by Cassia Leo
“Maybe it’s about balance,” said Crystal. “If you think you want to talk to him, you should. Call him. See how he is. What’s the worst that could happen?”
Thera sighed. “All right, fine. You’ve convinced me. I’ll call him. But you stay right there, because afterwards, we’re going to analyze everything he says.”
Crystal laughed. “You got it.”
Thera took her phone out of her pocket. She scrolled through her contacts. “You know, maybe I should just text him?”
“Call him,” said Crystal. “Texting is chicken.”
Thera sighed. She selected his name and pressed send. She put the phone to her ear, her heart beginning to pick up speed.
The phone rang.
Thera bit her lip.
It rang again.
“Maybe he’s not going to answer.”
It rang again.
“If he doesn’t answer, should I leave a voicemail?”
Crystal shrugged. “Whatever you want.”
“I don’t know what I—”
“Hello?” said Gage’s deep voice on the other end of the phone.
She gulped. “Um, hi. It’s Thera.”
“Hi,” he said. “It’s funny that you’re calling me.”
“It is?”
“I’m, uh, in Baltimore.”
She got up out of her chair. “Why are you in Baltimore?”
There was a pause, then a nervous laugh. “I was actually coming to see you.”
“You were?” she said.
“I know it’s weird. Like, I should have called first or something, not just driven an hour and a half, but… I don’t know. I did it on a whim. You… busy?”
She grinned. “I’m not busy at all.”
***
four months later
Thera laid her head down on Gage’s shoulder.
She felt his arm tighten around her waist.
Together, they stared at the farmhouse.
“You’re not going to miss it?” asked Thera.
“Of course I am,” said Gage. “But this place is full of so much death. I can’t walk through rooms without thinking about Linton or Heath. And then Matt, Floyd, and Isabella too? It’s like the place belongs to the ghosts.”
“You believe in ghosts?” she asked.
He shrugged. “I don’t know one way or the other, I guess.”
She peered up at him. “Well, it’s a big step, coming to the big city, Gage. You sure you’re going to be able to handle it?”
He laughed. “I am going to have a native to show me the ropes.”
She thought of the apartment that they’d selected together, the one that they’d be moving into the following day. Her father had given her a long, boring, grown-up speech about how she was taking things a little bit too fast, and that she and Gage should try dating for a while longer before moving in together.
But Thera knew that this relationship was solid. She couldn’t explain how. It was a sensation somewhere deep inside her. Gage fit with her.
Or maybe it was only that they’d been through a traumatic experience together, and it had bonded them. Or something.
Whatever the case, her father seemed to like Gage, and it wasn’t as if she was moving that far away. She was going to be ten blocks from her father’s apartment.
Gage held her close. “This place should be boarded up. Left alone for a while. Maybe it needs to air out emotionally.”
“Maybe,” she whispered. Frankly, the farmhouse gave her the creeps. She was glad Gage didn’t want to stay here. She’d be happy never setting foot inside again.
He kissed her on top of the head.
She grabbed him by the hand and tugged him after her. Flattening herself against her car, she ran her hands over his firm chest. “So, you remember the time we were forced to kiss at gunpoint?”
He smirked at her. “Are you going to do this again? For real?”
“I thought it was kind of hot,” she said. “Did you?”
He pressed his body against hers. “I think you’re hot.”
She grinned up at him. “You want to try it again? Kissing, that is?”
He caressed her chin. “I never want to stop.”
His lips found hers, and she melded her body into him. It was always like this when they were close, like she was growing, strengthening, blossoming. She moaned softly and tangled her hands in his long, dark hair.
In the distance, the wind breathed through the abandoned cornfields, whispering like children’s laughter.
Like your forbidden professor-student affairs with a side of gothic magic?
CRIMSON
See CRIMSON at:
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About V. J. Chambers
V. J. Chambers writes about people who are drawn to the dangerous and the destructive. Intrigued by obsession, twisted love, and addictive behaviors, she pens dark romance and thrillers in varied settings, from contemporary to futuristic to paranormal.
Her book Slow Burn is one of ten books in the USA Today Bestselling anthology Red Hot Obsessions.
She lives in Shepherdstown, WV, with her boyfriend Aaron, their new baby son, and their cat.
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Table of Contents
Red Hot Bikers, Rock Stars, and Bad Boys
Forever Ours by Cassia Leo
Resisting by Chelle Bliss
Randomly Ever After by Julia Kent
Stella & Dane by Deanna Roy
Every Breath You Take by Blair Babylon
Cold Fusion by Olivia Rigal
The Storm and the Darkness by Sarah M. Cradit
Rock Candy by Daizie Draper
Wuther by V. J. Chambers
Three Nights With A Rock Star by Amber Lin and Shari Slade
Revik by JC Andrijeski
Disclaimers and Copyright Notices
THREE NIGHTS WITH A ROCK STAR
by Amber Lin and Shari Slade
THREE NIGHTS WITH A ROCK STAR
by Amber Lin and Shari Slade
THREE NIGHTS WITH A ROCK STAR © Amber Lin and Shari Slade 2014
When Hailey crashes a Half-Life after party, she expects to find the bastard who knocked up her little sister. Instead she meets the sexy front-man who agrees to give her access to his crew if she gives him access to her body.
All Lock demands in return is three days of complete control over the Sunday School teacher. With a contract, because he’s been burned before. One misstep could send the band—and his tenuous sobriety—up in flames.
Hailey and Lock push each other’s limits… Against the penthouse window. Backstage. In the limo and on the elevator. But as the contract counts down, neither are ready for the party to end.
Chapter One
Friday night
Twenty dollars for parking? Per night. And the garage was the budget-friendly option. Valet didn’t even have the price listed. Resigned, Hailey dug in her purse for a twenty and handed it over. The booth attendant raised his eyebrow, giving her car a once-over. Well, okay. Message received. She clearly didn’t belong at the ritzy hotel, even as a visitor.
It was true. She normally spent less than twenty dollars a day on food. And her old Toyota had broken down twice on the drive into Chicago. Heck, the booth attendant probably made more than she did. But if she was going to be stuck here for a few days, she’d have to adjust her standards a little bit. It was for a good cause.
A necessary cause.
The garage was filled to the brim, a gleaming array of BMWs, Porsches, and other brands she couldn’t name. They looked like jewels on a velvet display case, her rusty hunk of steel an unseemly contrast.
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.
&
nbsp; 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.
***
Chapter 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.
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 prov
e 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.
