Blue Shoes #1: New Adult Rock Star Erotic Romance (Morris Music Book 6) (4 page)

“Let me try it on,” Amanda says. “With the ring.”

“No way,” I say, laughing.

And that does it. I love the dress. My girls love the dress. Never mind that it was a returned gown with bad karma. This is the one.

I quickly change out of it, because Dylan will be here soon and he can’t see the dress. I want him to be surprised and speechless.

Once I’m back into the skirt and top I arrived in, I go to work on Mrs. Hale. The dress is one-of-a-kind, and they want to use it as a sample gown. She really wants me to wait and order a custom-made one, even though the sample fits me perfectly.

“How long for the custom order?” I ask.

“Seven weeks.”

I press my lips together to keep from smirking. My secret wedding is in six weeks, and I’m not getting married naked.

Mrs. Hale’s steely blue eyes drill into me. “But you haven’t even asked about the price, Miss Rivera.”

I reach into my purse, get my wallet, and pull out my credit card. It’s a new card, and has a special color to let people know I mean business.

Mrs. Hale immediately brightens up and begins packaging the dress—my dress—up in a box.

Amanda and Riley squeal and hug me.

I try not to show that my hand is shaking when I sign the credit card bill. This gown costs more than most people’s entire wardrobe. But it is a once in a lifetime expense. The look on Dylan’s face will be priceless.

“Don’t crush our new dress.” Amanda tries to grab the box playfully. “Respect the gown. Don’t make me take it away from you.”

I hug the dress box closer. “Never.”

Once the bill has been settled to a very happy-looking Mrs. Hale, we take turns watching the front door for signs of Dylan.

He pulls up in the bright blue Maserati GranTurismo.

The photographers go crazy, as expected.

Dylan tries to lure them down the street, away from the boutique.

They’re too smart for his tricks, though. Some run after him, but a few stay stationed at the boutique’s front door, waiting for me.

Mrs. Hale checks the back door again and comes running back to report that nobody’s waiting in the alley.

My skin prickles with warning. Earlier, some of the photographers had been waiting back there. Sometimes they’re sneaky and hide behind dumpsters. Alleys are the worst.

Riley and Amanda start grumbling about being hungry. They’ve had nothing but champagne and want some food.

I send Dylan a quick message to let him know we’re going out the back door, and then we head out.

We step out of the air-conditioned boutique, into the alley. The heat of the city hits me. I feel weak suddenly. I guess I haven’t eaten in a while.

The three of us turn right and walk through the alley, past open doors and prep cooks sitting on white buckets, having their smoke breaks.

Everyone stares at me, with my pristine white dress box that’s almost as tall as I am.

I check my phone and see a message from Dylan:
Starbucks.

“Riley, Amanda, hold up. Which way is the Starbucks? Dylan’s meeting us there.”

“This way,” Amanda says, nodding toward the street ahead.

I have a bad feeling this isn’t the right direction, but she seems certain, so I follow her.

The box in my arm is getting heavy. I had no idea a wedding dress weighed so much.

We step out of the alley, and are ambushed by photographers.

Flashes go off in front of my eyes. Voices rise and people crowd in, yelling my name. “Jess!” “Jessica!” “Miss Rivera!”

“Back off,” Riley warns them as she grabs my hand and pulls me along the sidewalk.

The voices get more insistent. “What have you got there? Another farm girl outfit?” “Jess! What was it like on the farm? Did you milk the cows?” “Do you and Dylan play cowgirl and cowboy?” “I bet you ride him hard, Jessica!” Their rude laughter turns my stomach.

Some of the photographers aren’t so bad. They’re just trying to earn a living, and they’re respectful. Those are the ones our PR department at Morris Music prefers. We’ll call those guys and let them “discover” our artists having dinner with sexy actresses, for example.

These guys, though, are the rough ones.

These guys are hungry. And desperate.

I clutch the dress box to me like a shield.

There are more flashes and red recording lights around me. The paparazzi is crowding in like an army. I lose my grip on Riley’s hand.

Someone says, “Aww look, she’s wearing her blue shoes again. Couldn’t you get another pair so Dylan can write a new song? Can’t you afford new shoes?”

Finally, I lose it and yell, “Shut up!” I swear at them and keep yelling for them to shut up.

I know I shouldn’t engage them, but I couldn’t stand it anymore.

A lens appears in front of my face and a man says, “That’s right, Jessica. Get angry. Let me have it, honey lips. Talk dirty to me, because I’ve been a bad boy.”

I fight hard to keep from telling him exactly what I think.

We keep trying to push through the crowd, but I don’t even know what direction to go. I feel a tug on my dress box.

A gruff voice demands, “Show us what’s in the box. Show us everything, honey lips.”

“Leave me alone!” The box crumples as I try to push through the crowd. I break free, and I can finally move. Amanda and Riley are up ahead, waving for me to hurry.

I start to run.

These blue shoes aren’t the prettiest things, but they’ve got solid soles and they’re great for running.

My heart hammers in my chest as I dash down the sidewalk.

The paparazzi chase after me.

In my head, I know they’re not trying to hurt me, physically. They just want me to do something stupid. But my body and mind are in a panic. The threat feels very real. Fear is powerful.

I run as fast as I can, my shoes pounding on the sidewalk.

A horn blows, and a blue Maserati GranTurismo roars past me and turns left.

The car disappears from my sight. There’s a screech of tires.

The screech stops, and all is silent for an instant, and then there’s the crunch of metal on metal.

I’m so shocked, I stop running.

My heart is pounding, my blood rushing in my ears. I listen for more sounds.
Was that Dylan’s car crashing?

The crowd of photographers catch up and surround me. I feel the dress box being pulled from my hands.

A moment ago, I cared about the dress, and about getting away from the photographers.

Now I don’t care about any of that.

I need to get to my friends, and Dylan. I need to make sure none of them were hurt.

The photographers won’t get out of my way, so I ball my hands up into fists and fight my way free.

I run down the sidewalk and turn the corner.

Someone big and wide is running toward me. He’s looking down at his camera and doesn’t see me.

He slams into me like a brick wall.

I can’t breathe. I fall backward and land hard. Everything hurts.

I wake up in a room that smells of antiseptic.

There are green curtains on every side.

If I’m in a hospital, something serious has happened. Panic floods my body with adrenaline. My heart pounds like a drum.

I sit up quickly, and my head feels like it’s being shot by needles.

I clench my jaw and wait for the pain to subside.

I’m dressed in my regular shirt and skirt. My shoes are off, and I’m lying on top of the sheets on a narrow hospital bed.

Groaning, I push myself over to the edge of the bed and start looking around for my shoes.

My head feels fuzzy, but I remember what happened.

After I slammed into the guy, I fell and scraped up my elbow pretty bad on the sidewalk. The big guy was fine, barely felt it. He knelt down to check on me, making a dumb joke about an SUV hitting a tiny car.

I tried to get up, saying I was tougher than I look. Then things in my memory are fuzzy. My elbow was bleeding like crazy, and the sight of the blood must have sent me into shock.

I know I kept trying to find Riley and Amanda, or Dylan, but I must have seemed like a crazy person to the bystanders who stopped to help me. I kept yelling about the car accident I’d heard, and people told me to calm down, and that I hadn’t been hit by a car.

My memory is patchy from that point. There was a ride in an ambulance. I do remember getting a sedative here at the hospital, once they determined I didn’t have a concussion. It was a little pill, and they gave me orange juice.

I lick my dry lips. My elbow is all bandaged. I want to see the damage, but then again, I don’t.

A familiar voice on the other side of the curtain makes my heart jump again, only this time in a good way.

Dylan’s outside the curtains talking to a doctor or nurse.

“Hello?” I call out.

“Sounds like she’s awake,” a woman says. “Go ahead and check on your fiancée, Mr. Wolf. The paperwork’s all done.”

The curtain parts and Dylan walks in. When he sees that I’m awake, his face lights up.

“You scared me,” he says.

I look him over for signs of injury. He looks okay.

“Dylan,” I say, my voice croaking. “Where are the girls?”

“Sent home. Don’t worry, they’re fine.” He looks at my bandaged elbow. “Unlike you, my little broken doll.”

“I heard your car crash,” I say.

“The Maserati? No way. You heard a paparazzi hit a delivery truck.” He points to his knuckles. “I’d have some bruises here if one of them hit my car.” He frowns. “That big guy who slammed into you was lucky I didn’t catch him.”

I don’t know if he’s joking or not, but I’m not laughing.

“Dylan, please don’t ever punch anyone on my account.”

“You’re one to talk. You gave a few black eyes to the paparazzi, all by yourself.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Check out your knuckles.”

I look down at my right hand. I do have red skin over my knuckles, along with abrasions.

Dylan’s laughing, but I’m not. I just shake my head.

“What’s wrong?” Dylan grabs my bruised hand, cupping my fingers in his palms. Everything hurts. Everything’s ruined.

“My dress. It got stolen. It was the perfect dress, and now it’s gone. It was really expensive, too.”

He rubs my bruised hand between his. “Don’t worry about that dress. We’ll get you another one. A better one.”

I close my eyes, and I hear the voices again. My hands get sweaty. I can feel them all crowding in. They’re relentless. They’ll never stop, and it’s just going to get worse.

I pull my hand away from Dylan and clench it into a fist. “If I find out which one stole the dress… I don’t know. Dylan, I don’t know what I’d do.”

“This is just celebrity stuff, Jess. It’s not personal.”

“But it’s getting worse, isn’t it? They weren’t like this before we got engaged. It started right after the news hit. And there’s no point to it.”

“This is all normal,” he says.

I shake my head and try to remember if my life in L.A. has ever been normal.

The press became part of my life after I moved in with Dylan. Then, when we got engaged, they were so grabby about the ring. I tried going out without the ring, and that only made things worse.

I gasp and check my ring finger. To my relief, the ring is still there. It could have easily been stolen after I got knocked down.

“I can’t take it getting worse,” I whisper.

“It’s not been too bad lately,” Dylan says. “You’re stressed. Maybe you’ve been working too hard. I’ll talk to Chet about getting you some time off.”

At the mention of Dylan talking to my boss, the needles in my head get worse.

“No,” I croak, my voice still thick from the sedative. “Work is the only thing that keeps me sane.”

Dylan frowns, his jaw determined. “And life with me is insane?” He sounds hurt.

I’m still sitting on the edge of the hospital bed. Doctors and nurses are going about their business on the other side of the curtain. This isn’t a very secure place to have a private conversation.

I reach for his hands and pull him close to me. I stare up into his brown eyes and whisper, “Insane or not, I need to be with you.”

“I need you, too.” He rests his hands on my thighs, and gets a sly smile. “That’s why I’m going to marry you. We’re going to have the most gorgeous kids.”

“Kids?” This is news to me. I lean back.

This mention of kids doesn’t hit me quite as hard as that giant SUV of a man who ran into me, but I’m speechless.

“Babies?” I whisper.

“Sure, eventually,” he says. “Some girls who’ll get your good looks, and some boys, too. Hopefully they get your looks too, not my hideous face.”

I stare at his handsome face and smile. He’s about as far from hideous as a guy can be. He’s on at least two different magazine covers this month.

Dylan’s voice gets husky. “We’ll start with just one of course.”

I lick my lips again. My mouth is dry, and I don’t think it’s from the sedative.

“Or we could start with a dog,” I say. “A small one.”

Dylan laughs, which sends a pleasant vibration all through my body. I’d do anything to make him laugh.
How can I make him laugh more?
For a moment, I imagine him holding our baby in his arms, laughing at her as she grabs his nose.

This image in my head is so crisp, I have to shake my head to clear it.

He leans forward and kisses me on my forehead, then my cheek, then along my jaw line. His hand caresses my thigh as his lips work their way to my mouth. All my worries lift away at his comforting touch.

I almost forget there’s only a green curtain between us and the world. I’m perched on the edge of the bed, and my skirt hikes up, flashing him with my panties. I loop my legs around his body to pull him closer to me.

He growls and comes in close, grinding against my body, his lips hot on my mouth and then my neck.

Our bodies fit so perfectly together, as always.

All my aches and pains disappear. I arch my back as he reaches under my hips and pulls me tight against him. He leans forward, daring me to go further. The curtain is closed all around us. I turn my head and glance at the pillow on the hospital bed.