Reckless

by Priscilla West

  Jax came around to my side and the next thing I knew, I felt light pressure through the back of my blouse, long fingers gently exploring the landscape of knotted muscles.

  My eyes widened. Good lord, that feels good.

  From the first touches, it was obvious he knew what he was doing. My body responded to him like clay in a potter’s hands. I found myself relaxing, the soreness fading fast.

  His thumbs worked at a place in my neck where I’d ached ever since I got whiplash on a Tilt-a-Whirl when I was in high school. Jax may have had his faults—manwhore, arrogant, dangerous, to name a few—but being bad at massages was not one of them.

  With one palm on each side of my spine, he folded his fingers together and made a sharp, quick motion. My neck cracked with a loud snap.

  "Aaaah! Did you just break my neck?!" I cried. I reached to rub at the ache, expecting to feel a bone popping out the side of my neck only to find that my neck now bent more when I flexed it—and it didn’t hurt.

  "Relax," he said in a low voice that seemed almost intimate. "This is just the beginning. I had to do that to loosen you up."

  Finding nothing out of place, and in fact actually feeling much better, I settled my cheek back onto the leather cushion. He resumed kneading my back and shoulders, and it wasn’t long before I found my eyes closing and thoughts of the hectic day dissipating by the second.

  "You’re holding your breath," he said softly as his fingers plied at sensitive muscle. "You need to relax."

  I exhaled with control, becoming aware that his hands had moved to my lower back and that I’d been holding my breath ever since they got there. "I am relaxed."

  "That’s better. Now you are," he said, pushing at a tender spot, making electricity jolt up my spine. It felt amazing and I bit my lower lip to prevent a sound from escaping. "You know . . ." he said softly, "moaning helps."

  Eyes closed and feeling like jello, I managed a wry smile. "If you think I’m going to moan for you, I wouldn’t get your hopes up."

  "You will," he said, so casually that it seemed trivial.

  "I won’t," I responded, mimicking his tone.

  He settled into a rhythm, kneading the muscles along my neck and working his way down my back, then starting at my neck again. Slow, languid movements. Soft but firm. Up. And down. Again and again.

  "Little harder, right there," I breathed, as I felt Jax’s hand drift over a sore spot at the base of my lower back. He lifted the bottom of my blouse slightly and splayed his warm hands over the area, gradually increasing the pressure with the heels of his palms. I found little reason to resist and lacked the energy to as well. With the barrier between his hands and my skin removed, his touches felt twice as good.

  "Harder," I insisted softly.

  "Patience." He took his time, squeezing his thumb into the ache, steadily increasing the pressure and sending relief flooding through my body.

  My fingers dug into the leather cushion. I arched into his palms, feeling the heat of his body spreading into mine. His hands were so big they could almost cover my whole back at once, and I squirmed against them trying to feel their radiating pressure.

  I was vaguely aware of his muscular thighs straddling me as he leaned his body into the movements. I writhed beneath his touch, my heartbeat pounding in my ears. I couldn’t think of anything but sensation.

  I felt something warm near my shoulder and realized it was his breath, hot and hungry and so very close. His mouth lingering inches away from my flushed skin, I trembled with a need that I knew better than to fulfill.

  "You smell incredible," he whispered, his mouth close to me, the rasp in his words vibrating through my body, making me shudder with pleasure. Emotions swirled in my head, but the one that dominated was lust. Tornadic, destructive lust. I wanted him.

  As his lips brushed against my shoulder, I opened my mouth and released the pent-up energy. The moan that escaped my lips sounded like one I would have right before an orgasm.

  Then nothing. The sudden absence of Jax’s hands on my skin felt almost like pain.

  Still throbbing with need, I twisted at the waist, maddeningly confused. I watched him stand up, pick out a sandwich from the fridge, and walk toward the stairwell, whistling a tune I recognized as one of the songs the band had played at the Wallabee.

  He reached the steps and turned back to me, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "That’s for New York. See you in Chicago, Riley."

  Chapter Eight

  FIRST STOP: CHICAGO

  Half an hour before The Hitchcocks were scheduled to take the stage, I was doing exactly what I was hired for: making steady progress on paperwork in a backstage maintenance room, surrounded by power tools and foul-smelling cleaning supplies. I’d been trying to avoid Jax all day and so far succeeding.

  I thought about calling Kristen in the morning to tell her about all the craziness of yesterday with Jax, but she already had so much on her plate with the baby so I decided to call Jen instead. I was relieved to get it off my chest. Jen had been surprised and sympathetic at first but then she’d said, "Typical Riley. Always getting into trouble. I’m not there to hold you back this time, so if you’re basically living in close quarters with the rock god, you’re pretty much fucked." Jen’s lack of faith in me only bolstered my determination to keep Jax at a distance. I’d show her. And Jax.

  Jax. Ugh! I put my hands over my face and hung my head in front of the laptop screen. Just remembering how he left me with blue balls last night—or whatever the female equivalent was called—made me furious. And the worst part was I’d been stupid enough to fall for it. Although he’d fixed my sore shoulder, I ended up tossing and turning through the night, not because the couch cushion felt like it was made out of bamboo, but because I was too aroused to fall asleep. I’d considered ways of relieving the tension—the privacy of the bathroom being one tempting option—but I was too stubborn. I could picture him smugly imagining me touching myself from the massage he’d given me.

  My first reaction had been to retaliate. I’d spent at least a half hour pondering how to get him back, giggling maniacally to myself as I brainstormed ways of getting my hands on Viagra using an old-man disguise. I’d give him balls so blue that a smurf would look at them and say, "Damn, that’s blue!"

  Then I’d snapped to my senses. That was exactly what he wanted. He wanted me to play games with him. And that’s why I made up my mind this morning to stay away from Jax at any cost—even if it meant doing my work seated on a propane tank with my laptop on a rusted oil drum.

  Shaking my head of stray thoughts, I took a sip from what was my fourth coffee of the day, and got back to reviewing the files.

  The Hitchcocks were skyrocketing in the charts—the newest Billboard chart showed their album Wild at number twenty-six and rising. And to think, I’d thought they were just some local act that regularly played at dive bars when I first saw them. Turns out, their impromptu show had been a publicity stunt to drum up media excitement for the tour.

  But despite their growing success, I was right to worry about the financial health of the band. Every month, they were spending as much as they were making, sometimes more.

  It wasn’t sustainable. No wonder they’d saddled Hans-Peterson with a two-week temporary stint; they needed a hatchet man. The Hitchcocks didn’t need a kind, gentle money manager. They needed someone to do a hack-and-slash job on the budget so everyone could keep getting paid. Every time I pieced another expense into the band’s financial picture, it looked worse.

  The Hitchcocks needed budget cuts, but from what? Jax would be the best person to ask, but I didn’t want to get sucked into another one of his games.

  As I sighed and opened another spreadsheet, a knock interrupted me.

  "Come in," I said, turning away from my laptop.

  The door swung open, and a man with dark suntanned skin and sunglasses burst in. He sported a blonde ponytail behind a slicked-back hairline that had just started receding. He was attractive for sure, th
ough he had probably been hotter a decade ago. Dressed in a sharp white suit sans tie and with the top button of his pink oxford casually undone, he reminded me of an older, more shopworn version of David Beckham. The sparkling diamonds in his ears and shiny Rolex peeking out from beneath his right cuff made it clear he was rich—or, at least, that he really wanted people to think so.

  "Riley, baby," he said with a voice as slick as his hair. "I’ve been looking all over for you."

  "Huh? Sorry, have we met before?"

  "Name’s Reed." "I’m the band manager."

  Ah, that explains it. Palmer’s dossier had mentioned Reed. Somehow, I’d expected him to look a little more down-to-earth. If this man, with his diamond earrings and expensive suit, was managing the band, it was no wonder they saw nothing wrong with spending their money as fast as they made it. He was the reason this job was such a pain in my ass.

  "Riley Hewitt. Nice to meet you," I offered. I shook his hand cordially and he squeezed a little too hard. It was a clear assertion of dominance and I didn’t like it. It made me realize that it was in his best interest that the band had a high spending budget, precisely because it made his commission look small. That unfortunately made our positions at odds.

  He opened his mouth as if to say something, but stopped as he looked around the room. "By the way, what are you doing back here?"

  "Uh, just needed a place to focus, that’s all."

  "Ah, great. You’re a go-getter. I like to hear that. Now, listen, Riley, I think we should go over a few things while you’re getting started. Is now a good time?"

  I sighed, putting my computer in suspend mode. Reed being here right now wasn’t ideal, but I needed to talk to him about the budget before the tour went much further, he seemed like a busy guy and I had no idea when I would see him again. Besides, it would be good to finally find out a bit more about how the band operated. "It’s as good a time as any."

  "This your first tour? What a crazy band to start with," he said, not waiting for me to answer the initial question. "What do you think of the band so far?" He leaned forward intently.

  "They’re . . . not bad." I thought they were—as a whole—extremely talented musicians, but my unfavorable opinion of Jax kind of tainted my overall view.

  "Jax isn’t bad, you mean," he said, an eyebrow raised.

  Oh God. Does he know?

  I tried to hide the nervousness in my voice. "He’s a good singer," I allowed.

  "And?"

  I didn’t like where this was going. "He’s very . . . tall?"

  "He’s fucking hot, and you know it."

  My cheeks heated and I cleared my throat. "Okay?"

  Reed shook his head. "You don’t get it. With a look like that, Jax could be—correction, will be—the biggest cash cow I’ve ever managed. It’s why I’ve got big plans for the band. Why they needed the big bus."

  "About that bus," I said, a note of annoyance creeping into my tone, "Why all the crazy amenities? The convertible modifications alone must have cost a fortune."

  "Riley, have you ever heard of GMZ? Perry Hilton? Hawker? How about Humans Magazine?" He started talking with his hands, gesticulating with nearly every word. "The best publicity you can get is the free kind, and that tour bus is the best marketing tool the band has. Hell, the hot tub alone got us a dozen write-ups in gossip rags. The paparazzi eat this shit up."

  It made sense, even though I didn’t read much gossip. Magazines and websites didn’t cover bands for managing their money well. People wanted excitement, novelty, and luxury—they could get frugality at home. Even so, I couldn’t give in that easily. If Reed thought he could sweet-talk me out of doing my job, he’d have to think again.

  "You do realize I’m here for a reason, right?" I said. "The Hitchcocks are going to run out of money if I don’t fix their finances. I’m only here because if it’s not straightened out now, they won’t have enough cash on hand for expenses through the end of the tour."

  "The label’s worried for nothing," he said, shaking his head. "This band is on the cusp of greatness. One, maybe two more singles, and they’ll have a number one hit and the money makes itself. We just have to keep pushing the promotion budget in the short term."

  I didn’t like the sound of that. "What do you mean by ‘pushing’?"

  "With an extra ten, maybe fifteen percent add-on to the promo budget—that’s stuff like giveaway posters, bumper stickers, spending on social media, getting radio interviews—The Hitchcocks could really shine. After that, money’s not a worry. They’ll be rolling in it."

  "If they don’t run out of cash and have to cancel tour stops first."

  He waved a hand in the air dismissively. "Don’t believe the bluster and bullshit from the label. They won’t cook the goose that lays the golden eggs."

  I shot him a skeptical look. "They seemed pretty serious when they called my firm, or I wouldn’t be here."

  "It’s their job to worry," he said, seeming totally unfazed. "Budget versus popularity is always a tightrope at this phase. But it’s my job to know when to push it."

  "And you think now is the time? What makes you so sure?"

  He shrugged. "Call it intuition. Call it research, if that makes you feel better. I just know that that—" He thumbed over his shoulder. The sound of fans cheering for the arrival of the Hitchcocks on stage dimly resonated through the concrete walls. "—is the kind of star power you see once in a career. Trust me. You don’t want to blow this band’s chances by nickel and diming every expense."

  "I’ll keep that in mind."

  "Glad to hear it. Now, let’s talk cash flow."

  For the next hour, we tried to hash out the money issues. Since he knew I had to reduce the budget with or without his involvement, he suggested a few places for budget cuts that would have a minimal impact on promotions and marketing. It wasn’t enough to solve all my problems, but it was a start.

  When he departed, the room was thankfully much quieter. I sent a quick text to Palmer, telling him that as far as I could see, the Hitchcocks needed cuts fast. Squinting at the laptop screen, I was about to figure out how to do it when the oil drum shook, breaking my concentration.

  I scanned the room, not seeing anything that could’ve caused the shaking. A small earthquake maybe? I looked at the clock on my screen and realized the band should be on a break between sets.

  I was diving back into work when a muffled sound permeated the walls. I’d been able to hear scattered rounds of applause through the whole show, but the band wasn’t playing at the moment. What was it?

  Shaking my head, I focused harder on my work. My fingers flew over the laptop keyboard as I got into a rhythm, inputting the numbers from the tour’s receipts to date into a column. Numbers were safe, sterile, and thoroughly unsexy—exactly the opposite of the rock god I was sharing a tour bus with. If I could keep my head in the numbers, I could keep it away from him.

  Then the laptop started to vibrate. My styrofoam coffee cup, which was still a quarter full, nearly tipped over before I caught it. The computer jostled to a rhythmic beat like there was a dinosaur stomping around outside. What the hell is going on out there? Frustrated that I couldn’t get any work done, I stood, opened the door to investigate, and was nearly knocked backwards by a powerful force.

  boom-boom-BOOM!

  "WE WANT JAX! WE WANT JAX! WE WANT JAX!"

  It was the fans!

  I’d wanted to avoid Jax but even his fans seemed to be conspiring against me. The craziest part was, they weren’t chanting for The Hitchcocks as a band. Just Jax, the rock god.

  I entered into the hall. Every step I took brought me closer to the source of the echoing, pulsing sound. The audience now sounded frantic, half-hysterical, and the thumping vibrations in the floor sped up to match. At a spot just offstage, I was finally able to see what was happening. Thousands of audience members, stomping their feet in unison, were making the floor shake in time with their chants.

  The lights went down, and the cr
owd’s stomps and chants gave way to keening wails. Just as the audience reached a fever pitch, a chord broke through the screams and the stage lights came up.

  Sky, wearing a black and white minidress, started playing the song’s bassline, while Chewie kept a beat with his standard stoned-out look. The guitars kicked in next, Kev and Jax facing each other as they riffed. Standing in the multicolored spotlights, Jax had never looked more at ease. His leather pants traced the outline of his muscular legs, and he moved his body sinuously as the audience screamed for more.

  I’d seen The Hitchcocks from the crowd before, but here just behind the side curtain, as thousands of people screamed in my direction, I saw for the first time how a performer could feed on the energy of the crowd. Like a wild beast, Jax stalked ferally across the stage as the guitars started playing. He opened his mouth to sing, and the crowd started yelling even louder.

  I want to see your fall from grace

  I want to see your angel face

  smashed to pieces, blown to bits

  Your lies can't hurt me any more

  I'm not the ones who came before

  I’m not your toy, not your boy

  I'm still here

  I'm still here

  I'm still standing

  I'm still here

  His voice started in growls, low and deep. He stretched his arm out into the crowd, and dozens of hands scrambled to touch his tattoo sleeves. The memory of him massaging my shoulders with those hands unwillingly came flooding back, making my heart race.

  From where I stood, I could only see the first few rows—but they seemed at least as hysterical as the crowd in New York. That show had been in a bar packed almost to bursting, a room that could barely contain Jax’s seductive energy. Here, the venue was bigger. No one was having an orgasm, at least as far as I could see, but the screams were almost deafening.

  "He really is incredible," a female voice said nearby. I turned to see a curly-haired venue staff member licking her lips, her eyes locked on Jax’s still silhouette.