“Do you think he cheated?” she asked carefully.
“I don’t know. I kind of assumed, though,” I admitted. I glanced at the black babydoll she’d put on. “The blue thing,” I said. “Definitely the blue thing. I give it five boners out of five.”
“Roni.” Jessa actually put her hands on her hips. “You deserve better than that.”
I rolled my eyes. “Obviously, Mom. But it’s not like he put a ring on my finger. It was never that serious.”
“And that gives him permission to cheat?”
“He didn’t really need my permission to do anything.”
“That’s the thing, Roni,” she said. “The right man…” She hugged herself, getting all dreamy-eyed as she probably thought about her man. “When you’re with the right man, you’ll want to give him all the freedom in the world. And he’ll want to give you all his loyalty in return. You don’t have to live in fear that he’s going to cheat. The right guy would probably rather have his balls cut off than hurt you like that.”
“I dunno, Jessa. Guys are very protective of their balls.”
“You know what I mean,” she said.
“I guess.”
She went to change and I perused the offerings on Tinder. It was a habit, but one I wasn’t sure I cared to keep up. These days, they were all left swipes. Not Jude. Not Jude. Not Jude…
Swipe.
Swipe.
Swipe.
The Girl Time playlist was still going strong, Tegan and Sara girlying up the place with “Closer” when Jessa came humming out of the closet in yoga pants and a T-shirt, her supermodel hair in a bun on her head.
“Speaking of Jude…” she said, throwing me a not-casual unassuming look, in the most awkward segue in history.
“I didn’t realize we were.”
“Come on.” She flopped down on the bed next to me. “He barged in on our lady lunch. With flowers. I understand you maybe didn’t want to say anything about it in front of everyone. But it’s me. I texted you twice, left you a demanding voicemail, and nothing.”
I quirked an eyebrow at her. “And?”
“And… I believe our friendship demands an explanation, Roni Webber.”
“Yes. Because you were so forthcoming in your undying love for Brody Mason all those years.”
“Roni, come on. Jude showed up at a teahouse with flowers. If Brody showed up at a teahouse with flowers for me, I would’ve explained.”
Uh-huh. Did she expect me to believe that?
“You want me to explain Jude Grayson?” I said. “Good luck waiting on that to happen. You’ll be old and gray before I ever have the first clue.”
“Okay. So just tell me something. Did you guys go to dinner that night?”
I rolled my eyes. “We’re fucking, Jessa. Is that what you’re trying to ask? We’re not teenagers anymore. You can say the dirty words.”
Her big brown eyes went Bambi-wide. “You and Jude?”
“Yes. Me and Jude.”
“Since when?”
“Since nine years ago, officially. With a few giant hiatuses in-between.”
Her mouth dropped open. To be fair, I’d never told her I’d had sex with Jude, ever.
But hey, it wasn’t like she’d ever asked.
“Do you like him?”
“I’ve always liked him.”
“Roni!”
“Oh, don’t start freaking out like all the guys.”
“What guys?
“These guys.” I held up my phone. “Let’s just say I haven’t been as active as usual on Tinder and the dudes are sniffing out that I might be going off the market, and they’re freaking out.”
“Freaking out…?”
“Pleading their cases. Doing everything but dropping down on one knee. Guys who’ve been flirting with me for months suddenly fear the pussy might be unavailable to them and they all step up their game. They’re sending requests for dates, fucking poetry, dick pics, you name it. Dick videos, actually, that’s the latest thing.”
“Um. What happens in a dick video?”
“Oh, babe. If you’ve gotta ask, you really don’t wanna know.”
“Roni.” She poked my shoulder. “Should I be getting excited about this?”
“About the dick videos?”
“About Jude. And you. Are you going off the market?”
“I don’t think I’ve ever really been off the market before. I don’t even know what that is.”
“Well… is it serious? The thing with Jude?”
I glanced at my phone again. I had seven new messages in the last, what, three minutes? All from men. Snapchat, Instagram, Facebook, Tinder, text message. They all knew where to find me. They popped up all over the place, like Whac-A-Moles. There was even a message from my hopefully-soon-to-be-ex-boss, casually inquiring what I was doing tonight. While his wife was who-knew-where.
Not one message from Jude.
After he’d texted me last night, with his I liked you. I should’ve said that more, I’d texted back with Yes, you should’ve.
Since then, not a word.
I tossed my phone aside and told Jessa, “It’s really not.”
He messaged me at 1:07 am.
I was out at a club with Talia and a couple of her girlfriends. She’d messaged me on Snapchat before I left Jessa’s, and of all the invites I’d received tonight—it was Friday night, so there were several—Talia’s cutesy selfie of her and two of her girlfriends with a kitten face filter won out.
The club I met them at was packed, like sweaty-wet-as-you-climbed-over-people-trying-to-get-to-the-bar packed, definitely over capacity, and the girls were drunk when I arrived. And let’s just say that a group of hawt twenty-two-year-old drunk chicks at a bar drew the dudes like horny flies, so while we spent the night dancing, we were pretty swarmed.
I really wasn’t feeling it, so I was serving up a steady stream of I have a boyfriend, that universally polite kiss-off that usually did the trick. If it didn’t, the guy was a creep, and I didn’t have to be polite about it anymore. Those were the rules as far as I knew them.
But I definitely didn’t mind bumping and grinding my twenty-seven-year-old hawt single self in the vicinity of a bunch of hawt young dudes—as long as they kept their body parts to themselves.
That’s what I was doing at 1:07, so I didn’t actually get Jude’s message until 1:18.
Jude: Hey beautiful.
That was all.
Maybe that was all it took.
Because I texted right back.
Me: Hey yourself, gorgeous.
That was the booze talking. We’d been doing Blow Job shooters and drinking cider (both horrible ideas) and I was telling myself how awesome it was to be on the market, while all the while I kept sneaking peeks at my phone, hoping to hear from him.
Jude: You out?
That came in at 1:23, at which point I decided, It’s on.
I was totally aware that a guy who texted a girl at 1:07 am was definitely thinking Where should I put my dick tonight? as opposed to Where’s that lovely lady I want to bring home to Mom?
But tonight, I could live with that.
Me: Out with Talia. Where r YOU?
And how soon can you be underneath me?
Jude: Jesse’s. Want a ride home?
Then he sent a motorcycle emoji.
And it gave me a ridiculous thrill.
Me: Yes. I want a ride.
Jude: Might be cold.
Me: You’ll keep me warm.
Then I sent every emoji I could think of that represented a cock. Eggplant. Lollipop. That sushi emoji that looked like a hotdog.
Granted, he might’ve just thought that meant I was hungry.
I had about twenty minutes to kill before he showed up, so I partook of the round of Blow Jobs the girls were sucking back at the bar. Then we danced some more.
Then I saw Jude standing up at the bar at the edge of the dance floor, watching me bump ’n’ grind with Talia. Since he was
watching, I gave him a bit more of a show, then told Talia, “My ride is here,” kissed her cheek, and sashayed on over to him.
No exaggeration, four different guys pawed at me as I made my way off the crowded dance floor. Our little crew of babes had stirred up a lot of attention, and the boys seemed pretty bummed I was leaving—without them.
I just grinned and pretty much fell into Jude’s arms.
He pulled me close, and when I tipped my head back to look at his face, his eyes searched mine. His narrowed a little. The hint of a smile tugged at his lips.
Then he kissed me. Sweet and warm, lingering. No tongue. Just a kiss.
And little sparkles of happiness tingled through me.
Dangerous.
And the feeling of walking out of that club with him… holding his hand as he led me through the crowd…
Pure joy.
Well, horny joy.
We walked to his bike, me snuggled up under his armpit. It was cold out. Lucky for me, he’d brought me a sweater. A giant black hoodie that smelled of him. I pulled it on with a dumbass smile on my face, inhaling his scent.
Jesus Christ, the smell of this man.
I got on his bike, right behind him, and I didn’t exactly hate that the hoodie had the Kings’ insignia on it. No words, just the wicked, skeletal king of spades design, black-on-black, that anyone who lived on the west coast of Canada would recognize a mile away.
Kinda felt like a marking-his-territory thing, even though I knew he really wasn’t.
Still. I didn’t mind the feeling.
At all.
We helmeted up, and once we were heading out of downtown across the Cambie Bridge, he opened it up a bit. When we stopped at the next light, he revved the engine, sending tingles through me.
“Are you flirting with me?” I asked, over the roar of the bike.
He just let go of the clutch, so the bike jolted forward and I had to grip him tighter—then took off at what felt like the speed of light.
By the time we got to my place I was throughly wet and ready to screw his brains out. Admittedly, motorcycles had always gotten me weirdly hot.
I was definitely one of those girls who creamed when a Harley tore by.
Didn’t even care who was on it.
But when Jude was on it?
Holy hell.
“C’mere,” I said as soon as we got inside. I pulled him over to my couch and shoved him down as we both peeled off our jackets and sweaters. He went, willingly, sitting back and spreading his knees wide, so I had to spread mine even wider—like super wide—to straddle him.
I grabbed his face and kissed the hell out of him.
When my hands ran down his chest, he slid his hands up into my hair. I continued my exploration down to his crotch, and as I teased my fingers over the hard length in his jeans, he said, “You plannin’ to blow me and run again, darlin’?”
“Don’t think so. I had enough Blow Jobs at the bar.”
He pulled back, his dark eyebrow rising sharply.
“Shooters,” I said.
“There’s a shooter called a Blow Job?”
“Yup. It’s got whipped cream on top.”
He chuckled. “’Course it does.”
“And you’ve gotta pick it up off the bar with your mouth and suck it back without using your hands.”
“There’s a visual…”
“I think that’s the point.”
“How many of those you have?”
“Mmm… four?”
“Hmm. You gonna puke on me, I put my tongue down your throat?”
“Jude. I’m a grown woman. I can handle four Blow Jobs.”
He gave me his dead-eye security-guy look, and I grinned.
“Sweetheart,” he said, as I grabbed his hair and dragged his head back, so I could kiss my way down his throat, “one of these days, you’re gonna fuck me sober…”
“I wouldn’t say I’m drunk…”
“You’re not not drunk, darlin’.”
“Mmm. Good point.”
I was kissing a path down his chest, right over his T-shirt. Slithering down between his legs until I was on my knees on the floor and his T-shirt was up and I was licking my way down his fabulous abs.
“Nope.” He grabbed my arms, stopping me in my descent. “Uh-uh.”
“What?” I swirled my tongue around his belly button.
“You’re not gettin’ that dick in your mouth, V.”
“What?” I laughed. “Why?”
“Because I don’t trust your ass. You’re gonna do that shit you do with your tongue and make me lose it and then you’re gonna bounce my ass outta here.”
“And why would I do that? What’s in it for me?”
“Dunno. Fucked up sense of power?”
“Aw. Jude. Did I suck out all your power? You want it back?”
I stood up in front of him and undid my jeans, watching his eyes turn into two dark pools of lust as I did it. I shimmied them off, peeled off my thong, and straddled him again. While I did that, he dug a condom out of his jacket and took out his cock. He worked his jeans down just enough, rolled the condom on, and I was on him.
I took him slow, looking in his dark eyes, watching the way they changed when he slid into me.
I angled my hips and rode him, slowly, until he was all the way in and it felt so… fucking… good.
Then I just kept fucking him—however fast or slow I wanted. However I wanted.
He slipped my strapless top and bra down to my waist and palmed my breasts, feeding one and then the other into his mouth. He sucked on me and ran his hands up and down my back, until I couldn’t take his gentle touch anymore and I suddenly came, my whole body spasming as he wrapped his arms around me.
“Yeah… fuck,” he groaned. “So beautiful, babe…”
He held me tight against his body, his arms pressing my hips down against him as he joined me in ecstasy. I wrapped my arms around his neck. And as we came in each other’s arms, kissing and slowly rocking together, I had no idea who had the power.
Both of us? Me? Him?
No one?
I did not care.
For the first time since I’d started fucking him—again—I just didn’t fucking care.
Chapter Sixteen
Jude
It was a Monday, a week after Dirty finished recording the new album. They’d spend the rest of December doing some promo for the album—photo shoots, interviews and a few scheduled appearances—but other than that, they’d be in rehearsals for the tour.
Today, we were filming the video for the first lead single off the album—the title track, “To Hell & Back”—which would be released in early January, right before the tour began.
One of Dirty’s all-time favorite directors, Liv Malone, was directing the video. Dylan’s girlfriend, Amber, who was a photographer—and Liv’s sister—was shooting stills, backstage and whatnot. Elle’s little sister, Angie, was hanging out, painting Elle’s nails. Zane’s grandma, Dolly, was backstage. Katie’s sister’s coffee bar, Nudge, had provided the coffee.
And so, like most Dirty projects, it had become kind of a family affair.
But we were also shooting in a giant sound stage with a ton of people in attendance, which meant security was tight and I had a large crew to manage. It was a “concert” shoot, with a staged concert, and the film crew had built an entire “church” interior for it—a homage to the church that was the band’s sacred rehearsal space, the location of which we’d never make public in order to film a video shoot there.
Lucky for me, the “concert” shoot came complete with an audience of superfans—and all the BS that came right along with that.
Like overenthusiastic fangirls angling to meet the band, thinking if they just shoved their tits in my face, I’d give them access to Zane Traynor’s lap.
That bullshit.
The ones who thought they were classy because they wanted to meet Seth or Dylan and were above trying to meet Jesse or Zane; t
hose were my favorites. Saw them coming a mile away. The more elaborate the story, usually, the more bullshit it was.
I’m a songwriter and I just really want to meet Seth so I can tell him how much he’s inspired me.
Sure you are, sweetheart. That’s why your tits are falling out of your shirt.
Yeah, I was jaded with this shit.
The creeper guys who were gonna try to touch Elle’s baby bump? Had to watch out for those, too. Groupies came in all forms.
And I was definitely not adverse to tossing someone out if they gave off the slightest whiff of crazy or disrespectful.
Truly, the members of Dirty were way nicer to the fans than I ever was.
Which was why they needed me.
If it were left up to them, they’d be eaten alive. Drained dry from stopping to “be nice” and talk to every damn fan who ever tried to talk to them.
Here was the problem with being nice. Once you got to a certain level of fame, you just couldn’t afford to be that nice anymore. It’d bleed you dry.
When it came to the fans, the members of Dirty were grateful, appreciative and gracious. Which was exactly how they should be. They knew if it wasn’t for the fans, we’d have nothing.
Literally.
Zane, Jesse and me would still be living in that crap-ass apartment. Or maybe I’d be living at the Kings clubhouse or, if I was really lucky, I’d be in prison or dead by now. Zane would probably be drowning at the bottom of a bottle and Jesse would be playing dive bars and delivering pizzas, still believing he could make it, even if he didn’t. Dylan and Elle would’ve stayed at home with their parents as long as they could, gotten more education and maybe some soul-sucking desk job. Brody would be living in his mansion, because Brody was rich as fuck without us, but would he ever have ended up with Jessa? And Seth… I didn’t even want to think about where Seth would’ve ended up.
Without the music and the fans who loved the music, we’d all be nobody.
I knew that as well as any of us did.
But I was wary of everyone always trying to take a piece of them. It was my job to keep the members of Dirty safe, which meant sane, too. It meant doing my best to keep them whole.
Dirty Like Jude: A Dirty Rockstar Romance (Dirty, Book 5) Page 19
