Dirty Like Brody: A Dirty Rockstar Romance (Dirty, Book 2) Page 9

  A few ladies shouted some unladylike things—letting Jude and his guys know they could go ahead and bring on their hands. Me, I used the general whirlwind of hormones and excitement to snake my way out of the herd, locking eyes with Elle as I went, and together, we made a beeline for the doors. We’d almost made it there when we were impeded by a big-ass wall of shoulder-to-shoulder Jude and Piper… and corralled back into the fray.

  I gave Jude my best I really, really hate you glare, the one he’d never seemed fazed by, just as he didn’t now. Then I glanced at his big brother, Piper. Piper had shown up to my brother’s wedding wearing his patched leather vest, the one that advertised his membership in the notoriously criminal West Coast Kings motorcycle club—which meant he was essentially wearing gang colors and didn’t give one fuck what anyone thought about it. So the odds he’d give a fuck that I wanted out of this bouquet toss situation were not good.

  He crossed his arms over his chest, both brothers smiling down at me with their identical evil dimples.

  “Fine,” I grumbled, giving in and heading back to the dance floor.

  Stupid, sexy, badass men.

  “That guy keeps taking pictures of you,” Roni informed me as I edged up beside her in the crowd. I looked around in vain for Elle’s platinum-blonde hair and wondered if she’d managed to escape. Lucky bitch.

  “Huh? What guy?”

  “Photographer with the sweaty little beard.” Roni indicated one of the wedding photographers, who was currently angling to photograph the swarm of drunken single ladies jockeying for position to catch Katie’s bouquet. “I’m telling you. Every time I see him. The bride’s over there, you’re over here, and he’s shooting you. I’m pretty sure he’s taken more pictures of you than her.”

  “Ignore him,” I told her, distracted, as Amanda bounced into the crowd nearby. “I’ll mention it to Maggie.” I had more important things to worry about than some horny dude with a camera—for example, that this entire event was almost over and Brody still wasn’t acknowledging the fact that I was alive, much less present.

  At least I hadn’t had to watch him dance with Amanda all night.

  Well, Brody didn’t dance. At least, he never had, back then. Though taking a woman in his arms and making her feel like the only woman in the world as he held her close and swayed to the rhythm of a song… that, he could do. He’d done it with me, once, on a night I’d never forget, for reasons both good and bad.

  Strangely enough, he didn’t do it with Amanda. While I’d spent every slow song tonight in the arms of the nearest available man, determined not to end up a sad wallflower, Brody didn’t dance once, with anyone.

  Maybe he wasn’t in the mood.

  Every time I caught a glimpse of him while I was dancing, he did look kind of… surly.

  I didn’t see him now, but then again, I wasn’t looking. A bunch of the guys were crowded around, laughing and probably taking bets on who was about to get a black eye or a bloody nose, but I was too busy keeping an eye on Katie and her bouquet.

  “Better get ready to jump, Maggs,” Zane called out as Maggie was shoved in next to me, looking pretty surly herself.

  I put an arm around my petite friend and told her, “We’ll duck together.” Because in my experience, there were two groups of single women at a wedding. Group A, who wanted to catch the bouquet, and group B, who totally didn’t.

  I just hoped we could get the hell out of the way in time.

  Then Katie let fly—and the ladies of group A surged forth with the collective focus of a bunch of drunk and therefore slightly off-balance women in high heels, bent on a common goal. I tried to drop back, but instead got tossed forward in the wave, losing hold of Maggie. Then my feet went out from under me. I started to fall.

  And I took Amanda—of all people—down with me.

  Which I would’ve found suspicious myself, except that I knew I’d tripped. I tried to stop it, but in all the excitement I was definitely going down, right on top of Brody’s date. My hands went up to shield my face from flying arms and elbows—and I caught the fucking bouquet.

  Most of it, anyway. A few unfortunate flowers had popped off in the other girls’ hands.

  But, yeah. The bouquet was mine. I supposed that was one of the benefits—curses—of being tall.

  Everyone cheered and yanked me up, shoving me forward for my moment of glory, as a sweaty-bearded photographer took my picture and I faked my very best Yay! I can’t wait to get married next! smile… and a rather disgruntled-looking Amanda was peeled off the floor. Maybe she really wanted the bouquet.

  Oh well.

  Then Katie was dragged into the middle of the dance floor and deposited in a chair. Everyone gathered around to watch as my brother, to the wicked, bluesy groove of CCR’s “I Put A Spell On You,” took his sweet-ass time foraging under her dress, finally removing her garter… with his tongue. Which took some skill.

  Even I had to applaud.

  I stepped aside with Roni, who was still laughing her ass off—at my expense—as all the single guys gathered around, some strutting into place like peacocks, others shoved in or dragged in by friends. I couldn’t help laughing myself; watching the garter toss at a wedding was always entertaining. Like the bouquet toss, it tended to bring out a certain side of some people you didn’t expect.

  For example, Zane, of all people, was right up front, cracking his neck and flexing his hands, like he was preparing to catch the winning kick at the Super Bowl. At least, that’s how it looked to me. I knew shit all about football.

  Still. Highly entertaining.

  At least, it was until Brody caught the garter… and Zane and Jude tackled me, hauled me into the middle of the dance floor, put my ass in the chair… and the entire crowd started whistling, cheering, chanting, and from what I could discern basically ordering Brody to put the garter on me.

  Fuck me.

  Were we really doing this?

  People still did this at weddings?

  Yeah. Apparently they did.

  The pervy photographer was on his knees in front of me taking pictures of us—me with the bride’s mangled bouquet, Brody with the garter—as everyone and their dog gathered around. Then Brody was shoved in front of me and the song changed.

  James Brown started belting out “It’s A Man’s Man’s Man’s World.”

  Brody, still wearing his suit pants, his crisp white shirt unbuttoned just enough to show off his neck tattoo, that sexy dip at the base of his throat and enough collarbone to seriously distract a girl, threw me a dark glance—like this was somehow my fault, when he caught the stupid garter!—and got down on his knees in front of me.

  And all the breath went out of my lungs.

  Oh. My. God.

  This was happening.

  While everyone watched.

  Brody reached down, lifted my foot, and slipped off my shoe to a round of cheers, whistles and ooh-la-la’s… and the feel of his hand, his fingers warm and strong and sure on my bare ankle, made me quiver.

  I quivered.

  I’d never quivered at a man’s touch before.

  Other than Brody’s.

  Heat rose through me as my body went liquidy, all resistance melting away as I permitted him to do this incredibly intimate thing which had now become a group activity, a spectator sport, for the amusement of our friends.

  As James Brown belted out the naked truth, that this world, a man’s world, would be nothing—nothing—without the female of the species, Brody rested my foot on his lap and held my leg in his hand like it was precious, exotic, and utterly beautiful.

  My nipples hardened and my toes involuntarily curled.

  I held my breath as my heart rammed in my chest. A bead of sweat rolled down between my braless breasts.

  It wasn’t like I’d never had a man slide a piece of lingerie onto my body before. At photo shoots and fashion shows, I’d had all sorts of people, men and women, dress me in all kinds of things. But this… this was different.
r />   This was Brody.

  Sliding a delicate, frilly garter over my toes and up my leg… slowly. While everyone watched, whistled, and took pictures.

  At least now he was acknowledging my existence. Didn’t mean he was looking me in the eye.

  “Higher!”

  “HIGHER!”

  It was just past midnight, most everyone was at least half on their way to shit-faced, and as Brody slid the garter up over my knee and stopped, the crowd, as one, urged him to slide it higher up my leg.

  So he did.

  He slipped it right on up my thigh, taking the hem of my dress with it… sending tingles all the way up to my clit.

  I bit my lip.

  More whistles.

  More pictures.

  Brody’s warm fingers grazed my thigh… and I stirred restlessly as my pussy clenched. Oh, damn. He had the sexiest hands, ever. Manly and strong but not overly-large, a little rough from just the right amount of time spent doing manly things. All I could think about was that hand continuing up, up… and touching me between my legs… and my girl parts throbbed with longing.

  I almost wanted him to do it. Right here, right now. With everyone watching. I didn’t care.

  But maybe that was the champagne.

  Finally, his blue eyes lifted to mine. And I heard Roni’s voice in my head.

  Hey Brody, did you know my pussy’s bare beneath this dress?

  That was exactly what she’d said, in her best imitation of me, as she’d convinced me to go commando. I saw her now in the crowd, grinning at me like the Cheshire Cat, eating up every second of this torture… as Brody’s hand and that frilly garter slid higher still…

  Shit.

  I tensed, leaned into his ear, and whispered, “I’m not wearing any underwear.”

  His hand froze on my thigh.

  Like he gives one flying fuck what I do with my pussy.

  That’s what I’d said to Roni in response to her teasing. At the time, I’d believed it.

  Except now that he was giving some sweaty-bearded photographer an eyeful of it, apparently, he did care. I knew this because he suddenly lunged, punched the guy straight in the face, seized the camera, took out the memory card and handed it to a stunned Katie.

  Yeah, he cared. A lot.

  Enough to draw blood, which was now dribbling down the photographer’s face from his probably-broken nose.

  Then a blur of giant men descended on the scene, including Jude and his brother Piper, the big-ass biker, and I got the hell out of the way.

  Someone grabbed my hand and pulled me from the fray. “What the hell was that about?” Maggie asked as she drew me across the room.

  “Um… I’m going commando?”

  “Oh, Jesus.”

  “Also… you, uh, might need to fire one of your photographers. Before Brody kills him.”

  “You don’t say.” She released me and started back toward the fracas, but I grabbed her arm.

  “I swear,” I told her, “I am not trying to make a scene at my brother’s wedding!”

  Jesus, though. First my ass in the cake, now this?

  “Word of advice, gorgeous,” Maggie said sternly, but she was grinning at me. “Next time, wear panties.”

  Chapter Eight

  Brody

  “Jessa!”

  I heard her name, exalted through the darkness between the trees… and at first, I almost thought I’d imagined it. A shiver ran up my spine as the breeze licked up the back of my shirt.

  I zipped up my fly and headed through the trees, back to the fire.

  “Omigod, come sit down!” That, from a very happy-sounding but slightly drunk Katie.

  “We thought you’d bailed.” That was Roni, and I heard the cap pop off a fresh beer. Just as I reached the edge of the patio, I saw her; Jessa, standing by the fire in her furry jacket, taking a pull off the beer she’d just been handed. I’d stepped away to take a piss, and now there she was.

  I stopped short in the darkness between the trees.

  “Nope,” Jessa said, wiping beer off her mouth with the back of her hand as she sat down. Like most everyone around the fire pit, she’d changed into jeans and warm boots. So at least if she was still going commando, no one would be the wiser.

  “To sit at the fire,” Jesse told her, “you have to sing a song.” Then he thrust a guitar into her hands.

  There were about a dozen people gathered around; just the band and a few friends with cold beers and a bunch of instruments, sitting on benches around the fire on a stone patio overlooking the hot springs. It was near three in the morning and a fat moon was glowing through the break in the trees above. The wedding reception had dissolved about an hour ago, the last guests wandering off to their cabins, but those of us who couldn’t yet sleep had come out here to do what we always did when we were in nature together: play music, or at least enjoy a few more drinks and the talents of those who could play.

  The mere possibility of hearing Jessa sing a song, right here, right now… my pulse jacked up and I got goosebumps, all over my body—that internal radar for other people’s musical gift that Zane called my “talent boner” going off in a big way.

  I didn’t even think I’d see her again tonight, and I’d had mixed feelings about that. On the one hand, seeing her was torture. On the other hand, not seeing her? Worse torture.

  Amanda had bailed, heading off to bed, so at least there was that. Apparently, the fact that I’d punched a guy in the face didn’t go over so well with her, especially when word got around about why I did it.

  I flexed my sore hand and hung back, just beyond the firelight, listening; I didn’t want my presence to ruin the moment. If Jessa saw me, maybe she wouldn’t play. Maybe she wouldn’t even stay. But she seemed to be stalling as she sipped her beer.

  “Even Katie sang,” Jesse encouraged her. “Badly.”

  “‘Bohemian Rhapsody’!” Katie said. “It’s my specialty. Especially in the shower, in my car, and at campfires.”

  “Ah, a campfire classic.” I could see the side of Jessa’s face, rimmed in firelight, her eyes shining. She looked a little drunk, but happy. “Jesse can never remember the words.” She shot her brother a disparaging look and started tuning his guitar.

  “Don’t fuck with my guitar,” he said, but he looked damn happy. Paulie handed him another acoustic but he didn’t play, waiting instead for Jessa to start.

  I leaned against a tree as Jessa started to strum, tentatively at first, almost shyly. Everyone fell quiet to listen as she cleared her throat. “I’m a little rusty.”

  “Don’t think,” Jesse prompted. “Just play.”

  I didn’t recognize the song at first. Then Jessa opened her gorgeous mouth and let her soft voice out, and the words of Hozier’s “Take Me To Church,” carrying through the night, rose every hair on my body.

  Jesus, the girl could sing.

  Jesse joined in on guitar, but no one else sang. Zane’s voice or even Jesse’s would’ve overpowered hers, and no one wanted that. There was just something about Jessa Mayes’ voice; sweet, delicate, both fragile and strong, and so emotive. She’d changed the lover in the song’s lyrics from “she” to “he” and made it her own, and when she sang? You got pulled right in. Everyone seemed to lean in closer to hear her… all of her. Every little intake of breath, every catch, every little sigh between the words.

  The spaces in-between the words; Jessa knew, like any great songwriter, that those spaces were everything.

  She would’ve made an incredible solo artist, maybe headlined her own shows, if she’d ever had the desire. Just Jessa. That voice and that face and a guitar.

  Epic.

  As she finished the song, everyone just sat there staring at her, speechless.

  “Damn.” Katie’s brother-in-law, Jack, finally broke the silence.

  “Right?” Roni said. “You should hear her when she’s singing Feist in her underwear and making me breakfast.” Then she stood up, singing “I Feel It All” in
an imitation of Jessa’s sweet voice and twitching her ass in the air.

  “Bitch,” Jessa muttered, smiling.

  “What? It’s good to have you home.” Roni sat back down, grinning.

  “I’ll fucking cheers to that,” Zane said, and glasses and bottles were clinked all around the fire pit.

  I took that as my cue to slip back in and rejoin the circle. I’d already sung my song, so at least Jessa didn’t have to hear me croak my way through “Heart of Gold.” My musical talents did not lie in performance—of any kind. Luckily Zane’s harmonica kind of stole the show, plus almost everyone was kinda drunk, so there was that.

  “I’m expecting you to make me those badass blueberry pancakes of yours, soon,” Roni went on. “It’s been years since you treated me to a breakfast concert.”

  “I can’t remember the last time I ate a pancake,” Jessa said almost wistfully, glancing at me as I sat down across the fire from her.

  “Christ,” Roni said. “You really need to quit the modeling biz, stat. Life without pancakes… next you’re gonna tell me you’ve stopped giving head because of the calories.”

  “You only gotta count the calories if you swallow,” Ash put in helpfully.

  “Hey, hey.” Jessa raised her beer. “To my brother and his new wife.”

  Beers were raised again and everyone cheered as the laughter died down. “And to my little sister,” Jesse added. “May she live long and sing a lot of songs.”

  Jessa smiled, looking embarrassed by all the love.

  Then the music continued. With all the rock stars jamming, it was a killer lineup for a private concert in the woods. The businessman in me wanted to pull out my phone, stream it live and watch the cash roll in. But this night wasn’t about that.

  As they started into what I personally considered one of the greatest songs The Beatles ever recorded, “Don’t Let Me Down,” Zane on lead vocals and Jesse, Dylan, Elle, Ash and Jessa belting out the chorus, sending it right on up to the stars, I sat back, just soaking up the vibe of it. Just like I had at so many jams around so many fires over the years, since we were just a bunch of kids. And it felt good.