The Girl's Got Secrets (Forbidden Men #7)

by Linda Kage

  When Sticks said something about how amazed he was by the lack of split ends, I jumped in surprise, suddenly remembering he was the one touching me.

  “You about done?” I asked, moodily shifting my weight around on the closed toilet lid.

  His hands in my hair suddenly felt way too personal. Even the women I slept with didn’t play with my hair this much. They’d been known to grip it when they were coming, but after that, it was no use to them. I wasn’t too sure how to deal with Remy being so familiar with it. And I’d never in a million years admit I liked how it felt when he messed with it.

  “Geez, impatient much?” He pulled his hands free, and I almost whimpered from the loss of his touch. After picking up the comb, he did a little swishy thing here and there and then stepped back. “There. Perfection.” Grinning proudly, he motioned toward the mirror. “What do you think?”

  I stood and checked out my reflection. He’d fashioned it all to flare up and off to one side in a somewhat messy fashion, but it was like a controlled kind of chaos. I looked like a freaking rock star. But then, I guess that was the idea. “It’s…”

  “Sexy as hell,” Remy confirmed, earning a glower from me. But he shrugged, nonplussed. “Yeah, you thought you had a lot of women crawling all over you before. Just wait until tonight, boy. That beautiful mess is going to bring all the girls to the yard.”

  I laughed, but the mention of women made me think of sex again.

  It reminded me how long it’d been since I’d gotten laid, and a pulsing heat spread through my dick. Then my mind went into über caveman mode, thinking of nothing but pussy. And thrusting.

  Damn. This was getting bad. I really needed to do something about this.

  Grunting out something—I’m not even sure what—I escaped the bathroom and gathered up my wallet and keys. “I’m going to scout out the area, find out how close we are to the club. Then it’ll probably be about time to head out. Bathroom’s all yours, man.”

  He leaned his shoulder against the doorjamb, watching me. When all he said was, “Okay,” a strange unease claimed me, as if I should do more, or know more, or hell, I don’t even know. I just didn’t feel right. So I ran. “Thanks again for…you know.” I motioned to my hair and hurried out the door.

  I stayed away longer than I probably should have, but at least I learned the lay of the land, and when I returned to gather up the band, I was able to drive us straight to our destination without getting lost.

  With Gally’s jabbering and Holden’s loud silence, the weirdness I’d experienced earlier with Sticks dissipated, and I was able to think about the actual gig. While we waited backstage for our time to start—because this place actually had a backstage—Sticks cracked his neck and hopped on the balls of his feet, as if preparing for a race or something.

  I shook my head and grinned. “What the hell are you doing?”

  He only shrugged. “Loosening up.” Then he rolled his shoulders and kicked out each leg before shaking it. “You have no idea how stiff I get after sitting on that stool for so long.”

  Made sense, so I turned away, and sucked in a breath when the coordinator waved us forward. “We’re up,” I announced to the guys and led the way onto the stage, where a crew had already set up our equipment.

  I exhaled a rush when I saw the crowd. This place wasn’t as packed as Forbidden usually was, but it was easily four times the size, meaning it held at least twice as many people. It was dark out on the floor with about four blue spotlights flaring down on where we were each supposed to stand, already heating the back of my neck.

  I jogged to my place, slipped on my Taylor, and reached for the mike, glancing around me to make sure the others were ready. When Remy nodded, I gave him the signal to begin before we even introduced ourselves.

  I finally did a little talking two songs later, telling the crowd a little about who we were, where we were from, and where they could find more information about us. By this point, we’d riled them up with our music, and they were more responsive, cheering when I introduced each member.

  And then we were playing again, rocking each song. I thought we were going to have a problem when Holden experienced a smidgeon of stage fright and missed a lick on the guitar. But Remy kept the beat steady the entire time, and it was easy for Heath to pick right back up with us.

  Relieved, I sang a little stronger to make up for it, and no one seemed to notice. They cheered us on, and danced, and seemed to have fun.

  By the time we finished, I was drenched in sweat but riding an adrenaline high that felt freaking incredible. The owner—yeah, the actual owner—met us behind the stage to invite us back again in a month, and I only had to glance at my bandmates for them to agree, so I bobbed my head yes.

  After that, we were given coupons for discounted drinks at the bar, and I think all four of us were too wired to crash yet, so we took them and headed out into the club.

  Gally immediately disappeared, on the search for a one-night stand, but Holden, Sticks and I found a free table to park ourselves. It took a few minutes for people to recognize us, but soon a trio of carbon copy blondes were gathered at our table, one particularly bold as she slid right up onto my knee and perched herself there to tell me how much she’d liked watching us.

  Her perfume was strong, but her body was soft and oh-so feminine, and I had all this excess energy to expend; I didn’t send her away. I even set a hand on her waist so I didn’t have to worry about her losing her balance and tumbling off my leg. She flirted with me while her friends gathered closer, one of them finally turning to Sticks to talk to him.

  I knew the woman on my lap would be willing if I wanted to take this any further. Hell, I had a feeling she’d be willing if I wanted to drag her off to some private corner in the club and take her right then. But something kept stopping me from acting, probably the way she kept calling me by my first and last name together.

  Annoying as hell.

  We’d been sitting there less than ten minutes when someone approached, calling my name.

  I glanced over and nearly fell out of my chair when I met my dad’s snickering gaze.

  “What the hell?” I demanded. “What’re you doing here?”

  “We need to talk.” He leered at the cleavage of the woman on my lap before returning his attention to me. “Now.”

  “Wha… How did you find me?”

  “It’s posted on your little band’s website. Since they kicked me out of that shithole you usually play at and I haven’t gotten your home address yet, this is the only place I could reach you.”

  “He doesn’t want to talk to you,” Sticks answered for me, appearing at my side so he could fold his arms over his chest and glare at my dad.

  The old man blinked at him before snorting. “What the fuck is this?” he asked me. “Your bodyguard. Little bastard’s smaller than I am.”

  “I’m also younger, faster, and armed,” Sticks reported, narrowing his eyes.

  His posturing amused me, and kind of delighted me since it meant he cared enough to have my back, but it was totally unnecessary.

  “Excuse me a minute, sweetheart.” I scooted the woman off my lap and then stood before telling Remy, “I got this.” Motioning my dad to follow me, I found the quietest place possible to hear whatever he had to say. When I noticed my drummer had followed us and stopped a few feet away, I rolled my eyes. He really was worried, the weirdo.

  Then I faced the guy who used to be my living nightmare. But yeah, I couldn’t summon my old fear of him. I was a head taller and wider than him now. He just looked shriveled and crude, and bitter. I couldn’t even think of him as a killer. I’d been there, I’d seen his shock. He hadn’t meant to take her life.

  He was nothing but a nasty, washed-up bully.

  “What do you want?” I asked, folding my arms over my chest.

  “I want to know where my stash is,” he snarled, moving intimidatingly close, which was also a joke.

  I shook my head, clueless. “Wh
at stash?”

  “The fucking stash I had hidden away when they arrested me.”

  Barking out a laugh, I shook my head. I hadn’t seen the guy in sixteen years, and all he cared about were his drugs? No sorry for murdering your mother, for all the split lips and black eyes, for raising you like a slave. Just where’s my drugs?

  It figured.

  “And you honestly think I know what happened to that shit?” I kept swishing my head back and forth. “They never let me back into the apartment. I don’t know what happened to anything.”

  Growling out his disappointment, the old man gnawed on his bottom lip. “So you think the cops found it?”

  I lifted my hands. “I have no idea. And honestly, I don’t give a flying fuck what happened to your drugs. You’re on your own with this one.”

  I started to walk past him but he grabbed my shirtsleeve. “Hey, I’m not done talking to you, you little cocksucker.”

  Sticks shifted toward us, sliding his hand into his pocket. My dad darted him a scowl but immediately eased up on me. Leaning closer, he snarled. “You owe me. I kept that bitch from killing you I don’t know how many times, from drowning you in the bathtub or suffocating you with a pillow. I kept you breathing and provided for you.”

  I glanced at him impassively. “And yet I have no idea why.” He’d never shown me an ounce of compassion himself.

  “Because you were supposed to turn out like me.” He started to step even closer but then remembered Remy and sent him a cautious glance. When he turned back, his lip curled into a sneer. “But you had to go and turn out like this.”

  I shook my head and sighed, focusing on Sticks because I couldn’t look at the waste of space that was supposed to be my father. “I told you I don’t know where your stash is, and I don’t. So…we’re done here.”

  I started off again, but he called, “I need some money to start back in again. Damn, kid, don’t you fucking walk away from me. You’ll regret it.”

  Without even glancing back, I spoke to Remy out the side of my mouth when he immediately moved to my side. “See, I told he wasn’t out to kill me.”

  “Oh yeah, sure; that you’ll regret this wasn’t threatening at all.”

  I laughed. “Relax, man. I’m sure that’s the last time I’ll ever see or hear from him.”

  “I think you’re wrong, but whatever.”

  With a glance his way, I asked, “Are you really carrying a weapon? What the hell are you packing in your pocket?” I just couldn’t picture him tucking a gun in his luggage between his conditioner and hair gel.

  So when he reluctantly answered, “Mace and a whistle,” I threw my head back and laughed.

  Gripping his shoulder, I had to admit, “Man, you crack me up.”

  “Hmm. Well, looky there,” he muttered, falling to a stop before we reached our table. “Your harem of sluts was kind enough to wait for you.”

  His bitter tone only made me smile. “What? Jealous because there’s no dude in the group for you?”

  He glowered at me. “Mmm hmm. Yes, that must be it.”

  When I shrugged and started back to the table again, he caught my forearm. “I can’t stick around. I’m going to see if I can catch a cab and get a ride back to the hotel. Are you sure your dad won’t come back? I could leave my mace and whistle with you.”

  I flipped him off. “I think I can manage without a freaking rape-prevention whistle.”

  He shook his head and eyed the women watching and waiting for us to return. “I don’t know, Hart. That one looks like she’s ready to tear your clothes off any second, whether you’re willing or not.”

  With a chuckle, I shoved him away. “Whatever. Get lost already. I’ll see you back at the hotel.”

  A miserable expression crossed his face, but then he nodded and turned away. I watched him walk off for a second, then I shook my head and turned back to the women.

  Fine, yes, I admit it. Seeing that skank crawling all over Asher had turned me into an evil jealous troll bitch. But I couldn’t help it. She just kept touching him. And I wanted to touch him.

  It was no fair. I couldn’t even freaking put my bid in, since I was pretending to be a dude and all.

  Unable to watch her maul him a second longer, I had hightailed it out of there and slumped back to the hotel, miserable, when I should’ve been pumped and happy. We had rocked that performance. It’d been awesome, right up until that slut had crawled into Asher’s lap, and he’d actually wrapped his arm around her waist. Had me so worked up I couldn’t even worry about his dad showing up.

  Ugh.

  I tried not to wonder what would’ve happened if I’d been in full girl mode, decked out in my makeup and tiny black dress. Could I have competed for his attention, stolen him away from lap slut?

  And why did it even matter? I was never going to get that chance. I’d shot myself in the foot the moment I’d stepped into the auditioning room as Sticks.

  After taking an extra-long shower, then cleaning and blow-drying my sweaty, sticky mask, I put it back on because I had no idea when Asher planned on returning. I just knew I couldn’t sleep with all my dark long hair spilling out over the sheet.

  I reluctantly crawled into bed, flipped off my nightlight, and then tossed and turned for what felt like forever, wondering just what he was doing with that other girl, where he was touching her, where she was kissing him, how many clothes were being removed.

  Damn. I punched my pillow. This was stupid. I was his bandmate. That was all. He could do whatever he pleased with whomever he pleased. It shouldn’t be any of my business or concern.

  So why the hell did I want to cry so badly?

  Finally, what felt like hours later, my consciousness dragged me into a fitful sleep. It felt as if I’d barely drifted off when I was jerked awake by the opening of my room door.

  Hoping Asher was alone and hadn’t brought his friend back with him, I froze, even tried to stop breathing.

  Oh, Dios. What if he had brought her back, though? Would I have to lie here and pretend to sleep while he screwed some other woman only a few feet away?

  No way in hell could I handle that.

  My face itched like crazy inside my mask, but I refrained from scratching or moving a muscle as quiet footsteps—just one pair, whew—shuffled across the floor. Mattress springs shifted behind me as Asher sat on his bed.

  My body instantly responded, heating uncontrollably inside my already warm disguise. But then the reek of feminine perfume hit me and I went cold. He’d taken that other girl home then. The blonde.

  I really hated that blonde.

  Asher let out a long, tired sigh, and I could picture him rubbing his weary face, maybe running his talented fingers through his silky dark hair. Hair I’d had my fingers in and gotten to touch and play with, hair that I wanted to experience again.

  He stood. The soft swish of clothing told me he was undressing.

  Oh, man. My internal thermometer soared, spiking off the charts with a horny heat.

  I shouldn’t look. I shouldn’t look. I totally shouldn’t look.

  I really was being a good girl and not looking, but then he walked into the bathroom, and in order to get there, he had to pass my bed and right where I was staring wide-eyed into the darkened room…well, mostly darkened until he turned on the bathroom light and gifted me with a view of his perfectly formed bare ass.

  Sweet baby Jesus.

  His toned, tanned cheeks were…they were…yeah.

  Sweet baby Jesus.

  All too soon, he closed the bathroom door, disappearing inside and shrouding me back into the darkness of the hotel room. The shower kicked on and my imagination ran wild, thinking of all the places he had to be touching his wet, naked body right now, running my soap over warm, sculpted skin and slicking a sudsy trail down his taut stomach to between his legs, where he was probably cupping his testicles and palming them clean.

  Damn. A shower had never seemed so freaking dirty before.

  I
wanted to be under that steamy spray with him so bad.

  My body ached and my nipples burned with the need to be touched. Closing my eyes, I breathed through my mask’s nose holes, each shallow breath highlighting my arousal as my hand wandered down inside the waistband of my flannel pants and into my panties.

  God, how I loved sexy silk panties. They were perfect for self-pleasure, for sliding them against your clit to create friction for a maximum experience.

  But tonight, it didn’t matter what I was wearing down there. I could’ve gotten off to the mere sound of Asher Hart singing George Ezra’s “Budapest” in the shower.

  I was inches from fondling myself, my hips already straining to lift off the bed, when the water shut off in the bathroom.

  Damn it.

  Why couldn’t he have dawdled a little longer?

  I yanked my hand free of my clothes and squeezed my legs together just as the bathroom door opened. Automatically, my eyes flew open.

  Asher stepped out, dripping wet, with a towel slung around his waist. I gaped at the beauty that was his bare chest as he skidded to a surprised halt.

  “Shit,” he said, wincing. “Sorry, Rem. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

  “S’okay,” I slurred, trying to act half awake, when honestly I was freaking wide awake. With a yawn, I stretched and rolled to face away from him.

  But that actually solved nothing. He strolled to his side of the room, which I was now turned toward.

  And then he dropped his towel.

  On purpose.

  “You been asleep long?” he asked in a conversational manner as if nothing earth-shattering at all was happening. Glancing my way as he dug a pair of his own flannel pants from his duffle bag, he lifted his eyebrows curiously.

  “Uh…” My eyes refused to blink as I watched him tug the pants up his legs without putting on any underwear first.

  Oh, Christ. Did he always crawl into bed commando? This was not something I should know. Technically, I wasn’t supposed to know how well hung he was either. But, wow, was he ever. How could such a slim guy be so thick where it mattered most?