by Cassia Leo
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?
***
Chapter 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 t
hrough 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.
Like the half-naked bodies in the elevator—no longer pictures but the real thing.
She forced herself inside, hovering near the elevator even as it shut behind her.
Keaton showed no such hesitation. He strolled in like he’d been here a thousand times before. She supposed, since Lock trusted him with a key card, he probably had. Maybe he was an assistant of some kind. He went to a large bar and popped the lid of a Coke. No vending machines for penthouse residents.
He cocked the bottle toward her. “You want one?”
She shook her head, taking a hesitant step forward. “Do you know when Lock will be here?”
He sprawled into a large leather chair, one leg over the square arm, and took a sip of his drink. Chicago’s twinkling nightscape framed him from behind. He looked so incongruously regal, sitting there, like a king surveying all he owned. And she knew, with a sinking feeling, what he was going to say before he did.
“Sweetheart, you’re looking at him.”
*
Her shoulders slumped, and her mouth settled into a disconcerting line of determination. The look on her face. She looked…resigned. He'd wanted to shock her, to watch her fluster and backpedal.
“Not what you expected?” he asked.
“No, you're exactly what I expected. I don't know why I didn't realize sooner. It's not like I've never seen your picture. I'm a little embarrassed. Do you mind if I sit?”
He nodded, still intrigued. She didn't lie or try to make herself look better. She just told the truth. What else might she say?
Her gaze darted around the room, a mouse scanning for danger, and she settled on the edge of a chaise lounge across from him. Then she took off her shoes—actually took off her shoes—and rubbed her stockinged feet. Worked her thumb deep into the arch, sighing. He felt it in his groin.
“Gosh, my feet hurt. I don't know how my sister wears these things. If I put anything other than a sneaker or a croc near my toes, they just curl up in terror. Like the Wicked Witch of the East. Taking off my shoes is my favorite part of the day. That and my bra. Oh.”
“By all means, take that off too.”
She bit her lip and flushed. He knew she regretted that last admission as soon as it was out of her pretty mouth. She didn't look like the kind of girl who discussed her underwear in mixed company, but he couldn't resist pushing. This nervous babble was getting more interesting by the minute. The tantalizing peek of her bare toes through the fishnet was getting more interesting too.
He watched her school her features, bring herself back to calm and dignity. It was so much like what he did before he went onstage. Only in reverse. She steadied; he frenzied.
She took a deep breath. “I'd appreciate it if you didn't tease me. It isn't nice.”
Her quiet reprimand brought him up short. No one had expected niceness from him, ever. He’d grown up on tour with his parents, rock royalty who’d lived fast and died not quite as young as they’d expected. He’d been treated alternately like a tiny king and luggage. He’d had almost everything he wanted and nothing he needed. He wouldn't know where to begin…being nice. “I'm not teasing. I'm being a good host. Seeing to your comfort. I'll even take it off for you.”
She shook her head like he'd offered her another unwanted soda. So she wasn't here to try and fuck him. Why did that make his dick hard?
“I have a problem—a private, family matter—and I'd like your help.”
He leaned back in the chair, inhaling the leathery scent, and rubbed his eyes. Of course she wanted something. A signed photograph? A vial of some bodily fluid? A sweaty T-shirt worn onstage? Exhaustion settled over him like a lead blanket. “What do you want?”
“Last month you bought my sister a bus ticket home. She toured with you this summer. She's…”
“She's what? Sorry she left? If she got a ticket home, it's because she needed to leave. I doubt she'd be welcome back, even if you do plead her case. And I don't buy tickets. Our tour manager might.”
“She's pregnant.”
So it was that scam again. This was part of the reason he had his agreement. No questionable paternity suits for him. Not anymore. He knew exactly who he fucked, when, and for how long. He had them stored in a file, and since he hadn’t added to that in file nine months, he knew it wasn’t this girl’s transient sister. “Not by me. Not my problem.”
“I didn't say it was yours. I'm pretty sure it isn't, because she won't talk about the father. She'd be shouting it from the rooftops if it was you. You're a god in her eyes.”
“I'm no god. A demon, maybe.” Keeping starry-eyed groupies from broadcasting his conquests was another reason for his agreement. Too often their excitement turned sour, the fantasy never quite matching the reality. Turned out he didn’t magically become one of their nice guys when they fucked him, like some frog getting kissed. He'd written “Scorned” after a particularly grueling bout of tabloid vengeance.
Her soft brown eyes raked over his body. He could almost feel her gaze searching for scales and a tail. So fucking earnest. He wished he could sprout horns on the spot, to make her sad smile falter. “I was hoping you'd be able to help me find the father.”
Now he was shocked. “You want me to interview my band? My crew? Pass her picture around at sound check? That isn't how it works.”
“Nothing like that. We don't want it public. We both work for our church, and a scandal would be awful.”
“Church?” He nearly snorted his soda, the bubbles tickling the back of his throat. “I’m surprised you didn’t burst into flames downstairs. What do you do at church? No, let me guess. Sunday school?”
She pursed her lips. “Well yes. But that’s volunteer work. Chloe volunteers with the youth group. My paid job is in the attached child-care center.”
Of course. Another person paid to care. Worried about her job. “I can see why you’d want to keep this quiet.”
“I think if I can talk to some of the people here, I might be able to figure it out. Quietly. I could blend in? Like a groupie? Just for a few days. So I can convince him to do the right thing.”
A few days to ask around and figure out who her sister had fucked. Without it becoming public knowledge. Un-freaking-likely. Her plan was as thin as the air in the nosebleeds at Madison Square Garden, and judging from the desperation in her eyes, she knew it. But family could drive people to crazy depths; he knew all about that. For that and many reasons, he should throw her out, maybe even call the cops. This had stalker written all over it, but he couldn't hold back the grin spreading across his face as it clicked in his mind, exactly what he was going to do. He had so few vices left. “Stand up. Let me look at you.”
She rose slowly. “Maybe I will take that drink. What do people drink when they have no idea what they’re doing? Beer? Tequila?”
“Beer is for barbecue. Tequila is for bad decisions. And whiskey is for all-purpose adjustment. It’s what I always reached for when I drank. But I can’t help you drown your troubles in booze. Or are you looking for liquid courage?”
“No, I just—” The jut of her chin told him courage was exactly what she’d been looking for. He cast a glance at the bar, cleared of all alcoholic beverages prior to his arrival per his agent’s instructions. Not even a bottle of bitters. Like he’d ever been that desperate.
“You won’t find a drop of that here. I can call downstairs—”
“No, it’s fine. It’s not like I’m really a drinker.” She shivered. “I hate the taste.”
He regretted ever acquiring it.
She'd never pass as a groupie. Not even with her ripped fishnets and glitter fetish. She'd looked too horrified, too out of place in the middle of all the debauchery downstairs. And tonight was tame. But if she was with him? How badly did she want this particular all-access pass?
“You can stay, but I'll need you to ag
ree to a few terms first.”
“Whatever you want.”
“Yes, that's number one on the list.”
*
Hailey forced herself to stand still for his leisurely perusal. Even when he stood and stalked toward her, she managed to hold on to her dignity―whatever dregs she had left after donning these clothes and almost falling on her face. But his smile hit her like a blast of heat, blinding her, scalding her. He looked far too pleased with himself, like a man about to get everything he wanted. And her shaky insides warned she might just give it to him.
“What do you mean?” she asked, proud her voice didn’t quaver too much.
“You want to stay here while we’re in Chicago,” he said. “To stay here for three days, to blend in so that no one questions why you’re here. To ask questions, poke around.”
Yes, that was exactly what she wanted. So why did her nod feel like surrender? As if she’d agreed to his terms before she even knew them. But then maybe she did know what his terms would be. His eyes spoke the words his lips had yet to say. There were volumes of gold-flecked pages filled with all that sensual knowledge. They promised delight and, even better, a hard bite to the exchange. Where the men she had been with were a fresh spring breeze, he stood before her like the calm before the storm, his eyes darkening clouds.
“Can you…” She licked her lips. His gaze tracked the movement, making her feel hunted. “Can you help me?”
His expression softened. Just the slightest degree, but it was enough to slow the hammering of her heart. This was the same kind man she’d met in the lobby. Desire had given him a rough edge, turning his loping gait into a prowl, making his nostrils flare―scenting her. But he was still kind inside.
When he didn’t answer, she searched for whatever strength she might have found. You want… he’d said, listing her terms. Only his terms were left to be stated. A negotiation, then. But even as she thought the words, an image flashed through her mind, a gazelle caught from behind, the vicious beauty of her captor feasting in a National Geographic special.
