* * *

DIRTY LIKE US

The red carpet was worn beneath our feet. The altar was a single step, also carpeted in red, on which we stood, along with the officiant.

The officiant wore a black leather motorcycle jacket, a faded Steppenwolf T-shirt, ratty jeans and biker boots. A black leather bible decorated with silver studs lay open on his hands.

I wore a pink dress.

The room was small, and there were no windows. The ceiling was arched and the walls were black, strewn with neon beer signs and replica platinum albums.

There was a row of eight gunmetal chairs, four to the right of the aisle and four to the left, two of which were occupied. A woman I didn’t know stood at the back of the room with a polite smile on her face. A man with a gun stood guard at the door.

Outside, traffic rumbled by, occasionally vibrating the kitschy junk on the walls.

In the next room, an awful song played faintly on repeat. A cheesy, sleazy rock song about a schoolgirl.

Near me, someone was talking.

But all I could hear was that old Steppenwolf song, “Magic Carpet Ride,” playing in my head. I heard it the way Zane once sang it, as we sat around a campfire drinking Jäger from a bottle someone passed around, his voice so raw and smoky and beautiful it gave me goosebumps. I heard it the way my mom used to play it, loud, on her wonky old turntable, as she danced in the kitchen in one of her flowy blouses and a pair of cut-offs.

I could see her now, dancing in her bare feet, and looking so, so young.

And I wished she was here.

I was holding hands with him, and my knees were quivering. I could feel his heartbeat in his fingers wrapped tight around mine. His thumb smoothed back and forth across my knuckles, over the new ring on my finger, as I breathed, shallow and slow.

He was looking at me. I knew he was. I could feel the heat of his gaze moving over my face.

“Maggie.”

I took a breath and felt his heartbeat, once… twice… Then I looked up into that gorgeous face. His arctic blue eyes held mine. He squeezed my hands slightly.

Zane.

Me.

Holding hands at the altar.

Holy shit.

“That’s your cue, babe,” Zane said, and I realized the man in the leather jacket had been the one speaking. To me. Everyone was looking at me and waiting.

And I just stared at Zane.

The corners of his eyes twitched. He smiled slightly and I couldn’t stop myself. I never could, when it came to him.

I smiled back.

“Yeah,” I said, in response to the man’s question, but the word cracked and came out a whisper. I cleared my throat and found my voice. “I do.”

* * *

I stood in the middle of the massive, glittering bathroom, trying not to imagine how much this hotel suite would’ve cost if we had to pay for it. And trying not to think about why we didn’t.

I’d told Coop to go ahead and help himself to the complimentary champagne, because no way I was drinking it. Instead I grabbed one of the little glasses by the sink and fixed myself a vodka cran, pouring from the bottle of Stoli I’d paid for myself. Then I lay my travel case open on the floor and took a breath.

The last hour of my life had been a total gong show, the conversation with my father pretty much the furthest thing from an aphrodisiac. I just needed a few minutes to get my head together and switch gears.

I took a swig of my drink and assessed myself in the mirrored wall. I was still wearing the jeans and midriff-baring jacket I’d worn to dinner with the crew, but I’d already decided the occasion called for something a lot sexier.

I dug through my stuff, unearthing the new lingerie and snapping off the tags. Then I went over my mental checklist as I got undressed.

The band was all settled into the hotel, finished with the promotional interviews I’d set up for them earlier in the day, and they were officially set loose for the night. In Las Vegas. The last I’d seen of each of them, they were off in various directions in search of sex (Zane), booze (Dylan), and/or solitude (Jesse and Elle). Tomorrow night was the final show of the tour and everyone was jacked up on a hazardous cocktail of anticipation, adrenaline and hormones. Not the kind of hazard I could do much about, other than stay out of the way and be on hand for cleanup later. My boss, Brody, and I were band management, which meant we booked gigs, made sure everyone got paid, and generally kept the money flowing in. But it also meant we took it upon ourselves to make sure everyone stayed relatively sane, so the reality was, if anything fell apart between now and tomorrow’s show, my phone was gonna blow up like the Freemont Street light show, and not like I could ignore it.

Story of my life, but at least everything was as it should be on that front.

Security, crew, and gear were all accounted for and everything was set for Dirty, hottest rock band on the planet and my kickass employers—fuck, yeah—to rock the hell out of the new arena on the Vegas Strip. And while I was excited about tomorrow’s show in that bittersweet way that marked the end of each tour, I was really looking forward to a momentary diversion from the madness.

A diversion of the sexual variety. Because the Penny Pushers were also in town for the show, and that meant I was hooking up.

I slipped into the skimpy lace babydoll and matching thong, both a vibrant lime-green that looked amazing against my complexion. Thanks to my mom, I had flawless light-brown skin, which I’d always considered my best feature. Admittedly, because it made me look less like my dad.

Usually when people found out who he was, they assumed I’d want to be associated with him. He was rich and famous, after all.

But those were the people who’d never met him.

I took a couple more swigs of my drink, hiked up my cleavage with the stiff demi cups of the babydoll, and touched up my makeup, letting the liquor and the bizarre, hyper-reality of this moment soak in.

I, Maggie Omura, was about to fuck a rock star.

What would you think of that one, Mom?

She’d laugh, I figured. Hard. Since this went completely against The Rule.

I’d made up The Rule myself when I first came to work for Dirty six years ago. Actually, I’d made up many rules. What the hell did I know? I was a nerdy, idealistic nineteen-year-old with stars in my eyes. But as I’d discovered, in the total shit storm of rock ’n’ roll chaos that soon became my life, there was only one rule that warranted keeping.

No Screwing The Talent.

When I first met Dirty, their debut album had just incinerated the charts and they were coming off their first world tour. I was naive and inexperienced, but I had a head for business and all I’d ever wanted to do was work in the music industry. I managed to get an incredibly tenuous foot in the door merely because of a lucky-horseshoe-up-the-ass situation—I happened to have a class with Dirty guitarist Jesse Mayes’s sister in college, and she and I had become friends. I also had the hugest, stupidest puppy-love crush on Zane Traynor, blond bad boy and lunatic lead singer… and when he set his ice-blue eyes on me, I knew the only way I wouldn’t fuck everything up was by eating, sleeping and breathing The Rule.

Over the years, The Rule had kept me out of trouble. A lot of trouble. However. Sometimes rules became outdated. Needed a little revising. Or strategic bending.

And since I wasn’t about to screw a member of the band I worked for, it didn’t totally count, right?

“Maggie?” Coop tapped on the frosted-glass bathroom door, amusement and a touch of concern in his voice. “You ever coming out?” He also sounded horny, his voice low and a little huskier than usual.

Perfect.

I stood back to check my work and felt ridiculously sexy for about five seconds, knowing he was gonna love it… until it really dawned on me that I’d bought the lingerie for that reason. Because Andy Cooper had mentioned, months ago, that I looked hot in this color. Which meant… yeah. I was putting way too much effort into this.

Kinda like I did with every-fucking-thing.

But this was weird, right? Crossing a line?

Coop was just a hookup, and no sane woman bought hot, expensive lingerie just for some guy she was hooking up with unless she was looking to turn that hookup sex into hang-out-afterward-and-do-it-again sex, followed by wake-up-together-the-next-morning-and-do-it-yet-again sex.

And I definitely wasn’t looking for that.

Was I?

I smoothed my long, dark hair and chewed my lip at my reflection. Hot. But yeah, weird.

“Maggie?” Coop knocked again.

I pounded back the rest of my drink. “Coming.”

Lingerie or no? I could take it off, walk out there naked.

Veto.

Put the jeans back on?

I made an executive decision to go with the lingerie, took a deep breath, and opened the door. Despite the fact that I didn’t feel quite as special about Coop as the lingerie implied, my night had just gone to hell and I really needed this distraction.

I just hoped he had time to help me blow off all this steam; it could take a while.

Coop stood back, his eyebrows raising as he drank me in. He wore a vintage Sex Pistols T-shirt with the sleeves cut off, showing off his incredibly decent arms, with gray jeans and a studded belt. His blond hair was tousled to shit, like it always was, and an impish smile broke out on his face. “Whoa. Maggie… shit.” He scrubbed his hand through his hair. “I feel kinda underdressed.”

“Then let’s get you undressed,” I said, letting my inner slut take over as I grabbed him by his shirt and pulled him over to the giant bed. I’d claimed the smaller of the two bedrooms in the penthouse suite, yet the bed was king size, which made me wonder what was in the master bedroom. Harem size?

Fitting, given who’d be sleeping in it.

Don’t even go there.

I yanked Coop against me and we came together in a hungry, slightly awkward kiss. He pushed me back onto the bed, his warm weight settling over me. Despite the offer of free champagne, he tasted vaguely like beer, which reminded me of finding him in the hotel bar half an hour ago… which reminded me of running into Zane about half an hour before that—

Do. NOT. Go. There.

Coop’s body was lean and hard as he ground himself against me, his hips dragging over mine, the hard ridge of the unmistakable erection in his jeans setting off sparks of pleasure between my legs, and I gasped.

Oh, hell yes… this was exactly what I needed.

He kissed his way down my neck and I groaned, arching my back, getting into it as he sucked on my throat—

Holy. Shit. I stiffened as joyful screaming and laughter erupted in the room next door—the main room of the penthouse suite.

The voices of multiple women.

Coop didn’t seem to notice. Or care. He just ground his hard dick against me and kissed me again. I shut my eyes as his weight pressed me down, his hips moving faster against me, his body heating up. He grabbed my breast, squeezing hard, and sank his tongue deep in my mouth.

Then I heard it. I heard him. My “roommate” for the night. His smoky voice so close outside the bedroom door I cringed.

My eyes flew open. I ripped away, stopping Coop with a hand on his chest, so suddenly I startled us both.

He looked down at my hand as I panted beneath him. “You okay?” he asked, disoriented. “Did I hurt you?”

“No,” I managed to choke out, clearing my throat.

Fuck. Me.

My head was spinning, and I could still hear his voice in the other room. I couldn’t tell what he was saying, but I knew that cocky timber. I knew the sound of Zane Traynor working his magic on a bunch of women.

“Just… don’t…” I gasped out, shaking my head, “… don’t stop.” Then I grabbed Coop by his neck and smashed my mouth to his as a ridiculous wave of guilt crashed through me.

I didn’t feel guilty about breaking The Rule. I’d been breaking it with Coop on a casual but semi-regular basis for a while now.

I felt guilty I wasn’t breaking it with him.

Yeah. That was the messed-up truth of it. Because I’d always secretly fantasized that if I was ever going to break The Rule I’d do it balls to the wall, in a total blaze of glory, me and the ice-blue-eyed reigning god of rock—and cock—swinging from chandeliers and breaking furniture.

But thank God my mother didn’t raise that kind of fool.

I, Maggie Omura, was never going to let my incredibly misguided lady parts lead me to Zane Traynor’s bed. No matter how much they might want me to.

That way lies madness.

On the other hand, Andy Cooper, wickedly talented bass player for the Penny Pushers and genuinely nice guy, was worth breaking a rule for, right? Besides that, Coop was exactly my type. Which was tall, blond, and rock ’n’ roll.

Also, he’d just torn off his shirt and tossed it on the floor, and the sight of his bare chest helped me to focus.

He yanked the babydoll over my head and tossed it somewhere across the room as I tried really, really hard to block out the sounds of screeches and giggles from next door. I was pretty sure Coop said a bunch of nice things about how sexy I was as he kissed his way down my body, but I didn’t really hear it.

Instead, I heard Zane’s laugh. That potent, sexy-ass, full-on Viking laugh I would know anywhere, had creamed my panties to enough times that I’d never be able to hear it and not get wet. It was like a goddamn Pavlovian response.

I wriggled uncomfortably as Coop ran his fingers down between my legs, skimming the lace of my thong, hyper-aware of the fact that I was more turned on by that laugh than the feel of Coop’s touch on my body. He rubbed me up and down, his hand moving in small, eager circles as he kissed his way down my stomach… and I tried to enjoy it, I really did.

But then the music kicked in.

Loud.

It was Guns N’ Roses, “You’re Crazy,” at top fucking volume. Not the acoustic version. The heavy version, hard and fast, thumping through the wall.

Coop looked up in a lust daze, the corner of his mouth hooking in a slight smile. “Who’s out there?”

“Just… ah… one of the guys…” I said, my brain split between the pleasure of what he was doing to me and the party going on next door. “And… about… half a chorus line… from the sound of it…”

Coop laughed. “Should I go tell them to turn it down?”

Sweet. But no way I would do that to Coop.

“No,” I said, “just keep…” and then my head dropped back on the bed as he increased the urgency of his touch. He swirled his tongue around my navel, letting out a low groan, then kissed his way down. I took a breath and struggled to focus on the sensations of his tongue licking its way along the lacy edge of my thong, his fingers slipping inside to peel back the fabric. Then I felt the caress of his hot breath, just as laughter exploded on the other side of the wall.

His laughter, loud and cocksure.

A chorus of female giggles followed, and a surge of raw jealousy scorched through me.

Worst. Roommate. Ever.

Would it totally kill the mood if I put in earplugs before Coop fucked me?

Yes. Yes, it would.

Maybe we could put on some music of our own? I had a laptop here somewhere… but no way my laptop speakers could compete with the sound system from hell next door.

Zane laughed again, and my nipples pricked.

I clenched my teeth and squirmed in frustration.

Maybe my father was right.

Maybe I was just some glorified groupie.

God knew I’d had it bad for Zane since long before I’d met him in the flesh. And ever since… yeah, I still lusted after him—in secret. Physically speaking, Zane Traynor was a god among men, and I was only human.

But that didn’t mean I’d ever, ever act on it.

Screw him, said the voice of reason in my head, the one that sounded suspiciously like my mom’s. Because what the hell did my dad know about it anyway?

No mere groupie would’ve worked as hard as I had, for as long as I had, and put up with the shit that I had—much less stuck to The Rule for as many years as I did.

And now that I’d chosen to break The Rule? So what? I was a single woman. It was my prerogative if I wanted to screw every rock star I’d ever met. Besides, I was having a great time with Coop, I was ignoring Zane’s inconvenient presence, and I wasn’t at all imagining that it was his face between my legs right now.

Yeah.

I totally was.

Good news, though: I’d completely tensed up and my hand was on Coop’s forehead. I was tongue-blocking him.

Sexy.

He stopped, obviously, and looked up at me. “Uh… are you sure—?”

“Hang on a sec, while I commit a super quick murder.”

He backed off, letting me up.

“You sure you don’t want me to—?”

“Nope.” I rolled over and off the bed in one angry lunge, righting my lime-green thong. “I’ve got this.” I scooped up the first thing I saw—his giant T-shirt—and thrust my almost-naked self into it as I stalked over to the bedroom door.

When I threw it open, the scene that greeted me was pretty much what it sounded like.

The main room of the penthouse suite had been overrun with groupies, bits of their skimpy clothing flung across the gaudy, oversized furniture. There were five of them, and while I doubted they were actual strippers—Zane didn’t tend to hang with women who expected to get more attention than they gave, since he preferred to be the center of attention in any given room—I’d definitely walked in on some kind of amateur revue for their one-man audience.

Two blonds were dancing together on the coffee table, the one with the big fake breasts, already topless, undressing the other.

A chick with jet-black hair, in a metallic shrink-wrap dress, was bent over in the kitchen snorting what I could only assume was cocaine off the glossy countertop, showing off her matching metallic thong while she did it.

The other two were pawing each other on one of the big, plush couches. And there was Zane, front row center. Sprawled back on that same couch, legs spread wide. The girls were kneeling over him, and I really could’ve sworn he looked kinda bored as he watched them make out.

I was already bored, but then again, I didn’t have a penis.

One of the girls in his lap was a redhead. The other looked suspiciously Filipina, and even though she didn’t look much like me, it really fucking irritated me. The man had a serious talent for irritating me—and for sniffing out exactly when he was doing it, like some sadistic bloodhound. I was pretty sure he got off on it. It didn’t surprise me at all when his ice-blue eyes met mine, though none of the girls even noticed I was there.

He stared at me, his eyes flaring. He looked pretty blown away to see me, actually. Well, no shit.

Not like I wanted to be stuck in the room adjoining his latest orgy.

I pointed one finger at him and rolled it back, in the universal gesture for Get your ass over here. Which he could’ve ignored. He could’ve told me where to go with a finger gesture of his own.

Technically, the man was my employer.

Instead he dumped the girls off his lap, eyes still locked on mine, and adjusted himself in his low-slung jeans. That’s when I made the mistake of glancing down.

The top button of his jeans was undone, showing a triangle of sun-kissed skin and a hint of his golden treasure trail, not to mention the perfect, tight abs that disappeared under his shirt.

The girls kept going at it, oblivious to his departure, as he rose and stalked toward me.

Tall. Blond. And very rock ’n’ roll.

I just watched him, my features carefully arranged in a look of cool, unruffled displeasure as I forced myself to keep breathing so my heart wouldn’t explode in an epic cataclysm of rage and repressed lust. Luckily, I had a lot of practice with this. Still, my traitorous gaze wandered down the thin black T-shirt stretched over his broad, hard chest and the badass black leather vest, the muscles bunching in his sleek, California-tanned arms… the unbuttoned jeans just barely clinging to his hips… and fuck… did it make me a total weirdo that I had a crazy weakness for the man’s bare feet?

It didn’t exactly escape my notice that his dick looked pretty hard, either. Kinda like it was about to punch through his jeans, but Zane’s package pretty much always looked that way.

It wasn’t exactly an industry secret that Zane Traynor was well-hung.

In fact, I’d seen his naked cock with my own eyes, multiple times. Not that that meant anything. Pretty sure everyone and their dog had seen it. Since the man was Adonis incarnate, you couldn’t even blame him for showing it off, though his habit of walking around naked in mixed company—irritating for a multitude of reasons—was the main reason everyone in the band refused to share a suite with him.

Well that, and all the groupies.

Really, you’d think a decade would be plenty of time for your average man to tire, or bore, of the groupie thing and move on. Zane, though?

Nothing was average about Zane.

He stopped a few inches from me, all up in my space, but I stood my ground. I looked straight up into his beautiful face and met his unholy blue eyes.

His blond hair, shaved short on the sides but long on top, slid over his eye as he looked down at me. He raked it slowly back with one ring-laden hand and I caught a breath of him… that crazy-delicious man scent of his that always made my ovaries skip a beat.

“Maggie May,” he said, and the devil was in his slow, easy smile. Yeah. The son of a bitch smiled, like he was happy to see me. “Just thinking about you.”

Fuck me. He totally said that.

He eyed the oversized T-shirt I was wearing, the diabolical gears turning in his head. “The hell are you doing here?”

I wasn’t gonna touch that. Not the point. Though I was glad to hear that he didn’t know I was in the next room when he decided to throw this little party.

Then the song changed, and Marvin Gaye’s “Let’s Get It On” started playing… and the bottom completely fell out of my anger. Because seriously.

“Classy, Zane.”

“I’m all class, sweetheart,” he said, and the smile lit up his gorgeous face.

I couldn’t even help smiling back as I rolled my eyes. Shit, though. I was supposed to be mad.

How the hell did he always do this to me?

Oh, right. Because the man was evil.

He was also charming as hell, and while I wanted to hate him, a lot, sometimes I failed at that. Big time.

Sometimes—well, most of the time—I liked Zane Traynor far too much for my own good.

* * *

Maggie crossed her arms and glared up at me, like she was trying really hard to stay pissed. Which was cool with me. When Maggie got pissed, I got hard. Which meant I was already a helluva lot harder than I was a minute ago watching a couple of random chicks suck face. Especially when her nipples popped out against her shirt.

I did kinda feel like a jackass though. Had no clue she was in there.

My gaze skimmed down the oversized Sex Pistols shirt she was wearing, obviously a dude’s. Not Maggie’s usual look. Her lips were swollen and her compulsively-smooth hair was mussed up like she’d just gotten something on her back besides sleep.

What the hell did I interrupt in there?

I glanced over her shoulder but I couldn’t see shit, just the door to a bathroom. I shifted closer until we almost touched, leaning a shoulder on the door frame.

“Who the fuck’s been sucking on your neck?” My gaze had snagged on the mark I was pretty sure was a hickey.

She made an exasperated, frustrated noise in her throat that made my balls pull up tight.

It was no secret, at least to my dick, that I wanted this woman. Unfortunately for me and my dick, I’d never gotten my hands on her for more than a hug.

Maggie and I were “co-workers” and “friends” and not supposed to “go there.”

According to her.

“Zane,” she said extra-politely, “please take this in the nicest way possible, but you need to fuck off right now.”

I ignored that. Maggie told me to fuck off at least once a day. Justifiably.

We had that kind of relationship. I was comfortable enough to piss her off, she was comfortable enough to tell me to fuck off, and at the end of the day none of it mattered. Maggie and I were friends. The kind that occasionally wanted to kill each other, but still.

What kind of friend would I be if I didn’t at least make sure she wasn’t in there with some loser?

I tried to get a look behind her again but she closed the door as far as she could, wedging herself in the narrow opening. I wedged myself right in with her, shouldering the door a little farther open. I drew the line at forcing my way past her, but fuck yeah. I was gonna check up on this asshole whether she liked it or not.

“Come on, Maggs. I wanna meet him.” I gave her my wickedest smile, the one that made most girls soak their panties.

Maggie? Maggie wasn’t most girls.

“Don’t be an asshole, Zane. And would you please mind banging your new lady friends in your own room? You’ve got the master bedroom. See, over there. Behind those nice big solid doors.”

“Oh, they’re not for me.”

She rolled her eyes. “Right.”

“I brought them for Jesse,” I said, which was true, even if she didn’t believe it. “Hear he and Elle are fighting.”

Yeah, so I was a shit disturber. But when weren’t those two fighting?

Fuck if getting together wasn’t the worst mistake my two dumbass bandmates ever made. I’d put money on a breakup at the end of this tour. Better for the band. Better for everyone.

Loved Elle, she was a great girl, but my band brother needed an epic cocksuck, badly, to remind him life was too short for one pussy. Especially one that drove him up the fucking wall.

“Well,” Maggie said, “I’m sure Jesse and Elle would appreciate the gesture, but Jesse isn’t here. I am.”

“Cool. And why is that?”

She sighed. “Let’s just say… things got screwed up with the rooms, okay?” Then she started chewing on her lip.

“Uh-huh,” I said, distracted at the sight of her teeth gnawing on that full bottom lip. Fuck, but Maggie had a hot mouth. “Screwed up how?”

What the fuck happened to this girl’s mood since I saw her in the lobby an hour ago, looking all flushed and fucking cheerful? It was a great look on her, and I wanted some of it. I’d gotten a little carried away, putting her up against the wall, and for a nanosecond as those gorgeous gray eyes blinked up at me I thought she might actually accept my invitation to come party, which she never did. I always asked. She always said no.

It was kind of a ritual.

Maybe for once I shouldn’t have taken it like a gentleman.

“Look, it sucks we have to share a suite,” she said, ignoring my question. “But we’re both gonna do what we’re gonna do.” She cocked her head a little, glancing past me. “Seriously though, can we draw the line at the coke?”

I waited until her gray eyes lifted to mine again. I didn’t love seeing the worry in them… but Maggie always worried about me falling off the wagon into a vat of whiskey. I got that. Cocaine was never my thing, but Jack Daniels wasn’t exactly a hard man to find in a Vegas hotel.

Then I gave her what she wanted, because yeah. It was Maggie. And I was pussy-whipped like that.

“Yo, Snow White,” I called over to the black-haired chick in the kitchen. “Time to go, sweetheart.”

She was dancing by herself to Marvin Gaye, but Natalie jumped down off the coffee table, dragging the other blond with her to form a protective wall of bitch. “What!” Nat squawked, then threw me a theatrical pout. “If she goes then so do we.”

“Then go,” I said.

“Zane! What the fuck! Who the fuck is she?” Nat stood there in her panties, totally fucking indignant, looking at Maggie like she’d just stepped in shit.

Which really cranked up my stone cold.

“Get your skank ass outta here, Nat.”

Natalie’s mouth fell open. It was a good mouth to have around if you wanted your cock sucked, but other than that, she could keep it shut as far as I was concerned. She was the only one of them I’d met before half an hour ago, and that wasn’t exactly a ringing endorsement for the rest.

“You’re a real asshole,” she snapped, yanking on her skirt.

“So they keep telling me.”

Nat huffed, grabbed the rest of her clothes and stalked out with her coked-up friend. The other blond yanked a top over her fake tits, kissed me on the cheek, gave Maggie a catty once-over and left.

“Don’t let the door smack your ass on the way out!” Maggie called after her, then grumbled, “Wouldn’t wanna give it chlamydia.”

I stared at Maggie and she gave me a fake-ass smile right back.

So fucking interesting.

Six years I’d known her, and I’d never seen her in this particular mood. Normally she kept her shit under wraps. Cool, controlled Maggie; it wasn’t easy, even for me, to faze the woman. But right now, she was definitely pissed the fuck off, and frustrated.

Sexually frustrated?

If I didn’t know better, I might’ve even said she was jealous.

Whatever it was, it was giving me a raging hard-on.

She made an irritated noise in her throat and I followed her gaze; the other two chicks were still at it on the couch, but now they were horizontal and kinda scissoring.

“Good night, Zane.”

Maggie tried to shut the door, but I stopped it with my foot.

“Aren’t we in a mood.”

“Hey.” Some shirtless dickwit appeared behind Maggie, running a hand through his scraggly hair, and a flash of kill-crazy jealousy went off like a firecracker in my gut. “Everything okay?” He met my eyes and flicked his chin at me in greeting.

Fucking Coop.

I blinked, ’cause I couldn’t quite believe it.

Maggie was fucking Coop?

Shit, no.

I was all for fucking, in general. Was even pretty sure on a rare occasion or two some fuckwad had probably slipped under my nose and snaked his way up Maggie’s skirt. I was no idiot. Chick as hot as Maggie had gotten cock somewhere, at some point in history, even if she was too fucking discreet, not to mention uptight, to ever let on about it.

But this? Not happening.

So fucking not happening.

“Give us a minute,” she said to him sweetly, like really fucking sweetly, in a tone I’d sure as fuck never heard her use on me. “You know, band business.”

“Oh. Sure.” Coop disappeared, reluctantly. No shit. I’d get impatient too if Maggie was talking to some asshole at the door instead of riding my dick.

“You’re not fucking Coop,” I said, low enough he wouldn’t hear it, leaning in to make sure she did, my face tipped down to hers.

She didn’t back down. She just glowered at me, her eyes narrowing and her sweet mouth puckering, all pissed off and petite.

Which was why I loved fighting with Maggie. She was so fucking hot when she was mad. Hot, and cute as all fuck. Adorable. Like a feral kitten.

Also, if I really hit the sweet spot and she lost her temper, made it a lot harder for her to ignore me like she usually tried to do when I jabbed her buttons.

“Are you fucking Coop?” I pressed.

“News flash, Zane,” she bit out. “You’re not the only one who might want to do it in this stupid-fancy hotel suite, okay?”

“Jesus, though. Coop?”

She glared up at me, a storm brewing in her gray eyes. Then she growled. She actually growled, low in her throat, and I swear to Christ I almost came in my pants. “What the hell is wrong with Coop?”

“Where do you want me to start? For one, he’s not me.”

“Nuh-uh,” she said, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Not doing this. Not getting into this with you.”

“Let’s get into it,” I said, pushing another inch into the room, my pulse beating in my dick, spurring me on.

“Nope.” She put her hand in the middle of my chest, holding me off. “It’s been a really bad night, I have not been laid since Christmas, and you are not going to ruin this for me.”

Then she shut the door in my face.

* * *

Christmas?

Christmas was four months ago.

As I stood there, my back to the bedroom door, I racked my fucking brain to figure out who the hell Maggie’d fucked at Christmas.

Coop?

Some other fuckwit?

As far as I knew she wasn’t seeing anyone regular. Maggie’d never had a boyfriend in the years I’d known her. I’d seen Coop checking her out. I’d seen him flirt with her, but big fucking deal. Who didn’t flirt with Maggie? Half the crew was hard up for her, but the girl was so fucking proper and all-business she hardly seemed to notice. She so rarely partied with anyone, I’d gotten pretty comfortable telling myself if she wasn’t sucking my cock, at least she wasn’t sucking anyone else’s.

Now I had a visual. Sweet Maggie, down on her knees sucking off Andy Cooper—fuuuck. The murderous surge of testosterone and adrenalin made my dick so hard it felt like it might split in half.

Shit.

Maybe I was a fucking idiot.

Two hot chicks, horny and willing, were going at it right in front of me, and my head was in the next room.

But no fucking wonder. I’d been hot for Maggie, one of a very few woman I’d ever spent more than an hour with who wouldn’t spread her legs for me, for years. Years. And now she was giving it up to Coop?

Fuck. That.

Who the hell did he think he was?

Asshole had pretty much fucked his band’s sweet ride on Dirty’s coattails the second he breathed on Maggie. I said the word, the Pushers were off the next tour, and that gave me a grim fucking sense of satisfaction.

Would I actually do it? Maybe.

Depending how things went down tonight.

I grabbed the remote to lower the volume on the music. Too bad. It was Wolfmother’s “Woman,” a decent song to fuck to.

I liked sex the way I liked my music: loud and hard.

No idea how Marvin Gaye got in the mix. Probably my wise-ass drummer, fucking with me.

I listened, but I couldn’t hear shit from next door. What kind of awkwardly quiet, polite sex were those two planning on having? What were they doing in there, right now?

And how long was I gonna let this slide?

According to my phone, three fucking minutes had passed since Maggie shut the door. Felt like a goddamn hour.

But the longer I let this go, the worse it would be for Coop when I kicked his ass out. Yeah, so I was a sadistic prick. Didn’t bother me in the slightest that I was about to cockblock a brother.

Not when he was in there right now with Maggie, getting ready to stick his dick in her.

Right. That was about far enough.

I hammered my fist on the bedroom door. Hard.

Half a minute later, Coop opened it.

“Maggie!” I thundered over him. “Get your ass out here.”

“Don’t let him in!” Maggie called from inside. “He’s like a goddamn vampire. You invite him in, you give him power.”

Coop’s eyes narrowed a little as he looked me over and every muscle in my body coiled tight. Pretty sure he could smell the lust and aggravation rolling off me, but he just shrugged. “Sorry, man.”

He started to close the door but I stopped it with my hand.

“Coming in to talk to Maggie,” I said evenly. “You can step aside or I can take this shit right through you.”

He sized me up again and I flexed my other hand at my side, a couple of knuckles cracking as I made a fist. Adrenalin surged through me. Never woulda thought Coop had it in him, but shit. Was he actually considering fighting me for Maggie?

I’d spent years as a kid getting the shit kicked outta me by dudes way tougher and way meaner than Coop, and you got a clue, you lose enough fights, eventually you learn how to win. Which meant Coop took me on, he was so gonna lose this fight.

He knew it, too.

“Whatever,” he muttered and opened the door.

“For fuck’s sake, Zane!” Maggie scrambled off the bed, yanking her shirt down to cover herself. She was still wearing Coop’s T-shirt. “What do you want?”

“Want?” I met her in the middle of the room and once I was in her face, I leveled her with a hard, simmering eye-fuck, seeing as that was the only way I ever got to fuck her. “You really want an answer to that, babe?”

“You two got some shit to sort out?” Coop asked, standing off to the side, scrubbing a hand through his hair.

“Yup,” I said, in the exact same breath that she said, “No.”

We stood there a foot apart, me eye-fucking her and vibrating with adrenalin, my dick standing at attention, her glaring up at me with her chest heaving and not blinking.

“Yeah, I’m just gonna go.”

“Cool,” I said, as Coop headed for the door. “Coupla girls in the other room. They’re yours if you want. Just take ’em with you when you go.”

“Alright, brother.”

Maggie’s jaw dropped.

“Andy.” She looked from me to him as he paused in the doorway. Then she walked over to him. “I have your shirt,” she said, clearly unable to process what the fuck was going on.

“Keep it,” he said. Then he gave her a chaste little kiss on the forehead and left, shutting the door behind himself.

Maggie drew a deep, ragged breath, then let it out between her clenched teeth. Her shoulders dropped as she turned to me.

“Are you kidding me?”

I shrugged. “He scares easy, Maggs. And he was pretty quick to replace you. Better you find that out now.”

She stood there raging, kinda like a baby bull about to charge. Then she took a few slow, measured breaths. She walked over and stood in front of me. Her gray eyes met mine, so fucking stunning against her honey-toned skin.

“I hope that amused you. Because it really fucking sucked for me.”

“Maggie—”

“Don’t. Coop’s a nice guy, and you just treated him like—”

“Coop’s a fucking pussy,” I ground out. “He just walked out on you. While you’re wearing his shirt. And why don’t you take that shit off? Take a shower while you’re at it, ’cause you stink like smarmy bass player.”

Yup.

Shit disturber.

But some things just needed to be said.

Maggie stared at me and an ugly, loaded, fucking terrible silence landed in the wake of my words. Her lips parted… then she shut her mouth. Her jaw spasmed, her eyelashes trembled, and for a horrible minute I thought she might cry.

Then she scowled instead and something raw flashed in her eyes, between hurt and rage.

“Yeah?” She whipped the shirt off over her head and flung it across the room. “Well, the shirt’s not the only thing he touched.” She stood there in her tiny, neon-green panties and nothing else, and my jaw went slack.

I had no words.

No. Fucking. Words.

I’d never seen so much of Maggie before. Couldn’t believe how much better the flesh was than my imagination, and I’d spent a helluva lot of time imagining her.

I drank in her petite curves, the soft swell of her breasts, her hard nipples a dark, dusky pink as her chest rose and fell with the force of her uneven breaths.

Then I swallowed, hard, and ground my teeth. I shoved my hands in the pockets of my jeans.

Had to, or I was gonna grab her, slam her down on the bed and devour every inch of that gorgeous smooth skin.

“Guess I should take this off too.” She plucked at the see-through lace of her panties and my dick achieved a new level of hard, kinda like reinforced steel. Then her finger touched my chin, guiding my eyes up. “Go fuck yourself, Zane.”

“Okay,” I said. “If you’re into that, I can show you a few things.”

She made a little choked noise, shaking her head in disbelief. Her eyes never left mine and it was still there, the raw and the rage, her jaw hardening like she was fighting the urge to literally bite my head off.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” she hissed. “Is that all you ever want? Seriously. What. The. Fuck.”

Then she launched herself at me.

Maggie was a small woman, but it took me so off-guard, it brought me to my knees as she smashed her mouth to mine. I caught her in my arms, just barely, and her legs went around my hips as she kissed me with a fucking vengeance, all angry lips and teeth, her hands clawing at my neck, her fingernails digging in.

Holy mother of fuck.

Maggie was kissing me.

I gripped her tight and kissed her back like my life, my very next breath, depended on it, my heart slamming a fucking dent in the wall of my chest as my brain completely spun out.

All I could think was, if I fucked her right here on the floor, would she hate me for it?

Because my gut was telling me to put her down… to let her go, to back the fuck off… that this wasn’t right, that Maggie wasn’t gonna be happy about this even if she started it… but my dick just wanted to make her scream and figure the rest out later, and my dick was a bull-headed prick.

I caught my teeth on her bottom lip and when she gave up a ragged gasp, my tongue plunged into her like a heat-seeking missile. I tasted her like I’d wanted to do for fucking years, desperate to have her, any way I could get her, angry, clawing at me, I didn’t care.

Then it hit me, and I almost gagged.

The taste of liquor. Pungent and sour… revolting… and totally fucking intoxicating.

And I dove right into it.

I screwed my tongue into her mouth like I was tongue-fucking the neck of a bottle, sucking hard, the bliss of that taste and a brutal crush of memories smashing me in the back of the skull.

Then I caught myself. I almost gagged, again.

I ripped myself away with such force I shoved her off.

I spit out that bittersweet taste on the carpet and mashed the back of my hand to my mouth.

Yeah… not the best thing to do after kissing a woman. Kinda ranked right up there with laughing at her and throwing up.

I saw it in her gray eyes… the exact moment she started hating me. Or at least, hating me more than she already did.

Her face shut down and she wrapped her arms around her chest as she sat there on the floor staring up at me, next-to-naked in her lace panties, looking small and so fucking vulnerable it gutted me.

“You’re so full of shit,” she whispered.

“Maggie—”

“Get out.”

And for once, there was no arguing the point. I was the world’s biggest asshole, and now she had proof.

I got the fuck out.

* * *