BANGED: Rock Stars, Bad Boys & Dirty Deeds

by Lexxie Couper

  She traveled lower, into the bowels of the hotel, and found an open space hiding in a corner. Her coupe managed to squeeze between the painted concrete wall and the metal Dumpster. She wrinkled her nose at the smell already seeping inside the car.

  Holding her breath, she peeked at herself in the rearview mirror.

  A stranger stared back at her. A stranger with heavy eyeliner and blue shadow. And glitter all over her face. The eye makeup had been on purpose. The glitter had been an unfortunate accident with the shimmer powder and a stuck lid.

  She hadn’t bothered to wash it off, though. It made her look fun and zany, like the kind of person who would take a dare and up the stakes. The kind of person who would crash a major label band’s after-party. It made her look like a different person, and for the next few days that was who she would be.

  Focus. She could do this. She had to do this.

  The car door clattered against the metal wall of the Dumpster, leaving only a sliver of space. She sucked in her stomach and squeezed through—and heard an unfortunate rip. Damn. She glanced down. She’d torn her stockings. Her sister's stockings, technically.

  Hailey was used to getting runs in her stockings at work. Chubby little hands with razor-sharp nails made it common. But this was more than a small run. This was a gaping hole right at her left ankle. Hazards of wearing fishnets, she supposed.

  It seemed colder here even though the temperature shouldn’t be much different than Lake Elkhart. Maybe it was the lack of blood circulation after driving for hours . Or maybe it was nerves. Either way, she felt chilled to the bone. She reached inside for the cardigan she always left stashed in her backseat. It never hurt to be prepared.

  She followed the signs to the elevator bay, breathing a sigh of relief as she cleared the Dumpster’s smelly radius. The button lit red while she waited.

  Ding.

  She wobbled as she moved in front of the elevator about to open. How did her sister wear these shoes, anyway? Reflective gold doors slid apart, revealing a couple. Having sex. Or almost having sex? She wasn’t sure. But the rhythmic motions and clothes shoved aside certainly indicated…good Lord.

  Their harsh breathing echoed in the elevator. They were moving, rubbing, grinding. A flash of pink skin. Hailey definitely shouldn’t have seen anything pink, but she couldn’t stop looking. Couldn’t stop staring. Her eyelids were frozen, her whole body clamped into place, pinned under the weight of her own naïveté.

  The guy looked up from the elevator floor. His heated gaze ran down her body and up again, and unlike the booth attendant, this guy seemed pleased with what he saw.

  Her mouth hung open. She snapped it shut.

  “Pardon me,” she said inanely. As if she had been the one to interrupt them. Which, in a way, she had been.

  His grin was feral. “Come on in. Water’s fine.”

  Oh my God. “No, thank you. I’ll catch the next one.”

  Of its own volition, her gaze wandered down the slope of his back to the guy’s exposed ass, clenching and thrusting. She wasn’t about to join in, but in some distant, terrifying way, the scene tugged at her.

  The girl beneath him giggled as she watched Hailey from beneath heavy lids. “He calls it a joyride.”

  “I can see why,” Hailey said faintly.

  The elevator doors closed on their laughter. She stared at her own reflection once again. The elevator bay echoed silent, absent of gasped breaths and fabric rubbing against fabric.

  So, that was different.

  She took a deep breath of cool, stale air.

  On the upside, she now felt totally awake after her long, drowsy drive. Way more effective than a jolt of caffeine could have been. Half-naked people rutting on the elevator floor were her own personal splash of water in the face.

  On the downside, she wasn’t sure she could pull off her plan anymore. She wasn’t cut out for this. This was Chloe’s scene. Chloe wouldn’t have been freaked out by a couple having a good time. Though Hailey had no desire to imagine her sister going on a joyride.

  Remembering her reaction, her stomach sank. No, thank you. Ugh. Could she be any more prim? She’d just been…shocked. Had she ever seen two other people having sex before? No. In real life, no. There had been a few wayward Internet searches she wasn’t entirely sure were proper.

  She stood in the musty alcove, torn by indecision. Should she still go up? What choice did she have?

  Her phone beeped. She glanced at the screen to see a text from Chloe.

  Pineapple and canadian bacon?

  Her heart panged. It was a peace offering, that text. Things had been strained between them the past few days, after her sister’s revelation. They had always been best friends or mortal enemies, constantly teasing or at each other’s throats, so the quiet politeness had been unnerving.

  The text also meant her sister hadn’t found the quickly scrawled note letting her know that Hailey would be gone for a few days. The pizza delivery and C-rated movie would have to wait until she got back.

  One good thing: the exchange steeled her resolve. Her spine straightened. She pressed the elevator button again and texted back for Chloe to eat without her.

  She was doing this for her sister. Her only family. She needed to do it, or everything she’d worked toward in taking care of Chloe, in building a better life for them, would be for nothing. She had to, or history would repeat itself.

  So when the reflective doors opened again, she stepped into the elevator. Stepped through the looking glass, where everything was upside-down and inside out, and so was she.

  What she found was…disaster.

  Hailey had imagined her arrival in the hotel several times during the long drive over. In her mind it would be more like storming a castle than pushing through heavy glass doors. In every fantasy she had been tough. Even fierce.

  In none of them had she stumbled over a stranger who was halfway to puking into a lobby fern. And then he was puking. There were a few other people sprawled on couches or just right on the floor, but no one looked conscious. And certainly no one looked concerned by the sick man at her feet.

  She knelt and awkwardly patted his back. He listed to the side and landed with his head in her lap.

  Ugh. She fished in her purse for a wet wipe and pressed it into his hand. Those wipes always came in handy for runny noses or sticky hands. With a sleepy burp the man in her arms closed his eyes and appeared to fall asleep.

  Should she…just leave him here?

  That seemed wrong. But then again, he was hardly alone. There were a multitude of sleeping—or stoned?—bodies strewn around the sleek, modern lobby. It seemed a little early to have partied and collapsed by seven p.m., like they were her preschoolers who were wild all day and then crashed at a reasonable bedtime.

  Despite the hefty price tag that surely accompanied such a place, no attendant stood behind the glass-paneled counter. A swanky hotel like this one would have someone stationed all night long. Maybe they had fled the scene.

  Maybe Hailey would be smart to follow suit.

  But she couldn’t leave. She hadn’t spent the last ten years taking care of her sister only to mess it up now. Arguably she already had messed it up, but she was going to fix it. She wouldn’t leave until it was fixed. She just had to find the lead singer—he went by the name of Lock—and appeal to his better nature…but first she had to figure out what to do with the passed-out guy in her lap.

  From the wispy shadows down a corridor came the squeak of steps. At least someone here was awake and upright. And tall, she realized, listening to the slow, casual pace. Hopefully he would know where she could find Lock.

  TWO

  Lock stormed into the lobby. Moe had ganked his lucky guitar pick―again―and he was going to get it back. Even if it meant wading through the pile of half-naked bodies spread before him. The air was thick with sweat, bong water, bourbon, and vomit. His stomach should turn, but all he wanted to do was roll around in it. Like a stray dog.

&n
bsp; No. He might be dirty, but he'd been sober for 372 days. Screwing that up was not an option.

  His career—his life—depended on it. He knew too well how one misstep could destroy everything. He had the sex tape, the canceled tour dates and now the record label's sword of Damocles hanging over his head to prove it.

  He tripped over Krist, who was sprawled on the floor in front of an empty upholstered chair, like he'd shot for the seat and given up a few steps short. His face pressed into the hotel lobby carpet, muffling his words. “The fuck, man?”

  “Looking for Moe. You know where he landed?”

  “Up some redhead's skirt.” Krist rolled onto his back, exposing his inked stomach—the cover art from their first album—and the top of his junk. His pants were still open.

  Lock nudged him in the ribs with his boot. “Zip it, man. And roll over. We don't need you pulling a Hendrix.”

  “Whatever, bro. You flashed your shit all over the Internet.”

  He winced. Bro was a reference to the weeklong hookup between Lock’s mother and Krist’s father in the endless ’80s rock-star sex parade. They weren’t really siblings—in fact, far from it. But they used the name as a reminder of their shared past. They’d both been castoffs on tour. Too young to party but old enough to want to. They’d picked up guitars and taught themselves—taught each other—to play. Screwing around with instruments they had no business touching. Some things never change. Krist hadn’t called him bro in a long time. Not since before Lock had started fucking everything up, long before he’d flashed his shit. He hadn't chosen to do that. Someone had done it for him. But he'd owned it like it was all part of his master plan. What else was he supposed to do? Bro. It was a stalemate. The cold war within the Half-Life band.

  He nudged Krist again. “I mean it, bro.”

  Krist flipped him off but rolled over anyway. Lock wasn't in charge, but people usually did what he said. Usually. Since he'd—what did his agent call it?—embraced sobriety. Not fucking Moe. Where was that sneaky bastard? Lock wanted to embrace his balls with a vise.

  The formerly gorgeous lobby was a pit. The label was going to bill them a fortune for this shit. And piss their pants with excitement. Half-Life Bad Boys Trash Hotel, Orgy in Chicago Hilton. Those headlines sold concert tickets. Sex, drugs and rock and roll, baby.

  As long as he wasn't doing it. As long as it didn't go too far. They wanted the illusion of debauchery. The other guys could hold it together. For now. All Lock did was fall apart.

  He followed the sound of dry heaves, and there was Moe. Cradled in the arms of some blonde who was rubbing his back. Was she humming a fucking lullaby?

  “You're not a redhead.” She wasn't. She wasn't a groupie either. Groupies did not wear cardigans to hotel parties. Smoky shadow rimmed her eyes, but she still somehow looked like a Sunday school teacher sitting right in the middle of hell.

  “Not the last time I checked.” She shrugged and kept rubbing Moe's back. Definitely not a groupie. A groupie would've recognized him and dumped Moe like last week's trash. Unless she had a thing for drummers. It happened. That’s all they were—fetishes that could be tried and discarded before the girls returned to the nice guys back home.

  He gave her a lazy perusal. “What are you doing here?”

  “I was―I was hoping to meet L-Lock. Do you know where I could find him?” Her pink lips quirked into a wide smile. False bravado. He knew that when he saw it too.

  This might be entertaining. He pushed up the sleeve of his shirt, exposing his most photographed tattoo, a serpent coiled around an anatomical heart. She couldn't miss it. “You a big fan?”

  “Oh, yeah. Really big fan.”

  She was lying. And sober. Who sat in the middle of this mess sober? She could be some weird star fucker, looking to hook up with anyone famous just to say she did. That can be arranged. Though she wouldn't be telling anyone, not after she signed his agreement. Not without paying a hefty penalty and having her name raked through the tabloids.

  He forced a wide yawn, flashing his trademark tongue stud. No recognition. Maybe she didn't worship at his alter; she just worshipped celebrity. Worship. She looked like her kind of worship involved hymnals and psalms.

  A flash of her on her knees—not in prayer—made him waver. This might be more than entertaining; it might be fun. It had been a long time since he'd had fun.

  “I can take you to him. If you're not too busy.” He waved his hand at Moe, his lucky guitar pick all but forgotten.

  "Help me with him?" She tried to force Moe from her lap, but he was 200 pounds of uncooperative asshole. Lock grabbed his drummer by the shoulders and lifted his upper body away from…the church mouse. She was probably a Penelope or a Polly. Pure.

  “What's your name?”

  “Hailey. Thanks. I wasn’t expecting to find everyone crashed already. Do you always party until you puke by seven p.m.?” She pulled something out of her purse. A wet nap? And turned around to bend over Moe.

  Without a lump of drummer covering half her body, he was shocked to find black fishnets covering her legs. And a short denim skirt barely covering her ass. None of it suited her.

  A costume.

  “Didn’t you hear, fan girl? The new single went platinum today. They started celebrating at noon. Anyone can party at midnight, it takes a real rock star to get it done in the daylight. Besides, this is half-time. They’ll rally for another round.”

  “Oh,” she said faintly. Then she wiped Moe's mouth and rolled him onto his side. Who was this chick?

  He held out his hand, intrigued. Would she break character first or would he? “Follow me, Hailey. Let me lead you down into the belly of the beast.”

  And then he knew, without a doubt, she wasn't a groupie. That lyric. A real groupie would've come on the spot, right in her fucking panties. He couldn’t count how many times random fan girls begged him, Say it say it say it. He never did. Why the hell had he said it now?

  THREE

  Hailey followed him down the hallway he’d come from. Into the belly of the beast, she thought with amusement. It had been hard to suppress her smile when he’d first said the words. She’d heard the phrase used ironically, of course, but he’d been heartbreakingly serious. And he had watched so carefully for her reaction. Luckily she had years of experience with preschoolers telling her all sorts of wild things. She knew how to keep a straight face.

  “What did you say your name was?” she asked.

  He stopped abruptly and turned, eyes narrowed.

  She stumbled and barely avoided running into him. Her breath caught. It struck her suddenly how close their faces were. He was tall, and so was she on these ridiculous platform heels she’d borrowed from her sister. This close, she could see silver in the dusting of dark scruff along his jaw, even though he looked closer to her age. It seemed to suit him. He was metallic all over, from the tiny flecks of gold in his eyes to the sleek onyx ink tattooed on his arm.

  And the peek of a silver piercing in his tongue when he spoke.

  She’d never known a tongue piercing could be sexy. She wasn’t sure why it was sexy now either, except that it just hinted at so much…sensual knowledge. And she’d always had a yearning for knowledge.

  “I didn’t,” he said curtly, responding to her question. But when he continued forward, he spoke without looking at her. “You can call me Keaton.”

  “Oh,” she said, somewhat breathless as she hurried to catch up.

  The heels made her wobble like a newborn fawn, gangly and uncertain on her legs. He noticed, she knew, glancing back ever so slightly as he walked, lashes veiling his eyes. Though he was kind enough not to comment. And kind enough to take her to Lock without asking too many questions. A kind man, then.

  She felt a sort of kinship with him, with Keaton. He was the only one here, besides her, who was fully clothed and sober. She, too, was used to being the responsible one. The one slightly apart from the rest.

  Maybe it was presumptuous to think she could
relate to a man who wore the rock-and-roll trappings like a second skin. But she knew as well as anyone that clothes were just camouflage. She’d had to sneak this entire outfit from her sister’s closet, since her preference for pastels would hardly fit in here.

  He stopped in front of an elevator and swiped his hotel key card. The doors opened immediately. At least no writhing bodies met her sight. Even the memory of them made her cheeks heat.

  Keaton held the door and gestured her inside the empty elevator, the movement faintly mocking. Inside, the carpet tilted her heels every which way, and she clung to the gilded railing as he pressed the button for the top floor.

  The penthouse. Of course Lock would be staying in the best room. And of course Chloe would be awed by such glamour.

  No, she was being unfair. Chloe had obsessed over Lock and the entire band for years. So when she’d secured the summer gig selling merchandise—or as Chloe called it, merch—on their tour, Hailey had tried to be happy for her sister, she really had. Even though it meant forgoing the extra summer classes they’d planned so Chloe could finish college sooner. Even though she called for Hailey to wire her money after a particular incident with a vending machine thrown out a window.

  Even when Chloe came home pregnant.

  God, even then Hailey had pasted on a smile. This was a blessing. She was almost sure about that. She would make it a blessing. But then, the final straw. The father wasn’t going to be involved. He wasn’t even going to help, not financially, not emotionally. He wanted no part of the child’s life. And Chloe wouldn’t tell her who the father was. She wanted to let the whole thing drop, when she and Hailey had been raised without a father and hardly a mother either, and they knew how painful it was. How desolate.

  Hailey wasn’t going to let that happen.

  The elevator gave a muted ding, and the doors slid open. Directly into someone’s living room. The kind of opulent, expansive place Hailey had only ever pictured on the glossy pages of a magazine. She hadn’t even bought the magazine. She’d flipped through it in line at the grocery store and then guiltily returned it before checkout because who had $3.99 to spend on envy? But this was the real thing.