Rock Stars Do It Dirty (4 page)

The pressure mounted, and Ian’s thrusts grew frenzied, his back arching and beaded with sweat. She clung to his shoulders and met him thrust for thrust, her legs around his hips, pleasantly filled by him, his tip striking her at just the right angle to give her the most pleasure. She heard herself moaning, felt the intensity building, felt the waves rolling through her. Jamie bit Ian’s shoulder as she came, raked her nails down his back and cried out. The explosion of physical release made her writhe and cling even tighter to Ian, and then she was sent further into abandon when she felt him come moments after her, groaning and burying his face in her neck, grinding madly into her, and then they were still together.

Ian rolled off and lay next to her, breathing heavily. “Bloody hell, Jamie.” He rolled his shoulders. “You took a layer of skin off, I think.”

Jamie pushed him over so she could look at his back, wincing at the eight parallel gouges running down his back. “Damn. Yeah, I did. Sorry. Guess I got carried away.”

Ian just chuckled and pulled her over to rest her head on his chest. “No worries, love. I wasn’t complaining. I haven’t had it off that well in an age.”

“Me, either,” Jamie said. “Assuming that last part means it was good for you.”

Ian rumbled in sleepy laughter. “Precisely. It was more than good for me, darling.”

Darling. Love
. Jamie listened to his breathing as it slowed and evened out. Those were just casual words for him, she reminded herself. Not actual terms of endearment.
 

She was dizzy, drunk, fairly well-sated…and disappointed. Still burning with frustration. Need. The mountainous weight inside her was still there. She wasn’t as sexually frustrated as she had been, but the root cause of her ache hadn’t changed. She listened to Ian’s sleeping breaths, felt his heart beating under her ear, watched his chest rise and fall, admired the contours of his body. He was damn sexy, and a good lover. A girl could do worse. He had a good job, a hot-as-hell accent, and he could make her come twice in a row, while they were both drunk. She should hold on to this one while she had him.
 

Maybe it would turn into love. Or at least…something like it. Something as close as she could come without—
no.
She wouldn’t,
couldn’t
go there. That wasn’t a possibility. She’d made her choice.
 

Her instinct to flee kicked in. It was that time. Ian was asleep, her car was waiting, and by the time she made it to her car, she’d be sober enough to drive. Or she could just sleep in her car. Or even get a room in this same hotel.
 

As if sensing her inner dilemma, Ian’s arm curled around her waist and held her tight against him. Jamie kicked the flight reflex down, choked it down, shoved it down. This was good. Ian was good. She reached down and tugged the flat sheet and the comforter up to her breasts, covering herself and Ian. This was nice. He was holding her. She’d be here with him when they woke up. They’d have breakfast together. She might even learn his last name.
 

This is good
, Jamie told herself.
 

The problem was, she didn’t quite believe herself. Not deep down. A voice in the shadowy corners of her soul, that place where one’s darkest truths reside, was telling her this was still just another futile attempt to bury her heartache.
 

She felt the pressure in her belly, the burning need for release. She
wasn’t
sated. Not by a long shot. Maybe she could wake Ian up in a few hours and go again, take the edge off. He’d be game, most likely. She knew, though, that for as long as she was with Ian, the edge would still be there. He simply wasn’t capable of satisfying the blood- and soul-deep desires within her. He could—and would—try his best, and she’d let him. But it wouldn’t be enough, and she knew it.

She fell asleep wondering how long she could keep this up.

CHAPTER 2
 

The music was fire in his veins. It was raw, primal fury pounding through his blood and his muscles and his brain. The shrieking guitars and chugging bass and pounding drums, the poetry flowing from his mouth in the growled and sung lyrics—these were the only things capable of drowning the hurt, capable of disguising the cracks in his heart.
 

Chase crouched on top of the speaker stacks, shirtless, sweating, screaming into the mic as thousands of fans watched, rapt. They could see the agony in his performance. He didn’t try to hide it. Rather, he used it. He left his soul on the stage every single night, and the fans ate it up. Music journalists and bloggers were watching him carefully, offering write-ups praising his “raw, soulful, and deeply tortured performances,” as one writer put it. Chase didn’t care for any of that. Let them blog and tweet and and whatever else. Let them talk. The music was what drove him. He wrote on the tour bus, ignoring the wild parties, the joints and fifths his bandmates indulged in around him. Ignored the gaggles of topless girls. He wrote, worked out the melody, and gave it Gage and Linc to perfect.
 

The guys were increasingly distant. Or rather, they recognized his need for space and distanced themselves, left him alone. Didn’t invite him to after-parties, didn’t offer him the joints or the bottles. He hadn’t had a drink in over a month by the time the tour schedule allowed them a few weeks off, and hadn’t touched a woman since the experiment in Las Vegas with the girls from Murder Doll Asylum.
 

Back in Detroit, Chase didn’t know what to do with himself. Without the rush of the performance, without the fans and the music, he was left loose and numb.
 

He’d long since used the money fronted him by the record label to pay off his house. He had a cousin drop by once a week to keep the place from looking abandoned, so when he finally walked into his house in the suburb of
 
Sterling Heights, it was clean, the lawn mowed, the fridge empty of molding food and spoiled milk. He’d called his cousin, Amy, from Chicago and let her know he was coming home, and she’d stocked his kitchen with some food staples. In return, he’d mailed her money and a ream of tickets to the next Detroit show.

He stood in his living room, trying not to remember the last time he had been here. He had stood in this very spot, just to the left of the faded suede couch, while a certain blonde-haired, hazel-eyed DJ had stolen his heart, one stripped-off article of clothing at a time. Her bra and panties had been blue, lacy, and too fucking sexy for his own good. God, what a night that had been.

Chase shook himself. No sense in thoughts like that. It wasn’t Anna on his mind or in his heart anymore, anyway. He hadn’t really been truly in love with her, he had long since realized. He had been falling in love with her, but hadn’t been there yet. She’d run off before that could happen.

Not that he was at all bitter about it.
 

Then Jamie had come along while he was at his most vulnerable and had wormed her way into the aching space in his heart. She was all curls and curves, red hair like fire-lit copper and fierce green eyes, soft lips that tasted of vodka and cranberry and lip balm. She’d given him the slightest taste of what it would have been like to be her lover, and then snatched it away from him.

Not that he was at all bitter about it.

He rummaged in the fridge, found a case of Harp lager, popped one open, and sipped from it while he made himself a sandwich. He was back in Detroit. Jamie didn’t live too far away. Finding her would be a piece of cake.
 

No
.
 

Chase scrubbed his face with his palm. That was over. She’d made her choice clear. She didn’t want him. Although that wasn’t true, exactly. She
did
want him, equally as much as he wanted her. She just refused to let herself have him. Sure, he understood her reasons; they were perfectly reasonable and correct reasons, after all. It’s not like he
wanted
to see Anna all the time. It would have been difficult and awkward as hell.
 

But Jamie…she would have been worth it.
 

Would have been.

Chase finished his beer and swirled the suds on the bottom around, wondering what the hell he was supposed to do with himself now.
 

He picked up his phone and scrolled through his contacts until he found the one he was looking for: Eric Meridian. Eric owned a gym and kickboxing studio not far from Chase’s house, and he had often gone there before the band really took off, sparring with Eric, pumping iron, or just pummeling the heavy bag until the stress was reduced to a manageable level.

Chase needed to vent. Badly. He sent a text to Eric asking if he had time to spar and waited for a reply.
 

Within minutes, Eric texted back:
I’ve always got time to spar bro. Drop by whenever you want.
 

 
Chase grinned, changed into workout shorts and a tank top, packed a clean change of clothes, and drove to the gym. When he got there, Eric was taping his fists. Tall, wiry, nondescript of feature with short brown hair and brown eyes, Eric didn’t seem to be the kind of person you should be afraid of, but he was. Eric was deadly proficient in several styles of martial arts, mainly Muai Thai, kickboxing, and Jiujitsu. He wasn’t hugely muscled, didn’t have any tattoos or piercings, and would pass on the street for an accountant or CPA, but Eric Meridian was, in reality, one of the hardest and toughest people Chase had ever met.

Chase taped his fists, stretched out, and then he and Eric stepped into the small roped-off ring. They began circling each other, fists raised, bodies twisted sideways to present the smallest possible target. Chase, full of angst and suppressed pain and anger, struck first. He didn’t hold back, knowing Eric was perfectly capable of handling with ease anything Chase could throw at him. Chase lashed out with a right cross, which Eric blocked easily, then lifted his knee, leaping into Eric to provide impetus to the blow. Eric quick-stepped backward, grabbed Chase by the bicep, threw himself to the floor, and planted his heel in Chase’s chest, kicking up and back to flip Chase over his head.
 

Landing with an
ooomph
, Chase was winded but scrambled to his feet, throwing up crossed arms to block the flurry of quick jabs Eric threw at him, designed more to distract and disorient than actually do damage. The real blow came suddenly as Eric danced backward then darted forward, left heel flashing out to catch Chase in the chest, winding him further and propelling him backward. It was enough to spur Chase into a fury. He launched himself forward, using Eric’s own tactic of a flurry of jabs to distract, then plunging in with a knee, then a snap-kick to Eric’s ribcage.
 

From there, the fight turned savage, in a friendly type of way. Eric seemed to sense Chase’s underlying tension and began pushing Chase harder and harder, putting real force behind his blows and letting fewer and fewer of Chase’s strikes through his defenses. After almost ten full minutes of all-out sparring, both men had bloody noses and bruised ribs. The core reason for Chase’s distress hadn’t changed, but at least he no longer felt like he was so on edge, so about to implode or explode, or just simply combust into a million pieces of sexual frustration and broken-hearted despair.

They sat on a bench side by side and swigged from water bottles.
 

“What’s eating you, bro?” Eric asked.
 

Chase shrugged. Eric was a good friend and great source of stress relief, but he used the word “bro” in every sentence. It grated on Chase’s nerves after a while, which was why he usually kept their conversations to a minimum. “Just life,” he ended up saying.

“Life? I’d think life would be great. You’re a fuckin’ legit rock star, bro. Things should be off the chain.”

Chase suppressed a sigh; Eric also spoke in an endless series of slang phrases and terms. “Yeah, well. Even rock stars have problems, man. I just need to blow off some steam. Thanks for letting me stop by.”

“Hey, I getcha. No worries, bro. I’ve got a date in a couple hours so I’m gonna bust outta here, but you go ahead and do what you need. You know your way around.” Eric bumped fists with Chase and then swaggered off to take a shower.
 

Chase finished his water, then refilled it and moved to the heavy bags suspended from the ceiling a few feet away from the ring. Chase rolled his shoulders, then slipped a soft right jab at the bag, an exploratory touch. A second, then a third, and then a pair of snap-kicks, followed by a roundhouse heel kick. With that, Chase was off in a frenetic rhythm of punching and kicking, letting out all of his anger and hurt, pummeling it all into the bag. He heard noises around him, people talking, the grunts and shuffles of a pair sparring in the ring, clinking and clanking of weight machines, but none of it penetrated through his awareness.

When he finally stopped to rest, his hands on his knees, dragging in quick, deep panting breaths, he realized someone was watching him from the heavy bag nearest him. She was tiny but full-figured, barely five feet tall but blessed with curvy hips and breasts even a sports bra couldn’t hide. Her thick black hair was twisted into a braid dangling over one shoulder, and her eyes were a vivid green. Too green. Too reminiscent of—Chase cut that line of thinking off with brutal finality.

She had a quirky grin on her lips. “That poor bag must’ve really pissed you off, huh?” She had her fists taped, and sweat was beading on her face, neck and chest. She was breathing almost as hard as he was.

Chase found himself turned on for the first time in weeks. “Yeah. I caught it talking about my mom, so I had to beat the shit out of it.”

“Remind me not to get on your bad side, then.” She crossed over to him and stuck out her hand, which was dwarfed by his when they shook. “Tess.”

“Chase.” Chase smiled at her, a genuine smile. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Tess. Come here often?”