Beached with the Bad Boy (Bad Boys on Holiday #3)

A
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, businesses, organizations, brands, media, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

^V2

T
rick Harper flexed
his fingers and stared at the writing on his palm, wishing like hell he could put a face to that name.

XOXO ~ Jennie.

Black hair… freckles, maybe? No, that wasn’t right…

Ah, fuck it. He had nothing. He’d spent most of last night looking down at the top of her head, anyway, which is the only reason he remembered the black hair at all.

Straight and shiny, cool as silk when he fisted a handful…

You’re a class act, Harper. Real gentleman.

Shaking off the images of Jennie’s soft lips wrapped around his cock, Trick picked up the pace, pushing himself hard through the last three miles of his run. It’d been too long since he’d had an open stretch of private beach, no screaming fans rushing at him with their phones and selfie sticks, no paparazzi. Man, those pricks were like a dog with a bone. Documenting Trick’s many walks of shame had become a drinking game for them. He pictured them sitting in their cubicles, lining up shots every time one of them scored a photo. Fucking pathetic.

Trick sucked in a deep breath of ocean air, still trying to unwind.

Sometimes he wondered why the fuck he’d ever bailed on California in the first place. New York had never really felt like home, and ten years in, he was still a Cali boy at heart, through and through.

Taking another big gulp of warm, salty air, Trick pushed forward. His feet hit the sand in a punishing rhythm, providing the percussion for the never-ending soundtrack in his head.

Thump-thump-thump-thump…

He closed his eyes, losing himself in the feel of his feet meeting the ground, the ocean whispering calmly alongside him.

Thump-thump-thump-thump…

“Ain’t no time to say it, girl,” he half-sung, half-panted. “No more time to play it… the way you… the way your…
shit
.” He blew out a frustrated breath. The lyrics where
there
, right on the tip of his tongue, but no matter how hard he tried, they were just stuck. He’d been here before. He could
feel
the pulse of the song, the melody, the taste of it in his mouth. But the words just wouldn’t come. Usually he could get unstuck with a run, maybe two, but this song must’ve been buried bone deep.

Either that, or his muse was passed out drunk somewhere—a place Trick himself knew all too damn well. The music scene—and everything that came along with it—was seriously fucking with his art.

Problem was, his record label didn’t care about his “creative process.” They cared about delivery. Results. Money. Image. More money.

He’d been giving it to them for years, working his ass off, jumping through every flaming hoop they threw at him.

And now he felt wrung out and spent.

At the ripe old age of thirty-four.

Bastards.

Up ahead, two girls in shorts and tank tops jogged along the shore, heading straight for Trick. As they approached, he nodded curtly, then forced himself to turn away before they could recognize him, even as he caught a smile from the cute redhead on the left.

Had to. That was part of the deal—the conditions he’d given himself when he’d rolled into the sleepy beach community this morning, still half-drunk from a post-gig party in L.A. last night.

He’d been en route to the airport, supposed to meet up with some of the guys and head to Cabo for Spring Break. One of his friends had rented a villa, got them all set up for two straight weeks of pure partying—booze, girls, whatever they wanted.

But as they approached the exit for LAX, Trick instructed the driver to keep going. Right the fuck out of L.A., straight down the coast, no stopping until he found a place that felt right.

He needed a break. From everything and everyone he knew. From himself.

When he saw a sign for the Shake Shack, a small, down-home burgers-and-shakes place overlooking the whole damn Pacific, he knew he’d found the spot.

Welcome to Starfish Cove.

One hour, a wad of cash, and a few heartbreaking smiles later, he’d convinced the girl behind the counter of the rental office to hook him up with a sweet little one-bedroom cottage, right down on the beach. He’d tipped the driver, brought in his bag and guitar, and texted his manager and the guys to let them know he was
not
to be disturbed.

So here he was, in for a week of alone time. No booze. No all-night benders. And abso-fuckin-lutely, posi-fuckin-tively, no girls.

Never mind that his friends were probably having the time of their lives in Mexico. Never mind that he probably could’ve brought that cute jogger back to the beach house with him—hell, he probably could’ve brought both of them back.

He looked at the writing on his hand again, shaking his head.

Be strong, asshole
.

This was operation detox, and operation get-that-last-damn song nailed down. He needed to get his shit together, clear his head, and finish that goddamn song before the label yanked his contract and sued his ass to oblivion. Yeah, Trick had made them a fuckload of cash over the years, but he wasn’t so naive to think they wouldn’t cut him loose the second he stopped being useful.

Trick was a hot commodity, no doubt about it. Problem was, there were hundreds more just like him or close enough, lining up outside the studio execs’ doors, ready to drop to their knees and suck off the next guy to offer up a shiny new deal.

The whole thing was jacked.

We made you, don’t forget. We can just as easily unmake you.

Yeah, the label had actually said it, just like that. As if Trick himself had had nothing to do with his success. A room full of suits staring him down like a firing squad, talking that kind of shit, and overnight, the so-called Bad Boy of Punk was on the outs.

It was his last shot, this new album. Bust through the top of the charts, or get the fuck out. Don’t pass go. Don’t collect your check. Just say goodbye.

How the hell did I even get here?

Trick slowed his pace, cutting toward the water. At the edge of the shoreline he stopped and kicked off his sneakers, letting the waves break over his feet as he trudged in up to his chest.

You
know
how you got here, man. You know exactly how.

It was Gabe’s voice in his head—it always was. His best friend was the one who’d taught him how to play guitar when they were just teenagers, who’d pushed him to take voice lessons, who spotted his raw talent and encouraged him to go for the fucking gold. Even when Trick was certain he’d fail, Gabe had never stopped believing in him.

He died, though. That was the thing.

And even though it had been five years already, to Trick it still felt like yesterday. Getting that phone call from Gabe’s mother at three in the morning, his heart shooting up into his throat when he heard her watery voice on the other end…

Patrick, baby… you need to come home. Now.

Gabe had been in an accident at work, fell off a ladder while he was laying shingles—the crappy under-the-table gig he worked to pay for studio time, still trying to cut his own demo. Trick had been recording for a small indie label in New York that whole week, but he’d bailed the minute he’d gotten the call, catching the first flight to the coast.

Gabe was already dead by then—he’d died on impact—but Trick didn’t know that at the time. His family had kept all the machines hooked up, waiting for Trick to come and say goodbye.

It was the hardest fucking thing he’d ever done.

After Gabe’s funeral, Trick threw himself headlong into his work, pushing himself even harder, eventually scoring his first big record deal with a major label. He sang his heart out in the studio and on the stage, a single thought running through his head, haunting him.

Gabe, man. It should’ve been you.

And then he drank, smoked, and fucked himself into a stupor.

Every damn night.

It numbed him for a while, but none of it had done a thing to close up that truck-sized hole in his heart. Inside him was a deep, black pit, a void so vast, he was certain it would suck him in one day.

Everyone had wanted him to talk to a shrink—even his manager, who was usually a heartless prick—but Trick wouldn’t hear it. Music was his therapy. Always had been. It was the thing that had most closely connected him to Gabe in life, and Trick wasn’t about to let death change that.

But somewhere between then and now, between losing Gabe and getting that big record deal—getting his dreams handed to him on a silver platter—dreams that Gabe had helped him build—Trick got lost.

And now he didn’t know how the fuck to find his way back.

Some days, he wondered if he even wanted to.

Cry me a fucking river, pretty boy.
Gabe again.
Put on your big girl panties and grow a pair.

Trick shook his head and smiled.

And then he dove to avoid the blast of a huge wave—too late. Smacked him right in the face, knocking him on his ass, dousing him completely.

He was pretty sure that one was from Gabe. Fucker.

By the time Trick got back to the beach rental, he wasn’t any closer to figuring out his song. But his heart felt strong and steady, his legs burning from the run, his body refreshed from the dip in the ocean. All thoughts of Jennie had been wiped from his mind.

After a quick shower, he wolfed down some lunch—the owners had fully stocked the rental, which was pretty sweet—and started to get reacquainted with his one and only true love, a vintage Gibson acoustic guitar he’d bought with his first big paycheck.

His little “pep talk” from Gabe had helped to calm him down, reset him, and soon he was getting into his flow again. He still couldn’t find the lyrics, but the melody was on point, coming through soft and easy, Trick’s fingers plucking out the chords as his hand slid up and down the fretboard.

Fuck, yeah.

He could do this. One song. That was it. Write it here, record it in New York, done and done. The last of the album tracks, then a U.S. tour, and then his contract would be fulfilled. Yeah, he’d fucked up—even more than usual lately—but he still had it. That passion. The drive. The love of music that would propel him through this challenge, just like it always had. Women, booze, the constant partying… all of it had seeped in and screwed with his head, scrambled up his brain. That’s all it was. He just needed to chill this week—alone with his guitar—and trust that the song would come to him.

He was so committed to the detox plan, in fact, that hours later—long after he’d put away the guitar, turned off all the lights, and crawled into bed—when he heard the woman enter the beach house, he really, honestly thought it was all a dream.

Until she crawled into his bed.

And freaked the
fuck
out.