Manhandled: A Rockstar Romantic Comedy (Hammered Book 2) (10 page)

“This isn’t the weird stuff. Believe me. You should see the sack I get from Ripper Records.”

“Oh, yeah. Remember the guy who sent you a video diary from every show on the first tour?” Devon sipped her wine. “Though that was sort of sweet.”

“Yeah, I Skyped a thank you to him for that one.”

“You spoke to him?” My head was reeling.

“Sure. You might have a suspicious mind, but I just see them as fans.” She frowned, her voice lowering. “Just because one of them went loopy, I can’t automatically assume everyone is out to get me.”

She
couldn’t, perhaps. But I damn well could—and would. It was my job, and I was excellent at it. Even if she thought I was doing it a little too well.

At least she would be safe.

“Same as Frances,” she continued, though she seemed more subdued than she’d been a moment ago. Maybe she was finally beginning to second-guess her easy trust.

Not everyone was a friend. Far too many foes wore their faces.

“And you know that for certain,” I said, but she seemed to be lost in her thoughts.

“His presents are always thoughtful. I can’t believe he found the Anais Nin book though.” She shook her head. “I mentioned that on a little tiny blog.”

“Super fans!” Devon said, making Faith smile.

I really didn’t like the sound of super fans. At all.

“
O
kay
, you need to explain to me how this all happened.” Devon slugged me in the arm. “And why I didn’t get a call right away.”

“You were on—”

“If you tell me one more time I was on my trip, I’m going to do more than bruise your arm.”

I rubbed my upper arm. “You’re a brute.”

“I can be much worse.”

That was a whole lot of truth. Devon had been my best friend since high school and the girl might look like a lily white wood sprite, but she was actually more of a bloody-your-nose brawler.

I sighed. “I don’t know what this is. It was so weird. I can’t really remember what happened.” I refilled my glass. “I think that’s the worst part.” And the part I hadn’t really been able to tell anyone. “She was right in front of me and I can’t even tell you what she looks like. Literally as close as you are.”

Devon took a huge gulp of wine. “I don’t like that at all. That she was actually able to touch you—to pull you in and walk you off like that.”

I looked into the bottom of my glass. “Yeah. She literally roofied me. Who does that? The bigger question is, why would she?”

“Because she’s a sick fuck, that’s why.” Dev poured more into my glass, then hers.

“We can be sisters.” My fingers shook. That was a new memory.

“Of course we’re sisters, dork.”

“No. I just remembered her saying that. We can be sisters. I didn’t remember that part before now.”

“Okay, that’s even worse. She’s obviously delusional.” Devon got up. “We need cookies. Like now.”

“With wine?”

“Everything is good with wine.” She dragged me up off the floor. “I need to bake before I drink five bottles of wine and have a heart attack thinking about this shit.”

“Oatmeal chocolate chip?”

“Is there anything else?”

I laughed. “No.”

“So, no sign of this psycho since the wedding?”

I tucked my phone into the docking station of the speakers I had in the kitchen and cued up an old Keith Urban album. “Not a single one.”

“And yet you still have Warden Hotstuff prowling your house. Or is he prowling your bedroom?”

“No, he is not.” The other night didn’t count. Sort of. Okay, so he’d actually had his fingers inside of me for a split second. And okay, I’d been unable to sleep at the thought of said fingers filling me up like that.

Like at all.

I measured ingredients and lined them up for her.

Devon dumped oats into the KitchenAid, along with the wet ingredients. “You’re lying.”

“No, I’m not.”

She gave me a look as she locked the mixer into place. A stare down that only Devon could do as the batter mixed.

“What?”

She turned it off and pushed off a clump of oats before turning it back on. She licked cookie dough from her thumb. “You’re not telling me everything.”

“Can’t hear you.”

“Yes, you can. Don’t be that girl.”

I slumped into the chair at the end of the kitchen island. “It was nothing.” I picked a chocolate chip out of the cup.

“It was something if your cheek color is any indication. Did he slip you the big D? Did you call him Warden?”

“You are disgusting.”

She fist pumped. “He slipped you something though. Tongue?”

“No.” Well, his tongue hadn’t been in my mouth. Did the swipe along my neck count? I brushed my fingertips over the spot.

Devon came around and took the chocolate chips away from me. “Or maybe just your neck, Miss Hickey.”

“What?” I slapped the spot.

She dragged me out of my chair and to the mirror in the dining room. “Right there.”

I turned my head and gasped. “Oh, no he didn’t. He freaking marked me.”

“Now, I don’t normally go for hickeys at this age, but right there? That’s
the
spot. You know, the spot that makes girls do dumb things like make out with an Irish dude in the back of a bar after three Guinnesses.”

I blinked and turned to her. Devon wasn’t exactly innocent, but she didn’t normally sleep with strangers. “Oh, really?”

She winked. “The man had a way with the fiddle. And I definitely rosined his bow.”

“Whore.”

“Yes.” Her green eyes sparkled with humor. “Oh, yes I was. And I sang ‘Danny Boy’ the whole night.”

I laughed and pushed her back into the kitchen. “Was he worth more than a night?”

“Nah. He was exuberant though. At least there was that.”

I shook my head and stole another chocolate chip.

She slapped my hand. “Those are for the cookies.”

I pouted and sipped my wine.

“Just because I had a fling with a fiddler, doesn’t mean you get to stop your story.”

“There
is
no story. He’s too Mr. Rules to have a story. It would be untoward for him to bang a client.”

“Nice.”

I shrugged and took a drink. “Maybe if I fucked the hell out of him then I’d stop thinking about it.”

“So, you
are
thinking about it?”

“Dude. Seriously, look at him.”

“He does have that rugged thing going on. And wow…eyes.”

I frowned at her. “Just how much have you been looking at?”

“What? I’m an artist.” She grinned. “I notice stuff. Things. Like his baton is probably impressive.”

“And why would you say that?”

“Just to see what you’d do. So it is, huh?”

“I don’t—it seems to be.” From what I felt of it, digging into me. Sweet hell. I felt it all along my backside.

“Your face is on fire.”

“I hate you.”

“I hate
you
. Seamus dude was fun, but definitely not packing.”

“You said he was exuberant.”

“He made up for his shortcomings.” She waggled her brows.

“Oh, that sucks.”

“I said I sang ‘Danny Boy’.”

“Oh, so…”

“Dexterous hands and the tongue of a devil.”

I laughed. “Oh, I missed you.”

“But we’re not talking about me and Seamus. I need details about the warden.”

“I’ve thought about it. He’s just got such a stick up his ass about rules.” He’d been all up in my business then he’d just walked away. Walked away.
What the hell?

I wasn’t going to beg him to touch me, dammit.

“Rules don’t have to be a bad thing. Especially if they come with handcuffs.”

“You have a fetish.”

“I kinda do.” Devon pulled out cookie sheets and parchment paper. “Since Officer Rodriguez.” She sighed. “Now that man had a baton.”

I snorted. “Bad.”

“I sort of didn’t tell you that he put the cuffs back on me after he let us go.”

“Devon. Were we even eighteen yet?”

She blew her bangs out of her eyes. “When did we almost get arrested? Senior year?”

“After the spring dance.”

“You were eighteen. I was not.”

“Did Officer Baton—er, Rodriguez—know?”

She slid the cookie sheets in and shut the oven door. “Hell no. I lied.”

I shook my head. “A delinquent then, and now.”

“You know it.” She tossed her Cookie Monster oven mitt on the island. “Be right back. I need jammy pants and a quick shower.”

I twisted around the timer. “You have thirteen minutes.”

“I lived in a hostel for three months. I’ll be back in ten.”

I refilled my glass and started cleaning up. Devon was the only reason I made it through my senior year.

I hated high school. All I ever wanted to do was read my own books and listen to music. I snuck out every night to find seedy bars full of smoke and passion. I’d lost my virginity in the back of a van with a guitar case digging into my back, and a pair of cymbals keeping time with each of my boyfriend’s less than stellar thrusts.

But he’d been passionate. About his music, his lyrics, how much he loved me, and ultimately drugs. I’d left Brody behind the day I found him sticking a needle in his arm. I might have a soft spot for the pot heads in my life, but anything involving a needle was my hard limit.

I’d never looked back. In retrospect I loved the idea of a passionate artist, more than I’d loved Brody. Instead of a gateway drug to the hard stuff, I’d figured out that nothing mattered more than music.

The next most important man in my life had been Owen Blackwell. I’d met him in a dive on Sunset—the Blue Rhino. God, what a dump.

But I’d been lured by his passion for music. Hammered was a band with big dreams and a rotating roster of drummers. Owen, Reed, and Hunter had the drive, but their sound was still a work in progress. Zach hadn’t even been in the band yet. They were auditioning drummers when I wandered in. The relentless beat had dragged me in off the street.

The sound was heavier than I was usually into, but there’d been so much magic in the room. I’d dragged Devon in with me. We watched as drummer upon drummer had come in and been dismissed.

Owen had chatted us up on a break between auditions. He’d had the hots for Devon, and I was addicted to music. It didn’t hurt that they were a bunch of guys in their twenties looking for hook ups.

Boys in bands had always been a weakness of mine, so we’d ended up partying with them until the bar opened, and then through the night. We were under age and full of ourselves, showing off for hot guys with more flirting power than sense.

And as the night wore on, and last call was coming to an end, I’d found the old upright backstage. I hadn’t touched a piano since my lessons as a kid. But I had a good ear, and could pull songs apart—that inner jukebox finally came in handy.

It had just been sitting there, waiting for me to play. Out of key, and battered as a back alley boxer in Boston, but it had been glorious. And instead of finding a drummer, they’d asked me to join the band as their keyboardist.

And Keys had been born.

Funny how one moment in time had changed my life forever.

“Do I smell cookies?”

I turned to his voice, my arms dripping with suds in the sink. “Oatmeal chocolate chip.”

He pressed his lips together and arched a brow. “Why would you ruin oatmeal raisin cookies like that?”

“You don’t even know. But you will in…Hey, Siri. What’s the timer say?”

“You have two minutes remaining.”

“There you go.”

“Cookie ruiner,” he muttered.

I turned off the taps, then dried my hands. “So, the rules go for cookies too?”

“It’s either chocolate chip, or oatmeal raisin. That’s it.”

I wiped off the KitchenAid mixer and pushed it back into the corner of the counter. “You, are a cookie snob.”

He leaned against the kitchen island. “And proud of it.”

“You’ll see.”

The vroom of a motorcycle cut off Keith Urban mid croon. I grabbed the Cookie Monster mitt and pulled the two trays out. The smell was enough to send me into an orgasmic moan.

I managed to control myself, but it was a close call. I used my little spatula and transferred one cookie to a plate and pushed it at him. “Try it.”

“And burn my mouth?”

I rolled my eyes and broke off a piece and popped it into my mouth. “Perfect.”

“Asbestos tongue.”

I broke off another piece and blew on it then walked up to him. “Here.”

He moved his head away. “I’m good.”

“Come on, Warden. Try it, you might like it.”

His nostrils flared and he did the jaw clench thing. Honestly, why was that so freaking hot?

I lifted the cookie to his lips. “Open up.”

His eyebrow spiked, and his blue eyes heated. And somehow it had become about way more than a cookie. Finally, he opened his mouth. My fingers brushed his bottom lip and his lower teeth scraped my thumb.

He closed his eyes and a little moan rumbled in his chest.

Good grief.

His tongue swiped out and caught the bit of chocolate at the corner of his mouth. “I stand corrected.”

I broke off a piece and slipped it into my mouth. Chocolate chips and vanilla with a hint of cinnamon. “More?”

His eyelashes cloaked his eyes as he looked down at me, but he opened his mouth again.

“It’s a shame you’re always denying yourself. See what you’re missing?” I held it toward him, then redirected to my mouth.

He grabbed my wrist and dragged it up to his mouth. He nipped my fingertip as he took the bigger chunk of cookie. The smear of chocolate was bigger this time and he couldn’t get it with one swipe of his tongue.

I stood on my tiptoes. “Missed a spot.”

His chest rose and fell as I got closer, but he didn’t move back. He didn’t move forward either, but I was determined to see just what was here between us.

He watched me under a veil of lashes as I used the tip of my tongue to clean off his lower lip. The muscle jumped in his jaw as I went for another pass. A touch of stubble rasped my tongue and burned my lips. Chocolate gave way to warm, soft lips.

Softer than I’d imagined they would be. He seemed so hard everywhere.

I moved in until we were just touching. His lips parted and I breathed in as he breathed out. He flicked his tongue over my top lip. Barely a touch, not even a taste.

I couldn’t look away. I wanted him to move in. I wanted him to take, dammit. Then I felt his fingertips at my belly. He lifted my shirt and drew circles across my midriff.

I drew in a breath and then he wasn’t just standing there any longer. He brushed his nose along mine and angled our lips to whatever plan he seemed to have.

His hand slipped around my back and dragged me up against him.