Passionate Addiction (2 page)

Modaroo: The “best thing” you will lose.

He clenched his fists. Disgust and self-loathing were his companions, and he was too weak to do anything about it. All of this pain, suffering, and craziness because of one simple little thing—beauty.

Oh, and lust.

Lost: No. A woman is what got me into this mess in the first place.

Gabrielle Smith glanced at the text message from her colleague, Tammy.
Getting old, Gab. I hope those fragile bones are prepared for a big night out.

She smiled and tossed the phone onto her bed. Tammy needn’t worry. Now twenty-nine years of age, Gabi had a lot of experience with alcohol. She could even drink her father under the table on a good night. Tonight, she’d be putting those skills to use. It was a case of drink to celebrate or stay sober and drown in her sorrows. She chose the former. She always did on her birthday.

Her phone trilled, this time with an incoming email. Instead of jumping to the bed like her excitement demanded, she continued to towel dry her hair and lazily stretched over the mattress to pick it up. At her age, she should’ve outgrown this overexcitement at the possibility of male communication. Must be her biological clock and all that other hormonal crap.

Oh, who was she kidding?
She’d been experiencing the same thrill for the last four years. All because of one man.

When Blake’s name came up on the display screen, her heart clawed its way into her throat.

Hey angel, if u r free, turn on Skype.

She scoffed. As if denying him was even an option. She could be in the arms of another man and still find the time to pull away and chat with Blake.

With a click, she turned the application on…and watched…and waited. After ten life-long seconds, a voice call came through from his account. Blood rushed through her veins, the same way it always did when he called, even after all this time. She pressed the button to connect, placed the phone to her ear, and tried to contain her smile.

“If I remember correctly, I think it’s a special someone’s birthday today,” he purred.

God, he had such a smooth, seductive voice. And that accent. She closed her eyes and let the sound sink under her skin. American guys seemed to have sexy, cockiness down pat. Or maybe it was just world famous rock stars.

“Hey, Blake.”

“Hey, angel. Have you had a great day?”

She thought it over—easy day at work, great weather, presents, coffee, upcoming ladies night, and a phone call from the man she adored. “It’s been awesome.”

“You think everything is awesome.”

She laughed. “True. I’m just lucky I guess.”

“So, are you having a party?”

She shook her head, even though he wouldn’t see. For the last five years, she’d felt guilty at the thought of making big plans on her birthday. It didn’t seem right to formally celebrate the night her brother had been placed on life support. God knew her parents wouldn’t show up for any kind of celebration.

“I’m going out with the girls.” She padded to her wardrobe and picked out a pair of comfortable skinny jeans. Going to a club and keeping herself occupied is what she did every year. The drinking helped to numb the pain and guilt.

Blake cleared his throat. “Where’s my invitation? Hmm?”

She held the phone to her ear with her shoulder and removed the pink silk halter-top from a coat hanger. “Umm, I’m sorry. I didn’t even think, seeing as though you’re on the other side of the world and all… You also have a penis. You did hear me say ‘ladies night,’ right?”

He chuckled, and her chest tightened. Fate was cruel. She’d always been picky with men, yet with a click of her fingers, she falls in love with a guy on the other side of the world. A celebrity, no less.

“Yes, last time I checked, I did have that appendage. It’s fully functional, too. So I guess that means I don’t get an invite.”

Ouch.
The reminder of his revolving door woman policy wasn’t appreciated. Jealousy turned her stomach, and the more she tried to ignore it, the more persistent it became.

“Thanks for the visual, but just in case you were wondering, I do occasionally read the tabloids, and the reminder of how well
that
part of your anatomy works is always pointed out in black and white.” Maybe “occasionally” was an understatement. She had his hashtags saved on Twitter, Google alerts of his name subscribed to her email, and a daily habit of checking the gossip on the Reckless Beat website. Stalking wasn’t a term Gabi liked to ponder. Blake just lived on the other side of the world, and the internet was a great tool for her to keep up to date with his life.

Walking back to the bed, she threw down her clothes. Her mood had changed, now hovering far from the previous “let’s go dance and have fun” frame of mind. The green-eyed monster demanded she sex it up. Stuff the comfy shoes more appropriate for dancing. She needed shiny, black, three inch heels, with straps that wove around her ankles and tied in a bow at the front. Not that Blake would ever see their awesomeness. She would have to take her frustrations and heartache out on another unsuspecting bachelor.

“So, is that a ‘no’ on the invitation?”

“What?” She frowned. “Why do you keep bringing that up?”

“Aren’t we besties? How come I didn’t get an invite?”

She shook her head in frustration and growled into the phone. If only he knew what she would sacrifice to see him tonight. Maybe then he wouldn’t taunt her with his crazy-ass questions.

“Oh, you know I love when you make that noise,” he cooed.

Damn it. She was laughing again. “Fine, Blake. I would love if you came along to my ladies night tonight.” She rolled her eyes and moved to her hands and knees to retrieve the sexy shoes from underneath her bed.

“OK, I’ll see you soon.”

She paused, her hands embedded in the carpet, her eyes on the shoebox. “What do you mean?”

Silence.

“Blake?”

She sat back on her haunches, retrieved the phone from her shoulder, and stared at the screen. He hung up. What the hell?

Gabi pressed his name on the Skype application and selected a voice call.

No answer. The bastard changed his status to “offline.”

Climbing to her feet, Gabi sat on the edge of her bed and started typing an email.

What’s going on? Why would you say that?

After the years of emails, internet chats, and voice calls, they’d never met. She was pretty sure Blake didn’t even know what she looked like. It had been a stipulation she made months after their communications had turned from occasional chat sessions into a natural part of their everyday life. The same day he entrusted her with the knowledge that he was the world-famous bass guitarist for Reckless Beat.

She had a decent amount of confidence, and still her ego had crumpled under the thought of his scrutiny. It had been bad enough when he was a nameless, recovering addict who effortlessly brightened her day and made her smile with every written sentence. Add to that the sexy bad-boy appearance, those talented fingers, and an enviable lifestyle… Yeah, she’d decided to hide behind the internet for a little longer.

Gabi stared at the phone screen, her heart a wild bird under her ribs. She wouldn’t be ready when Tammy came to pick her up, and for once, being late didn’t faze her. She was preoccupied with an insane idea that her brain knew would never happen, but pulled at her emotions none the less.

Why would he tease her like that? It didn’t make sense. He was meant to be finishing up the UK leg of Reckless Beat’s worldwide tour.

Damn him for making her contemplate the possibility. And on her birthday! He knew his friendship meant everything to her.

Her phone vibrated and trilled with the arrival of an email.

Sorry. Bad service. Hope you have a great night. ;)

Her heart slid south, lodging itself in the pit of her stomach. She was stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Of course he wasn’t in Australia. Reckless Beat weren’t scheduled to play in Melbourne until Friday—six days away. And even then, Blake already told her he wouldn’t have time to catch up. Between tour performances and promo obligations, he would barely get a lick of sleep.
“We’re better off meeting for the first time when things won’t be so insane for me. I want to see you when I’m not delusional from lack of sleep and running on caffeine.”

With a huff of frustration, she threw the phone back on the bed and continued getting ready. Bye, bye, laid back, comfy jeans. Her grumpiness demanded one-hundred-percent femme fatale. She stormed to her closet and pulled out her skin-tight, black lace, thigh-high dress. She may need to wear her best underwear and be cautious of giving unintentional glimpses to strangers, but she didn’t care. If Blake’s attention was unobtainable, she would get it from somewhere else.

She could close her eyes and pretend as good as any woman.

***

Blake strode down Cavill Avenue, Surfers Paradise, trying to find the night club Gabi’s friend had emailed him about. The night was clear, the air warm and thick around him. Jetlag weighed down his mind, making his head heavy, and his body reeled from the abrupt change from the brutally cold weather of London, to the heat and humidity of Queensland, Australia.

Things wouldn’t be as bad if he’d caught the private jet across the globe, but he’d wanted to see Gabi, which meant he had to leave earlier than the rest of the band and slum it on a commercial airline. Not that first class was lacking, he just couldn’t sleep when people were staring at him. And there had been many people staring, all of them curious and eager for the opportunity to speak to him.

He could deal, though. He could deal with anything right about now. For years, he’d held a flame for a woman he’d never seen. Almost fifteen-hundred days in which he’d fallen head over heels for someone who may likely be a five-hundred pound yeti.

Four fucking years.

When Blake finally sucked up the guts to tell her who he was, not just a weak, drug addicted asshole from the US, but all of the above plus the bass guitarist for a world famous band, Gabi had taken a step back, openly telling him she wanted to remain anonymous.

For the most part she had.

It took over a year to learn her full name. Then another to determine what part of Australia she lived in. He still didn’t know what she looked like, and her reluctance to share a photo of herself spoke louder than words. Only he wasn’t listening.

Gabi was his best friend. His savior. His angel.

Yeti or not, he would always love her. Although, his interest may change from the sexually charged emotions that kept him hard at night to a brotherly affection, if she resembled an NFL linebacker. He just needed to see her once and for all. To stop his imagination from running wild every time they spoke. Or emailed. Or chatted online.

She had the sweetest, most playful voice he’d ever heard. And her laugh. It drove him senseless.

He shook his head and continued down the street, ignoring the curious glances from people who strode by. If he stopped, even paused, they’d be on him like groupies on gig night. For once in his life, lady luck shined down on him and nobody paid him more than an inquisitive stare. That would all change if he slowed his pace. The people he passed would have more chance to scrutinize his appearance and figure out who the hell he was. So he kept walking, pounding out the pavement, his heart thrumming in anticipation.

Vibrations from dance music surrounded him, and up ahead, he read the name of a familiar club. He paused in front of the glass windows, double checked the business name in his cell, and then glanced back at the blue neon sign on the front of the building—Pink Ox.

This was the place.

He’d been anxious for the last month, knowing what the end of the UK part of the tour would bring. Women had never fazed him before. Yeah, he loved to enjoy them as much as the next guy, to talk to the ones with half a brain and get between the thighs of the attractive ones who were less fortunate. He didn’t
do
the whole nervous thing. Yet, right now, standing a few feet away from the bouncer of the Pink Ox night club, his hands tingled with something akin to terror.

No backing out now.

He stepped up to the guy who had a chest the size of a fridge and jerked his head in greeting. “Hey.”

The man raised a brow and looked Blake over. The reaction wasn’t new. With Blake’s preference for dark clothes, the black spiked hair, leather wrist cuffs, and all visible skin on his arms inked, he was trouble personified. The fuck-you expression he currently sported wouldn’t help.

“You got I.D.?”

Blake suppressed a scoff. He didn’t look a day under his thirty years. Obviously the guy wasn’t a Reckless fan.

“No problem.” He reached into the back pocket of his charcoal stone-washed jeans, contemplated pulling out a middle finger salute, and showed the bouncer his identification.

The man grunted and Blake stepped past, assuming the caveman reaction meant he was allowed entry. Inside, the noise grew. The main bass beat came from upstairs, vibrating through the walls and muffling the lyrics. Couples sat in booths and along the bar. None of them paid him any attention, all of them engrossed in their conversations. He took his time scrutinizing every female, his heart in his throat, and so far he couldn’t find the cluster of partying women he was looking for.