Unplugged: A Bad Boy Rockstar Romance

by Valentine, Sienna

  UNPLUGGED

  SIENNA VALENTINE

  Copyright © 2015 Sienna Valentine

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, dialogue, and everything else are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to people or events, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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  Also From Sienna Valentine

  Slade

  Kellan

  Desperados

  Sanctum (Black Dogs MC 1)

  Retribution (Black Dogs MC 2)

  Black Docs MC 3 – coming soon!

  With Aubrey St. Clair

  Fighting for Salvation

  Trust

  Silver and Chrome (Christmas 2015)

  Connect with Sienna!

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  CONTENTS

  Unplugged: A Bad Boy Rockstar Romance

  One – Noah

  Two – Laurel

  Three – Noah

  Four – Noah

  Five – Laurel

  Six – Noah

  Seven – Laurel

  Eight – Noah

  Nine – Laurel

  Ten – Noah

  Eleven – Laurel

  Twelve – Noah

  Thirteen – Laurel

  Fourteen – Noah

  Fifteen – Luarel

  Sixteen – Laurel

  Seventeen – Noah

  Eighteen – Laurel

  Nineteen – Noah

  Twenty – Laurel

  Twenty-One – Noah

  Epilogue – Laurel

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  Also By Sienna

  BONUS BOOK: Sanctum – A Black Dogs MC Novel

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  ~ ONE ~

  Noah

  I found her at a record store, thrusting her beautiful ass out to rifle through the dollar vinyl boxes that usually held old crooners from the 40s and 50s, or forgotten country acts that never left the dust of their hometowns. My mood was grim. A couple of young assholes had recognized me in my truck on the way over and thrown their half-finished can of energy drink at me as they raced by. The can didn’t hurt my truck, but impotent rage raced through my veins the rest of the drive, and by the time I got inside the record store, I was ready to take it out on someone.

  Her ass curved out like a bell from a thin waist decorated with three studded belts. She tied a gingham shirt up and under her huge tits, cleavage peeking out from under a stack of silver necklaces of different lengths. A shock of short, bright red hair completed her edgy look, and when she stood upright and saw me staring at her, she smiled at me and licked at the lollipop she had in her mouth.

  “Find what you’re looking for?” I asked her, eyes on her tits.

  “I think I just might have,” she said. Her voice was a high-pitched, purring sound, and she wiggled her hips when she talked.

  I stepped closer. Her chest and neck flushed with arousal, an effect I am all too used to having on women. At 6’1”, my height intrigues them from the start. But the cut muscles of my body, and the tattoos that decorate them, draw them in like moths around firelight. They know they are going to get burned, but they just can’t help themselves.

  “Do you live nearby?” I asked.

  She looked me up and down, a bit of fear in her eyes. But the smile on her lips said she liked it. “Uh-huh.” She bobbed the sucker in and out of her mouth suggestively.

  “Pick whatever you want out of there, and let’s get going,” I said, nodding toward the record box she had been searching through. I reached out and lightly caressed the meat of her thigh, and then I turned and headed for the front of the store, waiting.

  In a rush she gathered up the records she had been considering and sauntered to the counter on her wedge platforms. I threw a fifty at the cashier after he rang her up and told him to keep the change.

  I followed her to her apartment about three miles from the record store, sliding into the first parking stall I could find and keeping my hood up as I walked up to meet her. She waited with a grin on her face until I caught up, then took me by the hand and led me up a flight of stairs to her place.

  As she closed the door behind us and locked it, I asked her, “Do you have roommates?”

  “Just one, but she’s at work,” she said. She threw her coat and purse on an empty recliner and approached me with lust in her eyes. “I’m Nina.”

  “I don’t really care,” I said. “Is that a problem?”

  Nina threw her arms around my neck and rubbed her soft body against mine. My dick started swelling up, and I gripped her ample ass in both of my hands. She shrugged. “Not really.”

  “Good,” I said, smashing my mouth down against hers and kissing her hard and heavy, until she was whimpering under my mouth and grasping onto my shirt. She hiked one leg up on my hip, brushing her jean-covered pussy against me.

  “I want you on your knees,” I said, grabbing a handful of her colorful hair.

  Nina said nothing, only moaned like a bitch in heat as my hand helped her comply. She rubbed my dick through my jeans and looked up at me while I unfastened them and pulled out my thick, eight-inch piece. She immediately ran her mouth up and down its length, tongue warm and wet, lapping up the precum that had already gathered at the tip.

  “Suck,” I said. I held the base of my dick in one hand and Nina’s hair in the other as I fed her my hardened shaft until it hit the back of her throat. She moaned around my dick, sucking at it with abandon. This wasn’t the first time she’d deep throated someone.

  I didn’t even bother letting her take the lead. One hand on her head, I bucked my hips against Nina’s mouth, fucking her face, while she rubbed one hand down between her legs. Saliva dripped down her cheek every time I pulled out of her mouth, running down her neck and cleavage.

  I tilted her head up to look at me and told her to take off her clothes and bend over the couch. Nina smiled up at me, fuck-drunk already, and quickly pulled her shirt off to reveal her beautiful, fleshy tits. They filled my mouth one at a time before I let her stand to remove her jeans, and by then she was panting with desire.

  When she finally went to kick off her shoes, I stopped her. There was no need for that; I didn’t plan on staying that long. Instead, I bent her over the couch while she was still wearing them and lined my cock up to her dripping pussy. The smooth head teased up and down her slit, spreading her wetness around while she begged me to put it inside her.

  After quickly rolling on a condom, I obliged, sinking the entire length of my dick inside Nina in one hard thrust. She screamed into the cushions of the couch, a wail that never stopped as I pumped in and out of her from behind. Each cry was punctuated by desperate, rhythmic breaths, and the simple and repeated phrase, “Oh God, oh God…”

  With my eyes closed, I wrapped my hands around her waist and drove as deep and hard inside of her as I could. This was always the best way to forget everything that was bothering me, and today was no exception. The feel of her pussy around my cock was like heaven; the sight of her gorgeou
s ass pressing up against me with every thrust, beautiful. Soon I couldn’t even hear Nina’s screaming, lost as I was in the pleasure of her wetness, until the edge was upon me.

  Leaning over with a growl, I grabbed Nina’s hair and pulled hard as I came inside her, pushing deeper with every wave. Nina’s mantra was under her breath in a whisper now. She must have come, too.

  After withdrawing, I found my way to the bathroom to clean myself up and toss the condom. I splashed water on my face while I intentionally ignored the reflection staring back at me in the mirror. Nina was still naked when I came back out, but now she was wrapped in a knitted afghan on the couch instead of bent over it, ass up. Standing in the living room was another girl, though. Must have been the roommate. She has a backpack slung over her shoulder and a nametag still pinned on her polo shirt.

  They both stopped talking and looked at me when I entered the room. “Oh, hey,” I said, my stomach tensing at this unexpected intrusion. I just wanted to make my way out of here.

  The eyes of the new girl in the room went wide, and so did her mouth.

  Fuck. I knew that look. Nina hadn’t recognized me, but her roommate sure as hell did.

  “Thanks,” I said to Nina, raising a hand. “I’m gonna take off.”

  “Wait, I didn’t even—“

  “You’re Noah Hardy,” Nina’s roommate whispered. Then, more loudly, she added, “Oh my God, you’re him!”

  Nina gave a sour look to her roommate, and then back to me. “He’s who?”

  This was about to get a lot more messy, so I just walked past both of them without another word, leaving Nina to catch up with her friend about the booty call she just had while I jumped in my truck and blazed away, anxious to get back home.

  For the first time in ten years, I didn’t know what the fuck to do with myself. I didn’t have studio time blacked out on my calendar; I didn’t have to scramble around getting everything ready for a three-month-long jaunt across the US or Europe; I didn’t have a gauntlet of copycat interviews to sit through for hours on end to promote a new album. I had nothing. My phone, usually blowing up so badly I often left it at home or on the bus just to get away from it, was silent as the grave. I guess what they say about fame and fair-weather friends was right.

  Luckily for me, I never let anyone get that close. Only my band brothers—and sometimes not even them. The absence of hangers-on trying to hook up with me for favors or weed or booty calls didn’t upset me. I wished I could say the same about the silence from Ash and Jeff. Duke’s silence, well… what the fuck else was new? That motherfucker has been waiting for me to trip up for years now.

  Yet I couldn’t quite handle the silence of my house. The place barely felt like it was mine, I spent so little time here. You never realize how used to the noise you are until everything suddenly goes quiet. You’re left standing there wondering what the fuck happened, feeling vaguely like something was stalking up to eat you. That’s how it felt, regardless of what I tried to do to occupy myself. I paced, restless, until it was too much to take.

  I looked out the window and was greeted by a roiling gray sky. Already the glass dripped with raindrops. I loved storms. I wanted to be out in it.

  In my walk-in closet, I threw on the first pair of torn jeans I put my hands on. Same with the band shirt. Not mine, of course. Then I grabbed my gray hoodie and leather jacket combo and shrugged it over my shoulders. A quick glance in the mirror with my hood up made me feel a little better about going out. As a heavily muscled international rock star covered in tattoos, it was more than a little difficult to move around in the world without being spotted. I’d never been afraid to go out before, but I was starting to understand agoraphobes.

  Thornwood used to be the place where I didn’t have to be anyone but myself. Thornwood was home. Now, though… now even this place felt like it was turning on me.

  The rain drizzled down my jacket as I stepped out and into my pickup truck, a ’72 Ford I restored before Cut Up Angels hit it big. As she rumbled to life under my touch, I smiled, running my hands over the smooth leather of the steering wheel. She was a beautiful truck, and I felt powerful driving her. For a minute I just sat in the driveway, listening to her purr, letting CO2 pump into the atmosphere and secretly hoping it would be my exhaust that made global warming kill us all. Preferably in the next ten minutes.

  The thought of dying made me think of graveyards, and suddenly I knew where I could go. Thornwood—hell, the whole fucking planet—might throw me to the wolves, but there was one place that never would.

  Ten minutes later, I pulled into the near-empty parking lot of the Graveyard Club off Cherry Highway. It was an old, brick building with last-man-standing stubbornness that was shared by her owner. This place made me who I was, but more importantly, fans didn’t know about it. I didn’t talk about it in interviews or press because I never wanted this place to come under someone’s knife because of me. This was my sanctuary. My second home.

  Even the gravel under my boots sounded the same. I smiled as I opened the door and walked into the dark, dingy space. Dust floated in the air, and overhead some black metal band I didn’t recognize was playing softly, as if it were elevator music. A few barflies nursed their drinks at the counter. Near the small corner stage, a few skinny young dudes with tools and wires huddled deep in conversation around some of the sound equipment. I didn’t recognize anyone until Kevin Galloway came out from the back room. He spotted me almost immediately, and a big, stupid smile overtook his weathered face.

  “Holy Jupiter shit,” said Kevin, his voice like sandpaper from years of heavy chain-smoking. “When the fuck did you blow into town, you son of a bitch?” He came out from around the counter with his arms open wide and embraced me tightly, even if I had to bend over a bit to make it work. The ancient metalhead smelled like cigarettes, pot, and pine. He was one of the original thrashers of the Seattle scene, and had forgotten more about music and the rocker lifestyle than I would ever know. The Graveyard Club was his baby.

  “Only a few days ago,” I replied, clapping him on the shoulder. “I’m really fucking glad to see this place is still here. I’d heard some things.”

  “Oh man, lemme tell ya,” said Kevin as he crossed his arms in front of his chest. He shook his head. “Things are bad in the scene, Noah. Venues are closing left and right. It’s not like it used to be.”

  “Are you in trouble?” I asked, my mind wandering to the secret stash of cash I kept buried in my yard at home. He didn’t know it, but I’d give up everything I had to keep Kevin and the club on its feet.

  “Nah,” he said, stretching out the last syllable with a wave of his hand. “Things are slow, but they’re not all that bad.”

  “If they get that bad, you better fucking tell me.”

  “I will, I will!” he said. “Lemme get you a drink. You staying for the show tonight? It’s gonna be a rager.”

  As I looked around the room, I couldn’t imagine anywhere else I’d want to be. “Fuck yes, I am. On one condition.”

  “Anything, my boy.”

  “We don’t talk about why I’m home.”

  Kevin’s face fell a bit into a worried hangdog expression. There was no way he hadn’t heard about it, just like everyone else around here. Hell, he probably heard about it first, considering his connections in the industry. He shook his head. “We don’t have to talk about anything like that, Noah. I’m just glad to see you.”

  Relief flooded my veins. “I’m glad to see you too. Not quite glad to be home, really… or rather, home seems like it’s not glad to see me.”

  “Fuck these idiot townies,” said Kevin immediately. “They sure like the wolves until they prod one into biting. No one’s going to fuck with you in here, you understand? This is your home.”

  I smiled. “Thank you, Kev. Seriously.”

  “Don’t mention it. You still a Jameson man?”

  ~ TWO ~

  Laurel

  FIVE DAYS LATER

  I’d p
acked very particularly, but it felt like I’d left my confidence in a bag somewhere between the red-eye flight I caught last minute at JFK and the layover in Denver. In ten minutes I had strewn my hotel room with dresses and jeans, black shirts and bright tank tops, trying to find some magic combination of clothing that made me feel invincible. Or hell, just make me feel okay.

  I never got this nervous before a job. What was wrong with me? Maybe it was the shitty airline food messing with my blood sugar.

  As I rifled through my bag, the sound of the TV blaring a commercial for the local news affiliate caught my attention. “Tonight at eleven—we speak to the childhood friends of rock star Noah Hardy about his latest legal trouble. And Seattle PD is in hot water again—you won’t believe why. Tune in.”

  I shook my head at the news anchor, as if he could see me. Childhood friends, eh? Someone was desperate for a lead.

  Finally, I unearthed the shirt from the depths of my bag and threw it on over my head. It had been a long time since I’d gone for this particular look, but as I wandered into the glowing white hotel bathroom, I had to give myself a smile. Ten years old and my torn-up skin-tight black jeans and band shirts still fit like a dream, accented by a studded, black leather belt. The combat boots, well… I had never really given those up.

  My makeup was scattered out across the counter in a constellation of colors. I was going to need more than I usually cared to wear. In the debris field, I found a half-broken compact of deep maroon eyeshadow and used my pinky to sweep it across my eyelid in thick lines. It took me three false starts to get the swoop of my black eye liner just right, looking like the elaboration of a wrought-iron fence at the corner of my big, blue eyes. I’d splurged for a salon cut and color before I left New York, and my shoulder-length blonde mane was looking better than it had in months. Workaholics tend to push salon visits down to the bottom of the to-do list, but then, this wasn’t my usual job.