One Kiss With a Rock Star

by Amber Lin

  Right on cue, Ward entered stage right. Alex Ward had a man’s name and the personality of a shark. In short, she was the perfect agent. “I always come through for you. You’re the best, and you deserve the best.”

  “Aww, I bet you say that to all the multiplatinum artists.”

  Ward didn’t deny it. But then, she might not have heard. She was currently speaking into her Bluetooth while tapping the tablet propped over her arm.

  The important thing was Madeline would get to see Krist today. She’d get to kiss him. And now she was nervous.

  She was never nervous.

  The spicy scent of warm chai hit her like an orgasm. “Fuuuuck. Someone is about to be my best friend.”

  A latte cup was lifted from behind Jimmy’s head. Her assistant. God bless assistants, really. Especially this one, who’d brought her chai. Piper? Penelope? Was it a boy or a girl? Not that it mattered. Madeline swung both ways.

  But before she could grab hold of the cup, her voice coach was there with her endless litany of rules and regulations. No smoking. No drinking. No deep throating. Blah blah blah. And definitely no chai before a performance.

  “Hey,” Madeline said, pouting. “I’m not even going to be singing.”

  Her agent glanced over. “Oh, we changed that. We want some vocals off the main track for a director’s cut. That one’s going on YouTube.”

  Jimmy winked. “A little improv goes a long way.”

  All righty, so she would sing. In front of Krist Mellas, bass player and vocalist for Half-Life. Her stomach turned over as she grabbed the chai and took a drink. It wasn’t spiked, so the assistant whoever-the-fuck was clearly still in training mode. Big girls got a shot with their latte, and Madeline had been a big girl since she turned fourteen on the set of KidMania five years ago.

  The sea of people pushed her along.

  No one specifically told her to move. No one asked. They just moved, and she had no choice but to move with them. She didn’t want a choice. This was easy. This was mindless. Swivel your hips and sing until it hurts.

  This was her life.

  Once on the set, she could see Krist. They’d dressed him in black with spiky hair and kohl liner. Demonic? Yes. That was his usual MO. As costumes went, his was light.

  Guys always got off light.

  Closer, closer. What if he looked at her with disgust in his eyes? Of course he would. She looked down and ruffled her feathers. That was how all the rocker boys looked at her, one part disdain and two parts lust.

  They weren’t better than her. Boy bands with an edge. Bubblegum pop studded with nails. At least she owned up to what she was.

  And what she wasn’t.

  They were almost face-to-face, her and Krist, and there was nowhere else to feign interest, no other way to delay the inevitable. He would know she’d requested him. What must he think of her? As if she was so desperate for a date that she needed to coerce him into one. In a way, she was desperate—for someone who didn’t want to fuck her, for someone who wasn’t gathering intel for some tabloid. But she didn’t want to see the scorn she felt for herself in his face. His very dark, scowling face.

  But hey, she could avoid like a pro.

  She could ignore his narrowed eyes. Could ignore the way he emanated tension, impatience, a tuning fork of masculine discontent. She could tug on Jimmy’s arm instead.

  Her choreographer looked distracted, adjusting the netting on her sleeves. “Hmm?”

  When in doubt, play the dumb card. That was a trick she’d learned when she was ten years old, and it hadn’t failed her yet. “I don’t know about this.”

  Jimmy’s gaze sharpened. “What’s wrong? You need a minute before we start?”

  A delay? No. What she needed was to speed this up, to meet Krist in a way where he couldn’t say no. This was her set. She called the shots. She ruled things with her glittery Valley girl crown, and Krist would never know what hit him. “I’m just a little…” She sighed. “You know, that time of the month.”

  Translation: hurry the fuck up.

  From the twist of Jimmy’s lips, he wasn’t quite buying it. Besides, the crew knew her cycle better than she did. It didn’t matter, because he clapped his hands loud enough to make her jump and shouted, “Asses in gear, people. We have one shot to get this right. Let’s put this angel in the air.”

  *

  Watch the wings.

  He couldn’t miss them. She was naked but for feathers and glitter. Untouchable. Two grips ushered her along the catwalk and affixed her harness to a rig in the rafters. Krist was only a few feet off the ground on his platform, but he still felt unsteady. She was so high.

  An assistant counted down, and the director shouted, “Action!”

  The army of dancers below writhed to the thumping bass line of the guide track, feet pounding the floor, but Krist only had eyes for Madeline. She lifted her arms above her head like the ballerina in a little girl’s jewelry box, stepped off the ledge, and twirled down, singing.

  “I break my own wings.”

  The power in her vocals, the edge behind the lyric, knocked him more off balance. He’d expected her to lip sync. He’d expected her to fucking suck.

  “I am falling. I am falling. Lift me up.”

  All the dancers below lifted their hands in unison and swayed like the collective force of their will would boost her higher. Cheesy pop bullshit, but something about it worked. He didn’t want to admit it, but she had…something. She could fucking sing.

  Her descent slowed. If he stretched, he could just reach her perfectly manicured toe. Almost time.

  His whole body tensed as a camera swung in his direction. He grimaced and gripped the railing when the platform beneath him, mounted on what looked like a cherry-picker truck, shifted closer to Madeline. The cameraman gave him a thumbs-up. He must look sufficiently demonic.

  Now. He reached for her, grabbing her by the waist, the only part of her body unadorned, and pulled her close. One breath and he was overcome by her scent. Spicy cotton candy. Unexpected and strangely perfect. A second breath and he prepared to do his damned job, to mash his lips against hers and fling her back to her adoring throng. It was only skin. It didn’t mean anything.

  Her eyes flashed mischief. Hi, she mouthed and hooked her legs around his hips.

  He froze. The producer hadn’t mentioned grinding in the rundown earlier. She shimmied against him, and his traitorous cock responded. Do the job you came to do.

  Before he could, she bent her head and stole the kiss he’d been hired to deliver. He couldn’t help but gasp, and then her tongue, warm and electric, invaded his mouth. Chai.

  Could an angel corrupt a devil?

  “I am falling. I am falling.” The guide track looped in the background, distorted by Auto-Tune, hardly recognizable as the sultry voice he’d just heard.

  It was too much. The wet heat, her teeth grazing his bottom lip, and the way she rocked against his crotch. It hurt to touch her, just like the devil was supposed to react. He pushed, but she only held on tighter, digging her heels into his ass, twisting his hair in her fingers. Sparks of pleasure-pain skittered under his skin. She’d chosen him.

  He didn’t want to want her. Wanting was a one-way ticket to disappointment.

  She raked her fingers down his back, teasing the sliver of skin between his shirt and belt, and pressed her mouth to his ear. He shivered.

  “Work with me.” She nipped him.

  He could work. And if his body responded? Well, it was only biology. The hard-on straining against his zipper was as manufactured and packaged as the Dream Angel in his arms.

  He lost himself in the pull and sway, forgot the crowd of people, the camera, the job. Forgot everything but the taste of her, the feel of her tight muscles under his palms, the tickle of feathers floating free.

  He kissed her back, violent and hard, reclaiming what she’d taken: his choice. Her body softened, melted around him. She moaned, giving in, an unexpected surrender. He hadn
’t missed the power she wielded over the whole production, a queen bee to her hive. But here she was gasping and shuddering in his arms, the rapid pulse against his chest like wings beating against glass. He ran his tongue along hers, savoring the honey and spice.

  A sound came from the sides, an urgent whisper. They wanted him to stop. He even felt her lurch away, tugged by mechanical means, but he held tighter. They’d have to tear her away. They’d have to hurt her to do it. For one brief moment, he wasn’t letting go. Skin to skin, mouth to mouth. Heat to heat, and they’d both flown too close to the sun.

  The music stopped.

  He pulled back, breaking the kiss, but not the connection burning between them. “Why me?”

  She blinked, hazy with lust. “Because you’re the demon.”

  That’s my motivation. “No, why did you want me for this set. I know you did.”

  He needed her to say it out loud. Because you owe me. Then he could be done. Then this could be filed away as one more task completed, one more favor repaid. Then he could ignore the sweet ache he felt at the thought of letting her go.

  Her gaze hardened. Was she angry that he’d caught on? And…hurt? Emotion flickered in her eyes and then died. Once again he held the siren, the queen. “Because I’m tired of playing the angel.”

  He was tired too, and he’d be goddamned if he’d play jester in her court. No matter what her kisses tasted like. No matter how good it felt to have her pressed against him. No matter how his cock throbbed. He untangled her legs from around his waist and pushed her gently onto her feet. She wobbled, teetering on the edge of the platform, and then straightened.

  “Consider my debt paid. I hope you got what you needed.” He brushed a loose feather from her cheek and left without looking back.

  *

  As if a five a.m. call time for his puppet performance wasn’t bad enough, Krist had to haul ass uptown to some theme park restaurant for a meet-the-band event. All he wanted to do was clip the strings—slide into a bath with a couple of warm willing bodies and a bottle of Jack—and forget. Instead he slipped into the back of a limo alone, with his dick still hard from that handful of Madeline Fox. Stupid dick. Madeline was nothing but trouble.

  The leather creaked beneath him as he shifted in his seat, reminding him of the night he and Hailey had totally undone Lock. The heat of her cunt against his palm. The ridge of Lock’s erection against his knuckles. Then the elevator. Then things had gotten confusing and Lock had left him undone. Those memories swirled, bittersweet—salt in a half-healed wound, ground deep by the unrelenting media backlash. Hailey and Lock were happy together and happy to share, but he couldn’t go there again. All that sweetness between them, it hurt. He pressed the heel of his hand into the painful throb between his legs, unsure who the hard-on even belonged to anymore.

  Fuck it. It was at least twenty minutes to the venue, plenty of time to take the edge off. He popped the button on his jeans and yanked the zipper. No boxers or briefs restrained him further. His cock sprang free, bobbed at him, pink head glistening. Always happy to perform, whether he wanted to or not. He spat in his palm, certain the limo’s minibar wasn’t stocked with lube, and stroked. One long pull from base to tip. Then down again, hard. Rough tugs meant to punish, but they only made the ache worse.

  The saliva slicking his palm dried out, but he didn’t stop. He lifted his hips off the bench seat and thrust into the sandpaper grip of his calloused fingers. Fucked them. Fuck them. Fuck. He didn’t want Lock anymore. He wanted what Hailey and Lock had together. They wanted each other so much it was compelling. More than lust. More than love. Need.

  Madeline’s kiss, all spicy-sweet, hummed through him again. Hers was a frantic need, but not for him. He was just a means to an end for her. A phase. But those lips? God. With his eyes squeezed shut, he could feel her lips wrapped around his cock. More slippery than the precum he spread over his shaft.

  He loosened his grip, mimicking the glove of her mouth. She’d go slow, looking up at him the whole time. Making him wait. His balls drew up tight, and his thighs tensed. He raked his nails over his abs, yanking his shirt up just in time to save it from the mess of his orgasm.

  He came in short bursts, painting his inked stomach. He didn’t want to want her, but he did. He wouldn’t fall down that rabbit hole again. Not with someone guaranteed to discard him before he’d gotten what he wanted. And what did he want?

  More.

  The limo lurched to a stop. Come still cooling on his belly, he released a heavy sigh. He’d been reduced to a lonely perv, jerking off in traffic. A real rock star would probably have a groupie around to clean this up. Absent a willing tongue, he mopped away the evidence of his shame with a tissue.

  He’d just managed to tuck himself into his pants when the door opened, revealing the back entrance of the restaurant. At least this wasn’t a red-carpet event. The rest of the band would already be in there smiling for photos, schmoozing the loaded fans who’d dropped thousands at a charity auction for this exclusive opportunity. If he was going to do this, he’d need two things: a stiff drink and a chance to wash up. Maybe not in that order.

  A familiar face greeted him at the back door. His favorite obnoxious roadie. Roadies never came to these events unless they were doubling as security to run interference with overzealous fans. “You draw the short straw, Colt?”

  The kid tilted his head like a confused puppy. “What?”

  “You here to handle me?”

  “No. It’s a maze back here; one wrong turn and you’re in the main dining room. A server let it slip to some customers so everyone is on high alert. I’m just supposed to make sure you get to the private area without causing an incident.”

  “Fan-fucking-tastic. Well, hustle me to a restroom where I won’t get mauled. I need to wash off some of this filthy pop music before I can play rock god.”

  Colt’s mouth dropped open, and he put up a hand in protest. “Play—”

  “Shut it, Colt. I’m not in the mood. This shit is all smoke and mirrors; it doesn’t have anything to do with the music.” Krist couldn’t handle even a second of Colt’s hero worship. He didn’t deserve it.

  Colt snapped his jaw shut and ducked his head. “Okay. Follow me.”

  He led Krist down a long hallway, around a corner, past what appeared to be offices and up a flight of stairs. “Are you sure this is a restaurant?”

  “It’s also a concert venue and rock memorabilia museum. You’ve gotta see Hendrix’s guitar.” The way Colt said Hendrix was the way some people said Jesus, full of awe and reverence. Fitting, he guessed. Krist couldn’t remember what it felt like to be so…not jaded. Hendrix was a genius, but he’d also destroyed himself. Didn’t they all?

  Krist was smack in the middle of his own spiral of destructive suck. It made him angry and snappish, and he hated himself for it. But he couldn’t stop. He sighed. “How am I supposed to do that without causing an incident? Besides, today I’m part of the exhibit.”

  “Oh, right.” Colt motioned toward a frosted-glass door. “Private restroom’s over there.”

  “You gonna come in and hold my dick for me too?”

  Colt turned beet red and stammered. Since the elevator video had leaked, Krist’s flexible reputation did more than quietly precede him. It seemed to take over his whole identity. “I-I-I—”

  “Relax. I’m just screwing with you.”

  “It’s cool. I’m cool. I’m just not into…” Colt snapped his mouth shut and swallowed. “I knew that.”

  “Sure you did. Stand guard.”

  Colt leaned his back against the wall beside the restroom entrance and crossed his wiry arms over his chest. Krist shook his head. He’d still been screwing with the kid. Krist didn’t need him to stand guard. But Colt obviously took his job very seriously. Too seriously.

  This business was far too fucked up to deal with without a sense of humor. And Krist knew Colt wanted more than just a gig as a roadie. He wanted onstage. And it wasn’t just t
he demos he foisted on them at every opportunity; it was the look on his face every time he stepped up for a sound check. Awe and reverence. Jesus.

  Krist washed his hands in the marble sink and tried to avoid looking at himself in the mirror. He didn’t need another reminder of what he’d become.

  The door opened, and Krist shook his head again. Fucking eager beaver. “Change your mind about that hand job?”

  He looked into the mirror then, and there was Moe, all shit-eating grin. Energized by the fan interaction. Something that only seemed to drain Krist and Lock. Moe slapped him on the back. “How’d the video shoot go, Bieber?”

  “Fuck you. It’s done; that’s how it went.” Krist reached for a towel and dried his hands.

  “You mean you’re not gonna run off and sing duets with the prom queen?”

  “It was just a cameo, no singing required.” A pang of regret caught him off guard. If they sang together the way they kissed… No. But at least she could sing. Her husky vocals, all velvet and dynamite, haunted him. He almost hated admitting it, if only to himself, like it sealed his fate as a pawn for the label.

  “I bet you made her sing your name while she rode your dick.” Moe splayed his palm on his hips and humped the air.

  Krist cocked his eyebrow at Moe’s reflection. “Miss Purity Pledge?”

  “Duuuuude. You know that shit is all for show, right? I bet she fucks like a porn star.”

  “Don’t you mean like a prostitute? That’s your deal, Moe. Not mine.”

  Moe shrugged. “It’s just an expression. I don’t give a shit. Just get your ass out here; I can’t handle it by myself. Not with Lock being a surly bastard in the corner.”

  “Where’s Hailey?” If Lock was being a bastard, it was because Hailey wasn’t tucked under his arm like a kitten.

  “Holding court with some of the kids. She’s great. It’s like story time. Once Upon a Concert. Only instead of milk and cookies, I’ve got booze.”

  Hailey was great; that was the general consensus. They’d held their breath for the first month, certain the unlikely relationship would implode, but slowly they’d all come to the same realization: Hailey and Lock worked. The whole crew was glad to have the former Sunday school teacher around. She’d softened some of Lock’s rough edges, but he was still a bastard. A distant bastard.