Chapter One
Zarek
It’s a haunting feeling, not being able to escape my past or the present.
Glancing out the tinted window of the car, I meet her seductive smile and blue eyes. The memory of the taste of her mouth and the way her eyes brighten when she climaxes makes my chest hurt. The electronic billboard dissolves, and I exhale. Just as I start to feel free of the pull, her moving image appears again.
Lying on her side, the cameraman panning her body in a shot demanding attention. Her polished black toenails, tattooed legs on display, ass encased in tiny black leather shorts, a matching corset wrapping her defined waist, round tits peaking over the leather, and colorful ink decorating her back, thighs, and arms. The motion board zooms in on her face. The porcelain quality of her skin is the only thing innocent about her. The heavy makeup highlighting her cornflower blue eyes and plump, violet-hued lips showcases her beauty. And to top it all off, her neon pink hair gathered in a loose bun atop her head. I flex my fingers, remembering the way the strands—then, a bright red—slid against my palm.
The car lurches forward, and the sign falls out of view.
"Fuck," I growl, rubbing my face.
"I can get tickets to the show for you," Zora, my baby sister and personal assistant, offers.
I don't miss the teasing tone and narrow my eyes at her.
"Don't give me that look," she scolds, looking back to her cell phone. "I'm not the one about to become a window licker over a billboard."
"I wasn't going to lick the window," I argue, slouching into the leather seat.
"Mmhmm," Zora hums.
I open my mouth to argue, but decide against it. Only she can draw me into these fucking childish fights. It's like getting older doesn't mean shit when we're together. We'll still fall into an “I'm not touching you” argument within minutes. There's only one other person who brings out this level of immaturity, and I can't fucking escape her.
Closing my eyes, I rest for about ten minutes before the car comes to a stop.
"We're here," Zora announces, scooting toward the door. "Let me make sure things are in place before you get out."
Without waiting for a response, she exits before the driver even opens the door and shuts me inside.
Through the tinted window, I watch her walk toward the entrance. It's then I notice the electronic poster on the side of the MGM Grand.
My pain in the ass of a sister stops and turns. The smile on her face is my only warning before she does a Vanna White showcase performance, motioning toward the large advertisement for Gemma Harper's show.
Of course she's fucking performing here. That also means she's staying in one of the suites.
I can almost hear my sister's laugh as she drops her arms, grabs her stomach, and continues into the hotel lobby. I'm surprised she didn't give a good air humping.
That's what I get for saying shit in front of her.
Zora had to help clean up my New York apartment after I destroyed it, and then there was the incident at the award show. She was also the one who got earfuls of my bitching regarding Gemma and Jackson Shaw during that stupid goddamn talent show. So many times, I wanted to tackle that oversized bastard. If his personal life and relationship with a burlesque performer hadn't gone public in a very exposing way, I might have ended up in jail. I could've also ended up in the hospital. His band is tight as fuck and their drummer, Elliott Brockman, is a big ass dude.
"Grow a vagina, own up to your feelings, and fucking tell her," Zora preached over and over. Since I'm apparently a little bitch where Gemma is concerned, I didn't listen to my sister.
Now, every woman is a second fucking class citizen in my presence. Fuck, I've tried. I really have. Groupies, a supermodel, an actress—fuck me if any of it worked. I even went to see Liza Campbell's burlesque show, and while the sights were pleasing, not even the reigning queen of tease got the curve of Gemma's face, the slope of her neck, and the way she chews on her thumbnail when she's lost in thought out of my messed-up head.
She fucking broke me, and I absolutely fucking hate her for it.
The first time I saw her, in a recording booth at the Nobil Studio in New York, there was something about her. Sure, her barely over five-foot-self was—is—cute as fuck, but everything was different. Her laugh brought back memories of the fairytales my mom read to my sister and me. The pinup style suited her, even complimented how young she looked. What I didn't expect was the voice. Being used to rock singers, pop singers, and even rappers, an operatic singer shocked the shit out of me, and when she finally emerged from the booth, the air around her smelled and tasted sweeter.
The moment our eyes met, it felt like I'd fallen face-first off the stage. Air rushed from my lungs, my chest tightened, every muscle tensed, and my dick ached. Then, she smiled. Fuck me if she didn't take my breath and then turn around and fucking resuscitate my pitiful ass.
I never expected our time to be more than a weekend, but then a week had gone by, just the two of us in my New York apartment, locked away from the outside world—long nights spent with me between her thighs and her in my arms. In the dark, we had opened up to one another, shared secrets, dreams, and a cosmic connection. It was soul mate finding type shit—until it wasn't. The world wouldn't stay away, and in the light of day, we were blinded back to reality.
I know what I did, said, was fucking stupid. Gemma told me she got it, and I thought that meant things were cool, but then she was gone. With a brief kiss to the side of my mouth and an, "I had a great time with you, Z," she was out the door and never looked back.
Reality hurt, but being shunned shredded me—especially when done by the woman, the first woman I ever—
The car door jerks open, pulling me from my memories.
"Everything is good," Zora states, nodding toward Wayd. "Arrangements are made for her too, though they aren't thrilled about it."
"Too bad." I rub behind the dark brown labradoodle's ear. "Wayd is my entourage. Aren't you, girl?" I coo, leaning down and kissing the top of her head.
"Would you like a couple more minutes alone?" my sister deadpans.
"Get out of my way," I order, waving her off.
Sliding to the door, I grab Wayd's neon pink leash and climb from the car.
The secret of my early arrival hasn't gotten out, relieving me of paparazzi and news crews.
Wayd jumps out of the car and gives a full body shake.
I used to get shit for having a labradoodle, but I'm a dog lover with allergies. Her hair is easier on those allergies, and I keep her well-groomed. The moment she pissed on my boots, I knew the little rebel was for me. The fact that I was always yelling, “What are you doing?” when I first brought her to my home in New York is why I christened her Wayd. It's probably a weird name for a female dog, but she is a weird ass dog.
In fact, she trots as far as her leash will allow and raises her curly head to the poster of Gemma on the side of the hotel. Like the weird dog she is, she looks back at me and barks.
"You too?" I ask, exasperated.
"I knew I loved that bitch," Zora says, taking the leash from my hand and carrying it to an awaiting hotel staff member.