Hotstreak: A Bad Boy New Adult Romance (Chaos, Nevada Book 2)

by Liz K. Lorde

  If I was going to be drawn up to the slaughter, I’d want it to be done by that guy.

  Naturally every god damn muscle in my body tightened up with a frighteningly nervous electricity when I heard my name over the speakers.

  “Thank you for that, Amy. Seriously thank you. And one of our last acts for tonight, can we get a nice warm round of applause for Jessica number two.” The man’s voice boomed through the speakers as he looked out against the sea of people, hoping to spot this Jessica that he’d never seen. The patrons of the place gave a lighthearted clap.

  I immediately shot a look at Hunter. All three of the men were looking at me. “Please,” I said, my guts wanting to fall out of me, “please do not tell me…”

  Reyes gave it away the most, with the hard lines of his face forming in such a way that I could just tell he was trying his hardest not to snicker.

  Hunter put a hand on my leg, “Baby, don’t hate me—“

  “Oh it is way, way too late for that,” I said in a high pitched voice, unable to believe what was unfolding before me. “Did you—I mean, s-seriously? N-no. No, nuh-uh. Nope, no way this is gonna—“

  The man on stage spoke up again, his voice sounding out my name characteristically and with extra syllables, “Jess-s-sic-a. We’re dying to hear your lovely voice, so if you could please come on-n-n up. Don’t be shy now.”

  Hunter got up out of his chair and I swear my heart stopped right there. I pictured it in my head, my gravestone engraved plainly ‘died from embarrassment’. His big and strong hands went right to my waist.

  Immediately and without thought I protested with no’s and Hunter’s and I looked over to Jameson and Reyes with puppy dog eyes, hoping to score some kind of sympathy.

  Hunter whispered in my ear as he started leading me towards the stage, “I know this is scary babe, I know. I’m gonna do the first one with you, okay?”

  “I can’t do this,” I exhaled a sharp breath, trying to get the glass out of my system. It wasn’t working. Every step we took was like trying not to step on a bed of hot coals in a factory that was designed to make a ludicrous number—

  “Yes you can,” Hunter assured, that soft, beautiful voice chipping away just a small bit of my apprehension.

  “No,” I blurted as the guy on stage smiled, “no I don’t think I can.”

  The guy on stage said, “There she is!” He waved a hand in my direction, “let’s give our darling dearest another round, yes?”

  Everyone applauded and when I looked back I could see Jameson with his goofy smile giving me two big thumbs up. “I hate you all passionately and equally,” I mumbled to Hunter as we ascended the stage.

  “And I totally get that,” he said and then gave a short little laugh, “trust me you’re going to blow them all away. You’re going to do three songs.”

  “Three?!” I said a little too loudly, getting a funny look from the ringleader of this nightmare.

  “Don’t worry,” Hunter put his hands on my shoulders and looked at me with those beautiful blue eyes, “the first one you know, the other two – you can pick whatever you want, pretty much.”

  I moved over to the microphone stand and Hunter sidled over to the medium sized Marshall amplifier, which had a mic resting on top of it. “What song?” I asked him.

  Hunter picked up the mic and shot me a playful grin before moving next to me, “Oh, you’ll know it when it starts playing.”

  The stage lights dimmed and the Ringleader walked passed me. As he did so, he said, “You’ll do fine,” he was clearly picking up on my nerves. “I’m Bob, by the way.”

  “Thanks,” I offered, trying to swallow away my nerves. Surprise: that did fracking nothing.

  Bob pecked away at the keyboard of his laptop and before I knew it the speakers were playing something. Something very familiar.

  I looked over to Hunter and I couldn’t help but smile even against my nerves, exhaling a sharp breath and shaking my head. I brushed at my face, internally fist pumping at the lack of sweat. You can do this, I repeated that like it was a mantra.

  Hunter grabbed my hand and cocked his head to the side, a popping noise happening as he did. He looked my way and smiled, assuring me with just his looks that everything would be okay.

  I fiddled with the microphone stand, adjusting it as much as I could figure out ‘till I was satisfied. I looked over to the screen and a four beat countdown began, Bob signaling with his fingers just when it was time for us to sing. I tried to block everything out, tried to ignore the veritable sea of faces looking over to me – or most of them were anyway, some of them were eating or talking to others. Still, even the ones that weren’t eying me, it felt like I could feel the pressure of them watching me anyway.

  Taking in a large breath, I sung:

  “Love is a burnin’ thing.

  And it makes a fiery ring.

  Bound by wild desire.

  I fell into a ring of fire.”

  I focused on Hunter’s hand, and looked to his club brothers for reassurance. Some of the nerves floated away, but I still felt caught between heaven and hell. When the chorus rolled around, Hunter’s voice melded with mine – and we came together in a pretty kick ass harmony.

  “I fell into a burnin’ ring of fire.

  I went down, down, down.

  And the flames went higher.

  And it burns, burns, burns.

  The ring of fire, the ring of fire.”

  Closing up the song, I noticed this particular looking fellow way off in the back who had his arms folded over his chest, looking serious. My ‘audience’ went unexpectedly into this crazy, thunderous applause and I couldn’t for the life of me believe how much noise they were making. I could hardly hear myself think and if my heart wasn’t pounding so hard in my chest, I wouldn’t have been able to hear it, either.

  Hunter quietly and gracefully left the stage, mouthing ‘you got this’ to me before making his way back to his seat.

  I spoke briefly with Bob and had him set me up with Don’t Stop Believin’ by Journey. When I was halfway through the song, it was the strangest feeling in the world – to be up on stage and wondering what I’d be making for breakfast in the morning, or if I’d go to Hunter’s for the night, or if I’d have him come to my place. I felt weightless.

  When I was singing, I felt free. Alive. This surreal surge of power and joy and this want to weep crashed over me mercilessly.

  This was what it was like singing in front of an audience. To be so hideously and yet wonderfully exposed at my core. I’d seriously wanted to punch Hunter, and I still kind of do, but with each line that I sang I realized something.

  He was giving me a gift. My eyes crawled along the audience and stopped briefly on that serious looking guy. When I finished the song and was met with that same level of appreciation, I wanted to melt away on that stage; I felt my eyes stinging and I had to look away for a moment and brush at the tears that weren’t quite there.

  It was tough to believe. But drunk, sober, maybe they were paid to like me? Whatever. They liked me. All those days when I was in school I was always mocked by my girlfriends for my voice. I’d never told anyone that, and it was so long ago. I could still hear them in my head, the way they would snicker and they were so blunt at how bad they thought I was.

  I sang Dream On by Aerosmith for my last song, and though I mostly looked to Hunter, there was something about the mysterious person in the back. He wore a decadent black suit and he had a nice patch of unshaven, blonde facial hair. Where his hair should have been, he was bald, save for the sides of his head – they were maybe an inch thick at the most.

  I took a final bow and hugged Bob, thanking him way too many times in far too emotional of a tone. He told me that I was truly amazing and hugged me right back.

  Getting off of the stage, I walked back to Hunter’s table as Bob called up the next person destined for that yellow microphone – that microphone that I never would have suspected would become such an integral
part of my life.

  When I went over to Hunter, I hugged him so tight that I was sure I’d be crushing him.

  I didn’t want to ever let him go. Not even for a second.

  22

  Jessica

  Many, many hours later, just when I thought the night would be winding down, Hunter insisted he take me to the abandoned Ryker’s district where some race was supposed to be going down. I’d tried to tell him that I wasn’t super comfortable with the idea of breaking the law, though I didn’t have much of a problem with bending it. Of course this only emboldened the man to make it his personal life goal to get me to say yes. Eventually, after saying no so many times that the word began to sound nothing like a word, and my throat began to hurt – though it was probably more from the singing – I caved and agreed under the condition that the drive be a quiet one.

  And so of course, there was anything but silence.

  He’d wanted to take my baby out for a spin, so I’d let him drive the corolla. In hindsight, this was a huge mistake as he treated her like a sloppy, reckless bastard. His surprise at me being serious about having him pull over and switching seats was a memory sure to be burned into my mind.

  I decided that I would leave those bits out of my article, and when my mind turned to the thought of my job, my heart dipped into my stomach.

  Like a masochistic mantra, I told myself that this was all an illusion. It could not last.

  When we finally arrived, the place was dark and eerily devoid of life around the neighboring buildings. Three streets worth, a good deal of the outside bend that made up the edge of the city; and the entire shipyard were normally desolate. Never did bother to find out why exactly, but I did know from my days researching the homeless initiatives that even the drifters didn’t bother going here really. Too far from the civilized world to be of any use, not like you can beg or steal from things that aren’t there. Not to mention a lack of life meant no socialization.

  Tonight though, the streets were alive with people. After parking parallel with the other cars on the side of the road, we got out and Hunter cinched a hand around my waist, leading me through the dark, poorly lit street. The only lights were from other cars; cell phones, the moon and a few stray barrels that were alit, producing thin, twisting lines of smoke.

  “Just act natural,” Hunter offered, tightening his grip against me – his eyes drinking me in with this basic lust that made my core tighten, “you’re with me, so you’ll be safe.”

  “Don’t need the likes of you to keep me safe.”

  “Well a tall, freakishly handsome, big guy such as myself can’t hurt your chances,” he joked, and I couldn’t help but glow.

  “I guess not,” I playfully conceded as we walked past a man with his smartphone. He’d a white cap on turned backwards on his head, and wore saggy blue jeans with an overly large plain white tee. His dark skin danced with orange light against the glowing embers of the flaming barrel that had taken residence beside a broken street light, on the side walk. His eyes flicked over me and he raised his chin in both acknowledgement and no doubt wanting to get into my pants.

  Hunter cast a stern look the dude’s way and pulled me along towards the two cars that were beside each other in the street. There was a crowd on either end of the two cars, with neon lights emitting just below the two beasts. One green, the other red. Hunter and I walked on the right side, nearing the edge of the crowd of people that were gathered by the red neon of the car.

  My heart fluttered with excitement at seeing so many different people yammering away and stuffing money and various papers into a box. The man who held this box walked all along the edge of the gathering of people, a golden tooth glinting as he encouraged people to give up what paper they had. His hair was dark and shaggy and spilling all over his head in these long curls. I guessed his age to be somewhere in the forties. His brown skin all leathery and worn with lines of age, and a few days old lack of shave could be spotted around his face.

  Hunter pointed at him, “Betting man,” he said, and I gave him a pointed look as if to say ‘that is obvious, you dick’ and immediately he put his hands up to me in defense. “Sheesh,” Hunter said, “goes by the name Roll-Em Jones. Also holds a poker game on LaFayette. I know he looks shady, but he’s actually one of the realest people you’d get to meet out on the street,” this was clearly Hunter’s element, I could tell he prided himself on knowing the people of the street.

  “I see,” I said in understanding, “he does look shady.”

  Hunter raised both of his brows and I graced him with a smile.

  “Can we get up closer?” I asked, not really asking as I already stepped in front of Hunter and worked my way past the veritable hodgepodge of onlookers. Upon closer inspection, it was clear to me that the car with red neon was a modified 2002 Subaru Impreza; customized with glossy red rims, a spoiler and dark green tinted windows. Hunter caught up to me as I glided over curiously to the passenger side, crouching down to peek inside the open window.

  Ignoring the tatted up, poser of a man resting easy in the driver’s seat, my eyes drank in the beautiful sight of plush dark leathers and pristinely kept interiors. From the corner of my eye, I could see a subwoofer in the back of the car and a surround sound stereo system decorated the inside; each speaker a honeybee yellow and obsidian black.

  I saw that on the man’s excellently kept steering wheel, it held paddle shifters. Internally I swooned, but on the outside I tried to make it look like nothing at all.

  The driver turned to face me, and for a small instant I held some regret for dismissing him as a poser. He had a gorgeous face, maybe not quite as nice as Hunter’s, but definitely impressive in all of the right places. He had the slightest whisper of pronounced cheekbones, and alluring, deep green eyes that pulled me to his thin lips. The handsome man smiled at me, and my insides did a little happy squirm – he genuinely had one of the greatest, kindest smiles I’d ever seen.

  Like a kid in a candy store who’d stolen his parents credit card or something.

  Hunter’s hand found my wrist and he tugged me back to reality, “Come on beautiful,” he whispered, having me turn to face him, “think you’re holding up the show.”

  “Am I not good enough to be your show?” I teased.

  “Never,” Hunter gave his sexy, low purr, and before I knew it, after he pulled me to the edge of the crowd, his lips smashed against my own. His tongue flicked and danced with mine, coming together in this delightful softness – each exploration uncovering another gem of hidden pleasure. God, even his saliva tasted good, like liquid jolly rancher. I felt like an idiot for thinking that way, but in that moment, with my core winding up in dark lust I knew: I couldn’t ever deny those lips.

  As if it were true to the movies, a girl with a large red card stepped into the middle of the street and the street audience came alive. We clapped and jeered right along with them. The girl wore a skimpy, gaudy kind of glittering bra for a top. The rest of her skin glistened and her blonde bubblegum hair came down as two French braids.

  Bubblegum Girl stood between the two cars as they revved up their engines, igniting the cheers of the people. After doing a set of excited little bobs and wiggles of her hips, Bubblegum Girl flipped the card over and screamed, revealing a bright green.

  The music of screams and engines and tires wailing against asphalt filled the night, as the twin demons rocketed off into the distance – screeching as they quickly crossed the drag line. Far away, one could spot a yellow card being held up on the right side of the road and from the commotion, that indicated the Impreza Driver had taken the glory.

  Meanwhile, Roll-Em Jones gleefully took his money off of the top and cashed out the winning bets.

  An hour of the night passed and Hunter had managed to introduce me to a good number of characters that he’d come to know. Mentioning off handedly that although Hunter himself never raced, he made sure to check them out usually once a month.

  Guess I was his exception fo
r a number of things.

  Once the night came to winding down, there was one event left that Hunter had been insisting was new. That the organizers had set up a small makeshift, miniature racing track along the shipyard with traffic cones.

  I don’t know if it was the high from earlier singing in front of everyone like that, or if it was just an effect Hunter was having on me. But I felt something warm and overpowering grow in my chest, this invisible thorn that I couldn’t pluck.

  When what remained of the group moved over to the shipyard, I saw that Impreza Driver was competing again, though this time with an entirely different opponent.

  The dark blue, almost pitch black ocean waters lapped against the elevated base of the shipyard – only the bathing of moonlight giving each cutting, rolling wave a silvery glimmer. What remained of the working man’s graveyard were lots of tagged shipping containers of blues and reds and yellows. Littered all around were these bright orange traffic cones. An eerie tone was set to the exciting night by the low crawling mist, it seemed to lazily grab at people’s legs.

  I glanced over at Roll-Em Jones, who was conversing with two other guys – each of them a head bigger than him, and way more cut. Flicking my gaze to Hunter, I said, “Don’t freak out, but I’m going to go talk to the driver,” I pointed towards the Impreza with my chin. When I went to leave, I felt Hunter’s familiar hand on my wrist again, and he was giving me a pointed look. Was he jealous?

  “Why? What you know that guy or something?”

  I forcefully removed myself from his touch and stepped forward, “No, just stand back for once and let me see if I can give you a story to tell like you gave me.” I was being purposefully cryptic and it felt fun. When I found myself beside the Impreza’s driver side window, I leaned down and tapped on it and a moment later, the windows rolled down.