Dirty Like Zane: A Dirty Rockstar Romance (Dirty, Book 6) Page 3

  Well, good.

  I forced myself, again, to breathe. Why was it so damn hard just to breathe?

  It was like Zane did something to the oxygen, made the environment inhospitable to female life.

  I sipped my mochaccino and tried to regroup. To start this day over again. Just pretend Zane’s little invasion into my sanctuary had never happened.

  But it did.

  He’d touched me.

  He’d kissed me.

  On day fucking one—no, moment one—of the tour

  And now my whole system was out of balance.

  I lit more incense to burn away the lingering smell of him. A little meeting with my lady crew to start this tour off right was what I needed—so I could go over the rules of the Lady Bus with them.

  Rule number one: No dudes.

  That meant any dudes, for any reason.

  Boyfriends.

  Hookups.

  Pushy lead singers.

  Unless this bus caught on fire and we needed someone to ax us the hell out… from this moment on, absolutely no dudes were setting foot on this bus.

  Only problem with that plan was I couldn’t exactly hide in here forever. And I’d still have to deal with Zane out there.

  I’d have to see him, talk to him, work with him.

  Every. Day.

  And the truth was I wanted to see him.

  I hugged myself as I looked around the bus, at this pretty little cocoon I’d created to insulate myself from the world outside. From him.

  And I knew; the purpose of the Lady Bus wasn’t to keep Zane away from me.

  It was to keep me away from him.

  Chapter Two

  Zane

  I headed offstage at the end of the Seattle-Tacoma show irritated as fuck.

  The first night of the tour, and already too many fuck-ups to count.

  Everyone was quick to pat me on the back, nod their approval, tell me Great show. No one said a fucking word about how my mic cut out in the middle of “Dirty Like Me,” or the fact that I’d accidentally clubbed Seth in the face during “Blackout” and probably gave him a fat lip.

  Or any of the other minor fuck-ups that had happened throughout the night.

  Or how motherfucking tense I was.

  I’d swiped Jesse’s mic to finish “Dirty Like Me,” and I was pretty sure no one even noticed me hitting Seth other than me and Seth. It was the kind of inconsequential shit that the crowd never really cared about in the grand scheme of things, but it bothered me.

  A fuck of a lot.

  When I was onstage, I hated fuck-ups.

  I wrapped Seth in my arms when he came offstage and kissed him on the side of the head. “You alright, man? How’s your lip…?”

  He smiled at me a little painfully, and his bottom lip was definitely swollen. “No worries.”

  “What happened?” Elle pulled Seth close as I released him, and he laid a hand on her belly.

  “Ah, I kissed Zane’s mic during ‘Blackout.’”

  “Oh, baby…” Elle fussed over him, examining his lip and gently kissing it. Even though she wasn’t taking the stage on this tour, Elle still looked the part; platinum-blonde hair, kickass boots and a sexy little dress hugging her pregnant curves as she pressed her swollen tits against her man.

  And fucking right, I was jealous of that shit.

  Not jealous of Seth or Elle in particular. Just jealous they could do that shit anytime they wanted, right out in the open—and they did.

  All the fucking time.

  Just like Jesse and Katie.

  And Dylan and Amber.

  And Brody and Jessa.

  “Can we get some ice for Seth’s lip?” I muttered as Jude came over. His woman, Roni, was somewhere backstage, and any second now they’d be all up in each other’s shit, too.

  These days, I was fucking surrounded by horny, happy couples.

  I got the fuck out of there before one more person could pat me on the back and tell me Great show, Zane.

  It wasn’t a great show.

  Not for me.

  I hit the shower in my dressing room. Then Brody, who’d flown down for the show, came by to talk to me, feel me out. He had his concerned manager face on, and he definitely felt the tension radiating off me a mile away.

  “You’ve gotta relax into it, yeah?” he told me. “This is the first show of like a hundred and forty. Don’t be so fucking hard on yourself. You hear that sound?”

  That sound was the thunderous stomping, yelling and singing of the crowd as they gradually left the building. Happy fans.

  “I’m good, Bro,” I told him, mostly so he’d stop talking, and he fucking frowned. In his motorcycle jacket, tattoos and button-up shirt, he looked like he was ready to kick my ass if necessary—or worse, negotiate me into a better mood.

  So I moved on before he could.

  I joined the rest of Dirty and our opening band, Steel Trap, meeting some fans Jude had allowed backstage. They all had Dirty stickers on their shirts, a few of them scribbled with Dylan’s initials, which meant he’d invited them back himself. Must’ve met them outside before the show or something.

  I did the rounds, signed some shit, posed for photos and tried not to look like a grumpy asshole. Usually the fans let that shit slide after a show, figured you were burnt out from rocking your ass off.

  Shady stuck close to me the whole time. I’d already given him his instructions for this tour: Keep the fangirls off me.

  Oh, and Keep the weed coming.

  That was pretty much the extent of it.

  This was Shady’s first Dirty tour, so for all he knew I gave my bodyguard those same instructions on every tour.

  But this tour was different.

  It was the first tour I didn’t actually want the fangirls all over me.

  It was the first tour since I was—secretly—married to Maggie. And last thing I needed was anything making things worse between the two of us than they already were. She wasn’t in the room right this minute, but she often was. And either way, I knew she’d be watching me. Even when she pretended she wasn’t.

  I knew she was still pissed at me. And I understood why—in a way.

  I knew she was pissed about Dallas.

  I knew she didn’t trust me not to screw my way through this entire world tour.

  I finished up with the fans, fast, and told Shady to get me out of there. While Alec and Jude organized cars for us, I rolled up a fat joint outside and smoked up with Dylan and Jesse. Went a little way to making me feel better. Or at least feel distracted as we fucked around, waiting for the girls to get their shit together.

  Apparently neither of my band brothers seemed to think the show was as bad as I did. But they weren’t the ones who’d fucked up the show.

  Then their women, Katie and Amber, came giggling outside from wherever the fuck they’d been, smelling of booze, and we rolled out.

  No fucking sign of Maggie.

  Whatever.

  I’d already made it known, to Jude, that Maggie’s presence was required tonight, which meant he’d make sure someone dragged her along.

  Not even Maggie could get away with buzzkilling everyone by bailing on the first-night-of-the-tour party.

  I got into a limo with Shady and some of my band, and by the time we arrived at the bar, the rest of Dirty, Steel Trap and a shit-ton of other people were already there. Even Seth was there.

  None of the guys in my band were single anymore, but at least they still partied with me. Jesse and Katie were pretty much night owls, always good to go out. Dylan was usually down, often with Amber in tow. It was Seth who usually stayed in, since Elle, in her pregnant state, was usually in bed long before midnight. But tonight, he’d come out.

  First night of the tour, no one had any excuse to stay in… except Elle.

  By the time Jude got security organized and I’d smoked up again outside the bar with Katie and Roni, Maggie had arrived with Alec and Talia.

  We all made our way
into the bar, working our way through the crowd to a section near the dance floor where most of our group was hanging out and a bunch of our security guys were making a nice solid perimeter. I was one of the last to arrive, and when I did, there was an empty seat waiting for me, right next to Seth and across the table from Maggie—with a big bottle of Perrier, a glass of cranberry juice and a smaller glass filled with lime wedges.

  No one but Maggie would order this shit for me.

  As I sat down, I looked hard at her. She was so fucking pretty. Her dark hair was smoothed straight down around her face. She was wearing a little makeup, but she didn’t need it. Maggie had flawless honey-toned skin and striking features, the kind that stopped a guy in his tracks. Round cheekbones and sweet little chin, full, sculpted lips and those pretty gray eyes. Filipino, English, German.

  All beautiful.

  The kind of girl who just got more beautiful the more you looked at her. I’d looked a lot, and Maggie was fucking gorgeous to me. She looked hot as fuck tonight in her sexy little black dress and lime-green suede jacket. And I knew she could feel me staring at her.

  I poured some Perrier into my cranberry juice and sat back. Everyone else had beer, and they were firing more drink orders at the waitresses who were circling our tables. Except Seth, who had a takeout coffee.

  He raised his cup to me and I nodded.

  Seth was always drinking coffee. I wasn’t much of a coffee guy myself, and I didn’t much like Coke or other pop. Reminded me too much of drinking it with about ten fingers of booze, like I could still taste the remnants of it and smell the whiskey fumes. Definite no-go. So whenever I was in a bar, I stuck with water. Mineral water, sparkling water, fruit-flavored water, I’d tried it all. Any way possible to change up what was otherwise a pretty fucking boring drink. I liked cranberry juice, of all things. Half-water, half-cranberry juice, wedge of lime.

  I would’ve drank it more often if all these assholes didn’t call me an old man whenever I did. Granddad cocktail; that’s what they called my drink of choice.

  I took a sip and stared at Maggie until she finally looked at me. I smirked. She rolled her eyes and looked away, and kept ignoring me.

  But fuck it. That wasn’t gonna last.

  I did not believe for one second that Maggie Omura didn’t want me. That she didn’t want us.

  That there wasn’t some part of her that wanted to be my wife.

  Even though she’d avoided me backstage at the show tonight. Even if she ignored me all fucking night. She could ignore me all she wanted. At least, she could try.

  Reality was, I was a hard man to ignore.

  Especially for Maggie Omura.

  I could still feel what went down this morning on her tour bus, when I’d kissed her… how she’d reacted to my touch. The way she’d stopped breathing, stopped moving, and every nerve in my body started firing in response to her desire for me… It was so fucking pungent in the air between us. I could practically smell it. See it. Her repressed lust was like a splash of vivid color in my brain. And her taste on my lips? I could practically taste her lust for me right fucking now, just looking at her. And I was not gonna forget any of it.

  Because it told me exactly what I needed to know.

  This wasn’t over.

  No way was anything finished between us. No matter how long she denied me, no matter how long she avoided me, no matter how long she lasted before she finally broke and let me fuck her.

  This was far from over.

  Which meant I was gonna do every-fucking-thing in my power to make this happen.

  Me and Maggie.

  I was gonna break down her wall of stubborn, for good.

  Brick by fucking brick.

  Of all the things that Maggie might’ve underestimated about me over the years, she’d most definitely underestimated my patience.

  Two fucking years.

  It’d been almost two years since we’d been married, and I’d waited this long. Twenty-one months, to be exact. And I’d waited six years before that, before I’d even gotten my first taste of her.

  I was thirty years old. Maggie was twenty-six. We were fucking young.

  We had time to work this shit out.

  This tour was a year-and-a-half long. At least, that’s what was planned out so far. There was always potential for it to go longer. Really, we could tour as long as we wanted to.

  Neither of us were going anywhere.

  So I sipped my drink, signed some shit for a few fans Jude tolerated getting close, and I talked with my boys. I watched people dance, and I listened to the music.

  Despite the fact that I didn’t drink, I still loved bars. As long as the music was good. As long as it was loud and the sound system had it right. Didn’t even care what kind of music it was.

  Rock. Electronic. Fucking jazz.

  Didn’t matter.

  Just give me some loud music and a good vibe.

  No idea who’d chosen this place, but it was cool. The DJ was spinning a steady stream of at-least-two-decades-ago, all the filthiest hits from the 2Pac, Biggie and Snoop Dogg catalogue, and at the moment it was Eminem, “Shake That.” The crowd of hipster college kids was fucking loving it, and the girls were shaking that all over the dance floor.

  Including Katie and Amber, who already looked drunk. Nice to see Dylan’s little hippie girl relax; Katie had really seemed to take her under her wing. Amber was wearing sparkly leggings with her little blouse, and I couldn’t remember seeing her in heels before.

  As for Maggie… she was still firmly planted in her seat and ignoring me.

  I elbowed Seth. “How many shots you think it’ll take to get Maggie on that dance floor?”

  He chuckled and glanced at Maggie. “Thirty?”

  I watched her, deep in conversation with Talia. By the looks of it, it was an overly-serious conversation for half-past midnight at a bar. Really, I figured I’d be doing Talia a service if I got Maggie drunk tonight. The girl was barely legal to drink and no doubt would rather be on that dance floor than talking business.

  As it was, Talia kept glancing over at Katie and Amber longingly. They were shaking it up in clear view of our table, maybe putting on a little show for their men… which seemed to be entertaining Dylan and irritating Jesse.

  Jesse got jealous anytime any guy looked at his wife, and when a girl looked like Katie did—all curvy and petite, with her thick, dark hair and creamy skin, and that sweet smile on her face—and shook her ass like that, guys were definitely looking.

  I wouldn’t mind seeing Maggie dance like that. Maggie was sexy as fuck when she danced. She just didn’t often loosen up enough to do it.

  At least not when I was around.

  Or when she was too sober.

  I looked for our waitresses; they were buzzing around Dylan and Matt, and the Steel Trap guys at the next table. Bunch of boozers. The wait staff had stopped showing love to our end of the table the second they sniffed out that Seth and I weren’t drinking.

  Seriously, who did an alcoholic rock star have to finger around here to get a drink?

  “How you doing?” Seth asked me, eyeing me with a look I didn’t love. Maybe he thought I was jonesing for a drink of my own?

  Or scoping out the waitresses for other reasons?

  “Good. Surprised you made it out tonight. You know, fat lip and all. Figured Elle would be kissing your wounds all night.”

  He just laughed, like a guy who knew I was jealous.

  And sure, maybe I’d threatened to fire him if he didn’t come out with us. But I did that a lot—even though it pissed Elle off; I told her it was just a joke, but she still wasn’t too fucking impressed.

  Truth was, unless we caught Seth with a needle in his arm, fat fucking chance we’d fire him again for any reason. As it was, we were all trying to make up for past wrongs, for lost time. Just wanted to resolidify that bond we’d had with him so long ago.

  “You know,” I told him, “you keep holing up, fucking your pregnant w
oman all the time, you’re gonna drill a dent in that kid’s head.”

  I’d told him the same thing before, several times, and just like before, he raised his eyebrows at me and kinda smirked at my apparent lack of understanding where pregnancy was concerned.

  I just liked to bust the guy’s balls.

  Wasn’t really fair he was so in love and his woman was about to squeeze out his kid. But then again, Seth probably deserved it more than anyone did, after all the shit he’d been through.

  “How’s she doing?” I asked him.

  “Sexy as fuck,” he said. “Pregnant women are sexy as fuck.” He said that with a smile he couldn’t even suppress, and I had to grin. Then I shook my head.

  Fucking figured.

  Normally, I’d be down for details on that. Right now, I really didn’t want to hear about all the sick, sexy shit Seth and Elle were doing together.

  He got talking with Jesse anyway, and I managed to wave over one of the waitresses, finally.

  A couple minutes later, Maggie and Talia had two shots sitting in front of them—each.

  Talia smiled at me. “Thanks, Zane.”

  I gave her a nod. Talia had dark brown eyes and blonde hair, and I wasn’t sure what her story was but she was cute as shit; I’d put money on someone scooping her up long before the end of this tour. Day one, and the dudes were already circling. Jimmy, Jesse’s guitar tech, for one, who’d been drooling all over her backstage. And Lex, one of Jude’s security guys, who kept staring at her like a creeper from the shadows.

  I’d be happy to watch them fight it out, actually. Would be pretty fucking entertaining, even if Jimmy didn’t stand a chance.

  Talia lifted her first shot and looked at Maggie… who was glaring at me. At least I had her attention now. And I could read that look on her face like a book.

  What the fuck do you think you’re doing?

  I cocked an eyebrow at her. Loosen up, Maggs, I told her with my eyes as I sipped my granddad cocktail. Have a shot.

  She glared at me some more, but finally lifted her first shot and clinked her glass with Talia’s. They threw back. It went down decently smooth for a whiskey shot; it was a Double Jack—Jack Daniels and Yukon Jack, which was strong as shit but kinda sweet. You wanted to do a whiskey shot with a chick, this one was a pretty safe bet.