Get Hitched (Hard Rock Roots Book 9) Page 7

  “We should …” I start to say, but then the button on my slacks is undone and my cock is heavy and hot in Lola's greedy little hands. I grit my teeth and push her against the side of the bus, clenching my jaw and putting my palms flat against the metal surface. The TV crew isn't allowed to follow us back here; there are enough cameras already on the bus anyway. So you know what? A few roadies watching us screw is a fuck of a lot better than the whole country of American idiots staring at my white ass.

  Lola pumps my shaft with a tight grip, the rain slicking and sluicing between my lips, plastering my dark hair to my forehead, sticking hers to her cheeks and shoulders. It's cold, but my body is burning so hot that it feels good, a little temperature play on my exposed skin.

  “I need to tell you something,” she says which seems like a totally random thing to say while she's giving me a hand job. But then, this is Lola and I'm me so fuck it.

  “Tell me, doll face,” I whisper, my voice rough and ragged, the scent of the rain mixing with the smell of dirty pavement and the sweetness of Lola's perfume. It tastes like honeysuckle and poppies on the back of my tongue, this floral deluge competing with the distant whisper of pot smoke and exhaust.

  Begrimed beauty, a flower growing in the crack of a sidewalk, a first kiss in a dirty alley, a smile in a sea of frowns. That's what this feels like. Lola Saints is my island.

  She looks up at me, competing feelings warring behind those round marble eyes of hers.

  I give a dirty half-smile and push into her hand, rocking my hips, trapping her against the side of the bus and encouraging her to keep going. Come on, they don't call me the Gossip King for nothing. If she thought I'd miss the sudden lack of cigarettes and booze, then we really do need to get married because she doesn't know me well enough yet.

  I plan to spend the rest of my life enjoying the process.

  “I'm … up the duff, Ronnie.”

  I almost laugh, but the sound gets choked up when Lola uses her hand like one of those metal claws in an arcade machine, my dick being the damn prize. She presses her palm to the head and uses her nails to sweep up and along my shaft.

  Yeah, uh, coulda blown my load right then.

  “English, please,” I whisper and she rolls her eyes at me, blushing furiously. “What? No … no come—” I try to say comebacks, but it just doesn't come out right. Lola's stroking me with fingers that are gently cruel, her nails tracing lines of fire on my exposed cock.

  “No come is right,” she repeats, lifting her chin and giving me a mean look. “Not until you're inside of me and I'm coming with my back pressed to this bus.” Lola puts a hand up to the side of my wet face, water collecting on my chin and dripping onto my already soaking wet shirt. “You … knew I was up the stick?”

  “Up the … duff … the stick … Knocked up. In the family fucking way. Pregnant. Of course.”

  I struggle to talk, but the pleasure is intense, ripping through me like a hard rock rift. I suck Lola's wet thumb into my mouth, closing my eyes against her touch, against the feel of the small wedding band on her finger. It's a simple silver ring but it has a pair of custom diamond crusted drumsticks crossed together in the center, making an X. It's cheesy, totally lame, ridiculously literal, but … fuck, rockstars get pet cheetahs and quarter mil bottles of champagne and dinosaur skulls. At least this ring only cost me five little digits in cold hard cash. You go ahead and imagine what numbers go where in that equation.

  Lola pauses suddenly and looks me straight in the face.

  “You're happy?”

  “So fucking happy,” I growl and then I'm pushing her hand away and lifting her up against the side of the wet bus, my fingers digging into the plump flesh of her ass. She's so much littler than me, and my arms are like goddamn diamond from hitting my kit, so it's as easy as one, two, three to hold her up and thrust my cock deep into the scalding liquid heat between her thighs. The stupid yellow thong she was wearing got discarded long ago, in the van on the way back here. Good riddance.

  I surge into her, hard and fast, pumping deep, drawing those banshee like moans from her throat that have gotten us into trouble more than once. But there are security guards back here and everyone can see what we're doing and why she's screaming, so we get left alone for fucking once.

  “Ronnie, Ronnie, Ronnie,” Lola whispers against my neck as I breathe in her scent, take her into me the same way I'm driving into her. Our engagement was sweet and stupid and pretty, so this has to be hard and fast and fucked. Her fingers claw at the back of my neck, digging into my wet hair, pulling me close. Each time her ring brushes against my skin, excitement flickers through me, making my own moans rasping and rough with need.

  I let myself go completely, shedding any pretense of being civilized and going straight for animal, baby.

  “You're gonna be my wife,” I growl as I fuck the future Mrs. McGuire against the side of my tour bus. “My fucking wife.”

  The sound is strange and foreign, slipping off the end of my tongue and hanging in the messy quiet of the night. The rain is loud, the wind blistery, but there's no other sounds, no cars or people. It's a strange dichotomy, but it's soothing. It feels wild, despite the urban setting.

  “I love you, Ronnie,” Lola says, her voice singing a song with the best goddamn lyrics.

  “I love you, too, doll baby.”

  My hips drive into Lola, pushing the words from both our throats. We've said enough anyway. There are no words better than I love you.

  My grunts turn into screams, too, and I find myself thrusting through the violent shuddering wave of my fiancée's orgasm, helping her find a sobbing, happy sort of peace before I come, too. My entire body tenses up, my shoulders and neck and ass going taught as I come hard inside of her and find it suddenly difficult to hold us both up.

  “Looks like you two have been busy while we were gone,” Turner says from behind me, and I glance over my shoulder to find him and Naomi standing there watching us.

  Lola lifts her hand up over my shoulder while I stay sheathed inside of her.

  “Lookie here, you little budgie smuggler. Jealous?”

  “You fucking son of a bitch!” Turner says, but then he throws his head back and laughs into the rain. “You fucker.”

  I manage to separate from my woman and get our clothes fixed back in place before I turn around and toss a smile in their direction.

  “Well, you two manage to outshine us every other day of the week. I had to get the jump on you somehow.” I pause and then flash a grin. “Oh, and Lola's pregnant.”

  Turner groans, but I laugh.

  Because in that moment, in the rain, smelling of sex and wondering if I might actually die tomorrow, I'm happy. Each second, each minute that ticks by I'll keep asking myself that and if the answer is ever no—and I'm not in the middle of a crisis out of my control—then I'll do whatever it takes to fix it.

  We only get so many seconds in this fucked-up ugly world of ours.

  Might as well make the best of 'em.

  My pen taps out a steady rhythm on the table as I study the list in front of me.

  San Francisco, Seattle, Denver, St. Louis, New York, Charlotte, New Orleans, Dallas, Albuquerque, Las Vegas.

  Ten cities. Big cities, sure. But why these cities? Like, why no Los Angeles for example? Hell, we left from there so it wouldn't it have made sense to play there? And why the buses instead of a plane? This is a fuck of a lot of driving.

  I groan and put my forehead against my arm where it's resting on the table.

  I'm a stripper, not a detective, and this murder mystery is a real doozy.

  “Hey,” Dax says, pausing next to me. I can't see much of him from my position but what I can see is lovely. He's hard as a rock, his erection looking me right in the face. I reach out a hand and run a finger down the fly of his jeans, eliciting a pained response from him. “I'm sorry,” he says which makes me smile. Apologizing for being hard? And then fucking me like he's really not all that goddamn sorry. Aww,
Dax McCann, you have my slutty filthy little heart in your ghost and gravestone covered hands. “What are you up to?”

  I sit up and scribble some words on the page that the cameras can't see. Brayden Ryker told us all the secret spots on the bus and believe me, they are few and far between. I'd pull him into the bathroom to talk to him but then you know, the bathrooms on this bus are basically continuously occupied by people fucking or jacking off or whispering, so it's hard to find the time. Anyway, Dax and me, we'd probably end up screwing instead of talking if we went in there.

  Trying to figure out why these cities were chosen, I write, underlining the word these for emphasis.

  “Good question,” he says with a sigh and a ruffling of his jet black hair. I just redyed it for him, but one day, I'd like to see his natural blonde color. Based on the color of his roots before I slathered all that inky black up there, I'm guessing Dax is one of those bright-white sort of blondes. Sexy as fuck.

  I sigh and fold the list up, shoving it into my cleavage as Dax watches, mesmerized, and a smile lights my pink painted lips. Silly boy.

  “I'm going to finish signing these so I can get them mailed off to all my stripper friends back in Detroit.” I purposely change the subject, fanning out the glossy magazine covers on the table. My own face stares back at me, twisted in an animalistic snarl, my teeth in Dax's bare tattooed shoulder, my legs wrapped around his naked midsection, heels locked at the ankles. It's a powerful goddamn shot, one that I can't stop staring at. “They'll probably all end up on eBay, but at least the girls can make some extra money.”

  I scribble with a silver Sharpie and then pass it up to Dax. He signs it, too, right underneath the headline that says Drummer Boy meets Stripper Girl with a Heart of Gold. What is it with this gold thing? If my heart's made out of anything, it's probably stone. I mean, I have one but it's been tempered in the fires of fucked-up. I am a proud graduate of the school of hard frickin' knocks, my friend.

  We both pause as Naomi shuffles into the kitchen with her blonde hair mussed and her expression tight. Man, she went into that fucking Boom-Boom Shack place the other night with a fire lit up under that tight sexy ass of hers. Whatever she was looking for, she didn't find. It certainly pissed her off something fierce. A shame since I'm curious how far we can push things on our next foursome—and believe you me, there is going to be another one.

  “Can I see The List?” Naomi asks, coming up to us dressed in a pair of Turner's boxers and a tank with no bra. She holds her hand out and gestures for the club list. We refer to this particular page as The List blatantly on camera and give zero fucks what people think about that. I just sort of assume all the weirdos watching the Hard Rock Roots website at home will think we're trying to plan outings without getting swarmed by fans.

  Frankly, I have no clue what we're doing. That Irish fuck Brayden has said about as much as he's going to say on the matter.

  Rigor is the next club on the list—totally morbid sounding, right? At least it is for me. All I can think of is rigor mortis. Maybe I'm the one with a problem? Doesn't the word just mean like harsh or difficult or something? I need to get my cotton candy pink head out of the graveyard.

  “Yay. Can't wait,” Naomi says, completely deadpan, handing the page back to me. On the outside, she looks tired, worn-out, almost sleepy. But I can see beneath the facade to the burning rage inside, the desperate need to escape this gilded cage we've all been thrust into. “How long till we get to the venue?”

  “About three hours,” I say with a sigh of relief. This is day two of a long weekend of travel from Seattle to Denver. I cannot wait to get off this bus and head to Rigor—as creepy as the name still sounds to me. I lean back in the booth seat and Dax scoots in next to me, the hot length of his leg pressed up tight to mine. “Let's Google this place and see what it's all about.”

  I keep my phone tucked in my lap, away from the eyes of the cameras.

  As I search for the club, the search terms that pop up in suggestion become of immediate and terrifying interest.

  Rigor Washington Family Scandal.

  Dax and I exchange a look as I hit the article with my thumb and read through it as fast as I can.

  The three story dance club known as “Rigor” opened up to raucous crowds in the thriving Denver downtown area three years. Owned and operated by the WEA Conglomerate, the company of infamous real estate tycoons the Washingtons, Rigor has seen its fair share of incidents. From a small fire during the end of its first fiscal year to the recurring incidents of underage drinking. The newest scandal—involving the current head of the Washington family—will be on the forefront of the public's mind for some time to come. Caught with an underage prostitute in one of the club's back rooms, Albin Washington has now become the epitome of old white wealth escaping the heavy hand of the law. Despite numerous witnesses and live video feed of Mr. Washington engaged in sexual intercourse with a fifteen year old girl, no charges are being filed.

  The WEA holds its major offices in Denver, St. Louis, New York, Charlotte, and Las Vegas—and in all of the aforementioned cities, Albin Washington has been arrested at least once for lewd and lascivious behavior, assault, grand larceny, or arson.

  In not one of those cities has he been charged.

  I read through the article, dated about six months ago, once, twice, three, four, five fucking times.

  And then I try another Google search on my phone: Spin Fast Music Group, office locations.

  San Francisco, Seattle, New Orleans, Dallas, Albuquerque.

  With that, I match up all the clubs and the venue from San Fran—the Dead Sea Theater—to the two companies. Some of them are owned under smaller companies that branch up and up and up until I find the spider that spun the entire web.

  The Hammergren Family and the Washington Family—they own it all.

  Oh, and some of the Washington clubs used to be owned by the Harding family. You know, before they were all fucking murdered.

  “We are so fucked,” I whisper as Dax curls his hand around mine and weaves our fingers together.

  I might be good at getting out of trouble, but I'm not this good.

  If we're playing with fire, somebody's going to get burned. To a crisp.

  I can practically smell the smoking flesh already.

  When I look up, Naomi Knox is still standing there playing the death card I drew from the tarot deck.

  Uh-oh.

  Brayden Ryker is one closemouthed son of a bitch.

  When I confront him about the clubs and their owners, he doesn't say shit. I almost wish that crocodile lipped Paulette Washington was around, so I could grill her about the tour's path around the country. She didn't pick these cities by accident. No way.

  So she knows that something is about to happen; Brayden Ryker knows something is about to happen; we know something is about to happen.

  But it looks like we're the only ones that don't know what is going to happen.

  “I really needed this,” I say as I lean back against the wall next to Dax and watch Ronnie and Lola slow dance in the middle of a room full of half-naked men and women. They look almost fake, like an illusion, this beautiful source of stillness in all of that sweaty grinding and rubbing and moaning that's going on. “God, I can't believe she's pregnant,” I whisper, “she's so young.”

  “You can't believe it?” Dax asks, his rock-hard fucking arms crossed over that delicious chest of his. I want to bite his little nipples off. They're like peaks of diamond, obvious even through the rough gritty tank he's wearing. It's gray and loose, the neck ragged and asymmetrical, showing off the tattoos on his right shoulder. Death never looked so hot as it does on this motherfucker with his zombies and his skeletons and his ghosts.

  I bite my lower lip and feel the slick wetting of my cunt. It's like my poor pussy is trying to pleasure herself by spasming, tightening up like she's wrapping around Dax's shaft, nurturing his cock. The feeling makes me crazy as I rake my fingers through my hair and ruffle up t
he cotton candy pink strands.

  “You know what I meant, you little asshole,” I say as I lean in and bite his sweaty hard arm, mimicking our Tin Dolls magazine cover. He's young and yummy and firm. I never thought I'd be dating a guy six years younger than me. No way, no how. But Dax … He's ice cold in a way that's hot, like putting an ice cube to your bare skin. For a minute there, it's freezing but then it starts to ache and tingle, to burn. “How old is she? Twenty-two?”

  “I think so,” Dax says, looking down at me with his gray eyes. And not like fake romance novel billionaire gray, like pale soft blue-green that shifts and mixes into a sort of steam that coats his irises, makes the color shift and ripple. If I were a swoon-y sort of girl, I'd go all goo-goo gaga on this boy. Instead I just cup his damn junk. “Jesus,” he curses, snatching my wrist in tight fingers and gritting his teeth at me. “If you do that, I swear to God …”

  “Swear to God, what?” I purr, pressing my breasts against him. Hey, I know what I look like in this outfit. It's tight and pink and glittery, turning my body into a dancing kaleidoscope of color. My heels, those are fuzzy, and my legs … encased in tights. Yeah, it's not like I missed Dax's fetish for women's pantyhose. I do not want to psychoanalyze that one, but it's a fuck of a lot tamer than some fetishes my past boyfriends have brought up—like golden showers, um, gross—so I'll take it.

  “I swear to God that I'll drag you somewhere private and fuck the shit out of you.”

  “Private? Ronnie and Lola fucked in the back of that club in LA. Why not do it right here on the dance floor?”

  Dax laughs, but since I don't step away from him or stop fondling his royal jewels, the sound is low and dangerous, a warning. But I, dude, I am crazy Sydney and I like to push buttons. I squeeze the dark denim and its precious package in my hand and Dax growls at me.

  “Shit.”

  Just that one word as he gazes down at me, a drink in one hand, his eyes dark and shadowed with makeup, the gray hood on his tank thrown over his hair. When he looks at me, his eyes are lit all the way up.