Heart Broke (Hard Rock Roots Book 8) (27 page)

I kiss her mouth, taste the cinnamon sweetness of the Fireball Whiskey. As if she can read my thoughts, Sydney reaches behind her ass and grabs hold of the bottle I gave her earlier. It's half-empty. Not that she really
needs
booze to have all that confidence, that bravado—but it sure as shit doesn't hurt either.

I fuck her hard against the table while she swigs some alcohol and then lifts the glass to my lips. I don't pause my movements to take a drink, so whiskey sloshes everywhere, across Sydney's breasts, down my bare chest.

She groans and tilts her head back while I lick away the remnants, continuing to pump into her with an animalistic fury that I can't seem to control. Hard, harder,
hardest.
My balls get tight and cum explodes from my cock with a violent frenzy as I gasp and hold Sydney tight, her back pressed against the mirror. The exposed bulbs above her head paint everything in a harsh, white light as my orgasm recedes and I start to see things … a little more clearly.

When I lift my head up, I can hear the excited chatter of gossip all around us, like a flock of twittering boards. Twitter. Shit. A gif of this
will
probably end up circulating on Twitter or posted up on somebody's Snapchat or … worse—Tumblr.

I pull back and Sydney grins at me, guzzling another drink of whiskey. I watch, completely mesmerized as her throat works with the swallow.

“Get the fuck out of here?” she asks as I stare back, my dick already rising to meet the occasion.

“Yes, please,” I say as I pull out of her warmth and help her to her feet.

Well, if Tin Dolls needed an article to go with their cover, they've sure as shit got one now.

“Holy crap!” Turner crows as we climb in the limo with some small sense of shame. Jesus Christ. I am a goddamn animal. The hell is wrong with me? I glance over at Sydney and find her tongue sliding along her lower lip as she shoves back a fall of that cotton candy pink hair.

Never mind. Forget it. There's nothing wrong with me. Sydney Charell is just
that
addictive.

“You guys practically screwed on set, and then, dude, we could
hear
everything that was going on back there. You're more of a sprinter than a marathon runner, huh?”

“Turner, shut the fuck up,” Sydney says, crossing her legs and pushing down the short, black nothing that she's got on. I'd hardly even call it a dress. “If you don't like it, plug some headphones in and look away.” Sydney leans forward and captures my face with her bright pink nails, sliding her tongue between my lips for a long, lingering kiss that tastes like cinnamon and whiskey.

“Actually, it was pretty hot,” he admits, drawing my attention over to Naomi Knox. Her arms are crossed tight over her chest, but she doesn't look
un
happy right now. More bothered. Hot and bothered, maybe? Did Sydney and I … turn her on? Nah. That's too stupid to even think about. “Seriously. That was awesome.” He reaches over and slaps me on the knee like we're friends or something. “Let's go out and celebrate, get drunk, get fucked up. Life sucks, but it's on the up and up, right? We got that redheaded asshole on our side, Naomi's awake, Trey can walk, we're making bank on this stupid reality show.” Turner raises a dark brow in question. “So what do you say?”

“You want to party?” I ask, still sweating, still panting, still … sporting an erection. I know, I know, you're
shocked.
“But Naomi …” I start, but she's already shaking her head, sweeping her blonde hair back into a ponytail.

“I'm fine, actually,” she says, touching a hand to her chest. “I mean it hurts sometimes, but not any worse than a pulled muscle. I need to fucking breathe. I need to get fucking
out,
so if you guys are down, let's do this.”

Turner slaps his hands together, reaching into his back pocket and tossing some coke onto the floor between us.

“Bought that off the guy in the bathroom,” he says with pride, sliding his fingers through his dark hair. And then he
smiles
at me. Actually smiles. “You two are in, right?”

Sydney and I exchange a look and she shrugs her shoulders.

“Honestly, it might be nice to get out for a while.”

“You know they'll be filming the whole damn thing,” I say, acutely aware of the cameras
inside
our borrowed limo—not to mention the bodyguards sitting in the front seat. They'll follow us, too. There's no doubt about that.

“So?” Turner says, like he's getting pissed just thinking about it. “Watch this shit.” He reaches up a tattooed hand and slams it against the tinted window separating us from the driver. “Hey asshole, I think I'm gonna puke. Unlock these kiddie locks back here and let me out.”

“There's a garbage can in the cabinet to Naomi's left. Use that,” Brayden Ryker says from the passenger seat, his eyes fully focused on the phone in his hand. Turner just scowls and runs his tongue along his lower lip, spinning his lip rings as he shakes his head and then sits up, turning around and sticking his head into the front seat.

“Open the
fucking
door or I'm gonna upchuck all the hell over your lap.”

A flicker of irritation crosses Brayden's face.

“I swear to Christ,” he snaps, his accent twice as strong as usual. “You're going to get yerself killed, you idiot.” Still, the back doors unlock and at the next stoplight, Turner's swinging it open and reaching back for Naomi's hand. She casts me one quick look, shrugs her shoulders and follows after, sliding a pair of shades onto her face as she goes. “Oh bloody hell,” Brayden says as Sydney gives me an amused look and reaches out a hand, grabbing the eight ball of coke off the floor with the other. I take her fingers in mine, hauling her through the door before anyone can stop us.

In an instant, we're back in the real world, standing on a curb in the middle of the West Hills. There's no crowd here, no paparazzi, just … people. Normal people.
Oh thank God.
No rich a-hole, mega billionaire bullshit here. They're going to kill the world, you know, those fuckers. The new world royalty.

I close my eyes and breathe in the normal for a moment, the average, the everyday. It feels
so
fucking good.

“Let's get the shit out of here before the fangirls show up,” Turner says, glancing over his shoulder at us. I follow his narrowed eyes to Brayden Ryker and the two other men that climb out of a blue-green sedan that's idling nearby. Our bodyguards for the night. And then, right on cue, there's a camera crew sliding out of a white van two cars back.

This is going to be a shitfest,
I think as Turner and Naomi start forward and Sydney and I follow after. When I glance back one more time, the light's turned green and the limo's disappearing into traffic.

Oh well.

Guess I'm fucking doing this.

Hopefully I won't end the night regretting it.

“I'm sick and tired of Slick's,” Turner says as she shrugs an arm over Naomi's shoulders and she pushes it right off. “Let's hop into some seedy dive bars and snort coke in the bathroom.”

“You have such a way with words,” Sydney says as
I
slip an arm over her shoulders and she lets it stay, snuggles into it even.
God, she smells so good,
I think as I tilt my head down and breathe in the scent of her hair. Wild. Floral. That's what she smells like, tastes like,
always.
“I can still
feel
your cock inside of me,” she whispers, leaning up to run a hot flick of tongue along my earlobe.

Fucking. Christ.

“Seedy dive bars are okay with me,” Naomi says slowly, tossing a wild glance over her shoulder. Even with the shades on, I can tell that she's
pissed
at being followed by the camera crew. Our bodyguards—Brayden Ryker included—are nowhere to be seen. That's cool with me, just so long as he actually
tries
to keep us safe this time. “But we're not going to get very far with these assholes tagging along behind us. You got another ingenious plan, Turner?”

“Cool it, Knox, I got things covered.” Turner slips on a pair of shades that only make him look
more
suspect rather than less. With our tattoos, the style we're rocking, the
crew
following us, there's not a snowball's chance in hell that we're going to make it more than another block without drawing a crowd. We don't exactly blend in, you know? The reaper tats on my arm, Naomi's bleeding heart chest piece, Turner's stupid fucking tongue ring … eh. Identifying markers.

“Well?” she asks, sliding her cell from her pocket and surreptitiously tossing it in a nearby trash can. Hmm. The night of our
Hayden Lee Memorial Concert,
Turner and Naomi disappeared. Completely. Lost Brayden's guys and everything. I hope they remember how they pulled that shit off.

“Working on it,” he growls back at her, their gazes meeting through the respective gray and yellow lenses on their shades. “You know I'll take real good care of you, babe.”

“See,” I whisper back to Sydney as she rolls her eyes and exchanges another long, lingering look with me. “I
don't
say babe. Only douchebags say
babe.
”

“A-fucking-greed,” Naomi says, turning around and walking backwards for a moment to give me a high five. I see her cringe a little at the movement, but she shakes it off and spins back around, pretending not to be bothered. Typical. “Don't call me babe. Or Knox.”

“We're back to this shit again?” Turner asks incredulously, picking up the pace. I have no idea how Sydney can keep up in the four inch heels she's wearing, but I'm a dude, so what do I know? “I thought we were past all that?”

“After the crap you've pulled, you're calling me
Naomi
until I damn well decide to forgive you.”

“Aw, fuck me,” Turner says, pausing suddenly at the curb and opening up the door to a black sedan. “Get in,” he says quickly, nodding his chin at the vehicle. I hate to think that the idiot just picked some random person's car to hijack, so I figure he must have a plan. Either way, I climb in, pulling Sydney in behind me so she's almost on my lap. Turner takes the front seat and Naomi squeezes in next to us. “Go. Quick,” Turner tells the guy, rolling his window down and tossing his cell out. Sydney and I exchange another look and then take turns stealing our SIM cards before we do the same. We all unclip our mics and send those off next. What the hell? We've got enough money now to get new cells, and the show can get more mics, so why the fuck not?

“Um, who the hell is this?” I ask, pointing at the driver.

“Uber,” Turner says, shoving some gum in his mouth and turning to look at us over his shoulder. He grins nice and big before turning back and rolling down the front window. “Try following us now, motherfuckers!” he screams back towards the camera crew. “Heh. Bitches.”

“I have to admit,” I say as I give the dumbass some grudging respect. “That was a smart idea, although I'm pretty fucking sure that Brayden will find us anyway.”

“What the hell ever? Better than those douches with the show.”

“Now we just have to pray we don't
die
while we're out and about,” I say—and I'm only half-joking about that.