Bedded Bliss (Found in Oblivion Book 1) (9 page)

Michael let out a deep breath at the end of the next song, “Cascade.” They’d made it almost halfway through their eight-song set, and Mal was getting by. Not perfectly, not always on time, but he was blending with them in a way that even Ry hadn’t quite managed. He had the skill but not as much crazy style. Mal was leaning more on the latter than the former, and damn, was it working.

By the time “Delirious” started, the crowd was right there with them, bouncing and mouthing the lyrics if they didn’t have them memorized. When Molly stopped singing and held the microphone toward the crowd, they sang the words for her as best they could, amid a few enthusiastic choruses of, “We love you, Molly!”

She basked in their adulation, shedding her gauzy wrap and baring her tiny top and flowing skirt for the next song. The name “Lick” was fitting, since it was every bit as dirty as the title suggested.

Michael swapped his guitar Jimi for his battered Les Paul, letting Elle do her thing as he set it up to enter the song after her. She bent low, her blond hair streaming down her back as she made the strings sing. When he joined her, she flashed him a smile at a wattage he only ever saw from her on stage. High on it, and on the fact that his brother was playing behind him, and that somehow, somehow they were getting through the show, he let his gaze wander the crowd.

The redhead caught his eye immediately.

She was close to the front, dancing back to back with one of her girlfriends while the other gyrated against her side. They were definitely feeling the lyrics that Molly was rasping as if she were fifteen seconds away from an orgasm. Ryan and West were doing the joint thing on the keyboards again, crossing hands and all kinds of tricks that only emphasized the erotic nature of the song. They pounded on the keys like he and Elle and Juliet were shredding their guitars. Like Mal was steadily drumming the kit, slow, sinuous. Building, building, building, until the final explosion.

The redhead turned and looked up on stage, playing with the strap of her halter top. For a second, he thought she’d flashed him some damn nipple. On purpose or accidentally, he didn’t frigging care. All he knew was her big eyes were on him while she nearly fondled her own breast, and her lips were wet and parted, and he couldn’t stop strumming his guitar the way he wished he could play with her. He’d sit her on his lap and slip under her skirt, then push aside her panties and slide one finger between the lips he knew would be soaked for him. While she watched, open-mouthed and silently begging, he’d suck on the finger that tasted of her until she was squirming against his rock-hard erection. Bouncing back and forth while he swelled against his zipper.

Christ, like he was doing right now.

Juliet came up behind him, sliding one hand in the front pocket of his jeans as Mal’s drums and West and Ryan’s keyboard faded. She jerked back and quickly shot over to the other side of the stage to set up for the next song, making him smother a laugh.

Guess she thought her onstage seduction routine with him had worked a little too well.

“What’s her problem?” Elle whispered, trading her Gibson for her Stratocaster.

“Almost sure she thinks I like her butt too much.”

“It is a cute butt.” Elle winked at him, and he laughed.

“Hers or mine?” he asked, unable to resist. Hell, he had a freaking hard-on onstage from some sexy as hell redhead in the second row, who he was trying not to look at until the next song started so he didn’t tear through his jeans.

Elle pretended to think as she put the strap over her head. “Gotta say hers. Looks firmer.”

“You suck.”

She laughed again then dipped her head close. “He isn’t really your brother, is he? Tell me he isn’t.”

“Afraid so.”

“He’s a beast.”

At the dark, moody chords of “In Your Arms,” heralded by Ry on the blues harp, Michael glanced back at Mal. He was tapping the skins in almost perfect time. “Hell yeah, he is.”

“Men.” Elle snorted and surprised him by pulling her own Juliet-type routine, going back to back with him as they slid into the song.

Elle didn’t grind or dance, just challenged him to get his fingers moving as fast as hers. He kept up, rippling up and down the strings so fast that he didn’t dare look at the audience. His shoulders hunched and he bent closer to his instrument, cradling it, imagining again that he had the redhead in his arms. That hot, lush body he’d scarcely glimpsed curling against his as she pressed those glossy lips to his ear and said dirty things that didn’t fit such an innocent face.

Pure face, smokin’ body, hair like a goddamn siren. He wanted to hear her voice to see if it matched the sexiness of the rest of her. Perhaps she’d sing to him, maybe while he was going down on her. He’d part those creamy thighs and lean in for a taste—

A crack overhead caused him to jerk, then he remembered the shower of lights that they’d scheduled for this part of the show. A million colors arced and crisscrossed across the stage while his and Elle’s guitars screamed.

In the midst of the chaos, he sought the redhead again. He had to. She stood out for him like a jewel, glittering so brightly that even the dazzling array of lights that shimmered at the edges of his vision couldn’t compete. There were just those eyes, and those full lips moving as she mouthed the song.

He sang the lyrics too, and he was singing with her. To her. Imagining she was beneath him, silently pleading.

All I want is to be in your arms.

Make me yours tonight.

Every night.

Open up, take me in.

Close your eyes, feel me there.

Inside.

Sweat popped out on every inch of his skin, and just moving in the jeans and tee that stuck to him was torture. But he played on, singing for her. Making his guitar shriek so she’d laugh and jump and clutch her hands between her breasts. She was so into it, her body as electric as the instrument vibrating in his hands.

Shit, if this show didn’t end soon, he was going to soak the damn front of his pants. His cock was already so rigid that his usual stage embellishments were becoming a problem. But he had to keep going, had to perform for her, even sinking to his knees as he worked the frets.

Knowing she was watching every single thing he did.

For the rest of the set, he alternated between focusing on her and his brother. But Mal was doing just fine, and the redhead dominated every brain cell, swiftly crowding out everything in his head except her. Her wild hair, her seductive movements, and the longing in her eyes were his undoing.

His fucking personal Waterloo.

He hadn’t planned on hooking up with anyone tonight. Definitely hadn’t expected to be riding a high like this. But the buzz in his blood and the look of her ate at him, tempting him to seek her out for real after the concert ended.

Backstage pass, hell. He’d give her a bedroom pass, then tie her to his headboard right through the next morning.

She could be taken. Possibly even married. Could be a psycho. Damn, she might even be underage. She definitely had that whole schoolgirl thing going on, even with her hot clothes and gyrations. But he didn’t care. Oh, he would—later. After.

Jesus, there had to be an
after
with her or he was going to lose his mind.

To end the show, Michael changed things up and told Ry they were going to skip “Exile” and do something else. His buddy shook his head at him, but he quickly told the others. As Michael tore into the first chords of “In The Air Tonight”, Mal tipped his head. The band hadn’t practiced the song together, and a few of the members of the group weren’t familiar with it, judging from their
what the fuck
expressions. Luckily, Molly had an almost encyclopedic knowledge of songs from the eighties onward, though she wasn’t particularly thrilled at the unplanned set change. But between the two of them and Mal and Elle—who was a seventies and eighties fiend—West, Ry and Juliet soon caught up.

They ended up making the song something completely different than the original anyway. Something theirs that fit the insane energy of the night. Channeling the vibe from the audience, feeding on it. Bringing down the house even though they were just the opening act.

Fuck that. They weren’t going to just be the opening act for long. Soon, they’d have their own arenas. Their own crowds to chant and cheer and cry.

Just like his redhead was doing. Not the cheering or crying part, or even the chanting. She was singing along, her fingers laced together as if she were praying. Swaying with them. With him, as he leaned toward her as if she were the moon and he was the tide. Her pull was magnetic and inexplicable. He didn’t want to fight it.

He’d been waiting for this moment all his life too, just like the lyrics of the song.

They brought the house down with Mal’s frenetic drumming and the slashing guitars that bled out into only Molly’s voice reaching for the rafters. And the audience went wild.

Pushing forward, they all linked arms and took their bows while Molly hammed it up and blew kisses to her adoring subjects. Mal hung back, tapping his black wrapped drumsticks against his thigh. Michael gave his brother a second to decide to join them on his own. When he didn’t, Michael stepped back and grabbed Mal’s hand.

It was ice cold. Forget nerves. The guy must be made out of steel.

Michael lifted their joined hands and basked in the waves of applause and stomping feet. And he searched for his redhead, desperate to locate her one more time.

He found her—just in time to see her being pulled up the nearest aisle by her girlfriends. She glanced back and the strobing lights bisected her face like the Joker’s. Light and dark, known and unknown.

Fuck, she wasn’t just some beautiful girl at a concert.

So much for the mystery of why he’d been so drawn to her. She wasn’t random at all. In the chaos his life had become, he must’ve been seeking something—someone—familiar.

She was the absolute worst person for him to get involved with for a million reasons.

“Chloe,” he murmured.

C
hloe Adams
.

Her name followed him through a quick shower and change. He grabbed a Foo Fighters shirt and a fresh pair of jeans, stuffing his feet into a different pair of boots. These were shitkickers with steel toes, perfect for fending off the spike heels of clumsy drunk girls. He grabbed his watch, shoving it back on his wrist, and beelined for the mini bar to swig back a quarter of a bottle of the whisky he’d had specially stocked.

“Priming the pump already?” Ry walked into Michael’s bedroom carting a pair of black trousers and a white button-down shirt. So far he’d spent almost as much time in Michael’s room as he did his own, though their suite was so huge they barely even had to see each other. “You know they aren’t going to let you into the Foundation Room like that, right?”

Michael smirked around the mouth of his bottle. “Let’s see them try to stop me.”

Ry shook his head. “Dude, you’re feeling it tonight. Just don’t get arrested, all right?”

Still carrying the bottle, Michael went to the nightstand and rooted through the top drawer. “Nah, I have something else in mind.” He pulled out a strip of his preferred brand of Magnum condoms and stuffed them in his back pocket.

Ry’s eyebrow climbed toward his hairline. “So much for your supposed abstinence program, huh?”

“When did I say that?”

“You didn’t, but considering you claimed to be such a good boy, so misunderstood by the masses…”

“Hey, safety first. I am a good boy.” He flashed a grin at his buddy and checked his phone. “Get a move on. I need to get upstairs.”

“Hot date?”

“You could say that.” More like he needed to find Chloe, then they’d go from there.

Obviously he had hopes for how the night would go, and the half dozen condoms he’d just shoved in his pocket were proof. But even if things didn’t progress that way, he had to find her. To hear her voice, watch her laugh, feel her rub up against him.

It was probably just the atmosphere. Something chemical that would burn off by morning. He’d definitely never felt that jolt in her direction before, although he’d pretty much steered clear of her. Understandable, since his first glimpse of Chloe had been in the photographs taken by the PI he’d hired a couple of years back.

The PI hadn’t been a real one, just a former high school friend, and Michael hadn’t been trying to get pix of Chloe. He’d been trying to get photos of Lila with Nick—back when she was still married to his father—in the hopes of showing her how indiscreet she was being. He’d only wanted to remind her what was at risk if she got caught cheating, not cause her any trouble.

Yeah, it sounded crazy even in his own head. Which was why he’d swiftly disavowed the whole thing, including Chloe. She’d become persona non grata in his mind. Any reminders of the period when he’d been so worried about Lila had been shoved to the back of his thoughts.

And that included the cute redheaded preggo girl inadvertently captured with Nick in the PI’s pictures.

Fuck, she’d been pregnant. She had a baby. So much for being just some young girl out having fun. She was somebody’s
mother
.

He took another long swig off the bottle and glanced around the empty hotel room. Ry had probably gone to shower.

Chloe might be showering too right now. Getting ready for the night.

For
him
. And wasn’t that a kick in the ass?

Talk about unbelievable.

He and Chloe had bumped into each other a few times on holidays and such, since she was now on the fringes of their group of friends and family. He didn’t know her whole backstory, just that she’d dated one of the guys who’d started Oblivion and had his kid. The guy was dead, and he’d caused a bunch of trouble for Oblivion before he passed.

And this is who you want to have a meaningless hookup with?

He took another belt from the bottle. He didn’t give a shit about what was right or wrong. Not tonight. She’d been flirting with him just as much as he’d been into her. So what if they kind of knew each other? Everyone knew what happened in Vegas stayed there.

One night. One morning after. Two satisfied people.

Hell, if she sucked in bed, or their chemistry fizzled out, well, he’d just avoid her end of the dinner table at family events. No big. Lila wasn’t exactly Chloe’s biggest fan anyway, since she had some past with Nick too.

He rubbed at his temple. What past, exactly? Why couldn’t he remember? Shit was already getting a little fuzzy at the edges, which on one hand—fucking awesome. On the other, his lizard brain didn’t have the best track record.

Especially since the serpent in his pants didn’t know the meaning of the word
discriminating
.

Things were getting too serious. He’d just had the best show of his life. Mal had disappeared before he could speak to him, even to say thanks, but that was okay. The rest of Warning Sign had stuck around through Brooklyn Dawn and Oblivion’s kickass sets, and the amount of excitement flowing through Michael’s veins was nearly at the illegal limit. He’d be damned if thoughts about Chloe’s home life lessened his buzz.

She was just a pretty girl. He’d get her over or under him, or maybe they’d just dance and flirt. If she wasn’t into it, or she wasn’t around, there would be someone else.

Even if he didn’t want anyone else. He wanted her. Just
her
.

Fuck, he needed another drink.

He traded the first bottle of whiskey—hey, it was empty, look at that—for another. He tucked it into the inside pocket of the jacket he shrugged on just before Ry stopped by Michael’s bedroom to remind him to bring ID.

His buddy wouldn’t let him open carry into a party. Even if everyone else and their cousin was tipsy, his best friend would make sure Michael kept up appearances.

Still, he managed to get more than a few sips off the bottle as Ryan finished getting ready. The alcohol was definitely doing its job. When Ry made some comment about him needing to beg Mal to come back for their next show, Michael only laughed. Mal was his brother. He wouldn’t need to beg.

Damn, he loved whisky.

He’d cleared a quarter of the bottle before they passed by security at the front door of the club. They met up with the rest of Warning Sign just inside the entrance, along with a few members of Brooklyn Dawn and Oblivion. For once, no one was pregnant in the Oblivion crew, and it looked like everyone was in the mood to have a good time.

Just like him.

He’d made it about three steps before he bumped into Lila. His luck was in, however, since she was currently engaged in a conversation with her husband and didn’t notice Michael behind her.

“I told you that we shouldn’t have done the new single first. You just bowed to Donovan’s pressure.” Nick tossed back whatever he was drinking and set aside the glass. “As usual.”

“I don’t bow to any male’s pressure, thank you very much. Including yours.”

“We’ll see if you say that in ten minutes.”

Michael shook his head as Nick grabbed Lila’s hips with the subtlety of a bear with a trout. She shoved at him, but when Michael looked back a moment later, she was whispering in his ear and he had both hands on her ass.

So much for Lila standing firm.

Michael kept going. Speaking of firm, apparently alcohol made him horny, or else he still hadn’t come down from the stage. Below his waist, he had a situation going on. A serious one, just from the possibility that Chloe might be there. He had no way of knowing if she would be. She could’ve gone home for the night. Maybe even hopped a plane back to her kid.

Babies everywhere. He just wanted to practice. A lot.

Hell, he should get Chloe’s digits from L. His stepmother would love that. Assuming she glanced away from Nick long enough to care.

Michael did a quick visual search for Ry or West, but they’d both disappeared. Likely together, since West tended to drag Ry out on the hunt. Michael preferred to do his thing solo. Fewer witnesses. Fewer people to tell him to rein it in, or throttle back. He just wanted to let loose and celebrate after pulling out an improbable win. No one would get hurt.

At the bar, he smiled at the brunette waitress and ordered—what else—a whisky. Might as well keep the theme going. Handily, he could take care of his own refills.

And shit, he was clearly feeling it already if he was laughing at his own lame jokes.

The song changed to something with an undulating club beat, the kind that made people get up and dance. He sipped his whisky and surveyed the crowd, ignoring the hopeful smiles he received from a few of the women, all dressed in their Saturday night best.

He wasn’t stupid. He knew he appealed to the opposite sex, which was handy since they damn sure appealed to him.

At the moment, he only wanted one. Fiery red hair and big eyes and full lips, meant for sucking…things. He was a gentleman until he’d had a few more drinks, so she could pick the appendage she wanted to start with.

He already knew he’d go right for what was between her thighs. Why save dessert until after dinner?

“Hey honey, you looking for some fun?”

“Yes,” he admitted, glancing at the woman who’d wound her arm through his. “Just not with—” He cleared his throat as her eyes shuttered. “Sorry, I’m waiting for someone.”

“You’re with the band, aren’t you?”

“Which one?”

“Any of them.” She pinched his biceps through his jacket. “Who would keep you waiting?”

He smiled and started to answer, but a flash of red caught his eye. Those curls stood out even in a swanky place with women who had hair color of every shade. Somehow Chloe had trapped flames inside each strand.

Then again, he was pretty drunk.

Still, he recognized the waves bouncing down her back. Knew that rounded ass in a tight skirt, moving in self-conscious circles. She had nothing to be shy about. A woman that beautiful should be worshipped.

A task he’d be happy to take on for a night or a lifetime.

“Gotta go,” he said to his admirer, pressing his whisky into her hand. “Here, enjoy. I didn’t spike it,” he tossed over his shoulder.

He wasn’t going up to Chloe with a drink in his hand. Hell, he was already loaded enough. If she wanted to drink and party, he was on-board, but he had to try to collect the last of his remaining wits to bring this one all the way home.

She was dancing by herself, gripping one of the gold wrap-around bars that ringed part of the dance floor. Men kept circling close to her but she flicked them off with a word and a smile, making those glorious curls shimmer with each movement. When one persistent guy cupped her hip, Michael grunted in his throat and stepped up behind her.

“She’s mine,” he said, surprised that it felt true.

They hadn’t just met, but they were virtually strangers. And they hadn’t met in this space, on this night. They hadn’t talked or been close enough that when she glanced at him over her shoulder, he could see the fringe of eyelashes shadowing her cheek. Beneath her makeup, she had freckles. Just the barest dusting of them on her nose, and over the dark bow of her mouth.

The other guy mumbled something and vanished into the crowd.

Michael brushed closer, sliding his hand over her waist until it rested low on her belly. So low that he could stretch his fingers and feel the rise of her mound under her skirt.

But above her waistband, she was bare. Midriff exposed, revealing all that warm, silky skin.

“Keep dancing,” he said against her ear.

She bristled. “This isn’t a good idea.”

“It feels like a great one to me.” He rested his chin on her shoulder, drawing in the scent that clung to her like the night. There were a million different ones surrounding them, but the spice of hers reached him as if they were all alone. “What are you wearing?”

The corner of her mouth tugged down. “How much have you had to drink?”

He chuckled and turned his mouth against the side of her neck where her scent was strongest. Cinnamon, warmed by her skin. He flicked his tongue over the space behind her ear, not to seduce but to see if she tasted the same. She moaned and the reverberation fluttered against the hand still low on her belly. “Do you smell like cinnamon all over?” he asked, pressing his lips against her throat to gauge her reaction.

Her body said more than her mouth did by far.

“Only the places where scent should go.”

Again, he chuckled. He shouldn’t have been able to hear her responses considering the throb of the music around them, but they were sequestered away from everyone else. A force field seemed to box them in, cushioning them in a space where nothing was wrong and everything felt right.

Especially her, stiffly swaying in his arms.

“Do you know who I am?”

“Do you know who
I
am?” he echoed, curling his fingers into soft, giving flesh. She was a mother, and he’d always run from those, as if pregnancy was a contagious disease. He wasn’t ready for kids. Wasn’t ready to be a father, or to be with a woman who was a mother. But inexplicably, knowing that she’d given birth fascinated him, even made him want to trace the feathery marks on her belly with his tongue.

Shit, that was some damn potent whisky.

“Y-yes. I do now. I didn’t at first.” She mumbled something else and flagged down a passing waiter. She gulped down a couple of sips of her drink, then held the cold glass against her chest. “I never saw you play before. You’re good.”

“I’m amazing,” he corrected, and glimpsed a hint of a smile curving her glossy wine-red mouth. Somehow she didn’t leave a lipstick imprint on her glass.

Women were magicians, the lot of them.

“Cocky,” she said, granting him a sidelong look. “I don’t do cocky rockstars.”

“How about modest ones?” He batted his eyelashes and she giggled. “Oh Chloe, you shouldn’t praise me. I’m really humble.”

At once, her laughter subsided. “You do know.”

“I know a few things. I know you’re absolutely gorgeous, more beautiful than any other woman I’ve ever seen.”

She scoffed. “Right. You’ve never given me a second look.”

“That’s because I never saw you like this.” He gave her hair a light tug. “All loose and relaxed, moving your hips. By the way, you’re not moving anymore.” He gave her belly a light squeeze, and she stumbled into a halting dance step. “That’s it. You know what to do. Just pretend we’re naked.”