Текст книги "HATE Sex"

Concealed HEAT

Chapter One

“This shit stops here, Strut. It fucking stops here and right the hell now!”

“Jesus Robert, calm down—”

“Don’t you dare tell me to calm the fuck down!” Robert sighed before continuing. “You’re not only fucking with your career here, but mine too. I won’t tolerate you dragging my name through the mud because you can’t keep your shit together.”

“All right, all right, you’re right. Won’t happen again.”

“Yeah, that’s what you said the last time—the last half a dozen times.”

“I know, I know—”

“No, you don’t seem to know. I’m making some changes—”

“Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! What kinda changes we talkin’ about here, Robert?”

“I’m bringing in a new PR firm and they’ve already decided that you require a PA whose job is to keep you on the straight and narrow.”

“Now, Robert, you know I don’t do straight and narrow very well.”

“That’s the point, Strut.”

“I don’t know about this—”

“Take it or leave it.”

Strut felt his whole body go tense. He never cared for idle threats and this felt a helluva lot like one. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“It means you go along with the changes, the personal assistant, and the all the alterations she deems fit or…” Robert left it open ended.

“Or what?”

“Or I’m out, Strut.”

“We have a contract, Robert; you can’t do that.”

“The hell I can’t! You’ve broken that contract several times. Legally? Legally, I can walk away and you’ll be the one who breached the contract—not me.”

“You’re shitting me, right?”

“Not at all,” Robert cautioned. “I’m outta here if you don’t go along with this. I won’t let you destroy my name, Strut, I won’t.”

He wanted to tell Robert exactly where he could stick that contract, but the man was right, and Strut knew it. He’d broken that contract on numerous occasions. This whole shit storm was on him. The missed concerts, the leaked sex video, the trashed hotel room—rooms– and lastly the destroyed tour bus. It was all on him and his shitty decisions and spineless self. Fuck! He’d done it numerous times—let people who didn’t give a shit about anything but his celebrity status fuck his life up.

Yet, he could never seem to tell them no. The whole point of playing shitty dive bars and fucking cocktail waitresses along the way was to reach the rock star status he’d finally attained as Strut, the lead singer for the hard rock band Deep Bend.

Now? He was on the cusp of losing it all; his agent, even his tour manager had threatened to leave last week. That meant if Jace, his tour manager, left, it was almost a guarantee that the management company would drop the band. Which meant tongues would wag and soon enough, their record deal would be in jeopardy. With a reputation slick as shit and twice as nasty, it’d be hell trying to get picked up by another label. How the hell had he let it get this damn far?

“Strut? You still there?”

“Ahh yeah, I’m here.” Rubbing his hand over his face repeatedly, he knew that he had no other choice, no other option. “I’ll go along with whatever I need to.” Even the words tasted sour on their way out.

“Good, glad to hear. Thursday, when you arrive in Chicago, your new PA will be waiting for you—as well as your new personal security—”

“Wait, what? I’ve already got Pitty.”

“No, you don’t. After last nights debacle at the Hyatt? Pitty’s been let go.”

“C’mon man! You’ve got to be kidding me, Robert?”

“No, I’m not kidding you at all, Strut. Not only was your personal bodyguard not even on the same floor you were, but he was in a room with a minor.”

Shit. “She was a minor?”

“Seventeen, Strut, seventeen years old.”

As bad news as it was for Pitty? Strut felt a blink of relief that he’d all but pulled the girl from his body and handed her off to his bodyguard. Not that he’d known she was underage or anything. Nope, he’d simply passed on her offer to blow him to the stars because he only did blondes with big tits and not brunettes with B-cups.

“Fuck.”

“Yeah, you could say that again.”

“New bodyguard, new personal assistant, what else?”

“Whatever the PA suggests with the public relations company.”

“I can do that.”

“Yeah, you can and will, or that’s it, Strut. No more. This is Deep Bend’s last chance to keep my representation as well as Ragged Ruins Promotions. I walk? So do the suits.”

Jesus, this was gonna be a whirlwind of shit to deal with. Add to the fact that they still were without a tour bus until they arrived in Illinois on Thursday. Seems Deep Bend’s world was all about to change. Not necessarily in a good way—not in his opinion anyhow. If they think they’re gonna bring in some button-up shirt and tie kinda guy who’s gonna start spittin’ out orders? They are sadly mistaken.

He had no choice but to go along with the changes…for now. No promises after the Hellions and Hedonists Tour was done. Three more months and the band would be back in the studio working on their next album. If everything went right, they’d be back on tour at the beginning of the new year with a shitload of new material under their belt. Renegotiations would be first on the list after the new album was complete. Ragged Ruins Promotions would be backing off and the PA would be first on the list to hit the road.

Only temporary, only temporary Strut kept telling himself. Something he’d have to remind the band of, too. Tonight, after their performance, they’d hit the road for Dallas and he’d fill them in on the changes. None of the boys was too fond of rules or the suits thinking they ran the show. He imagined this would all go over like a lead balloon. It is what it is.

Chapter Two

Her plane had landed four hours ago and she’d taken the car service that Ragged Ruins Promotions had waiting for her at baggage.

So far so good. She currently sat in a garage as big as an airplane hangar that now housed Deep Bend’s new tour busses. Reaching down, she pulled a piece of lint from her tailored linen pants suit, which no doubt now reeked of the diesel fuel scent that filled the air. The band had yet to show up nor had the new bodyguard that the management company was sending.

To say her nerves were on high alert was an understatement. She’d worked with musicians before, but never a rock band of this magnitude. Deep Bend was at its epitome of success and their controversy had been at an all-time high lately. A leaked sex tape meant that parents wouldn’t be purchasing tickets for their teens– who just happened to be the majority of their fans. Blowing up their last tour bus in some hole in the wall truck stop’s parking lot? A red flag of epic proportions for not only the bands promotions company, but also their music label as well.

There was no question they needed to reverse their path of destruction. Pamela was positive she could do this. Although she doubted she’d be welcomed with open arms.

Running her hand over hair pulled back into a pristine bun, she saw an approaching car making its way through the massive doors; her nerves practically burned. Taking a deep breath, she stood and straightened her suit jacket and ran her hands down the front of her slacks. Too late to do anything about the wrinkles now.

Here goes nothing. She stopped mid stride when the back door opened before the driver had even gotten out of the car. If she hadn’t seen the many magazine covers and photos of the band, she’d have figured this guy was a member. Drummer maybe? No, no, definitely a bass player. They were always so brooding and mysterious. This man had this look—he was the look.

“And you are?”

Extending her hand to the man, she introduced herself. “Pamela Myers, I was just brought on as a personal assistant for Deep Bend and you are?”

He didn’t take her hand nor did he answer until he turned the chair she had been sitting on around and straddled it backwards. “Chains,” was all he said.

“Excuse me?”

“The name’s Chains.”

After a minute, it registered that this must be the new bodyguard. “Oh, so you’re Damion—”

“Don’t say my given name again. I go by Chains—I answer to Chains. Well, if I’m gonna answer, I’ll answer to Chains.”

Well then, asshole much? “Chains it is then.” Pulling up another chair that sat nearby, she took a seat. Smoothing the front of her slacks, Pamela realized how stupid it had been to wear a linen suit while traveling. She’d hoped to make a good impression on the band, but now her attire practically screamed homeless—minus the seven hundred dollar price tag and designer label of course.

They sat in silence, which gave her the opportunity to size up the man across from her. He sat with his hands folded in front of the chair, and he still said nothing as he stared at the concrete floor. His jeans were torn and threadbare at the knees. Black leather engineer boots with silver toes covered his insanely large feet. Letting her eyes trail due north, she had to smile when she took in the faded Guns-N-Roses t-shirt most likely an original from the 80’s. A couple chains hung from his front belt loop and disappeared behind him…a wallet maybe? When her gaze made it to his face, she paused and took in the full beard that hit him mid-chest before her eyes continued to his face. A face that was looking right back at her.

“You see something you like, Princess?” His laugh was clearly mocking her.

Swallowing her embarrassment at being caught checking him out. “Yeah, I like your shirt.”

She enjoyed throwing him off kilter when he glanced down at the shirt in question. “I’m sure you do.”

That was rude and what did he mean by that exactly? Pamela thought about asking but another car pulled into the garage and unloaded what could only be the members of Deep Bend. Finally. Only two hours late.

“And there’re the performing monkeys now.” Damion—Chains muttered. Reigning in her shock, she stood and approached the band that was walking toward the shiny new tour busses.

“Strut?” she asked as she approached the green haired man who had both arms covered in tattoos.

The man turned and looked her over blatantly from the toe of her Jimmy Choos to the bun that resided near the top of her head. “Depends. You’re not from the IRS are you?”

Dammit! She’d felt the blush from the second the band members broke out in laughter. “No, can’t say I am. I’m Pamela Myers.”

“Okaaaaay and Miss Pamela Myers, who exactly are you?”

Seriously? Had they not even told the band she was coming? “I was hired by Ragged Ruins Promotions as your new personal assistant. Pleasure to meet you.” At least, he shook her hand when she offered it. “All of the members of Deep Bend actually.” Not letting her smile falter as she looked at each member, no matter their confused faces.

“No shit?”

“Excuse me? Didn’t your agent…Mr. Robert Gillstrom inform you of my arrival?”

Inform you of my arrival, really? “Yeah, I knew we were getting a PA, but I didn’t think it’d be someone like you, Patricia.”

“Pamela, Pamela Myers.”

“Pamela, I’m sorry but I expected a man or at least a woman who’s been on the road before.”

“I’ve been on the road before.”

“With who exactly?”

“I can’t share that information. There’s always been a nondisclosure agreement during my employment, but I can tell you that I’ve been under contract with at least three Billboard Top 100 artists in the last six years.”

“Impressive.”

Mister sulking bodyguard interjected. “If you’re so good at your job, why aren’t you still with any of these big shots?”

All of the band members swung from Chains back to her, awaiting her answer. “Because I’m brought in when the trains derailed and needs some guidance to get it back on the tracks and running smoothly.” Knowing her smile was snotty, she made sure the brute got its full effect. “Then, I move on to the next train wreck, if you will.” Not so smug now, huh? “Where are my manners? This is your new bodyguard, Chains.” Nobody batted an eye at the bearded, tattooed, built man who answered to Chains, but they looked at her like she had a second head? Really?

Chapter Three

Three busses and two semi-trailers later, they were on the blacktop with wheels spinning on their way to St. Louis, Missouri. They had a two-show gig there, both sold out. Not that being sold out was unexpected since it was Strut’s hometown.

All five members of Deep Bend could’ve easily fit onto one bus, but since they’d risen to the top of their genre, they no longer had to live in such cramped quarters. After renegotiating their new contract, two more buses were added to the bands convoy.

“This is bullshit, you know that, right?

Here we go again. They’d only been on the road for two hours and already Strut was strutting along her nerves with his piss poor attitude. He’d been pissed to the high heavens since he found out that she and Chains would both be on his bus. “It is what it is, Strut.”

“What if I wanna bang some bitch? Or a few of them?”

“I will in no way interrupt your extra-curricular activities, I assure you, Strut.”

“If you’re bunking on my bus? You’re in the way, Patricia.”

“It’s Pamela—her fucking name is Pamela!”

They both turned and momentarily stared at the brute of a man in silence before Strut mumbled. “And he speaks. Who the fuck knew?”

“Thank you, Chains.” Turning back to Strut, she continued. “I will stay out of your way. Ragged Ruins chose this bus for the sole purpose of its second bedroom—”

“How do you know that exactly?”

“I asked for this bus.”

“Bullshit.”

“Far from. That’s one of my contract stipulations.” Opening the fridge, she reached inside and pulled out an iced tea offering it to both men. “Care for a tea?”

“What in the hell is that shit? Where’s my Red Bull?”

“Your energy drinks as well as the alcoholic beverages have all been moved to the fridge in your room, Strut.”

“You can’t just come in here and start changing shit!”

“Yes, yes, I can. Actually, that’s my job. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some paperwork to finish before we hit St. Louis.” She smiled at both men. “Chains, Strut.”

After she’d reached, the safe haven of her room, Pamela released the breath she’d been holding. This was all part of her job, a job she loved. Although the beginning stages she could easily live without. The damn princes and princesses she always worked with battled her every step of the way in the beginning. It might be twisted, but she always enjoyed it when they finally came around. At one time, she’d considered following in her father’s footsteps and becoming a lawyer, but she was drawn to the glitz and glamour of Hollywood instead. Look where that got her. On a bus with a pissed off rock star who most likely hadn’t showered in a week and always smelled of stale cigarettes and Fireball.

The switch from actors to musicians had been a fluke, a favor to a friend in a tight spot, but nine years later, she was still here. Believe it or not, the musicians were easier to deal with than the actors. Oh, they were no walk in the park, but she’d enjoyed life on the road…most of the time.

Unzipping her suitcase that lay on her bed, she began hanging her clothing in the small two-foot wide closet. Living in tight quarters wasn’t anything new. Although this bus was a million times better than any she’d been on before. She hadn’t lied, it had been in her contract, but honestly, she never figured they’d go for it. Call her surprised when Ragged Ruins Promotions hadn’t countered. Pamela had seen this bus, the Regal Sevant XL, at a music festival last summer. She’d been on tour with a pop princess and the Regal Sevant had been their neighbor. An up and coming boy band had just added the bus to their quickly expanding fleet. After befriending their manager, she’d given her a tour of the luxury coach. Pamela had fallen in love. Instead of the normal bunks stationed on either side of a hallway just before a back bedroom, there was a bedroom on one side with a hallway on the other and two sets of bunks just before the bedrooms. A slice of privacy that she’d treasure.

Strut obviously had the large back bedroom with the queen sized bed and its own bathroom. Not that she could complain about her full-size bed at all. She’d slept in one of the bunks before and for months at a time. This place was the Ritz Carlton compared to that. Chains would be bunking it. A small smile played on her lips when she thought of the man with his massive shoulders in the small space.

He’d shocked her today when he corrected Strut on her name…again. The man had called her Patricia a dozen times already. When Chains said her name, it surprised not only her but Strut as well. They’d known Chains a total of three hours and he’d said about ten words tops. She was thankful to see he was silent with everybody and not just her.

One thing Pamela understood was silent treatment. She’d swear that spoiled celebrities took classes in the art. Did they not realize that she cherished the silence? If they wanted to punish her, they may as well continue rambling about costume changes and set lists.

A knock at her door startled her. Sliding the pocket door, she met a broad chest. Looking up, she encountered that beard she’d have recognized amongst a thousand already. “Yes?”

Without a word, he handed her a manila envelope with her name on it. “What’s this?”

“I imagine it’s private since it says confidential across the front of it.”

“I imagine so.” Meeting his eyes, she continued. “We’ll be together for a long time; I’d like to get along with you, Mr. Chains.”

He laughed. “After that play with Strut out there? I think we’ll get along just fine.”

“Play?”

“Yeah, the one where you tried to play it cool as you ever so sweetly handed him his ass on a platter. That play.” She felt his eyes as they roamed the length of her body. “I underestimated you, Miss Pamela Myers.”

“Most men do.” She hadn’t intended to say that flip comment it just tumbled from her mouth.

“I bet they do. I just bet they do.”

Chapter Four

When he’d first seen little Miss Pamela Myers in her pristine pants suit and schoolmarm hair, she resembled a librarian more than a woman about to embark on a three and half month rock tour. Even with her hair pulled back so tight that her eyes had been lifted, he’d seen a hint of something more with that red lipstick. Barely there eye makeup, a soft blush but brazen red lips? Why it fascinated him, he had no clue. Of course, she had that rockin’ little body going for her. A foot shorter than he was, Chains had noticed her abundant curves from afar as she approached his car from the airport. Nice hips, small waist, and a killer rack. He wondered what that blonde hair looked like when it was down. He’d put money on the fact that there was more to Miss Red Pouty Lips than met the eye.

Didn’t matter anyhow. He didn’t do relationships and she had commitment written all over that Hillary Clinton pantsuit of hers. “Jesus,” he muttered to himself. Why was he even thinking about this—about her? The woman was far from his type…her curvaceous body withstanding. No, Chains tended to lean toward women who were covered with ink, too much make-up, and a helluva lot less clothing. Not to mention less inhibitions. The breed that didn’t bat a heavily mascaraed eye at a one-night stand.

Just so happens he had always been attracted to women completely opposite than Miss Pamela Myers. Although, her putting Strut in his place was surprising. There was a spitfire beneath that bun of hers. Doesn’t matter…off limits. There’d be plenty of pussy around. No need to sniff around her. It didn’t make sense all around.

Deep Bend had been on a downward spiral for some time now. He wondered if little Miss Priss would be able to get them back on track—as she put it. He’d been brought in because the band required more security after their recent indiscretions had been plastered on every tabloid in the supermarket. Strut’s sex tape had been a disaster. Thankfully, the woman had been of legal age, but just barely. Nine days past her eighteenth birthday, she’d bedded the rock star while her girlfriend videotaped. Strut was probably high as well as loaded during the filming. Not that it would’ve mattered if she had been underage. According to most of the general public, eighteen or not the woman’s baby face was more than enough evidence she shouldn’t have been in the rockers bed. Chains happened to agree with the general population on that fact.

It was still unclear who exactly had blown up their bus at the truck stop in Bowling Green Kentucky. They knew it had been a member of the band, but nobody had fessed up, and no fingers had been pointed. Truth was they had all been drinking and someone thought roman candles would be a fun way to pass the time while the other semis and busses refueled. That idea had literally blown up in their faces. The bus had gone up in a blaze of fucking glory just off Interstate 65. A total loss. That was exactly four weeks after the infamous sex tape made its appearance.

Like the band had needed more bad publicity. Too many shows canceled and too many days of mediocre performances had already put the band in a risky state. Strut liked his booze a little too much and apparently his women as well. Drummer Trey Connovan had passed out onstage more times than Chains could count. They were on their third bass player since the end of their last tour. With their new album barely leaving the shelves and their downloads dwindling? Something needed to change and soon or they were screwed and not the way the band liked. Shit, not even the way the band had on video.

Chains eyed what was supposed to be his bunk. Seriously? How exactly did they expect him to get any sleep on that fucking thing? Apparently, he needed to up his contract stipulations like the new PA. He’d manage; he’d been in a lot worse situations as a security specialist over the years.

It was his job to figure out what exactly Deep Bend needed security wise. Of course, the band hadn’t known that…yet. They merely saw him as another piece of hired muscle. Which he was, but he was also a helluva lot more. They’d find out when the moment was right. For now? For now, he’d keep his eyes open and his mouth shut and his hands off the luscious Pamela Myers.

Looking over the bus while Strut was playing an insanely loud game of Call Of Duty on his Xbox and Pamela had yet to emerge from her room, Chains found a few things that needed to be rectified. Security measures were his life. He was damn good at his job and that’s why Ragged Ruins Promotions had brought him in as well—not that the band knew that.

“Is this where you tell me why you’re looking under bunks?”

He’d been on his hands and knees with his tactical mirror searching for something, searching for anything really. “Nothing,” he answered and closed the telescoped mirror before slipping it into his back pocket. When he stood, he had to admire the way her blue eyes stayed on him. For a small woman, she didn’t back down from him easily. Usually, his sheer size alone had people hunkering.

“Just drop it.” He felt her more than heard her follow him out of the hall and into the living area of the bus. Chains took one of the black leather recliners and swiveled away from the approaching female.

Without hesitation, Pamela turned his chair around and planted her hands on the armrests, leaning in close. “Am I in danger on this bus?”

“Why would you be in danger on this bus?”

“I’m not stupid, Damion. You’re more than the average hired hulk aren’t you?”

Damn woman. It had taken her seconds to figure him out. “Don’t know what you’re talking about, woman.”

Her eyes sparked. “First off you know my name…use it. And second, what kind of security are you?”

When he stood, Chains didn’t wait for her to move. Instead, his chest was pressed up against her, raising her body along with his own. “First off, you know my name…use it. And secondly, I’m a bodyguard.”

They both stood there at an impasse. Neither wanted to be the one to back down.

“By the way, I used your name,” she said as she turned away from him.

“I told you I go by Chains.”

“Oh that’s right. Does your mother call you Chains then or does she still call you Damion?” She offered him a purely evil smile before opening a cupboard door and pulling out a box of granola bars.

He wouldn’t let her get a rise out of him no matter how hard she tried. “Neither.”

“Really?” His answer clearly wasn’t what she expected. “What does she call you then?”

She struggled with the wrapper on the chocolate chip granola bar so he walked over and took it from her ripping it open with his teeth before handing it back.

“Ahh, thanks.”

He really wished he hadn’t watched her take a bite, chew, and then swallow. The visual of those lips closed around—fuck! What was he thinking? You were thinking those red lips would look perfect wrapped around your cock.

“Dami—Chains? You okay?”

She’d caught him staring. “I’m good.”

“Do you want some?”

Yeah, hell yeah I want some, Miss Prim and Proper.

Pamela held the granola bar box toward him. “You can have one or some or whatever if you want.”

“I don’t eat that hippy shit.”

“Hippy shit?” she asked.

“Yeah, granola, granola bars all the same.”

“I’m not a hippy.”

“Tree-hugger maybe? One of those broads against guns, sex, and rock-n-roll,” he laughed coolly. “Probably a member of PETA and drive a little matchbox car like a Prius or something. One of those kinda women.”

Rolling her eyes, Pamela responded. “I drive a Jeep, I’m on a rock tour with one of my favorite bands, I eat far too much meat to be accepted into PETA, and…” She unbuttoned her suit jacket and pulled the fabric of her blouse up.

No way. “What in the fuck?” Coming closer, he reached toward her.

Turning quickly, she planted her hand firmly on his chest. “Nobody touches my baby but me, Damion.” When he growled, she corrected herself. “Sorry, Chains—nobody touches my baby but me, Chains.”

“You know how to handle that Glock?”

“I know how to handle my gun just fine thank you.” Throwing the wrapper away from her granola bar, she tossed him that same snotty smile from earlier. “By the way, it’s not a Glock. It’s a Kahr Arms CW9 in these hands. I’ve had issues with my Glock 19 jamming, so I tend to favor this 9-millimeter Luger. What do you carry?”

Holy. Fucking. Shit. She’d just made him hard as granite with that gun talk. Pamela wasn’t carrying some little pink 22 pistol, no, she had some heat in her hands and by the sound of it, she knew what she was talking about.

Without even blinking, he answered. “.357 Derringer.”

“Ahh a cop gun, huh? I would’ve guessed something bigger.” He saw the moment it dawned on her. “Wait. That’s only a four shot, right? You’re carrying something else then, too.”

Hard as a fucking rock, he cleared his throat. “What makes you say that?”

“You’re hired security, a bodyguard; you’re packing more than a four pinger.”

“I don’t pack a pinger at all, sweetheart.”

“You know what I mean.” She stepped closer to him. “That’s your backup gun, isn’t it?”

“How do you know so much about firepower, Miss Pamela Myers, personal assistant to the stars?”

“I’m in charge of my safety, and I plan to stay safe, Mr. Damion Lopez.”

“Chains.”

“Mr. Chains Lopez. Better?”

Chains raised an eyebrow and smiled. “And here I was worried you’d be a delicate little flower that would get trampled on by a bunch of rock stars with shitty attitudes.”

“What’s your main piece?” Looking him over, she asked with her eyes. He nodded, and she ran her hand from his knee down. “This would be the Derringer, right?” He nodded again. Standing, she reached under his arm to his back, and just as she was about to make purchase, his hand grabbed hold of her wrist. When their eyes met, she saw a fire looking back at her. “You wouldn’t be carrying anything less than or bigger than a 9– millimeter.”

If she kept this up, he’d be shooting in his jeans like a goddamn teenager and he didn’t mean the gun. “Ber—” clearing his throat, he started over. “Beretta 92FS.”

“9-millimeter, like I said. No Glock?”

“I’ve had…jamming issues.”

Now, it was her turn to laugh when he used her words back at her…again.

About the Author

Known for her rebel attitude Sidda Lee Rain makes it clear she’s here to stay and write the way she wants to –grammatical hot mess or not– Her books aren’t meant to change the world, her characters aren’t meant to be perfect. But, trust they’ll bring a smile to your face and you might want to have your drink on the rocks cuz you’re gonna need to cool yourself down.

Truth is if you don’t find her behind the keyboard you probably won’t be able to see her at all. Because in all likelihood she’ll either be decked out in full camo in a tree stand with her bow in hand or flying down a highway at speeds only flashing lights and sirens can stop... with karaoke hour in high gear!

Series

Book One

Sweet as Candy

Book Two

Pure as Snow

Book Three

Sexy as Sin

Watch for Book Four

Cool as Ice