Perfect Ten: A Rockstar Romance

by Kelley R. Martin

  Copyright © 2017 by K.R. Martin

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission from the author, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages for review purposes.

  Great news! All of my titles are now available to read for free in Kindle Unlimited:

  The Hidden Series

  The Hidden

  Fallen

  Knockout Love Series

  Down and Out

  Sink or Swim

  Sucker Punched

  Standalones

  Sir

  First comes marriage. Then comes love.

  His band’s record went platinum ten times.

  I’ve known him for nine hours.

  Our wedding ceremony lasted eight minutes.

  Last night I must’ve had seven shots.

  When our nuptials are accidentally live-streamed, I wake up to six voicemails.

  He gave me five toe-curling orgasms.

  His tour lasts for another four weeks.

  He says he can’t wait to turn us into a family of three.

  He’s only in Vegas for two more days.

  His name is Tennessee King, and I’m absolutely terrified he might be the one.

  This is a standalone novella with an HEA and no cheating. If you’re looking for a quick read with scorching heat and lots of heart, dive right in!

  ONE

  Caroline

  My phone vibrates on the dressing table and I stop applying makeup long enough to glance down at the screen.

  Son of a bitch, I should have known.

  Fucker’s been blowing up my phone for two days straight.

  Anger simmers beneath my surface, threatening to boil over and spill out in an ugly, painful mess. That boy’s got balls the size of Texas to be calling me after what he did.

  The nerve!

  I pick up my phone, gripping it tightly as I debate whether or not to answer it. I’ve ignored him so far, but he doesn’t seem to be getting the message.

  Yeah, well get this, asshole.

  The need to lash out and unleash my pent-up fury has me swiping across the screen and bringing the phone up to my ear. “Stop calling me, dickwad! It’s over, we’re done.”

  He huffs out an exasperated breath. I can just picture him running his hands through his stupid, perfect hair. “You’re overreacting, Caroline. I didn’t fucking cheat on you!”

  He didn’t cheat on me? Did that seriously just come out of his mouth?

  “Chase, I saw you. You were either giving her the world’s worst Heimlich maneuver or you were fucking her.” I’ll have that goddamn image burned into my retinas for the rest of eternity thanks to that asshole.

  “Baby, baby, baby,” he says in that cajoling tone that annoys the hell out of me. “You’ve got it all wrong. It wasn’t her pussy I was fucking, it was her ass. Your pussy is the only pussy I fuck, I swear. C’mon, Care Bear, you know I’m only interested in the best of the best, and your pussy is just…it’s top shelf, baby. You can’t get any better than that, so I don’t even try.”

  “Oh, babe,” I coo, placing my palm over my chest. Be still my beating heart. “How sweet.” Gag. How did I ever find this man attractive? “God, Chase, is that supposed to make me feel better? It’s still cheating!”

  “Anal isn’t cheating,” he deadpans.

  “Uh, yeah it is. Anytime your penis enters the orifice of anyone besides me, it’s cheating.”

  He scoffs. He actually has the balls to scoff! “You’re the future mother of my children, Caroline. I’m not going to desecrate you by fucking you in the ass. Jesus, have a little respect for yourself.”

  “Oh my god, I can’t even—” Pinching the bridge of my nose, I squeeze my eyes shut. I can’t believe I wasted six months of my life on this douchebag, let alone that we’re even having this conversation.

  No, you know what? We’re not.

  “Thank you so much for taking the sanctity of my asshole into consideration, but it’s officially none of your concern anymore.”

  “Care Bear—”

  I cringe at the nickname. I hated it before—hello, do I look like a two-foot tall, rainbow-colored teddy bear for fuck’s sake?—but hearing it right now makes me want to stab someone. “Do the world a favor and sterilize yourself, Chase.”

  Gritting my teeth, I hang up without waiting for his response.

  I hope that slut gave him some mutant form of VD that’s immune to antibiotics. Would serve him right, the bastard.

  Ugh, I can’t believe I slept with that creep. Who knows how many others there were besides Skanky von Likes-it-in-the-ass?

  I want to puke just thinking about all the times I let him touch me and kiss me. Thank God for giving me the foresight to always make him wear a condom, no matter how much he begged and pleaded with me to go on the pill.

  Well, joke’s on him, I guess. I’ve been on it since I was sixteen.

  And thank the good Lord above that I didn’t catch anything from that wandering cock of his.

  It was humiliating and awful, but I marched my ass down to Planned Parenthood before my shift yesterday and got tested for every STD under the sun. I felt about as tall as the heels of those Lucite stilettos sitting on the counter next to my makeup, but whatever. It had to be done.

  I sigh at my reflection in the brightly lit vanity mirror. I felt like a whore yesterday, which is really something I should be used to by now, considering my chosen profession, but it’s not. I still get queasy going up on that stage and I still have to fight the urge to cringe every time a customer tells me they want some “one-on-one” time in the Champagne Room.

  If I didn’t need the money so bad, I’d quit. I’d leave this place behind in a heartbeat, but no other job will pay me the kind of cash I need for the level of skill and education I possess, which is next to nil.

  Mom’s medical bills aren’t going to pay for themselves, and food doesn’t just put itself on the table. Someone has to pay for these things, and I’ll be damned if I let my kid brother drop out of school to do it.

  That boy’s smart—he has a full scholarship to UCLA. He’s even on track to go to medical school after he graduates.

  No, Tyler has to stay in California, and he has to stay under the impression that things back here are peachy fucking keen, otherwise he’ll be on the first flight back to Vegas to shoulder his weight of our family’s financial burden, and I just can’t allow that. He’s worked too hard to piss it all away, so I’ll continue to shoulder the burden alone.

  Even if that means taking off my clothes for a living.

  “You’re on in five.”

  My head jerks up at the voice, and I turn in time to see Bridgette nodding at me before her and her bare ass disappear into the bathroom.

  Shit.

  Grabbing the powder brush from the counter, I swipe it along my T-zone once more for good measure. Ah, what the hell. I bring the brush down and do a quick pass through the valley of my cleavage, which is barely concealed by my two-sizes-too-small silver bikini top.

  Bending over, I gather my long hair and fold it into a wig cap, then straighten back up. Tufts of my fiery red curls still stick out here and there, so I tuck them under until no trace of Caroline remains.

  And now for the pièce de résistance…

  I pull on the angled black bob, straighten the wig, and fuss with the blunt bangs a bit until
movement behind me catches my eye in the mirror.

  Oh, great. Just who I want to deal with before I start my shift.

  His Italian loafers click on the tile the closer he gets. They’re usually some gaudy monstrosity, made out of crocodile skin or ostrich, or some other poor exotic creature.

  “Caroline, baby,” he says in greeting, running his hand up my back.

  A shudder rolls down my spine. I think it’s my skin trying to crawl off my body.

  I meet his beady little eyes in the mirror and shrug out of his reach. “What did I say about touching me, Roger?” Turning around to face him, I rest my hand on my cocked hip, glaring down at the short, pudgy, grease stain of a man I’m lucky enough to call my manager.

  He simply grins, like I’m all bark and no bite. “And what did I say about being nice to the customers, hmm? Here at Sinful Temptation, we pride ourselves on having the best-looking girls on the strip. Not to mention the…friendliest.” His black eyes dip down and rake over my tits.

  I roll my eyes. “Not this again.” How many times has he brought this up? Five? Six? My answer’s always the same, so why can’t he get it through his thick skull that it’s not going to happen? “Look, Roger, I’m a stripper, not a whore. I’m not turning tricks for your slimy, paunchy ass, so quit asking.”

  God, if only I could fucking quit. I’ve had it up to here with the dipshits who think that if they throw enough money at me, my thighs will magically open. I have standards, damn it, and twirling around that pole while getting naked is not the same as letting some random yuppie douche party inside my girly bits for two hundred bucks.

  They can look, but they sure as hell can’t touch.

  Roger grabs my elbow when I try to move past him, painfully digging his sausage fingers into my arm. “Now look here, Violet, you’re gonna start opening those pretty legs for any paying customer that wants between ’em, or I’m gonna find someone else who will. Your pussy ain’t fuckin’ golden, so get off your high horse and get with the program, or your ass is outta here.”

  I’m frozen in place, shocked by his audacity and hateful words. Who knew the little creep had it in him to try and strong-arm me? He’s pervy, yes, and a little too touchy-feely for my taste, but up until now I thought he was basically harmless.

  How could I have been so wrong? What is up with my people reading skills lately?

  “It’d be a real shame gettin’ rid of a prime piece like you.” His gaze turns lecherous as his thumb skims the swell of my breast, then brushes my nipple through the flimsy fabric. “Especially before I have the chance to test out the merchandise for myself.”

  Gone is the sliver of fear worming its way inside me, and in its place is white-hot anger, singeing everything in its path. How dare he touch me like that without my permission? Who the hell does this prick think he is?

  My knee connects with his balls before he even has a chance to blink. The bastard goes down immediately, releasing his grip on me to cup his—hopefully—irreversibly damaged testicles.

  “Fuck you and fuck this club. I quit.” I’m shaking with a mixture of rage, adrenaline, and shock as I step over his groaning, crumpled form on the ground.

  I don’t have time to think about the repercussions of my actions, like how I’ll pay for my mom’s medications or how I’ll stock the fridge and pantry, all of which are running low. The only thing that crosses my mind as I grab my tote bag from my locker is: Where’s the closest place I can get a drink?

  TWO

  Tennessee

  I’m bored as fuck as I look around the balcony of our penthouse suite. Naked groupies squeal and splash around the infinity pool overlooking the bright lights of Sin City, but I couldn’t care less.

  Girls, booze, partying—same shit, different city.

  The lounge chair next to me squeaks as Sawyer sprawls his tall frame across it. “What’s up with you? You’ve been quiet ever since our show last night.”

  Shrugging, I take another drag from the fifth of whiskey I’m nursing. “I dunno. Bored, I guess.”

  He snickers and sets his shades atop his head. “Since when are you bored with pussy?” he asks, nodding to the two chicks making out in the pool.

  Their surgically enhanced tits brush against each other, glistening from the gently lapping water. Pink tongues dance back and forth as their mouths move in a seductive game of give and take.

  It’d be a hell of a lot sexier if the girls weren’t so obviously checking out our reactions. Their erotic display is nothing more than an invitation for us to join. Maybe it’s just my pissy mood, but to me, this only comes across as a desperate ploy for attention. They might as well be shouting, “Look at us! Look at us!”

  Now don’t get me wrong, there are few hotter sights than two girls goin’ at it, but only if their hearts are truly in it. Bi chicks make the best threesome partners, because they’re happy regardless of whether they’ve got a bird in the hand or two in the bush.

  But having a threesome with two straight chicks? It’s a recipe for disaster. Someone’s always left out, and it just throws the whole mood off.

  I can tell just by looking at these two that they don’t love pussy as much as I do, and I’d be nothing but disappointed if I take them up on their offer.

  Sighing, I glance at Sawyer. “I’m not ‘bored’ with pussy.” He makes it sound like I want to try dick or something. Shit.

  “Then why are your panties in such a twist?” he asks, snatching the bottle of Jack away from me before taking a swig.

  “Because they’re your mom’s. Her thong’s riding up my ass.” I wince, like I’m actually uncomfortable, and Sawyer damn near chokes on the whiskey he stole from me.

  “Your mom” jokes are dumb enough as it is, but when we do one, it’s extra stupid since Sawyer’s mom is my mom.

  He coughs, eyes watering, before laughing. “Thanks for the visual.”

  I fiddle with the cap as he takes another drink.

  Truth be told, I am getting bored with pussy. Well, easy pussy. Getting laid is like shooting fish in a barrel. There’s no challenge, no chase.

  Being the lead singer of the hottest band in the world means there’s no shortage of beautiful, eager women willing to jump into my bed. And boy, have I had my fair share of them. The “bad boy of rock,” as the gossip rags have annoyingly dubbed me, has bedded everything from starlets to lingerie models to pop princesses to socialites.

  Every single one of them were high maintenance, uppity bitches with egos bigger than my dick. And I’ve got a seriously big dick.

  Now I stick to groupies. There are no expectations from them, no paps following their every move. They know they’ve got a night with me at most, and then it’s sayonara. It was working for a while, but now…

  Now I’m being a whiny little bitch.

  I try not to scowl as he hands the bottle back to me.

  “You want to get out of here?” he asks. “We could go downstairs and hit the casino.”

  I shake my head as I take a final draw from the bottle, then wipe my mouth and stand. “Nah, man, you stay here. It looks like they need some meat in that sandwich,” I say, jerking my head in the direction of the two groupies who are still swapping spit.

  I set the booze on the little glass table between us and pull my beanie from the back pocket of my jeans. Slipping it over my messy hair, I snatch Sawyer’s shades off the top of his head and put them on.

  I watch in amusement as he grabs the bottle of whiskey and struts over to the side of the pool. “Ladies,” he drawls, eating up their awestruck looks and little fits of giggles. Like Sawyer seriously needs his ego stroked any more. “Would you care to join me for a more…private party?”

  Scrubbing my jaw to hide my grin, I duck inside the suite and pass by my other two bandmates, Ryan and JD, as I walk through the living area.

  “Later,” they say in unison, their eyes glued to the giant flat screen and the game of Battlefield One they’re embroiled in.

  I nod at
the pair. “Later.”

  “Don’t get arrested this time,” Ryan calls out. “I mean it, Ten!”

  I roll my eyes as I hit the foyer, pressing the call button for the elevator.

  That last arrest wasn’t my fault. Damn paparazzo was harassing me. Wouldn’t get out of my face, no matter how much warning I gave the guy. Who could really blame me for popping the douche? He totally had it coming.

  The elevator dings as the doors slide open. Stepping inside, I press the button for the lobby, and then it’s just Ol’ Blue Eyes and me as he croons about flying away while the elevator descends.

  My fingers tap to the beat coming through the gold speakers on the ceiling, and pretty soon I’m singing along with Frank. It’s a far departure from my usual sound, but c’mon—who doesn’t love Frank? The guy’s a legend.

  I belt out the last verse and do a little spin right before the doors open and I spot the shop across the lobby. My tiny smile vanishes as I see the latest issue of Rolling Stone prominently displayed on the newsstand.

  I’m on the cover, naked except for a lavish crown and ceremonial robe draped around my shoulders. My hands are threaded through the hair of the naked chick kneeling in front of me, as if she’s blowing me. The headline below us reads, “All Hail the King.”

  I fucking hate that cover. We shot a bunch of different pictures that day, and the booze was flowing freely on set. By the time the photographer suggested the play on my last name, I was trashed. If I were in my right state of mind, I’d have flat-out nixed it. That picture makes me look like a pompous asshole. And yeah, I’m a lot of things—asshole usually being one of them—but pompous?

  Hell no. I’m not all that great. I’m drunk half the time, and I’m a fucking mess all the time. My manager threatened to ship me off to rehab if I pull one more tabloid-worthy stunt.

  I’m trying to keep my nose clean, I am, but why did he have to go and schedule a show in Vegas before our monthly weekend off? Downtime in Sin City has “bad idea” written all over it.

  It’s almost like that asshole wants me to screw up.