Strum Me

by Allison, Ketley

  The booze also makes it easier to handle when the guys stop talking to me and each other and they go off into their own worlds, texting their wives or some shit, talking with their own hub of “people” like their personal agents and managers, which is exactly what happened as soon as we stepped out of the SUV and into the venue.

  After greeting the raging waves of hyperventilating fans waiting at the so-called “secret entrance.”

  The booze helps with that, too. Makes it nicer when girls claw at your shirt and skin, nails digging and tearing, tears streaming down their faces as you try to take a decent selfie with them.

  I mean, I look good. Maybe a little rouge-y in the cheeks, but it’s a helluva lot better than the open, crying maw of the chick beside me.

  But hey, they’re my people, and I do love them. It’s why I’m the last to remain within the clawing crowd, signing all kinds of shit on skin and other random materials. Security hates me for it since I breach all sorts of rules, like climbing over the barricade to get closer photos with the fans, or try to reach the ones in the back.

  But like I said, the booze makes it easy. Helps me coast along through complete, manic, fandemonium that seems never-ending, always buzzing, forever taking.

  I don’t see Mack through any of it. I assume she’s somewhere within our secure area, ushered into the venue as I linger outside.

  I still don’t find her when we finish our concert and tumble backstage, my shirt long gone and replaced by a shiny veneer of sweat. Droplets from my hair drip into my vision and thicken my eyelashes as I search for her.

  “Anyone seen Mack?” I ask the room.

  The rest of the band entered before me and the giant room is quickly amassing with other people, like corporate types, our tour staff, some fans with backstage passes, some without. A few girls have also been made available for our pleasure, though someone needs to give them the memo that Wyn’s likely the only dick they should be searching for nowadays.

  Meh. He’ll sacrifice himself willingly.

  “Nah, man. I think she left early,” East says as he passes me, chowing down on a sub sandwich.

  My stomach rumbles at the sight, hunger replacing adrenaline with the speed of a tiger’s swipe, but I ignore it.

  “Early? Did she see the concert? Why’d she go?”

  My questions aren’t in order, but East doesn’t need them to be as he reads my lips.

  “It was pretty crazy out there. Might’ve been too much for her. She’s not used to it, you know? I remember her being such a bookworm. This is probably way out of her element. Why’d you bring her along, anyway? You orchestrating some kind of high school reunion?”

  If you only fuckin’ knew.

  “So where’s she at, then? Who took her somewhere?” I ask.

  East laughs and claps me on the back. He says out of the corner of his mouth while he chews, “She’s your girl, not mine. Figure it out. I’m sure she’s safe.”

  Mouth twisting down, I scan the rest of the figures in the room but don’t see familiar auburn curls or feline eyes.

  I pull out my phone from my pants, texting her. Thirty seconds later, I still get no response.

  “Hey—Spin.” I catch my manager as he walks by. “You seen Mack? McKenna, I mean?”

  “The girl you brought?” Spinner mulls this over. “Not for a while. I think she may have left with Jess. Gone to the hotel.”

  I nod, the tightness in my chest receding. “Cool.”

  “And your brother.”

  My chest bounces back to tight with elastic efficiency. “Say what?”

  Spinner side-eyes me, but I make no attempt to hide my darkening mood. He asks, “Doesn’t Brax work with Jess? What’s the problem?”

  “None,” I snap, then peel off my guitar, hand it to some assistant or another, and storm out of the room.

  The security detail assigned to my ass follows me, one even handing me a spare shirt. I grab it then throw it onto the hallway floor.

  “Where’s my car?” I demand.

  Someone employed by the venue scuttles up beside me and says, “Right this way, sir. We have a few vehicles waiting for when your party decides to depart.”

  “Great. Just me,” I say, and follow him, bare-chested, into the cold.

  The chilled weather feels good against my chest. It freshens my breath and clears the heat similar to a cold shower, and I slide into the waiting SUV with tinted windows, thankful I’ve left early enough that fans have yet to assemble near our cars.

  I nod my thanks to the employee who directed me here before the door shuts, a small part of me understanding that my pissiness should only be tolerated by my friends and enemies. Hard workers and employees are exempt from Hurricane Mason, a pledge I made to myself back when I decided to work on controlling my temper.

  Young Mack had a lot to do with that.

  Maybe I’ve succeeded? I can’t be sure, since the thought of Brax sitting near Mack right now for who knows how long boils my blood.

  She’s mine.

  I sit in silence until we pull up to the hotel, a huge, white, half-circle building with glittering lights and carved domes. I’m swiped in through the back entrance and ushered into a private elevator with my security until we reach my floor. Jess has taken care of the details. All I need to do is show up, and a keycard is shoved into my hand and I’m told what suite is mine.

  The perks of fame and money. It’s like being a baby needing diapers all over again.

  “Which room’s Mack’s?” I say to no one in particular while riding the elevator.

  One of the two security guys clears his throat. “Um. I think I heard Jess mention she’s the room beside yours.”

  I nod. When the doors slide open, I say, “Have a good night, gentlemen,” and beeline for the door next to mine.

  Except, there’s one on each side.

  Whatever. I’ll bang on the whole hallway until I see Mack’s face.

  I choose the one on the left, since why not, and knock. When no one immediately responds, I pound louder.

  Grumbles sound on the other side. Female ones.

  I smile.

  There are a few light taps and brushes of fabric on the other side of the door, probably checking the peep-hole, before it’s whipped open and Mack’s half-asleep expression with mostly mussed hair greets me with a fuck you.

  “What the hell, Mase? I was sleeping!”

  “You missed our concert.”

  “No.” She rubs her eyes. Clad in an oversized t-shirt, her nipples are hard and rounded and her legs bare. “I missed some of your concert. Ever heard of jet lag?”

  “Ever heard of being a proper guest and staying for the whole show you’ve been invited to?”

  “I don’t know, Mason, is it in the contract? Do I have to stay for each show’s entirety while on tour?” She cocks a hip. “Because we both know I’m operating only on the instructions listed therein. I’m not here as your friend.”

  My molars grind down. “Then I guess we have to amend our agreement.”

  “If that’s what you want,” Mack says. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you? Instructing me. Telling me what I can and can’t do.”

  I tilt my head and say darkly, “We both know what you do. If I had it my way, I’d be instructing you to get on your knees and remember the taste of my dick. I’d tell you to spread your legs while I revisit my favorite meal. And I’d fuck you so hard and senseless, no client or boyfriend of yours will ever compare. Remember how big I was? Do you recall how much you begged for it?”

  With each word leaving my mouth, I watch the flush creep up, from her collarbone, to her neck, to her cheeks. Her eyes glitter with insult, and I grow hard just looking at her.

  I crave her.

  “You have some fucking nerve,” she hisses, then moves to slam the door.

  I catch it easily, splaying my hand against the wood. “That’s the truth, Mack. But I wasn’t about to scandalize Jess with my wants and needs while she wrote up
the contract.”

  She sneers. “You’re still drunk.”

  “Brax in there with you?”

  Mack startles. “Why the hell would Brax be in here with me?”

  I shrug. “Just a question.”

  “So you’re drunk and unreasonably jealous. Go to bed, Mase. It’s late.”

  “Can’t. I have too much adrenaline pumping through my veins. It’s what shows do to me. I need an outlet.”

  Realization brightens her eyes. “You won’t find it with me.”

  I step forward. “Won’t I?”

  “Mason, don’t.” She holds up a hand, as if she can stop me from stepping into her hotel room.

  “You’re on my dime. I can do what I want with you.”

  Those bright sparks in her eyes pop off. She palms my chest, shoving me back. “Just because I do what I do, just because I’m here because you’re paying me does not mean I’m here for your pleasure. Got it, you jerk?” Another shove. Laughter bubbles out of me as my shoulder jerks back from her force, which only makes her fiercer. She makes a sound of disgust. “That’s how it’s gonna be, huh? You’re going to lord my choices over my head and talk about prostitution every chance you get, use me as an object—”

  She cuts herself off. I smirk, but I’m noticing the calculation rippling across her features.

  Mack straightens her shoulders. She lifts her head. Then she takes one step into the hallway.

  I hedge back to make room for her, but not so much that I’m trying to make her comfortable.

  “That’s what you want, isn’t it?” she asks, without the fire. “You know what? Fine. Have it your way. Use me, Mason.”

  The laughter dies in my throat when she reaches for the hem of her shirt and peels it off.

  She’s not wearing anything underneath.

  Mack stands naked in the hallway. And she’s toned—goddammit, she’s gorgeous. Her stomach is flat and pale, with the dot of her belly button and two bordering lines of muscle running down the sides. Sides that flare into hourglass hips, her hairless apex, and thick, flawless thighs.

  My gaze runs up to her tits—full and rounded, with large rose nipples peaked by the rush of cool air. Her chest heaves, raising them.

  Her body’s so different from what I remember. The softness has hardened into crafted muscle, a carving made to appeal to various clientele. The eighteen-year-old girl is long gone, replaced by luscious curvature and flawless real estate.

  But … I bet her ass is still ripe as a peach. I bet I can spread her cheeks and lift her until she settles on my cock.

  I bare my teeth, unable to decide whether to bite every inch of her or growl at her to get back inside her fucking room.

  “You’re out in public,” I say, and it pains me to do the opposite of what I want. “You should probably put that shirt back on or go back inside and shut the door.”

  “It’s a closed floor,” she retorts. “Reserved for Nocturne Court and their staff.”

  I arch a brow. “You think I want my fucking staff and bandmates to see you like this any more than TMZ?”

  “They’re all at the after-party. It’s only you here, coming back early. And me, you’re newest employee, ready and willing to ride you all night long.”

  Passion doesn’t accompany her words.

  “I’m here for your pleasure, aren’t I?” she continues. “You want to put your quarter million to use. I understand that. So what’s your vice these days, Mr. Payne? Do you want me on my knees? On all fours on the bed? How about anal? Lately, clients love when I choke on their dick while deep-throating them. Is that what you want to try, too?”

  I’ve lifted my attention from her body to her face. Throughout her speech, she’s defiant. Stands her ground. Prepares herself for whatever I demand. Except for one thing.

  I see it when her lashes flutter. The way she blinks. How she swallows after she’s done talking.

  The girl’s in pain. It hurts her to say these things to me. To offer herself up as a meal.

  I move until I’m cupping one side of her face and tilt her chin until she has no choice but to keep staring into my eyes. My thumb brushes against her bottom lip, smooth as silk against my callouses. She wears no make-up, instead donning a stubborn mask.

  Her cheeks and forehead are smooth and emotionless as porcelain, and I know what she’s doing.

  I say, close to the tip of her nose. “So you’ll be my play doll, huh? Do anything I want?”

  “Anything.”

  “Mm. A quarter mill is a lot of money.” I tilt my head until our lips are almost touching. “I think I’ll start collecting my dues right here.”

  Then, I claim her mouth.

  We’re in full view of the hallway and probably a few hidden cameras, but I cease to care when her taste hits my tongue and I’m transported back to honeysuckle and sage—scents and tastes so foreign to my world but familiar in hers. Skin scented with flowers, hair smoothed by expensive oils, and lips, exfoliated and buttered and meant to shape against my own.

  At first, she’s stiff. But as my tongue coaxes, her lips part, a supple invitation to explore further. Mack’s fingers wrap around my wrist. I’m still holding her face, directing her angles so I can taste all of her, remember the feel of her, and on instinct, she bows forward, her naked body melting against my half-clothed one.

  My other arm wraps around her waist, pulls her closer. She moans when she feels me, hard, against her stomach. And yes, her ass remains as squeezable as it was when we were younger. Probably the only reminder I have that she’s still her.

  Mack’s mouth opens further, her tongue joining with mine, and I groan, deep in my throat, my hand moving to tangle in her hair.

  I wait until Mack hitches a breath, for when she gasps my name and pulls at my arms to drag me inside her room. I can do anything I want with her. Push my fingers in. Splay her against the wall. Spin her around, spread her legs, and ram into her from behind until she cries out in ecstatic mercy.

  I do none of that.

  I pull back, dropping both my hands from her body. Cool air comes between us.

  Mack slow-blinks, her cheeks flushed and burned raw from my day’s stubble. “What…”

  “Those clients of yours?” I say. “They’ll never know what it’s like to touch you like that. To have you melt in their hands and go wet simply from their tongue playing across your lips. When I have you, and make no mistake, I will, it will be because you want me, Mack. Desperate for my touch, my strokes, my tongue. Not because I’ve paid you or the fucked up notion that you owe me.”

  Mack collects herself, but doesn’t cover her body in an attempt to regain dignity. No, her dignity’s reclaimed when she props her hands on her hips and retorts, “When money’s involved, there’s always a debt owed. A favor to ask. A crime to commit. No cash is free, Mason, and I won’t be the moron who buys into your ‘I’m doing this for your own good’ speech.”

  I get in her face, my expression playing no games. She doesn’t wince when I dart forward. I growl, low in my throat, “Don’t you ever proposition me like a client again. Ever.”

  Mack’s brows go rigid. “It’s what you expected. It’s what every guy wants.”

  “Not me, Mack. You are not my whore.” I lean back, but make sure I keep her attention when I say, “You’re simply … mine.”

  She’s silent when I storm away. It’s clear our tables have turned. There was a time when Mack offered me her french fries and I was sent into a tailspin of rage at the notion she felt sorry for me. I can fully comprehend her sense of pride in this moment and the refusal to back down and have someone swoop in as a savior.

  Problem is, unlike her, I have no shame, or decorum, when it comes to doing what I think is right.

  Mack is anchored to her spot outside her room, watching me leave.

  Before keying into my room, I toss over my shoulder, “You’re in my world, now. So get the hell inside your room before word gets out to Brax there’s a hot naked chick haunt
ing Nocturne Court’s hallway.”

  16

  McKenna

  It’s three days after Mason and my’s stint in the hallway, and he’s been avoiding me ever since.

  Well, I can’t say he’s ignoring me. Mason demands, as per my contract, that I accompany him everywhere, including cars, soundchecks, and when he decides to retreat to his next hotel suite. It’s never to invite me into his room with him, as what’s also part of my contract is the requirement that my room always neighbor his—preferably with an adjoining door that remains befuddling, since he’s never tried to use it.

  Mason demands my presence, yet doesn’t talk to me.

  We’re on tour stop #3, Berlin, hotel number #4, and Mason’s demeanor hasn’t changed.

  Not since he played music on my tongue. Strummed guitar notes in my mouth.

  It’s a far cry from the Mason I’m currently dealing with, who seems to want me around only to prove, all these years later, he can still dismiss me.

  Mason and the rest of Nocturne Court have hit the stage, and I’m hanging back in their dressing room, enjoying the detritus they left behind. I’m required to be at the concert, but Mason has left it up to me whether I want to watch the show or wait backstage, an allowance I’m sure he wants me to be grateful for.

  “What’d that meatball sub ever do to you?”

  Brax’s question breaks me out of my stare-down with the sandwich tray.

  “It went soggy on me,” I say before opting for the ham and swiss option.

  Brax makes himself comfortable on one of the reclining leather chairs, tipping a bag of Skittles into his palm and throwing them all in his mouth. “Yeah, not sure why Wyn requests marinara-soaked subs when he doesn’t get to them until hours later, but that’s a rock star for you.”

  I’m oddly fascinated by Brax’s ability to form complete words while chewing with a wad of candy in his mouth.

  He notices and points to his lips. “My new fixation. One thing you learn from being an addict is, you’ll always be an addict. Doesn’t have to be drugs. Now I’ve moved onto sugar.”