Roxy (Pandemic Sorrow #3) (7 page)

He shrugged. “Life’s not fair. Nothing to be sorry about. It’s in the past. My life is great now, couldn’t ask for a better one.”

It was obvious that was rehearsed. That line meant nothing to him; it was something he tossed out during an interview. That shitty past still caused him pain, and I could tell.

“Really? Must be nice,” I muttered.

We sat silently for a minute and when he released my hand, his fingers once again went crazy picking at the label on his beer bottle.

He sighed and it was painful.

“Okay, I’m lying. It sucks. I can’t handle it.” Laughing, he glanced back up at me. “There’s a lot I can’t handle. My past, words I’ve chosen to use as weapons, sometimes the fame gets to be too much. I’m not a well-adjusted individual. If you can’t tell.”

I nodded. In that moment, there wasn’t much else I could do. “Yeah. You know what the hardest thing for me to swallow is?”

He shook his head.

“That the past is what shapes you. I hate that. I hate that I was shaped by utter shit, by poverty, by drugs and crackheads and CPS visits. But the worst thing is that I feel like death was what really molded me. My mom, my brother…friends.”

Jag’s mouth had now formed a hard line. Straight, almost angry, but soft enough for me to tell it was a grimace of pity.

Reaching up, he tucked a piece of hair behind my ear. “I like the pink…” He smiled and my heart fluttered, stopped, really; it fell into my stomach and sat for a moment.

“The past shaped parts of us, yeah, sure, but people change constantly.” He took a swig of his drink. “You gotta let the present take over, make it overshadow your past. You can determine who you are.” He sucked in a breath. “Find something that numbs that part of you up so you can focus on the present.”

Damn.
He’s got depth? He’s…not what I expected.

I shifted on the stool, slightly uncomfortable with how deep we were going with each other. “Is that what music does for you?” I swallowed. Nervous.

He laughed. “Does music make me numb?” Shaking his head, he continued, “No, music makes me feel alive. Honestly, it makes me feel a little like a god, immortal.”

And then there is who I figured he was.

He ran his hand over his neck. “The drugs make me numb. They take the pain away.”

“Oh,” I choked out. I wanted to tell him how stupid that was, that it would kill him, but I couldn’t. He already looked wounded, and it wasn’t my place to tell him how to live his life.

“Do you have a boyfriend?” He quickly changed the topic.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Well, really, they’re too much of a hassle. I don’t need one.”

A smirk brightened his face. “Oh, really? If they’re a hassle that just means you haven’t had a good one yet, and everyone needs love, don’t they?”

I wanted to shake my head and shout that to me, love equated to pain. I wanted to tell him I was cursed and that anyone I really let myself love either hurt me or died, but I refrained, pulling my glass to my lips and gulping the rest of it down.

“Yeah, I guess.” I twisted the empty glass on the bar, faking a smile when I managed to glance back up at him. “Sure.”

The longer we talked, the more human he became, and I realized there wasn’t too much that made us different from one another, which terrified me.

Chapter 9

Two hours later, I found myself crammed in his I-have-more-money-than-I-know-what-to-do-with sports car, barreling down the dark interstate.
What in the fucking hell am I doing—in his car…alone—with him? I’m anti-social. I’m… I’m…
The situation made me stumble over my own internal dialogue.
I look like an idiot. Like a fucking groupie—holy shit. He probably thinks I’m going to fuck him. And am I really directing him to my shithole of an apartment? Oh, yeah. He absolutely thinks I’m going to fuck him. Damn it, Roxy!

I slouched back into the expensive leather seat of that ridiculous car, the engine rumbling so hard I felt it vibrating in my seat, and closed my eyes.
Un-fucking-believable.

“So, you grew up in LA?” he asked, turning the volume to the stereo down.

I nodded. “Yep. Van Nuys. Not the nice part either. The part I grew up in is the loveliest of all ghettos.”

“Huh.” He paused and directed his eyes over at me, another one of those stupidly sexy smiles curling across his lips. “Never would have guessed that one, princess. Well, not from looking at you, anyway.” He sped around a car, then whipped back into the far lane. “Next exit?”

Narrowing my gaze on him, I said, “Yeah. Guess you’ve been there before.”

His eyes fell back to the road and he nodded.

I felt vulnerable and my defenses came up. “Guess it is a popular place to get drugs, even for famous people, huh?”

A low laugh growled from his chest. “Only once. You see, I have people that get my drugs for me.”

Arrogant. Addict.

Silence again.

“What kind of car is this?” I needed to talk to shut my inner dialogue up.

“Lotus.”

Of course it is. Even your damn car oozes sexual innuendo… lotus equals vagina. Dear God.

I sat in silence the rest of the way, listening to him sing every song that came on the radio better than the original artists ever could have hoped to sing it.

Each note that belted from him made me tense up. His voice was raspy, sexy, and I was thankful when his car rolled to a stop outside my apartment complex.

I just wanted to get out, go into my apartment, flop down on my bed, and forget that this encounter ever happened. The longer I was around him, the harder it was to not want to fuck him. And I was
not
going to fuck him. I reached over to the shiny silver handle and heard the lock click.

Snapping my head around, I glared at him. “What are you doing?”

He shrugged. “Just not ready to let you go.” He smiled. “That’s all.” He reached toward my face and swiped a piece of my hair back.

His eyes were so brown, those lips of his so damn nice, and the closer his mouth drew to mine, the less capable of rational thought I became.

He smelled expensive, he
was
expensive, and I had no business being this damn close to him, helpless. My breathing fell ragged and every part of me was shaking. Before I realized what I’d done, I’d closed my eyes, and then his warm lips barely laid against mine.

I swallowed, waiting on him to press them harder over mine, and then he whispered, “You gonna invite me in?” The subtle movement of his lips over mine made my breath catch.

Realizing he wasn’t about to kiss me, but fucking me with, I opened my eyes and grasped for an answer, for an excuse of why he couldn’t come in. But instead of no, I said, “Uh, yeah. I guess you can come in.”

Fuck. Did I really just tell this guy yes?
I huffed, trying to seem like I was annoyed with the entire situation. “For a minute.”

I quickly pushed the door open, cussing at myself the entire way up the sidewalk. I fumbled around in my purse for my keys and noticed that my palms were dripping with sweat. Glancing back at him, I opened the door and he followed me inside.

Now what the hell do I do with him? Fuck, fuck, fuck! No, not fuck him. Fuck you, Roxy. You’ve no business with him. None. This is the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever done. Your reputation is about to be forever tainted. What reputation? Oh, fuck it!

I stared at him and he looked so out of place. The clothes he had on probably cost more than everything in my apartment. At that moment, with all my cheap décor and the bland beige walls surrounding him, he looked like an expensive piece of art on exhibit. He looked totally put together in a really messy, sexy way. His hair was unruly but styled, his clothes sloppy but neat, his face unshaven but still groomed. He was pierced and tattooed, adorned in more jewelry than any man should be able to get away with—I had the front page spread of Rolling Stone magazine standing in the middle of my 8 x 10 living room.

I finally let that breath out that I’d been holding in. “So…”

Jag walked toward me, his long fingers combing through his thick, unruly hair, and a sexy smirk falling over his face. From that second on, nothing he said registered with me. I had never been so nervous in my entire life. All I could do was watch him—watch his eyes taking in each detail of my face, his lips moving as he spoke, and the confidence that he carried like a second skin.

Jag Steele was a fucking rock god.

He looked like a rock god, he talked like a rock god.

His presence commanded attention, there was no doubting that. And just having him so close to me made it impossible to focus on anything besides him. Before I knew it, his hands were sweeping through my hair, scratching against my scalp, and damn if he didn’t have the most intense, intimidating stare I’d ever witnessed.

One side of his lips curved up. “Still not a fan?” he whispered, his hot breath fanning over my cheek.

I couldn’t do anything besides laugh.

Words. I needed to form words. And they needed to be words that didn’t make me seem desperate for him to touch me right then. “I’m on the fence at this point.”

“Really?” His eyes narrowed and he tilted his head, inching toward my mouth. “Not a fangirl, hmmm?” He came closer, and now his hands were brushing over my jaw. “I
bet
…” I watched his eyes flick down to my lips, “I could get you to change your mind.”

I couldn’t stand it any longer. I wanted those lips of his against mine. With my mouth barely open, I forced my lips over his. They were warm, smooth, and so full. I hadn’t kissed anyone in months and I’d almost forgotten whose lips I had mine pressed against, because to be honest, that night he didn’t seem like Jag Steele. He seemed like a guy that I could get along with.

When my hands reached up into his messy hair and felt the necklaces that had tangled up in it, I quickly realized this was a famous drug addict I had my lips locked onto. Everything inside me tightened up, and then I felt his tongue slip over my lips and inside my mouth. Wrapping his thick tongue around mine, he pulled me closer to him, pressing his hard body against mine. His hands crept down my shoulders, then roughly, possessively, rubbed back up toward my neck. Jag wadded my hair in his palm and fisted it. Then a low groan transferred from his mouth to mine and every last piece of me went limp.

No matter who you are, no matter how hard-up, stubborn, and angry at the world you are—you have Jag Steele’s lips pressed against yours, his tongue fucking the shit out of your mouth, and his hands groping at you like you are the last woman left in existence, and you would lose all control too.

Fear choked me. I couldn’t breathe.

This motherfucker had me breathless!

And just when I thought I could rip myself away from him, those studs underneath his lip brushed over me, sending a surge of something I’d never felt before splintering through me. When his hands slipped underneath my shirt, the initial contact caused chill bumps to race over my flesh, and then, instantly, a heat spread over me, through me—that heat devoured me. The tips of his fingers were rough, calloused from plucking over the strings of his guitar, and that change of sensation from smooth to rough tore into me.

When I opened my eyes, I was staring at his lash line. His ridiculously thick lash line. I had to open my eyes just to make sure this was really happening. And yes, that was still very much Jag Steele attached to my body; lips on mine, tongue molesting me, hands feeling every last inch of me.

Just when I was about to reach for the waist of his jeans, I realized I was no better than any of the other girls—those girls I despised for giving into something as materialistic and petty as fame and ungodly looks. I was no different than them if I let this happen. And I was better than that.  I tried to pull away from him, but it was like a magnet. Each time I attempted to move away, some unknown force drew my lips back against his, forced my tongue farther into his mouth and dug my nails deeper into the thin cotton of his designer shirt.

His hands gripped my body, grazing from one part to the other in a desperately sensual way. The way he touched me made me feel wanted—no, it made me feel needed. He could want any girl, but I felt like he needed me. I felt like we were both broken and worn down in ways only each other could understand.

That made me different from those other girls.

I wasn’t primped, I wasn’t made-up for him; in fact, he’d seen me raw and vulnerable. I wasn’t backstage at a show…I was in my own living room. He’d driven me home because I’d had too many drinks; he was taking care of me, not taking advantage of me.

This was not
the
Jag Steele. This was just Jag Steele. Just a guy…

I felt his hand slowly lifting my shirt up and the scars all over my body shot through my mind. Someone like him was used to perfection, to beauty…I couldn’t handle the expression that would come over his face when he saw those. I didn’t want to explain them to him.

Between kisses, I managed to pant, “You know…” Jag slid his tongue back inside my mouth, swiping over toward my cheek as he gently sucked on my lip.

I had to catch my breath again. “I’m not…” Now his hands were gliding up my neck and his fingers tangling themselves in my hair.

“What you’re…” I tried to finish my sentence, but Jag tilted his head to get his tongue deeper in my mouth, and honestly all I could think about was having that mouth of his between my thighs. He tugged my hair, jerking my head back slightly. A moan pressed through my lips and my tongue wrapped around his before I closed my lips against his and finally managed to break free from his sexual hypnosis.

“What you’re used to.” I had to pull in a breath before I could even finish that thought. “I’m not what you’re used to.”

I watched as his tongue rolled over his bottom lip and he thumbed over those piercings of his. He stepped toward me, his fingers skimming up my neck and winding themselves around my hair once again. The rough pad of his thumb rubbed behind my ear and his eyes set on mine. “No,” his lips curled, causing one dimple to deepen, “you’re not.”

I swallowed and before I could protest, his mouth was on my neck, making every single bit of woman in me surrender.

Fuck if this man wasn’t literally sex. He was
absolutely
sex.

Jag let out a low growl when his lips crushed over mine again. His hands grabbed my ass and he violently forced my hips against his. I could feel a part of him—a very hard part of him—push against me, and the heat of that ripped every last ounce of control from me, leaving me bleeding and dying, needing to just have him. No matter how many other girls had given themselves over to him, all that mattered at that moment was that I had him.

My nails bent back as I grasped at his fly, trying to unfasten the metal button. Each breath that came from me fell uneven, my chest tight, my skin flushing as his hand roamed over my body, lighting each nerve on fire. I felt the back of my knees hit against the couch and all my body wanted to do was collapse onto it and drag him down with me, on top of me.

The scrape of his piercing caught on my lip and the pain jolted some sense back into me.

I managed to mumble out a few words about not being fake, about being flawed between deep kisses, only coherently saying the last part: “I—I can’t do this,” as I fell down into the worn cushion.

Jag narrowed his eyes at me, tilting his head slightly as his gaze wandered over me.

He bit down on his bottom lip and laughed. “I don’t want fake. That’s not what I want.” He reached down and yanked me up to him, pressing my body against his in a sensual embrace as his mouth laid over mine. He kissed me with such intensity that everything else faded to oblivion. I once again forgot who the hell I was and completely lost myself in his arms, in him, in raw want and need. And in a fleeting instance I felt like I belonged with him, like maybe this was how it should be…and then his lips left mine.

“You’re perfect…” He smiled as he backed away from me, wiping the kiss from his mouth. Jag took several slow steps backward, all the while his eyes locked intently on me. “And I wasn’t going to let you do that. You would regret that, princess.” Taking another step away from me, his smile deepened. “I don’t want you to regret anything with me.”

I froze in place, my chest still heaving, my entire body hot.

Jag laughed and twisted the knob to the front door. “Sweet dreams, princess.”

And with that he walked out.

For several minutes after he left, I remained standing in the middle of my apartment wondering what the fuck had just happened. I’d just had the most popular, horny rocker in the world groping me—and he left me.