then his thumb was on her clit, his fingers stroking along her sex, and the only thing she could think about was how good it felt. How good he felt.
She’d been so focused on her career—on proving herself—that it had been too long since she’d made love, too long since she’d had any part of a man inside of her. And the men she had had through the years—all three of them—had never made her feel like this. Had never even come close.
“Where’d you go?” he asked, pressing his mouth against her navel.
She opened her mouth to answer, to tell him she was right there, but before the words could form he was tugging her jeans down her hips, spreading her legs as far as the tight fabric would let him. And then he was leaning forward, burying his face in her sex, delivering one long, slow lick to her clit.
She whimpered, her body arching against him. Her fingers clutching at—tangling in—the thin fabric of his T-shirt. Her knees trembling.
He laughed a little at the breathless sounds she couldn’t stop herself from making, his tongue running back and forth against her slit over and over again, dipping inside just enough to make her crazy, licking her labia just firmly enough to have her gasping for breath and arching her hips against his face.
“Please,” she pleaded, and any other time she’d be embarrassed by how desperate she sounded. How needy. Right now, though, all she could think about was his tongue—his wicked, wild, wonderful tongue—and how good it felt. How good he was making her feel. And how close she was. “Please, please, please—”
“You want to come, baby?” he asked, his voice nothing but gravel.
“Yes. Oh God, yes. Please.”
He shifted a little so that he could slide first one finger and then a second deep inside her. At the same time, his tongue darted out, caressed her inner folds again and again. She spread her legs wider, made a desperate sound deep in her throat as she opened herself to everything—anything—he wanted to give her.
It must have been what he was waiting for, because it was his turn to groan. His turn to clutch at her.
He circled her clit, flicked at it with th
e tip of his tongue even as he hooked his fingers deep inside of her and found her G-spot. He started to stroke at the same time he sucked at her clit and she came, screaming and bucking wildly against him. His free hand tightened on her hip, and he held her in place, his thumb digging into her skin in the best possible way as he licked and kissed and fingered her through one climax and into another.
When it was over, when she was panting and shaking and trying desperately to pull herself together, he pressed soft kisses to her abdomen before pulling her jeans back up her hips.
“Can I—” She reached for him, slid a hand down his chest to the waistband of his jeans. She wanted to give him at least a little of the pleasure he’d given her. But before she could so much as undo the top button, the door from the club into the alley swung open.
As light poured out of the club and into the darkness, she turned her head and found herself staring into the amused eyes of Jared Matthews, lead guitarist for Shaken Dirty. He smirked at her a little before glancing down at the man still kneeling between her thighs.
“Shake a leg, Wyatt,” he said after a second. “We go on in five.”
“Be right there, man.”
Panic tore through her as the truth hit her like a freight train, obliterating the last, lingering shocks of pleasure and making her feel as if her head was going to explode.
Jared nodded before stepping back into the club and closing the door behind him. And then she was alone with him again. Alone with Wyatt Jennings—Wyatt Jennings—who had just tenderly kissed her abdomen before zipping her jeans back up.
While she was still trying to wrap her head around the fact that the man who had just made her come—twice—was no other than the bad-boy drummer of Shaken Dirty and the man she was in Austin to babysit and lie to, he pushed himself to his feet.
Then he was dropping a kiss on her cheek and murmuring, “Thank you, sweetheart,” before disappearing back into the club.
Poppy stared after him, mouth open and pants unbuttoned, as she wondered what the fuck she was supposed to do now.
Chapter Three
“All right, people. Listen up! You ready to have your socks knocked the fuck off?”
Wyatt lined up behind Quinn as Sam, the bar’s manager, started their introduction. When Ryder had booked the gig, he’d chosen Antone’s because it was live music in Austin—and had been for as long as Shaken Dirty had been playing. When they were young and green, they would have done anything for a gig here, and now that they were kicking off a whole new chapter, it seemed fitting that it start here, too.
The manager had been more than happy to book them under a fake name as long as he was able to reveal who they were at the beginning of their set—with time for the news to go out on social media and get people flocking to his club. They’d gone with it, largely because it would be stupid to try to hide their identities once they got under the spotlight anyway. It wasn’t like they were a band on the brink of breaking out anymore. They’d already broken out, and Ryder and Jared’s faces were recognizable to anyone who followed the rock—or gossip—scenes. Plus, making sure everyone knew it was Shaken Dirty that was playing was also a good way to gauge the mood of their fans, to see how they felt about the band after the disastrous canceling of their last tour.
“Because I’m about to let you in on a little secret,” Sam continued. “One nobody else in the whole world knows but the people in this club. Are you ready to hear it?”
The crowd murmured an assent, the sound starting low but swelling by the end. Wyatt could feel the electricity building in the air, could feel it running along his arms and the back of his neck. The crowd was waking up, looking around as if they knew something big was about to happen.
He closed his eyes, stretched out his neck, licked his lips. And tasted her on them.
Fuck. She tasted good.
He licked his lips again, savoring the taste of her even as he did his best to ignore the fact that his dick was rock hard and aching. Fuck Jared. If he’d waited five more minutes, Wyatt would have been buried balls deep in her as she made those strangled little sounds that drove him crazy. Fifteen minutes more, and they both would have been coming and he would have been thinking about that right now instead of how much he still wanted a fix.
“I asked, are you motherfuckers ready to hear it?” Sam yelled into the mic. “Are. You. Ready?”
The crowd grew louder, shouts ringing through the small space, bouncing off the walls and the relatively low ceiling.
For a second, just a second, he regretted not getting her name. Or her number. They could have ended the night the way they’d started it off—with his tongue deep inside of her as she came and came and came all around him.
But that wasn’t what he was here for, he reminded himself as he tried to get his dick under control. To keep the demons at bay, he could fuck himself raw after the set. But right now it was about the music. About the show. He’d screwed up enough to last a lifetime—he needed to make this gig count. Needed to show the others that he could still do the job they needed him to do.
“That’s what I’m talking about!” Sam screeched. “Now, get ready to scream, people, because the truth is, Fly by Night is just a cover name so tonight’s band could sneak in here under the radar and surprise you guys with the best fucking show you’ve ever seen down here. Are you ready for that?”
The crowd got even louder, their screams echoing across the still empty stage and bouncing off the walls. The familiar nerves had his stomach clenching up.
“All right, then! Let me hear you as you help me welcome back to the stage for the first time in over two months, one of the greatest bands I’ve ever had the privilege of hearing live. Shaken Motherfucking Dirty!”
For a few seconds that just might have been the longest of his life, the audience was completely silent. No cheering, no screaming, nothing. Just crickets. Just quiet. Nerves getting worse—this wasn’t how he’d expected news of their first show since the forced hiatus to be received—Wyatt exchanged glances with the other guys as he tried to figure out if the crowd’s silence was good or bad. From the look on his bandmates’ faces, he wasn’t the only one confused, wasn’t the only one nervous about how the night was going to go.
But then the crowd erupted. Screams rocked the club, people whistled and stomped and shouted their approval until it felt like the whole place was about to bust at the seams. Or go up in flames. Or both.
Wyatt grinned at the others as relief swept through him. Now that was more like it. Definitely the reaction he’d been waiting—and praying—for.
They all grinned back at him before Ryder threw back his head and laughed like a maniac. He punched a fist in the air, slammed his other hand down on first Jared’s back and then Quinn’s.
Jared laughed, too, yelling, “Let’s tear this motherfucking place to the motherfucking ground!”
“Hell, yeah!” Ryder shouted back just as loudly. Then he leaned over and pushed hard at Wyatt’s back, shoving him out into the spotlight before he knew what had hit him.
The audience gasped when they saw him, then started cheering and chanting his name. Flashes exploded as picture after picture was taken and he knew it was only a matter of minutes before his comeback was all over social media. The crowd’s enthusiasm was exactly the response he needed to ease the tension that had had a stranglehold of his chest for the past hour, exactly what he needed to get past the craving for a fix that never quite went away, and just focus on the music and the crowd and the joy of once again making music with his friends.
This was what was real, he reminded himself. This was what mattered. He was here to play the fucking drums beside Quinn and Ryder and Jared. He was here to entertain the crowd. Everything else could wait.
With that thought beating in his brain like a metronome on high, he smiled out at the crowd. Shoved his hands in the air and waved as they went crazy. Then tossed out a couple of the extra drumsticks he always kept in his back pocket during a show, m
aking sure they made it to different corners of the club.
The audience went wild for them, just like they always did. It made him relax just a little more, made this whole thing feel more familiar after two and a half months of being out of the loop. Which in turn had him grinning and tossing out a couple more sticks as a thank-you to the crowd for being so fucking cool.
As the fans continued going nuts, he made his way toward his kit, securing his in-ears as he went. This was his shot to show the band he was worth the faith they’d put in him—his shot to show everyone that he wasn’t completely fucked up beyond repair—and he was going to take it.
Just as he reached his drums at the back right of the stage, Ryder ran past him to take center stage.
“Hello, Austin! How the fuck are you tonight?” the lead singer yelled into the mic as the rest of them found their places. Quinn came to the back of the stage to join Wyatt—his keyboard was set up left of center—while Jared and Li took their respective spots in front of them. Maybe it made him an ass, but he was glad that Jared was the one in front of him instead of Li. He didn’t want to spend the whole set watching the other guy’s every move, comparing himself to him and trying to make sure he came out on top. Plus, the familiarity of the formation chilled him out even more, helped him get into the headspace he hadn’t been able to find before coming out on stage.
The crowd roared their response to Ryder, and Jared got in on the act, welcoming them all to the show and talking about how Austin was the greatest music city in the country.
And then they were launching into “Realize, Real Lies,” one of their biggest hits to date and one of Wyatt’s favorite songs to perform ever. He’d written it with Quinn a couple of years back and the drum fills launching into the chorus and the bridge were some of the sickest he’d ever played. Definitely the sickest he’d ever written.
It was a super-fast song, one guaranteed to get the crowd going, and Wyatt lost himself to it as he set the beat on the hi-hat cymbals all the while working the snare and bass drum like they were his whole world. When the first drum fill came up, he poured it all out—all the rage and pain and fear that ate at him like a parasite—slamming down on the tom-toms and the crash cymbals like his life fucking depended on it.
