Hard Rock Heat Page 4

  "Give it back." I made a half-hearted grab for the phone, but he kept it out of arm's reach.

  He tapped rapidly on the screen. "Hm. No sexting. Just work emails. Boring." He tossed it back. I caught it with two still-trembling hands. "Don't know why I'm surprised. You probably haven't sent a dirty text in your life."

  "I have so," I shot back, heart still pumping madly.

  I should have just agreed. But he already thought I was an uptight killjoy. I didn't need to give him any more ammunition.

  Of course, he jumped on it.

  "Prove it," he challenged. "Send me something dirty."

  "I don't have your number," I deflected.

  "I just programmed it in."

  With a frown, I scrolled through my contacts. Sure enough, he'd put his number in there. First name, Damon. Last name, Rock Star Sex God.

  "I'm still not sexting you," I said.

  "What about a kiss?" His eyes glinted with mischief.

  "No!"

  "A quick grope?"

  "Not a chance."

  The elevator doors opened and I stepped out quickly.

  "What about holding hands?" he called out, teasing.

  "Goodbye Damon."

  As I hurried out of the building, I heard him laughing the whole way.

  Chapter Five

  I was still flustered by the time I got home. I stood outside my apartment door for a few moments before opening it, willing my flushed face to go away. I didn't want my sister to notice and start asking questions. She always called me the calm, unflappable one. If only she knew how close my inner rage monster always was to bursting from my chest with an explosion of gore and curse words.

  "Hope? I'm home," I called out when I stepped through the doorway.

  No answer.

  I kept on forgetting Hope had practically moved in with her boyfriend. We were still technically roommates, but with her nightly sleepovers and my hectic work schedule, our weekly scheduled lunches were the most I ever saw of her now.

  It was nice having the place to myself. For the first time, I was living under a roof with no parents or roommates. It was freeing.

  That was what I kept telling myself. I ignored the small kernel of disappointment that formed in my stomach every time I walked into an empty apartment.

  I decided to throw together a quick beef and broccoli recipe using leftovers in the fridge before the broccoli went bad. I always tried to cook at home as much as possible, to offset all the dinners out I had because of work. Whether it was an event, or wining and dining clients, or simply because I was so swamped I only had enough time for take-out, I relished the days I got to eat a home-cooked meal.

  As I chopped up the broccoli for my stir fry, my gaze wandered to the calendar on the fridge. Today's date had a small star in the corner. My heart sunk a little.

  Crap. With Damon's little visit, I'd forgotten what day it was.

  Thinking quickly, I grabbed some bags of frozen veggies from the freezer and took out two packets of ramen noodles. With a few extra ingredients, my small beef and broccoli dish easily became a stir fry with enough to feed a person for several days.

  While the stir fry cooked, I took out a large bowl of Cobb salad with hardboiled eggs, shredded cheese and diced tomatoes, and covered it with plastic wrap. I'd been planning eating it for lunch for the next few days, but I'd just have to plan something else.

  Once the stir fry was ready, I portioned it out into four plastic containers. I put the food into a reusable shopping bag, grabbed my purse and went back to my car.

  The drive across town was long, but not any longer than I'd expected considering the rush hour traffic. An hour and a half later, I pulled into a two-story house. The grass on the front lawn was getting long. I'd have to speak to the neighborhood kid I paid to mow it every week. He was slacking on his job.

  I took out my keys, but discovered I didn't need them. The door was already unlocked. With a sigh, I entered the house, making sure to lock the door behind me. I put the food in the mostly-empty fridge, keeping out one of the now-lukewarm containers of stir fry. A few cans of soda, a jar of pickles, and several Asian food take-out boxes were the only things in there. Voices were coming from the next room over. The television was on, as usual. I headed to the living room.

  "Dad, you can't keep forgetting to lock the door," I said.

  The man in the beige leather armchair didn't turn his head. I stood between him and the television, blocking his view.

  My dad blinked, his eyes focusing on me.

  "Faith." He fumbled with the remote in his hand, setting it on the armrest. "Is it Wednesday?"

  "Yeah. I brought you some food. Stir fry with beef and teriyaki sauce."

  He lumbered from the armchair and shuffled his way to the kitchen, wearing sweatpants and a ratty t-shirt. At least he wasn't in his bathrobe.

  I took one of the containers and split the food between two plates, giving him the bigger portion. As I nuked it in the microwave, I turned to him.

  "How are you feeling today?" I asked.

  "Not too bad." He sat down heavily at the kitchen table. It was covered with empty coffee mugs and dirty dishes. I gathered them all up and put them in the sink for later.

  "Have you spoken to Hope recently?" I asked.

  "Not in a while." He spoke the words slowly, as if every syllable cost him a year of his life.

  "She's doing good. Her new boyfriend is really great for her."

  He nodded vaguely.

  "I'm doing fine, too." I struggled for something to say. My mind flashed to my meeting with Damon. I certainly wasn't going to tell my dad about the gorgeous, infuriating rock star who made me want to Hulk-out. "My boss called me her best event specialist today."

  "Hm," he said noncommittally.

  I swallowed the lump in my throat. I took the plates from the microwave, set them on the table and took a seat across from my dad.

  I looked around the kitchen, taking in the dirty floor and sticky counters. For a week's worth of mess, it could have been worse. Usually I did a bit of light tidying every time I came, but I'd have to do another deep clean some time soon.

  I examined my dad for a moment. His hair looked washed and he only had a few days of stubble. That was an improvement over last month.

  "Have you done laundry recently?" I asked.

  He shrugged noncommittally. I took that as a no. I'd have to add laundry to the list.

  "Mikey broke his leg," my dad said out of nowhere.

  "Mikey?" I asked.

  "The kid who mows the grass."

  That explained the state of the front lawn. It was the one chore I could afford to delegate. Pay a kid ten bucks a week and he was more than happy to do yard work.

  "I'll call his mom and see if one of his friends might want the job," I told him.

  My dad nodded in agreement.

  We ate the rest of the meal mostly in silence.

  When my dad finished, he put down his knife and fork. He stared at the empty plate, avoiding my eyes.

  I reached out and took his hand.

  "How are you doing, Dad?" I asked again. "Really, I want to make sure you're okay."

  He looked up. He slowly pulled his hand away. "I told you. I'm doing fine."

  A familiar stab of pain shot through my chest.

  "I'm glad to hear it," I managed to say.

  I took our plates and put them in the sink, turning my back on him. I normally would have done a bit of cleaning up, but I couldn't make myself stay any longer.

  I showed my dad the rest of the food in the fridge for the next few days.

  "Maybe some time soon we can go out for dinner with Hope and her boyfriend," I said. "So you can finally meet him."

  "Maybe. I'll think about it." His eyes slid back to the living room, where the television still blared.

  "Okay. Well. I have to get going now." Tears stung the back of my eyes. "I'll see you again next week."

  He wandered back to his armchair
without another word.

  I left and locked the door behind me. I got into my car. I gripped the steering wheel tight.

  Deep breath in. And out.

  I pulled out of the driveway and made my way back home.

  I ignored the salty-wet tears falling down my cheeks.

  Chapter Six

  A woman in a white wedding dress marched up to another, similarly dressed, bride. The first ripped the veil from the second's carefully coiffed hair. Their two respective grooms were in each other's faces, yelling and pushing. The show host tried to intervene, but it was a half-hearted attempt. He knew what made for good ratings.

  I was in my pajamas, on the sofa, with a bowl of popcorn in my lap. Trash TV never failed to distract me from my problems. Watching other people deal with life's foibles reminded I could have it much worse. Or, in the case of those millionaires shows, much better. Either way, it made me reevaluate my life and priorities.

  I didn't know why this week's visit to my dad's bothered me so much. He hadn't acted any differently than during all my other visits over the years. He'd always been a workaholic, but after Mom died in an accident, he'd gone overboard, trying to distract himself from the pain of her loss. I took after my father in that respect.

  Some small part of me had wondered if he wouldn't get better once Hope and I moved out on our own. Without us there, without having to stare into our faces and be reminded every day of the woman he'd lost, I had thought maybe he would improve. Maybe he'd be able to move on.

  If anything, it had gotten worse. When the stress finally got to him, the doctor put him on indefinite medical leave. Something about his heart. With no work to distract himself with, he'd slowly withered away, becoming a shell of the man he once was. With his condition, I always worried something would happen. If he didn't take care of himself, if he didn't look out for his health…

  I'd had nightmares about walking into my childhood home and seeing my father lying on the floor, his body cold and stiff.

  I shoved a fistful of popcorn in my mouth and turned up the volume, wanting to hear the bleeped out curse words and angry shouts of this week's bridezilla.

  The show ended and I turned off the television and got ready for bed. There was no one to say goodnight to. I turned off the lights in the living room, closed the door to my bedroom behind me by habit, and slipped under the covers.

  I heard my phone ping with a notification from the nightstand. I thought about ignoring it, but it could have been work. I grabbed it and checked the glowing screen.

  Hey sweetness, it read. What are you up to tonight?

  My heart both jumped and sank at the same time, if that was even possible. My stomach filled with dread as I realized Damon had another way to continue torturing me. My stomach filled with dozens of nervous butterflies, wondering why he was texting — and wondering what he was going to say next.

  My phone pinged again. I gripped it tight.

  Got a hot date? he asked. Is that why you're ignoring me?

  I'm not ignoring you, I wrote back. You only messaged me thirty seconds ago.

  I'm an impatient man.

  How did you even get my number? You didn't have my phone long enough to memorize it.

  It's on your business card.

  Dammit.

  So is that a no on the hot date? he wrote back.

  I snorted.

  What about you? I asked. Shouldn't you be banging some groupie instead of spending your time annoying me?

  You seem obsessed with my sex life.

  I am not.

  That's the second time you've mentioned groupies. I didn't think you were so judgmental. Your sister was one, wasn't she?

  She was not!!! Hope was a fan, that's it.

  Fangirl, groupie, is there a difference?

  You're an ass, I typed back and tossed my phone on the nightstand.

  It pinged. I ignored it and sunk down further into the covers.

  It pinged again. And again, in a flurry of texts. With a grunt, I reached out from the blankets and fumbled around for it.

  I'm sorry, Damon had typed. I didn't mean to insult you, or Hope. You're the one who keeps talking about groupies as if they're a bad thing. I love groupies. And not just to "bang". Groupies are our most hardcore fans. They follow us everywhere, go to every concert. They're the reason we're able to do what we do.

  I squirmed on my bed, vaguely ashamed.

  You're right, I typed reluctantly. I've been a bit of a judgmental bitch, haven't I?

  A little, he typed back.

  You could at least disagree!! I typed furiously.

  If the Diana Six shoe fits…

  How did Damon even know what kind of shoes I wore?

  I hate you, I responded.

  No you don't.

  I could see his smug smile in those words.

  Fine, then I vehemently detest you, I wrote.

  Oooh, she brings out the fancy words now. Gimme more. I'm imagining you with that sexy librarian look. I think it would suit you.

  I couldn't help but laugh out loud a little.

  So brains turn you on? I typed. I thought a guy like you would be all about the boobs.

  I can appreciate a good set of tits as much as the next guy, he wrote back. I just like the idea of a straight-laced good girl letting me enjoy those tits in a million filthy ways.

  A full body flush went through me as I stared at Damon's message on my phone screen. Images depicting exactly what those filthy ways might be flashed in my head. A tingle formed between my legs. I squeezed them together, forcing myself to ignore it.

  My phone pinged again.

  You're having naughty thoughts about me, aren't you? he typed.

  My breathing went shallow.

  I'm having them, too, he continued.

  My hands trembled.

  Like right now, I'm imagining sucking on those perfect tits of yours.

  My nipples peaked, as if he had done just that. As if his words had a direct line to my body. He held power over me in a way I'd never experienced before.

  Now it's your turn to sext me back, he wrote.

  I started to type the words, I'm not going to sext with you. I stopped halfway through and deleted the characters one by one.

  Why are you doing this? I typed instead.

  'Cause you're sexy and smart and so prim and proper, it makes me want to hear you say dirty things.

  My stomach tumbled over on itself.

  If you don't want to sext me, that's cool, Damon messaged. I mean, almost EVERYONE has sexted before, but if you don't think you can, then whatever. You probably wouldn't be any good at it anyway.

  My jaw clenched. I knew exactly what he was doing. Taunting me, challenging me. He knew how much I hated giving in.

  Fine. He wanted dirty, I'd give him dirty.

  I closed my eyes and brought to mind every naughty thing I'd ever watched, read or experienced. What would turn Damon on? What would shock him?

  I opened my eyes and began to text, the pulsing between my thighs growing with every word.

  First, I'm going to strip off your jeans and pull out your cock. It's hot and heavy in my hands. I'm going to suck the head into my mouth, licking around and around, tasting you. Then I'm going to take you nice and deep, until you're buried in my throat, until I'm stuffed full of your cock, until I can't breath around you. Then I'm going to drive you crazy with my lips and tongue. I'll lick and suck and swallow around your hard cock. It'll be so good, you'll spill down my throat within minutes. Then I'm going to lick every inch of you, until I've swallowed every drop.

  Cheeks burning, insides aching, I sent the text.

  I waited for Damon to respond. I smoothed down my hair with shaking hands. Had I done it wrong? Was he laughing at me? Was he going to tease me? Or had it been too much? It was too much, wasn't it? He was disgusted with me.

  After several minutes he replied. I fumbled with the phone in my haste.

  That was fucking hot, was all he said.r />
  An odd sense of relief filled my chest. At least he wasn't teasing.

  A few seconds later he sent, That was so hot, I had to go beat one out.

  Don't be gross, I replied, even as a sense of pride came over me.

  Now send me a naked selfie, he typed.

  GOOD NIGHT DAMON, I texted back in all caps. I turned my phone off completely and set it aside.

  I'd done it. I'd sent a text sexy enough he had to go… do that.

  I felt the beginning of wetness between my thighs, the ache between my legs growing stronger.

  It had also been sexy enough to make me want to go do that.

  I closed my eyes and fought against the urge. I wasn't going to go touching myself to thoughts of Damon. I wasn't. I refused.

  It was a long, cold, frustrating night.

  Chapter Seven

  "Maybe a bachelor auction… no, the guys are all taken. Okay, some kind of tournament. Like golf? Ugh, boring. Um…"

  "Faith?"

  I started as a voice interrupted me muttering to myself. I was staring at a whiteboard in my office, trying to brainstorm ideas I could take to Damon for his charity event. None of my previous fundraisers were appropriate for an event thrown by Damon Drake, guitarist, playboy, and party animal.

  My senior intern Katherine, the one who hadn’t been at the dinner Damon crashed, stood in the doorway with the stack of papers I'd thrown into her lap the week before.

  "I've compiled all the feedback into a spreadsheet and wrote up some notes on the few trends I caught," she said.

  "Great, thanks Kat. You can take those papers to the copy room and shred them, we don't need them anymore."

  "Got it." Before turning to leave, Katherine nodded her head at the whiteboard where I'd written down dozens of useless ideas. "Are we doing another non profit event? I thought Martha wanted to move away from those."

  "It's a celebrity charity event. Martha wants an 'in' with the entertainment industry."

  Katherine's eyes lit up as she shifted the weight of the papers from one arm to another. "Celebrity? Would I know them?"

  "Have you heard of the rock band Darkest Days?"

  Katherine let out a squeak, eyes growing wide. "Ohmigod what? Really? Darkest Days?" Her speech rapidly sped up. "Please tell me we're working with Noah Hart. Please tell me Noah Hart is our new client."