Dirty Like Me Page 11

  Jesse looked kinda pissed at that. He acted like he was oblivious to the woman practically drooling as she said goodnight, before finally walking away when he only stared me down.

  I wondered if he got that a lot. I wondered if the bartender was drooling because she knew who he was, or if that didn’t even matter when you looked like he did. When you exuded that kind of effortless, feral sexuality. The kind that told a woman, without words, what he could do to her.

  The kinds of things he pretended to do to me in that video.

  Jesse sighed and rubbed his hand over his face. He looked tired, something I hadn’t picked up on before. My own drunkenness and hurt feelings had gotten in the way of seeing what this night meant to him, and what it had taken out of him. Suddenly I felt ashamed of my selfishness, my petty drama over my ex.

  Josh wasn’t worth this. I should never have let him get to me or get in the way of whatever time I might have with Jesse Mayes, even if our relationship wasn’t real.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “This isn’t your problem.”

  “It isn’t yours either.” His eyes locked on mine again. “Look. I don’t know what he saw all those years. Those five years you were together, and all those times he fucked you and told you he loved you. Or that day when he left you at the altar. But he wasn’t seeing you.” His gaze searched my face, heating my skin. “You’re more than that, Katie. You’re more than the girl he abandoned, and you’re more than the girl in bed with me in that video. If you come on tour with me, you’ll have a chance to show the world, including him, who you are, if that’s what you want.”

  “But that’s not really me, either,” I said. “Your fake girlfriend.”

  “No one knows that. They don’t know you yet. You can be whoever or whatever you want to be, starting tomorrow morning, and the world will believe you. Your ex believed it. That’s why he hosted this party. To see for himself. That video gave him a glimpse of what he’s missed out on, and now he’s got regrets.”

  And that’s when it struck me, as I stared at his beautiful face in the flickering candlelight. That all the time I was worrying if I was going on a date with some rich, entitled asshole who might turn into a creep at any second, I should’ve been preparing for a different scenario. Because what if Jesse Mayes turned out to be nice?

  No; fuck nice. I could handle nice.

  What if Jesse Mayes turned out to be awesome?

  I swallowed as his dark gaze skimmed my lips. “I don’t know about that, Jesse.”

  “I do.” He stood and offered his hand to me. “Don’t live with regrets, Katie Bloom.”

  CHAPTER 11

  KATIE

  I woke near dawn, hungover as all fuck.

  Correction: still a little drunk.

  Morning light was beginning to bleed around the edges of the blackout curtains as I blinked my crusty eyelids open. The clock by my head said it was six seventeen. The light of the digital display stabbed at my brain and I closed my eyes, groaned, and rolled over, intending to go right back to sleep. Which was when I realized I wasn’t alone.

  I was in bed with Jesse Mayes.

  Naked.

  I rubbed my eyes until I could see straight. Until I was sure of what I was seeing.

  Jesse lay sprawled beside me on his back, his gorgeous form skimmed with the faint window light. His face was turned away from me, one arm bent so his hand lay across his muscular chest, the white sheet tangled low around his bare hips.

  I clutched the sheet to my chest, carefully running my free hand over my body beneath.

  Yep. Definitely naked.

  I peeked under the sheet, slowly, moving an inch an hour as I lifted it from his hip, until I could make out his cock. The cock he sent me a dick pic of last night. Not quite as enthusiastic this time, but he did have a decent morning semi going on.

  I dropped the sheet like it’d scorched me.

  What the fuck??

  My skull crackled as I looked around, squinting into the near-dark. I remembered leaving the hotel bar with him. And some kind of argument over the bed?

  God, did I do a strip tease for him?

  The rest of the night came back in disjointed flashes as I scrambled to piece it together.

  We’d ended up at the after party in Dylan’s hotel suite. I remembered having a drink in my hand, and various people refilling it, so I must’ve had several. I could still taste the salt and lime. Margaritas; that’s what Dylan’s buddy Ash kept making. Which would explain my raw tongue and the battery acid churning in my gut.

  I hated margaritas.

  I remembered Brody announcing that the guys needed to sleep because they all had shit to do in the morning, and Jude kicking people out. But the party kept going. I also vaguely remembered sitting there in the midst of the rowdy energy, the rapid fire conversation, the raucous laughter, and thinking that this would be what life would be like on tour—if I went.

  I worked my way to sitting, careful not to disturb the bed or the sheet around Jesse’s hips. The hand on his chest twitched but he didn’t wake. I could remember his hands on my body at various points last night… On my back. On my waist. On my thigh as he sat next to me on the couch.

  I let the sheet go. I wasn’t a religious person, but I did a little prayer that Jesse Mayes wouldn’t wake up in the next few seconds to the sight of my bare white ass dashing to the bathroom. Or up in the air as I searched the floor for my clothes.

  I found them, one piece at a time. My red dress, flung on the coffee table. My panties just under the bed. My bra on the couch. My lucky leather jacket over near the door.

  It was a big suite, like Dylan’s, but I barely remembered walking into it last night.

  My hotel room.

  Jesse’s hotel room, apparently.

  It didn’t quite dawn on me until we were inside it that my room was his room, and vice versa.

  I don’t get my own room? I’d whirled on him and asked that, incredulous, when it became clear he was heading for the bedroom.

  You’re my girlfriend, we share a room. You get a separate room and that shit gets out.

  Okay. That did make sense.

  Whatever. But I get my own bed. There were two of them, thank God.

  But somehow we’d both ended up in the same one.

  Got two beds. Which one you use is up to you.

  Fuck.

  And ugh.

  Fugh.

  Because it was up to me, wasn’t it?

  I slunk off into the bathroom after a failed search for one of my shoes. Shutting the door and turning on the light, I winced as an invisible ax cracked my skull. I gave myself a few moments to adjust, blinking, and held onto the counter for balance. I was bloody dizzy. And dehydrated. I really must’ve been wasted to drink tequila in any amount. Especially after all the beer, champagne and assorted cocktails I’d already put back throughout the night.

  Tequila had never been my friend.

  I ran the water in the sink, just a trickle so it wouldn’t make noise, splashed some on my face and downed several glasses of it.

  I pulled on my panties, shakily, stopping to grip the counter at intervals.

  God. What a mess.

  What the hell did I think I was doing? Clearly I was in way over my head here. I’d spent the better part of the last two years in a virtual cave; I could barely handle a night out with Devi and a few pitchers of sangria, much less Jesse Mayes and his rock star friends.

  As I stood with my eyes closed, I felt his arm around me. A memory of last night, his hard body warm against mine, his hot lips brushing my ear. You choose who you are out there, Katie. Who you want to be for them. You give what you want to give. And then his lips on my neck. Who you are in here… you choose that, too.

  Yeah, I chose.

  I chose to be a lippy flirt.

  I opened my eyes and took in my reflection, naked but for my black panties, and cringed as the memory came. Walking over to the bed closest to him, all bravado and boozy courage. />
  You’re sleeping over here, then I am too. I’m gonna fake girlfriend the shit out of this joint.

  Up to you, babe.

  Then he proceeded to undress. That part I remembered.

  Vividly.

  Because I got an eyeful of naked Jesse Mayes.

  Apparently he had no qualms about stripping down in front of me. Not surprising, really, for a guy who’d texted me a picture of his dick only hours before. A guy who grinded me to near-orgasm while a camera crew recorded every simulated thrust and very real gasp.

  The guy had no shame.

  I busied myself finger-combing my hair and wiping the raccoon makeup from under my eyes. Thank God I’d had the sense to remove my disposable contacts before I passed out, but I really could’ve come more prepared. A toothbrush and some powder foundation would do wonders right now.

  Was that a bloody hickey on my neck?

  Jesus.

  More fragments of the night came back. Like telling him to put his dick back in his pants, when the ship had already sailed on that, since his jeans were on the floor. Did the man not wear underwear? And I must’ve been blatantly checking him out, because I could recall every detail of his gorgeous body. The long, lean lines of his torso. The muscles that bunched in his chest, his rippling abs, his thick biceps and long, muscular thighs as he pulled back the covers, tossed them on the floor, and flopped onto the bed.

  Always sleep naked, sugar.

  He’d reclined there, the sheet haphazardly over a leg, like he’d meant to cover up but didn’t, his superb cock on full display, half-hard. He tossed his right arm over his eyes, showing off the sexy tattoo on his forearm, and appeared to be going to sleep.

  But apparently I didn’t want him to sleep. Hence my bull-headed response.

  Fine. If you’re sleeping naked, I am too.

  And hence my clothes ending up all over the room.

  I scowled at my reflection in the bathroom mirror and stood up straight, hoping I at least looked hot while I was making an ass of myself. I put on my bra and squeezed myself back into the red dress; anyone who saw me this morning would know it was the same dress I’d worn last night. This was not a Sunday morning dress. It was a Saturday night dress.

  A walk of shame dress.

  The kind of dress a stupid girl stripped off in front of a rock star, apparently.

  Because I had.

  Stripped.

  In front of Jesse Mayes.

  I’d turned it into a show when he started clapping and hooting, doing a clumsy drunken dance and flinging my clothes around. I cringed as I suddenly recalled what had happened to my lost shoe.

  I’d tossed it in the air, where it got lodged in the ceiling light fixture.

  Wonderful.

  He’d howled at that smooth move.

  When I peeled off my panties, though, the laughter died and his expression darkened.

  You get in this bed like that and neither of us is sleeping, cherry pie.

  I got in the bed.

  Put your panties back on.

  What’s the matter? You said you’d be happy to taste my pie.

  He’d growled and rolled away, onto the very edge of the bed, as far as he could get without falling on the floor, and covered his head with a pillow.

  I’d closed my eyes then, thinking I’d prove I could sleep even if he couldn’t, but that was a mistake.

  Ugh. Is your side of the bed spinning?

  The bed shook as Jesse got up in an agitated huff and stalked to the other bed. He tore the blankets off that one, got in under the sheet, and buried his head in the pillow.

  I got up, went over to his bed and got in.

  Fuck, Katie. I’m not sleeping with you naked unless we’re gonna fuck, and we’re not gonna fuck while you’re this drunk. Especially the first time.

  First time? Like there would be other times? First time? For some reason that struck me as hilarious, and the last memory I had was of my naked, drunken self, laughing my ass off.

  And waking up in the morning with an ax in my skull.

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  Did we have sex?

  No. No fucking way. I’d know.

  Wouldn’t I?

  Yes. Absolutely. No way I’d forget that.

  Right?

  I scanned myself in the mirror. Reasonably presentable.

  For a walk of shame.

  My hair looked a little ridiculous and desperately in need of a brush, but because it never let me down, my lucky leather jacket coughed up a hair elastic buried in the lining of a pocket. I managed to work my hair into a decent braid. “Get your shit together,” I whispered at my reflection. Then I squared my shoulders and prepared for what was sure to be a humiliating journey home.

  When I cracked the bathroom door, Jesse’s body was still flung across the bed. He hadn’t moved. I could hear the slow, deep, throaty rhythm of his breaths.

  I glimpsed the dark form on the ceiling that was my shoe, wedged into the light fixture. Clearly, that was a lost cause. No way I could rescue it without standing on Jesse’s face.

  I grabbed my purse and slipped out, barefoot.

  I saw no one in the hall or the elevator, thank God. I went down to the lobby and spoke to a guy at the front desk. “Is there anything you can do for a patron on the occasion that she got super drunk last night and lost a shoe?”

  “Oh, dear.” He poured me a glass of cucumber water, which I accepted gratefully and downed in seconds. “I’d be happy to have the concierge send someone out to purchase some shoes for you up the street. Once the stores open, of course.”

  Right. Like I could afford shoes from anywhere in this neighborhood.

  “I don’t have time for that. Is there nothing in-house? The gift shop?”

  “I don’t think so. However, we do have flip flops for the spa patrons. I could sell you a pair of those.” He looked something up on his computer. “I’d have to charge you sixty dollars.” He looked at me and said, “They’re pink,” like that somehow sweetened the deal.

  Sixty bucks? For a pair of disposable flip flops? Christ. But it was that or get home barefoot.

  “Size seven please.”

  “They’re one size fits all.”

  Sure they were. “Great. Can you point me in the direction of an open drug store?”

  I paid the man, waited while he sent some underling to collect the flip flops, then hit the road in my red lace dress, oversized pink flip flops, and black leather jacket.

  I walked the five blocks to the twenty-four hour drugstore where I picked up a bottle of Tylenol, a gift bag and a gift card that was blank inside. Somewhat fittingly, it had a little drum on it. It was green and silver. Possibly leftover from Christmas.

  Then I bought every pack of cinnamon flavored gum they had. And every cinnamon Tic Tac.

  I ducked into two convenience stores on my way back to the hotel and bought their entire stock of cinnamon gum too.

  In the hotel lobby, I stuffed the gum and Tic Tacs in the gift bag, threw back a couple of Tylenol with some cucumber water, and signed the card.

  Have an amazing tour. K.

  On second thought, I tossed the bottle of Tylenol in the bag.

  I left the gift bag with the front desk for “the guy in 709” since I assumed the room wasn’t under Jesse’s real name.

  I grabbed a cab and stopped by my sister’s place to pick up Max. Then I went home, had a long, hot shower and passed out in my own bed, spooning my dog.

  CHAPTER 12

  JESSE

  Jude leaned back against the Bentley, settling in with his breakfast burrito as I punched the number to Katie’s apartment into the ancient intercom system. After several staticky beeps there was a click and a scratchy little voice. “Hello?”

  “Had breakfast yet?”

  Static-filled silence. “Pardon me?”

  “Have you had breakfast?” I enunciated. Through the static, I heard a scratchy little voice say a very bad word, which made me grin. �
�Wanna buzz me in?”

  Silence followed by some staticky fumbling and a loud buzzer.

  I found Katie’s place on the second floor. The door was ajar and a red-rimmed eyeball sized me up through the gap from behind a pair of cute, turquoise-framed glasses.

  “Please tell me you brought coffee.”

  “Nope. But Jude will get some.” Katie opened the door wider; I was already texting Jude as I stepped inside. “Nudge open today?”

  “Yes, but you don’t have to do that.” She shut the door behind me. Her dog sat at her feet, wagging his tail. “I’m sure your best friend doesn’t really want to be your errand boy.”

  “The amount I pay him to be my errand boy, I don’t give a shit. What do you drink?”

  She sighed. “A cherry-vanilla latte. Actually, make it iced, with extra—” She caught my look and gave me a little eye roll. “Just tell them it’s for Katie.”

  I texted the order to Jude, then tucked away my phone and rubbed the dog’s head. He licked me, decided I was cool and wandered off into the kitchen.

  “Max really likes you,” she said. “He’s usually kind of, um, indifferent toward guys.”

  She hugged herself as I scanned her outfit. Pink pajama pants with hearts all over them, a green tank top and mismatched socks. Not a woman expecting company.

  She followed me into the tiny kitchen and poked her nose in the bag I set on the counter. “Oh, God. Juice!” She moaned orgasmically as she dug the carton out of the bag.

  I grinned. “Playing hooky today?”

  “Nope. Threw up an hour ago.” She swatted Max out of the way and pulled a couple of lidless mason jars from a cupboard, then sloshed the orange juice into the jars and handed one to me. “Cheers,” she said, bumping her jar to mine and throwing the juice back.

  I took a swig and watched her throat work as she chugged. There was a conspicuous hickey on one side of her neck which I vaguely remembered putting there when she pretty much dared me to. Apparently the girl got mouthy when she got drunk, and since I wasn’t known for backing down from a dare—a good dare—it was a dangerous combo. A fucking fun combo.

  I unpacked the groceries and watched Katie down a second helping of juice. Despite how wrecked she was, she did hungover well. Kind of adorably disheveled, her hair piled into a messy knot-bun thing, loose strands sticking to her face. She did look a little pale, but other than that, cute as ever.