Hard SEAL: A Dark Bad Boy Next Door Romance

by Jessica Ashe

  I know full well the range of Naomi’s voice. That day we recorded in the booth is still at the forefront of my mind. When she wants to, she can sing with a degree of maturity and soul I wouldn’t have thought possible in a twenty-three year old who’s known nothing but success. Success and pain. The death of her father clearly left its mark on her. We at least have one thing in common—we both lost someone important to us.

  “Just keep an open mind, please,” Leona pleads. “I’m not saying you have to go out of your way to find an opportunity, but if one does appear, don’t be a stubborn bastard. Snatch it up with both hands.”

  “Fine, but I’m not sure we’ll even see each other again.”

  The second the words are out of my mouth, I know they’re a lie. They have to be, because my stomach contracts and twists into a knot when I imagine not seeing her again. Naomi and I haven’t made any plans—that needs to change.

  * * *

  Paparazzi have figured out how Naomi’s getting in and out of Wembley Stadium, so they’re crowded around the back entrance and don’t want to move for anyone.

  On my way past the paps, I turn and give them all my best stink eye. I don’t know why I do it. It’s pointless—the paparazzi have a thick skin and aren’t suddenly going to rethink their career choice just because I disapprove. Still, it makes me feel a bit better.

  One of them catches my eye. I’ve seen her before.

  The tourist. She’s the one with the camera outside the music studio that day. I’d assumed she was a tourist who got lucky and sold her photos to the press. Obviously she’s one of them and must have gotten a heads up that Naomi was in the area.

  God dammit. Naomi’s right—these people are dangerous and they get everywhere. Naomi can’t make a move without it being caught on camera. If it were me, I would avoid photos as much as possible, but Naomi’s explanation makes some sense. It’s impossible not to be photographed when you’re as successful and attractive as she is, so you might as well take back the narrative as much as you can.

  My crew pass gets me inside, but to get to Naomi’s dressing room I have to walk down a long hall past all the costumes and makeup departments. In total, at least twenty people see me on my way to Naomi. This is quickly going to become something we can’t keep a secret.

  “Evening, Lance,” I say formally.

  I catch him by surprise while he’s spreading chapstick over his lips. It’s really hard to take security seriously when their lips smell of sweet strawberries. He quickly slips it away in his pocket as I approach, but it’s hard to miss the glossy lips and strawberry scent. Weird dude, this one.

  He’s not the most cheerful chap in the world, so we have that in common. We also both want Naomi to be safe. I don’t think he’ll ever give me an easy time, but perhaps that’s for the best. Naomi will always be his priority, not some guy she may or may not be dating.

  “She’s getting dressed,” Lance says, still blocking the door.

  “That’s a shame. Maybe if you let me in quickly, I can catch her in her underwear.” Lance stares at me not moving a muscle. I return his gaze, and eventually he knocks on the door and I hear Naomi invite me in. “Thanks, Lance.”

  No reaction. Not a word. I like this guy.

  I walk in and see Naomi dressed in a tight leather catsuit. “Holy shit,” I exclaim. “I usually have to wait until the fourth date to see a woman dressed like that. Need any help taking—”

  I stop talking as I notice Naomi motioning with her eyes to my right. I recognize that look. It’s the look my friends gave me in school when I was badmouthing one of the teachers who happened to be stood right behind me at the time. I turn to my right and notice the third person in the room.

  “Hi,” I say confidently. I’ve no idea who this woman is, but she presumably works for Naomi.

  “Hello, Mr. Curtis,” she replies.

  Once again, I feel like I’m back in school and about to be told off by my teacher.

  “This is Katrina,” Naomi says. “She’s my manager.”

  “Nice to meet you, Katrina.”

  “Hm. We’re kind of busy right now, Mr. Curtis. Naomi is going onstage in thirty minutes.”

  “I won’t be long. Just want a quick word with Naomi.”

  “Fine, go ahead. But be quick about it.”

  I stand there waiting for Katrina to leave, but it finally dawns on me she intends to stay. I look at Naomi but she just shrugs. Good job I’m not here to proposition her for sex again.

  “Naomi, I was wondering whether you would like to go for dinner with me again?”

  That’s about the politest I’ve ever been when asking a woman out.

  “She’s too busy for dinner,” Katrina says immediately.

  “No she’s not,” Naomi says. “I’m not performing the day after next, and I guess that means Damon has the night off too.”

  “You should be using that night off to rest,” Katrina says.

  “What could be more relaxing than talking to a friend over dinner?” I ask.

  “It’s more what happens after dinner that worries me,” Katrina says.

  Naomi looks embarrassed, which I choose to take as a good sign. Katrina thinks Naomi and I are close, which means Naomi hasn’t told her otherwise.

  “I promise to have her home by eleven,” I say.

  “And when will you leave?”

  “As soon as I’ve had breakfast.”

  “Damon, stop winding her up,” Naomi says. “Katrina, he’s just asking me to dinner. You’ve been encouraging me to go on another date; here it is.”

  “I have someone rather different in mind,” Katrina says. “But I suppose it’s good you’re getting back out there. Where do you intend to take her?”

  So. Many. Rude. Jokes.

  Behave, Damon.

  “The Ivy,” I reply. That’s a nice place and they always have celebrities there. It’s presumably expensive, but that’s what credit cards are for. Visa and Mastercard never say as such on the adverts, but it’s always implied.

  Visa: great for making women think you’re rich.

  Mastercard: buy the lobster and you’re bound to get laid.

  “Sounds lovely,” Naomi says. “But only if you agree in advance to let me pay. That place is stupidly overpriced.”

  “I can pay,” I reply. “And you promised you’d let me pay for the second meal.”

  “They’ll be loads of paparazzi there,” Katrina says. “They pretty much camp outside The Ivy.”

  “That’s okay,” I say. “We’re bound to get spotted eventually.”

  “You hate being photographed,” Naomi says.

  “I can get over it.”

  “I’m sure you can,” Katrina mutters under her breath.

  What does she mean by that?

  “Maybe we should go somewhere a little quieter,” Naomi suggests. “I’d much rather hang out at a pub instead of some posh restaurant.”

  I suspect she’s just trying to let me off a big bill, but Katrina is burning holes in the back of my head, and the clock is ticking.

  “Okay, we can do that,” I say reluctantly. “I’ll ask around and see if the boys know anywhere good to go.”

  “Make sure you run it past Lance first,” Katrina says. “It’ll have to be somewhere he can get comfortable with.”

  “How romantic. Should I invite him along for dinner too?”

  “I hope you’re not joking about Naomi’s safety?” Katrina asks.

  “No, no, of course not.” I think back to those four guys who assaulted her outside Wembley Stadium, and the photographer disguised as a tourist. Naomi’s not paranoid; she’s afraid of a threat that’s very real. “I’ll make sure Lance is happy with wherever I choose.”

  “Good,” Katrina says. “Now, if you don’t mind….”

  I smile at Naomi and wish her good luck before walking back outside. I can’t deny being a little relieved at the change in venue. It’s not just the money—I don’t feel at home in expensive
restaurants. I know where I am in a pub with a pool table and a dartboard. The last restaurant we went to together had more different forks on the table than beers on tap.

  A pub should have the added benefit of privacy. People won’t expect someone like Naomi to slum it, so with any luck by the time she gets noticed we’ll be on our way out. That is, unless her manager leaks our location to the press again. It wouldn’t surprise me. And what about Naomi? Can she really go an entire evening without posting her location on social media? God I hope so. The last thing I want is my dating life to be followed by millions. Not to mention, I might have a few exes that follow Naomi online. Wouldn’t want them getting in touch and telling Naomi that I’m a piece of shit who sleeps around and doesn’t call back.

  That’s not going to happen this time. Not with Naomi.

  Chapter Twelve

  Damon

  “Are you going to pick her up?” Mum asks. She’s getting nervous and it’s rubbing off on me.

  “No, she has enough drivers as it is. I’m going to meet her there.”

  “Good, good. I doubt she wants to be seen in your old banger.” Mum can’t stay still when she’s nervous, and right now she’s making her third cup of tea in an hour.

  “Sit down, Mum. You’re making me tired just watching you.”

  “This is exciting for us, son,” Dad says. “We might get to meet someone famous.”

  “Dad, do you have any idea who she is?”

  “Thanks to your daughter, I have her songs stuck in my head. And I know that she’s pretty. Nice work there.”

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  “Don’t mess this one up,” Mum says. “You need to treat her like a lady, not like those bits of rough you usually hang out with.”

  “Yes, Mum, I know.”

  “Well go and get dressed. You need to leave in twenty minutes.”

  “I am dressed.”

  “Oh for the love of… go and put a shirt on at least.”

  “I’m wearing a shirt.”

  “One with buttons, Damon.”

  I look over at Dad who rolls his eyes for sympathy, but doesn’t say anything. We both know not to talk back to Mum when she has her ‘don’t mess with me’ tone of voice on.

  I head upstairs and change into one of only two shirts I own that have buttons. I don’t own any formal trousers, but fortunately the shirt goes with jeans. Besides, who wears trousers to a pub?

  A few people turn their heads to look at me on the way to dinner. I’m used to getting glances from women, so it’s not that unusual. Still, I can’t help but wonder if this is anything to do with being photographed with Naomi. This is why I don’t want Emma appearing in those photos. I don’t want her to be famous just for knowing someone successful. I’d rather she not become famous at all, but if she does, I want it to be on her own merits.

  Naomi is there before me, and I know that because I see Lance standing outside the pub looking as conspicuous as always. For a security guard, he doesn’t make much effort to blend in. I pass two more familiar faces inside the pub as I head to a table at the back where Naomi is sat with a glass of wine.

  I stop at the bar to buy a beer before joining her at the table. The entire time I’m at the bar, I keep staring at her as she flicks through her phone. She hasn’t quite gone as far as wearing fake glasses and a plastic mustache, but she is wearing a disguise of sorts. She’s dressed simply in a casual knee length skirt and a hoodie, with her hair tied up casually, like most girls do when they don’t have a full-time makeup artist on staff.

  She still looks beautiful. Even better than normal actually. I find the expensive outfits and fancy makeup to be a distraction. This is the real Naomi. This is the Naomi that I will wake up to tomorrow morning. Fingers crossed.

  Naomi quickly slips her phone back into her purse as I approach. The slightly guilty look on her face makes it clear she was flicking through her social media feeds again. It’s an addiction; I know all about addiction.

  “Anyone spotted you here yet?” I ask, after giving her a quick kiss on the cheek.

  “Not that I can tell. A few guys looked over, but I don’t think they recognized me.”

  “Probably just checking you out.”

  “Oh please, I look like I’ve come straight from a weekend camping in a tent. Katrina insisted I go dressed like this to blend in with the locals.”

  “You definitely look the part and I love it. Although, if you want to blend in, you might have to tone down the accent a bit.”

  “What about if I speak like this, dahling?” she says in an excruciating English accent.”

  “Not helping,” I reply.

  “Well, I’ll order a pint of that muddy water you call beer, and eat fish and chips for dinner. Do you think that will help?”

  “Only one way to find out.”

  I go back to the bar to order food and bring back a couple more pints.

  “I haven’t finished the wine yet.”

  “There’s nothing more British than having another drink lined up for when you finish the first one.”

  “I dread to think how many calories are in these drinks.”

  “Then don’t think about it. Anyway, look at you. You’re one of those people who just doesn’t put on weight.”

  “I get it from Mom. My dad was actually quite a heavyset bloke.”

  “I remember you describing him as ‘cuddly’ in the song you wrote.”

  Naomi smiles. “That’s a good description of him. I was always a bit of a Daddy’s girl.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me in the slightest.”

  The conversation drifts to silence as it usually does when the topic of Naomi’s father comes up. The food comes over to break up the tension, but it still lingers as we eat. At what point am I supposed to ask what happened to him? Maybe she expects me to already know. The information’s probably online if I look. I don’t know why I haven’t; it just feels deceitful to do it that way. Or perhaps I’m hoping that by not asking about her father, she doesn’t ask about Yolanda. That’s not a conversation I’m looking forward to.

  Screw it, no time like the present.

  “What happened to your father?” I ask.

  Naomi’s silence lasts long enough that I almost apologize for asking, but then she talks. “Armed robbery. Some guy thought Dad had cash on him and held him up at gunpoint. Dad didn’t do anything stupid; he went along with the whole thing and handed over his wallet. The guy shot him anyway, and then ran off. Police never caught him.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Naomi shrugs. “Not your fault. And it’s not like you don’t know where I’m coming from.”

  “That’s why you have security everywhere you go, isn’t it?”

  “I should have security anyway, but yes, my dad’s death is what led me to hire a team. Fortunately, Lance was available. He’d been working for a singer who hit hard times and couldn’t afford him anymore. She let him go a few months before Dad’s death. Lance is the only good thing to come out of the whole mess. Honestly, I know he gives you a hard time, but he means well and would do anything for me. I don’t know what I’d do without him.”

  “I can see that. I don’t blame him being suspicious of me, but I intend to earn his trust.”

  “That might not be easy. He’s fairly protective of me. Say, for example, you were to escort me back to my hotel room tonight, he may give you ‘the talk.’”

  “In that case, you’d better make it worth my while once we get to the hotel room.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  We make it all the way through to dessert before a photographer shows up. It’s that woman again. Lance keeps her out of the pub—which might not be entirely legal, but I’m not going to complain. She restricts herself to taking photos through the window instead.

  “I hate that one,” I say about the photographer, as I turn my attention back to Naomi.

  “You’ve seen her before?”

  “Yeah, she’s the one who t
ook a picture of us as we walked into the studio. I also saw her hanging around the hotel the other night.”

  “I’ve seen her around as well. I think she works for DMZ; at least that’s where they tend to publish her pictures. It’s not unheard of for websites like that to place a photographer on full-time control of one particular celebrity. Looks like I’m her assignment. I hate to spoil her night, but maybe we should have dessert back at the hotel.”

  “I bet I know what you have in mind for dessert.”

  “You know me too well,” Naomi says. “I can’t resist a good apple pie.”

  I lean over and whisper in Naomi’s ear. “If apple pie is the only thing I eat tonight I’m going to be very disappointed.”

  I hear her breath catch in her throat, and my cock stirs from its slumber. We need to get out of here quickly, or things could get embarrassing for me when I stand up.

  “We’re leaving,” I growl. “Now.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Naomi

  It’s incredible the extra lengths celebrities have to go to before having sex. On the way up to the hotel, I have to subtly tell Lance that he should position himself at the end of the corridor and as far away from my room as possible. He’s almost as embarrassed as I am.

  Damon doesn’t give me a lot of time to think about it. He pushes me through the door into my penthouse suite and guides me straight to the bed.

  “Do you want a drink?” I ask.

  “No.”

  “The mini-bar’s stocked. I have beer, wine, vod—”

  “Naomi, I don’t want a drink.”

  Damon grips my upper arms with his strong hands and holds me in place. I’m nervous. Why am I so nervous? I’ve had sex plenty of times before. If the article is to be believed then perhaps I’m not any good at it, but the guy usually ends up satisfied.

  At the very least, I’m not bad at sex. I know what I’m doing and I’m not squeamish. That has to—