Heart Broke (Hard Rock Roots #8)

by C. M. Stunich

  “A little too incredible,” Sydney says, swiping some sweat from her brow as she stands there all too-cool and don't-give-a-fuck with her hip cocked and her striped bikini clearly visible beneath the thin, flowing fabric of her dress. “So I said fuck yes, sign me up. And then I climbed the wall and had a small panic attack. Brayden followed me out there and told me what I already figured. The Washingtons, they own Tin Dolls,” Sydney says as she fluffs her hair and makes a growling sound in her throat. “I mean, of course they do, right?” She gives me a look that says she's not surprised, just pissed. “Oh, and LMTV. And Rockersbloodpills.com. And Rollin' Strong Magazine.”

  “Fantastic,” I say, my throat as dry as the fucking desert outside the wall of windows. I mean, you hear of global elites, families with net worths in the billions, creepy ass clandestine monopolies and corporate plots, but … to actually be embroiled in one? Kind of fucking freaky.

  I close my eyes for a second and take a deep breath, only to feel Sydney's hands at my belt buckle.

  “Oh God …” I start, but Sydney's not doing what I wish she was doing, not yet anyway. Instead she's biting her lower lip and looking up at me with a face that could launch—and sink—a thousand ships. She always plays everything so cucumber fucking cool, but right now, that look on her face is speaking volumes.

  “Do I turn down the offer on principle?” she asks me, sliding her hands up and under my shirt, nails scraping across my abs. If I wasn't already hard … well, you get the drift. My muscles clench tight as she touches them, heading straight up to my nipples. On impulse, I reach up and clamp my hands over her wrists, pinning her arms under my shirt.

  One blonde brow slides up and a wicked smile crosses those shiny red lips.

  “You do realize I was in the middle of an interview?” I say, almost breathless. Jesus fuck, but I'm totally into this chick.

  “At least I didn't French you this time,” Sydney muses, trying to pull her hands out from under my shirt. “I was just trying to be all girlfriend-y and shit. I came to you first, you know. We might be on day one of our relationship, but it's never too early to start, right?” My heart swells at her words—and it's not the only body part responding favorably to her presence, her touch. “So, tell me, what do you think? Do I take the offer, even if it's bathed in blood? Or do I tell them to fuck off?”

  “Do you have to pose naked?” I ask, feeling my lip quirk up in the corner. Briefly, I lift my eyes from Sydney's face to look out into the backyard. I don't see anyone, just the cool blue of the swimming pool and the gentle sway of palms. “Because even though I really hate to admit it, I'm jealous as fuck.”

  “So there's come caveman in you yet,” Sydney purrs as I flick my gaze back to hers, taking in her white-blonde hair, the navy blue liner around her eyes, the sea of colorful tattoos on her chest and shoulders. Sydney Charell is a fucking art piece, a museum worth visiting, and I'm not sure how I feel about crowds getting in line for my exhibit.

  Fuck.

  Did I seriously just think that? Maybe all men are pigs. I thought I was more evolved than Turner, but I'm having a really hard goddamn time thinking past my dick right now.

  “We've already sold our souls to the devil,” I say, referencing the contract for our new reality TV show. Hard Rock Roots, huh? Catchy title. “So why the fuck not? If we're going to be bossed around and threatened and shot at, we might as well make it worth it.” I swallow hard. I'm still not comfortable with the fact that Sydney's been caught up in all this shit. It's not fair and some distant part of me is afraid that it's because of me. If Sydney and I hadn't been so drawn to each other, if she hadn't been there to see Tara die, spent so much goddamn time trying to keep me from pulling the trigger on myself, would she be safe?

  “So … you're saying go for it?” she asks casually, and I realize with a start that Sydney isn't just trying to be nice right now. She actually gives a small fuck about what I think. “I mean, obviously I was going to anyway, but if you're saying I should then I can feel a tad bit less guilty about the whole affair.”

  “Your fingers are massaging my nipples,” I tell her with all due seriousness. “Do you think I'm capable of saying anything less than yes at this point?”

  Sydney grins at me as I let go of her arms. Instead of stepping away from me, she moves her hands to the hem of my shirt and helps me pull it up and over, sliding it down my arms before tossing the black fabric on the floor in a heap.

  I should be concerned about the interview, about Paulette Washington or Brayden Ryker or even Miley and her manager, Rain Colbert, but all I give a crap about right now is Sydney.

  Her moist red lips press against my left pec, the hot flick of her tongue burning its way down my chest as she alternates kissing and licking my heated skin. The AC might be on in here, but I'm burning frigging hot right now.

  My right hand comes up, the dark ghastly twist of pain tattooed across my skin a stark contrast to the bright colors of Sydney's tattoos, the pale color of her hair as I slide my fingers up her neck and tangle it in my fist. An uncontrollable sigh escapes my lips as my stomach muscles tighten involuntarily, overwhelmed by the thrill of Sydney's mouth. When she makes it down to my waistband and starts working her way across my lower abs, I lose control and give her a gentle push down to her knees.

  In less than five seconds, she's got my belt undone, opening the fly on my jeans and taking my swollen cock into her hand. When Sydney splays her right hand on my hip and slips my dick between her bright red lips, I almost come right away. Looking down at her like this, her curves ridiculously obvious beneath the thin fabric of her dress, I can't think straight anymore.

  “God, yes,” I groan, putting pressure on the back of Sydney's head, seeing how far she can take me into her throat. All-the-fucking-way apparently. My balls tighten as she slides back, her lower lip bumping into my piercings, electrifying my body through the shaft of my cock until my heart's been jump-started and my brain ceases to function. I'm barely human when I come hard inside her mouth, feel her swallow my seed while she's still got my dick crammed in her throat.

  When Sydney pulls back, I kneel down in front of her, keeping my grip on the back of her head. When we kiss, I taste myself on her lips and it turns me on even more. Her moans fill my mouth as I slide my left hand up her side and massage her breast through the fabric of the dress.

  “You gonna love me right, Dax McCann?” Sydney whispers as I pull back with a small smirk and look down at her. You'd think with so much going on around me, I'd be distracted, nervous, upset, but I just don't have it in me anymore. I've spent the last few weeks moping around and acting like an asshole, but now that I've given myself permission to try this thing out with Sydney, to stop fighting myself on it, it feels like a weight's been lifted off my shoulders.

  “Why don't you relax and find out?” I say, the fingers of my right hand slipping down Sydney's side and sliding up under the dress. The smooth, creamy skin on the inside of her thigh is tender and sensitive, turning that smeared red lipstick mouth of hers into a pouty moue. With a confidence I wasn't even sure I fucking had in me, I push Sydney's bathing suit bottoms aside and find the slick perfection of her already throbbing pussy.

  She's so tight, clamping around my fingers as I move them in a sensual, steady rhythm, like I'm teasing my kit with a slow blues drumbeat, hitting triplets on my hi-hat while my left plays with the snare and bass. Might not seem all that erotic to some people, but I'm a drummer. I live and breathe in beats.

  Leaning in close, I let my breath feather against Sydney's lips until she's leaning into me, lips parting like a messy, red tulip, all smeared and dirty from having my cock in her mouth. When we start to kiss again, I use the weight of my body to push her back into the floor until her blonde hair's fanned out behind her head. I'm hovering above, one dark tattooed hand between her thighs, the other on her hip.

  Our tongues dance to the beat I set, just like the crowd at a concert. I'm always the silent partner, setting the st
age for the players like Hayden and Naomi and Turner. They don't know I'm in control, that I'm telling the audience when to clap, when to jump, when to start a mosh pit. But right now, I'm shedding that background seat for a chance in the spotlight. I'm in charge, and I fucking love it.

  I move my left hand to Sydney's wrists, pinning them above her head as I suck on her lower lip, chase the frantic, thumping beat of her pulse with my teeth, nipping and biting my way down her neck, forcing her heart to slow to the pace that I set. That I want. She wants me in charge, too, and that's fucking thrilling. This is a girl who's always taken care of everything, picked her own path, made her own choices. I'm the opposite, always being played, dragged along for the ride, beaten into submission.

  I think we both need a change of pace; it's freeing as hell.

  And erotic as fuck.

  I screw Sydney with my hand until my knuckles are wet with her excitement, and then I pull away when she reaches the edge of climax. I know when it's coming, can fucking feel that shit in the pulsing beat of her muscles. It's like a song, and I'm not quite ready for it to end.

  “Dax,” she groans in that husky voice of hers, hips arching up off that perfect Persian rug as she protests the loss of my hand. That's okay—because I'm about to replace it with something bigger and better. My lips curl into a smile as I flick her clit ring with my thumb, tease my way up until I can feel that dyed pink heart of hers. “I've been practically celibate since I met you; you owe me, baby.”

  I chuckle and push her wrists harder into the floor when she struggles, kissing my way to her ear and teasing the studs that follow her lobe all the way up to the cartilage.

  “And I'm going to deliver,” I promise as I yank her bikini bottoms down her legs and drag them off her left foot until they're hooked only on the right. When I shove her left thigh up and position myself at her wetness, I realize that I'm not wearing a condom. Nor do I have one with me.

  Shiiiiit.

  Conundrum. I hate fucking goddamn conundrums.

  I meet Sydney's liquid gaze and realize she's waiting for me to make a choice; she's already made hers.

  Screw it.

  With one powerful thrust, I fill her up hard, slamming our hips together as Sydney arches her back and cries out. I'm sure—fucking sure—some asshole on the production crew can hear us out there, but I don't care. Right now, nothing else matters.

  I ram into Sydney with deep, long thrusts, and I swear I can feel the head of my cock bumping against her cervix. She squirms with each movement, biting her lower lip, letting her lashes flutter to her cheeks as I wet my cock with her warm heat. It feels so good, so much better than using a condom. I can't even remember the last time I did it bareback. High school? Jesus, I think so.

  “Harder, Dax,” Sydney whispers, lids still closed, blue eyeshadow sparkling in the golden splash of sunshine leaking through the windows. “Faster.” But I can feel the beat of her body against my shaft, the flutter of muscles that tells me I'm doing exactly what I need to be doing. I stay the same pace, sweat dripping down my face, off the tip of my nose until it hits Sydney's chest piece, liquefying that orange octopus tat of hers.

  When she starts to come, her back rolling like the waves of the ocean, hips thrusting up against me, I let my abs do the work, muscles clenching as I force my cock into her ever tightening pussy. By the time a scream breaks from her throat, dragged out along with her orgasm, I can barely move, locked in place by her body.

  It's fucking ecstasy, looking down at her like that, watching as she writhes and squirms with pleasure. I don't stop though, don't let myself get lazy. Women can come, and come, and come. So I keep playing my song, keep playing Sydney.

  I fuck her into the floor, into that stupid ass rug until it's wet with both of us and she's coming again, until I'm coming hard and fast, filling her with all of me.

  As soon as it's over, as I'm rolling off and laying on the floor next to her, panting, I hear the crew moving outside the door. Sydney starts to laugh, turning over and putting her head on my bare chest, pressing a sweaty kiss to my skin. I start to chuckle, too, until we're both giggling like fucking kids. I know I have to go back out there, get this shit done, but all I want is to keep going, to do it all again. Shouldn't have worried about that—twenty-four hours later, I'd get my wish.

  Twenty-four laters, we'd all get to see it on national TV.

  There's a camera like, almost literally in my face right now. My legs are crossed, hands resting lightly on my knee. I think I look casual. At least, I hope I do. God. No wonder Dax freaked during his last interview and blurted my name at the camera. Well, okay, so that was his second to last interview. I made sure to screw up that last one for him.

  Basic bitch, huh.

  I let my eyes slide over to Miley Culbrath, sitting pretty in a chair with people buzzing around her like she's the queen freaking bee. Stupid cunt. I could whoop the spoiled off her face in a second. Seriously. One cunt punt and that ho would be on the floor.

  Instead of starting a fight with a quasi-famous celebrity, I smile at Paulette Washington, but I'm not a hundred percent sure that it's what you might call a friendly sort of a grin. Something changed since I walked out of that office with Dax's cum sliding down my thighs and a hot, happy flush covering my cheeks. The crew was awkward; Miley was furious; Paulette was ecstatic.

  I shift awkwardly in my chair and try to catch sight of Dax. He's standing at the edge of the makeshift confessional room next to Brayden Ryker, arms crossed over his chest, eyes narrowed. But there's a slight smile hovering around his lips that wasn't there before. And I can personally thank my kitty cat for that one … meow. If he were the only person in attendance right now, I'd be happy as a goddamn clam. Thing is, I've got an audience that includes my douche brother and his friends. Yuck.

  “Are you ready?” Paulette asks me as Miley stands up and gives me a look that says I'm essentially dog shit on the bottom of her shoe—her disgusting, white patent leather monstrosity of a shoe. It's got a pointed toe that makes Miley look like a witch, a witch who's also five years old and on her way to Easter Sunday service. The buckles and the bows and the … just, God, no.

  “Christian Dior?” I ask as Miley's brows go up and she looks at me in surprise. Damn straight. I might be a stripper, but I'm a stripper who knows her clothes. “You shouldn't wear something just because it's in fashion. Those are butt fucking ugly and they make your huge feet look even bigger.”

  “You goddamn cunt, I will wreck you,” Miley snaps, stepping menacingly towards me while her manager, Rain, some uppity bitch I vaguely remember from that show Dax and the boys did, steps in and tries to soothe the situation. Maybe she should just bend down and lick Miley's asshole? I bet she gets it bleached.

  I hold up my hands in a placating gesture.

  “I'm not trying to start shit,” I say with my most innocent look. “Just chick to chick, you look awful. I'm only trying to help.”

  “I will not work with her,” Miley says, waving her finger around in a diva rage. “I mean, like, who is this bitch anyway? I won a Grammy last year for fuck's sake.”

  “Well, there's no accounting for taste,” I add, leaning back in my chair with a smile. I hear some tittering behind me. Think it's the production crew. Hmm. I feel my mouth curling into a wicked smile as I look Miley's atrocious outfit up and down. It's some sleeveless jumpsuit thing with baggy shorts and a weird, braided belt. Gross. After Dax and I fucked, and I got reminded by Ponytail that my interview was on the schedule for today, I changed. Now I know I look smokin' in a pair of tight jeans and a black and white bikini top—complete with a skull and cross bones on my right tit. Rawr. Like a pirate, baby. I look much better than Miley, and I think I'm like ten years older.

  “I swear to God, I will end you,” Miley says, and all I do is laugh. When I glance back at Dax, he's holding back a chuckle. Good. If he finds this amusing, then it's worth it. Poor guy needs to laugh. And get laid more. I shiver and curl my fingers around
the armrests on my chair. My body's still tingling, still talking to me, telling me that I am an idiot. No condom, huh? That was a great idea. Whatever. I'm twenty-eight. I'd raise a baby just like that.

  “Are we doing an interview here or not?” Rain says, stepping between Miley and me, her gaze focused on Paulette in her hideous red and white power suit.

  Paulette Washington, well, her face never changes, not even to twitch. She just keeps smiling and smiling and smiling. Her teeth are so goddamn white they're blinding. I wonder if I should be worried about that?

  “Absolutely,” she says with a flourish of her hand. “Miley, honey, please take a seat.” Surprisingly, the bitch listens and collapses into the chair opposite mine with a sigh. If I didn't know any better … I'd say she was afraid of Paulette? That can't be good.

  “Pretty sure you said no fucking interviews,” Ronnie mumbles from off camera somewhere. I can't bloody fucking see his ass because there are too many lights. And I'm used to lights. I mean, I've danced nude in a spotlight for years, but this … ugh. It's going to be a long three months, that's for sure.

  “Pretty sure you didn't read the contracts very well before you signed,” Paulette chirps, still smiling, her face all frozen and perfect and Botox-y. “It says limited confessionals and nothing about promotional interviews.” She straightens her hair and then flips a smile over at Dax. “Weekly face time seems reasonable to me. I'm sure you understand.” A clapping of hands. “Now, let's get to this. We're behind schedule.” I give Dax another look and see the guilt written all over his face. It's not really his fault though. If he hadn't been the first one to sign that contract, somebody else would've jumped in. This bitch has crap on us for days. We never should've touched that poser piece of shit's corpse. Could come back to haunt us later. Guess I'll deal with it when it comes. If. If it comes.

  I clear my throat and adjust myself in the chair, pausing to reach in my top and make sure my boobs are on full display. I didn't pay all that money to hide the damn things. Paulette just … smiles. God, I want to strangle that bourgeois bitch. And maybe Turner and Trey, too, but only for good measure. They always seem to deserve a good strangling.