Rocked Senseless: A Stand-Alone Rock Star Romance, page 7
She chuckles. “Damn. You weren’t kidding. But you know the agreement: I bring pizza, you let me hang out for the rest of the night.”
I grin around my pizza slice. “Nana and Melissa already driving you nucking futz?”
“You know it. Now are you gonna let me in or what?”
“Logan, mind your manners.” Mom reaches the bottom step and glowers at me. She passes by me and pulls Mads into a tight hug. “There’s my girl!”
“Hi, Mrs. Young.”
“Sweetheart, you are a grown woman now. Please call me Sue.”
“If you insist.”
Mom leads Mads over to the couch and they turn on the TV. We don’t stand on ceremony around here. The pizza box goes on the table and Mom and I take slices out and eat them with our hands: no plates, no napkins. Napkins are for the weak.
We watch Deal or No Deal as Mom and Mads catch up, chattering like magpies. My mouth is too full of pizza to keep up. Nana always buys us an extra pizza and sends it over with Mads, who swears up and down it’s just an excuse to see me, but I know the truth. Our neighbors try to help us out in any way they can, and I’m grateful, especially since they don’t have much themselves.
Watching my mother and my best friend laugh and talk, I can’t help but compare their easy banter with the stone-cold silence that hung between Mom and Celeste when they met. It has to be more than the fact that she’s from California. Mom straight-up doesn’t like her. That makes me uneasy.
Can I really be with someone my mother hates that much?
Then again, it’s not like her instincts were spot-on when it came to her own marriage. My dad was involved in a prostitution ring long before he met my mom. We found out afterward that he went to extraordinary lengths to keep the secret from her. He really did love her and didn’t want her getting hurt when his sins caught up with him, but it was inevitable.
At least Celeste isn’t an actual criminal. Still, I’m having a few too many doubts to ignore them altogether.
I turn off the lawnmower and wipe the sweat from my brow just before it drips into my eyes. I’m drenched in sweat and reeking of dirt and grass, but I did it. I tamed the jungle that was my mom’s backyard, and it looks immaculate.
When Mom falls into her depressed state, she loses the drive to do any work around the house. The state her yard was in was staggering. I couldn’t believe it had gotten so bad. She told me it was just over the past couple of weeks that she’d been depressed, but I think that may have been bullshit. The weeds brushed against my knees as I plowed through them like a farmer harvesting wheat. Now that I’m done, I have enough brush to start a bonfire.
Before I leave, I’m going to make her promise me she’ll get back in therapy. This is no good. I can’t rest easy in L.A. knowing my mother is going downhill again.
I hear the sliding glass door open at the Daleys’ house. Madison steps out in a Black Veil Brides t-shirt and a black-and-purple-striped bikini bottom. She reaches down to pull at the hem of her shirt.
I know what’s coming next. I shouldn’t be watching her from the yard like some pervert. But this is the closest I’ve come to seeing a naked woman in months.
Madison pulls her shirt up and over her chest and her breasts drop, restrained only by small scraps of fabric attached to much smaller strings. My cock grows to its full length and then some.
Fuck. I can see the little bumps where her nipple piercings are. I’ve never wanted anything more than I want to pull that bikini top off of her and taste those hard nipples.
She fluffs her long hair over her shoulders and tosses her shirt to the side. I watch her spray SPF 100 sunscreen all over her body. She doesn’t bother with tanning lotion anymore, because she tried tanning all through high school and never got further than a blistering burn.
I know this because I’m her best friend of fifteen years. I have no business looking at her like this, especially since I have a girlfriend. This is disgusting and wrong and a violation of every moral I have. Why does that make it so much hotter?
As Madison heads toward the creek in the woods behind our houses, I ponder the consequences of joining her in her current state. No one will be down there except the two of us. It’s going to be hard to resist doing something stupid with her, especially in that deadly sin of a swimsuit.
Still, I’m covered in crap from mowing the lawn, and a dip in the creek sounds like just what I need to feel better.
I push the lawnmower around the house and into the garage, then strip off my plain white tank top and toss it to the side. After closing the garage door, I sprint around the side of the house and jump the fence like a crazed teenager, which strangely is exactly how I feel. Seeing Madison in her backyard in a bikini brought back every summer memory: every romp in the sprinklers, every barbeque, every fourth of July . . .
Every goddamn swimsuit, tank top, and pair of booty shorts that I tried like hell not to notice.
I tell myself I’m running down the hill like a bat out of hell to get the heat, sweat, and dirt off of me. It’s the water I want, not her.
But I know I’m lying through my teeth.
When I reach the creek, I find her lying on her back, letting the water dribble and bubble around her as a single shaft of sunlight illuminates her face. The bottom of the creek is half sand, half rock, so she must have found a spot without too many jagged stones to stick into her back. Her tits are floating above the water, but the swimsuit is wet, so I can see even more detail than I did before.
They look so fucking delicious. It’s almost more than I can take.
I’m overwhelmed by two equally compelling urges. One is to crash into the water beside her, scoop her into my arms and taste every luscious inch of her skin. The other is to splash her in the face and make her piss herself.
Out of sheer self-preservation, I go for the latter.
I kick the water with more force than intended due to the testosterone pumping through my veins. It douses her in water from head to toe. Madison jerks and sputters, her face screwing up in offense as she peeks through the water in her eyes and sees me laughing at her. Her blue eyes light ablaze.
“Motherfucker! You’re going to pay for that.”
I scoop more water into my hands to shower her again, but Madison is quick on her feet. She crouches down and somehow manages to build up a tsunami of water with her tiny hands. She throws it up in my face, drenching me. I return fire, and a full-blown water fight ensues.
As powerful as her hands are, they can’t compare to the sheer size and force of mine. Once she realizes she’s not going to win the fight, Madison turns tail and runs down the creek bed, screaming for mercy. I follow her with my hands full of water, determined not to let her get away. She leaps up to where tree roots have created a small cliff and starts to climb up a nearby maple tree.
“Hey, no fair.” I toss the water up toward her, and it hits her in the ass. My lungs burn as I bend over with my hands on my knees, trying to catch my breath. “You know full well I’m too heavy to climb trees.”
“Well, you just got creek water up my asshole, so I guess we’re even.” Madison groans and pulls her bikini bottom out from between her ass cheeks.
I grin up at her. She’s wet, disheveled and mad as a hornet, but she couldn’t be more beautiful to me than she is at this moment. “That was fun. I guess I’m still the reigning water fight champion around here.”
Madison scoffs. “You’re such a dick.”
I lean up against the tree, reaching up to brush my wet hair out of my face. I watch as Madison’s eyes drift to my side muscles. I’ve never seen her look at me like that. Is she checking me out?
Shit, I was doing okay when I thought it was just me going there. If she’s having these thoughts too, it’s going to take a lot more than dating Trevor Norman’s daughter to keep me away from her.
“I may be a dick, but I’m your dick.” I give her a look I know she can’t resist: the I’m an arrogant asshole, but I know you love me look.
She rolls her eyes, suppressing a smile, and tosses an acorn at my head. “Yeah, whatever, asshat.”
I stir to life, groaning as I twist and turn in the old, rust-orange easy chair from the seventies I fell asleep in last night. Melissa went home to Florida, so taking care of Nana is now my sole responsibility, and she was being a real pill last night—ironically because she forgot to take her pain pills.
Glancing to the right, I see Nana sleeping peacefully, her chest rising and falling in even rhythm. I breathe a sigh of weary relief and head to the kitchen to make coffee, the one non-alcoholic drink I actually like. Everything else is too soft for me, but good old black coffee smacks you in the face, clears up any leftover inebriation or exhaustion from the night before and gets you ready to start your day. It can’t be beat. If I had to choose one substance on earth to worship, it would be the almighty coffee bean.
As I fire up the Keurig, I glance out the kitchen window, which looks toward the Youngs’ house. No one appears to be awake yet. I smile as I turn and grab a dark red coffee mug from the wooden cabinet above the counter. I used to stand at the kitchen window as a young teenager, waiting for Logan to come outside so we could haunt the woods behind our houses and play in the creek. When he scared the shit out of me by kicking water in my face, that was just like old times. Those summers when we were young and carefree . . . sometimes I ache for them. Things were so cut-and-dried. We were best friends—no more, no less. And now my rogue heart has to go and make things complicated.
I rub the smooth surface of the coffee mug as I wait for the water to preheat. The lock on the front door clatters, sending my empty stomach into a frenzy.
Who the fuck is that?
I brandish the coffee mug and cross the kitchen into the living room, slowly approaching the door. I know a coffee mug isn’t much of a weapon, but at the moment, it’s all I have. The lock turns, and I suddenly realize who else has a key to this house.
Dad.
“Son of a bitch, the lock is sticking again,” a low, gravelly voice grumbles. The door opens wide, and I come face-to-face with my shaggy-haired, ratty-clothed father who’s still trying to live like a twenty-year-old even though he’s in his fifties. Right behind him is Cass, my stepmother. Her long, bleached-white hair looks like it hasn’t been combed in two days. Both of them have new tattoos peeking out above their rumpled white t-shirts.
Dad’s dark brown eyes light up when he sees me. The leathery skin around them crinkles as his face breaks into a wide grin. He holds out his colorful arms. “Baby girl!”
“Dad.” I bring my arm down and give him a quick hug, narrowly avoiding cold-cocking him with the coffee mug in the process. “How are you?”
“Starving, as always.”
I roll my eyes. Somebody’s been smoking copious amounts of weed again, I can smell it.
Seriously, could these two be any more like overgrown college students?
Dad releases me and peeks inside Nana’s room. “Fuck, she’s asleep,” he growls. He turns around and grins. “I was hoping for some biscuits and gravy this morning.”
I grunt in annoyance. “Come on, Dad. She just broke her hip in three places. You know she shouldn’t be standing up to cook.”
Dad raises his bushy, half-gray eyebrows. “Has she given you the secret recipe yet?”
“Nah, still haven’t been able to wear her down. I’m trying, though.”
Cass gives me a hug and continues inside to join Dad in the kitchen. My phone buzzes in my jeans pocket.
Logan: I saw the van pull up. The vagrants have returned, eh?
Me: Yep.
Logan: So you now have three overgrown children to take care of.
Me: You are correct.
Logan: Would you like some help from a responsible, able-bodied adult?
I snort.
Me: I think they can manage to feed themselves, but if you have nothing better to do . . .
Logan: Be there in 10.
My chest floods with warmth as I tuck my phone into my back pocket. Logan loves coming over and hearing about Dad and Cass’s adventures in the great wide. He has ever since he first met us. It was one of the things that inspired us to start our own band.
The thing is, Dad, Cass and their bandmates are staunchly “indie,” meaning when they heard I was accepting a record deal from a major company . . . well, that made things awkward, to say the least. We still haven’t really discussed it. It’s strange how we have such similar interests, yet we’ve never been close. I guess it’s because those interests are the main reason my dad was away from me for a large portion of my childhood.
Dad and Cass find the last of Melissa’s vodka in the fridge and mix it with some orange juice in a couple of red Solo cups. They kick back at the kitchen table, leaving me to stare into a near-empty refrigerator and wonder what the hell I’m going to do about my roaring stomach.
It’s the same as usual . . . when Nana’s not around, I’m on my own. I should be used to this by now, but it still sucks to look over at my own father and know he’s never cared whether or not I have food on my plate.
I wonder if Mom would have treated me this way . . .
The front door bursts open, and my world goes from black-and-white to technicolor in two seconds. Logan’s dazzling smile lights up the place, flooding my insides with a bubbly joy I never feel with anyone else.
This place was just an old house full of memories until he walked in. Now it feels like home.
“Morning, Daleys!”
“Logan!” Dad stands from the table and crosses the room to give Logan a “man hug,” slapping him on the back. “How’ve you been, son?”
“Can’t complain. I come bringing sustenance.” He lifts up a paper plate covered in foil and pulls the foil back. On the plate are six glorious blueberry muffins.
“Fuck yes.” I grab a muffin from the plate and grace Logan with my biggest grin. “You’re a lifesaver, Drummer Boy.”
Logan shrugs. “Thanks, but I can’t take the credit. These come from my mother with love.”
I smirk. Logan doesn’t want anyone to know he bakes, but I am well aware of his skills in the kitchen. The fact that he can make a killer pastry just makes him that much sexier, in my opinion. But what does my opinion matter? I’m just his weird goth best friend who probably wouldn’t have a prayer of dating him even if he wasn’t already with Malibu Barbie.
And with that, it’s time to drown my stupidity in muffins and coffee.
A man who has a girlfriend has no business watching his best friend eat a muffin. Especially when his first thought is “I’d like to eat her muffin.”
Fuck.
The way her lips move around that pastry . . . I can think of dozens of things I’d like to do with that talented mouth. Her hair and shirt are still rumpled from sleep. I can tell she didn’t take off her makeup last night. Yet her disheveled state only makes me crave her even more. I just got here, and I already need some air.
Maybe coming over here was a mistake.
I sit down at the table to conceal the unwanted erection springing to life inside my jeans. Morning wood is one thing, but this is something else entirely. I’ve never felt so uncontrollably drawn to someone. The strangest part is, it’s her. Madison Daley. The girl who once peed herself laughing after she stuck a snail down my shirt.
Yeah, she literally pissed her pants. She’s pulled some epic pranks on me, but the tables turned pretty quickly that time.
I pull out my phone and scarf down a muffin I definitely did not make to sate the hunger gnawing at my insides. The first email in my notifications is a Google Alert. I have them set up for Celeste, Trevor, Madison, and myself so I don’t miss what the “news sites”—a.k.a. tabloids—are saying about us. This one is for Celeste, and when I click on the link to the email, the headlines make my skin crawl.
Celeste Norman out with a New Man
Check out Celeste Norman’s New Boy Toy
Celeste Norman Seen with French Male Model at New Club in L.A.
I choke on a bite of my muffin and have to pound on my chest to get it to go down. Mike, Madison’s dad, hands me a red Solo cup full of what I think is plain orange juice until it burns down my throat like rubbing alcohol.
My cough grows more violent. “Good God, man. How much fucking vodka did you put in this?”
“Three shots.” Mike grins. “Sorry, didn’t mean to make it worse.”
I groan and tap the link to look at the pictures, feeling like I’ve taken a punch to the gut. Celeste is glued to this French fucker’s arm, looking up into his eyes, batting her false lashes . . . I know that expression on her face. It’s the same one she used to snare me into her clutches.
I can’t believe it. Celeste is cheating on me. The bitch has been on my ass nonstop about an engagement ring, acting like Daddy’s little good girl, and here she is hopping around L.A. on some other guy’s dick.
Is this my fault? Did I drive her to this? Is she only looking elsewhere for what I haven’t been willing to give her—my undivided attention?
I look up at Madison. Her eyes train in on my face, growing narrow with scrutiny. “Are you okay?”
I swallow hard. There’s no point in lying to my best friend. She can see right through me if I try to conceal the truth. “Just saw something disturbing on the Internet, that’s all.”
Madison’s mischievous smile curves her lips. I see a light dusting of sugar on them and ache to lick it off. “I told you that place is nothing but trouble.”
“You’re right, as always.”
Madison’s dark brows raise in surprise. “What did you just say?”
I pause, rendered speechless by my own words. Did I just slip up and tell my egotistical best friend that she’s right all the time?
Goddamnit. I’m never going to live this one down. I’d rather have pissed my pants than do this.
