Deep
Authors: Kylie Scott
CONTENTS
Stay up all night with sexy rockers in Stage Dive, the epic rockstar romance series from
New York Times
bestselling author Kylie Scott, author of
Lick
,
Play
and
Lead
.
In the city of sin, you have to go big or go home …
Ben Nicholson is the only man that has ever made ordinary girl Lizzy Rollins feel both completely safe and crazy with desire. The problem is, Ben is the irresistibly sexy bass player for Stage Dive, and, no matter how much Lizzy may wish otherwise, he’s only looking for a good time. Besides, Lizzy doesn’t stand a chance – not unless she can get him to see beyond the fact that she’s his bandmate’s little sister.
When Lizzy finds herself in trouble in Las Vegas, Ben is there to bail her out. But after one big mistake, the two quickly learn that what happens in Vegas, doesn’t always stay there. Now Lizzy and Ben are connected in the deepest way possible … but will it lead to something more?
As always, for Hugh
With thanks to all of the readers, reviewers, bloggers, crit-partners, beta readers, friends, family, publishers, editors, assistant editors, copy editors, formatters, artists, models, photographers, promotions people, receptionists, booksellers, sales assistants, mail workers, librarians, and any assorted pets any of you might have, for taking the Stage Dive journey with me. I couldn’t have done it without you. You rock.
Positive.
I reread the instructions, doing my best to flatten out the creases in the piece of paper one-handed. Two lines meant positive. Two lines sat on the test. No, not possible. My gaze darted back and forth between the two, willing one of them to change. I shook the test and turned it this way and that. I stared and stared, but just like with the first one sitting rejected beside the sink, the answer remained the same.
Positive.
I was pregnant.
“Fuck.”
The word echoed around and around the small bathroom, bouncing off the white-tiled walls and beating at my head. This shit shouldn’t be happening to me. I didn’t break laws or do drugs. Not since that blip after Dad left. I was studying hard for my degree in psychology and I behaved. Mostly. But those definite neat pink lines stood loud and proud in the pregnancy test’s little window, taunting me, the evidence irrefutable even when I squinted or crossed my eyes.
“
Fuck.
”
Me as someone’s mom. No.
What the hell was I going to do?
I sat on the edge of the bathtub in my plain black underwear, covered in goose bumps. Outside, a barren limb swayed in and out of view, buffeted by the wind. Beyond it lay the endless gray of a February Portland sky. Screw it all. All of my plans and dreams, my whole life, changed at the say of a stupid plastic stick. I was only twenty-one, for goodness sake, not even in a relationship.
Ben.
Ah, man. We’d barely talked in months, what with me doing my best to avoid any situation where he might be present. Things had been a little awkward ever since I threw him out of my hotel room in Vegas minus his pants. I’d been done with him. Finished. Kaput.
My uterus apparently did not agree.
We’d had sex once.
Once.
A secret that I’d long since decided to take to my grave. Him never telling anyone was a given. But still, his penis went in my vagina one time only, and I’d watched him roll the condom on, god damn it. Me lying spread out on the California king–size, trembling with excitement, and he’d just kind of smiled. There’d been this warmth in his eyes, a gentleness. Given the obvious tension running through his big body, it’d seemed so strange and yet wondrous. No one had ever looked at me that way, as if I meant everything.
An unwelcome warmth filled my chest at the memory. It’d been so long since I’d thought of him with anything other than
ugh.
At any rate, apparently someone had diddled away their shift at the prophylactics factory and here we were. Pregnant. I stared unseeing at my skinny jeans, lying discarded on the floor. Sure, they’d fit. As in, I could wiggle up the zip halfway and the button was out of the question. The pressure they inflicted upon my belly was a definite no go.
Things were changing so fast. I was changing.
Normally, I had more going on in the back than up front. But for the first time in my life, I actually had the makings of a rack. Not enough boobage to get me a job at Hooters or anything, but still. And as much as I’d like to believe that god had finally answered my teenage prayers, when you added up all the evidence, it wasn’t likely. I had a person growing inside of me. A little baby bean-shaped thing made from equal parts of me and him.
Mind-boggling.
What I’d wear tonight was, however, the least of my worries. If only I could get out of going. He’d be there, all six foot five–worth of rugged rock star. Just the thought of seeing him turned me inside out, filling me with nerves. My stomach dived, nausea rolling through me. Puke rushed up, filling my throat and making me gag. I only just made it to the toilet in time to lose what little I’d had for lunch. Two Oreos and half a banana, going, going … gone in a hot rush.
Yuck.
I groaned loudly and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, flushed the toilet and staggered over to the sink. Whoa. The girl in the mirror looked spectacularly crappy, face too pale and long blond hair hanging in straggly wet strands. What a hot mess. I couldn’t even bring myself to meet my own eyes.
That I’d dropped the pregnancy test didn’t even occur to me until I stood on it. My heel pressed down, grinding of its own accord. Plastic cracked and splintered, the noise strangely satisfying. I just stamped on it, over and over, trampling the bastard, pounding it into the scuffed wooden floor. God yeah, the good vibes just flowed. The first test soon met the same fate. I didn’t stop until I was panting and only wreckage remained on the floor. That felt so much better.
So I’d been knocked up by a rock star.
Big deal.
Deep breath. Okay.
I would handle this like an adult, pull myself together and go talk to Ben. We’d been friends at one time. Sort of. I could still talk to him about stuff. Specifically, stuff relating to our progeny arriving in, oh … seven or so months.
Yes, I could, and I would.
Just as soon as I’d finished throwing my tantrum.
* * *
“You’re late. Get in here,” said my sister, Anne, grabbing my hand and dragging me through the doorway. Not that I’d been lurking outside, skulking and hesitating. Much.
“Sorry.”
“I thought you were going to bail on me. Again.” She gave me a quick, affectionate squeeze, then stole my coat off my shoulders. It got thrown onto a nearby chair already overflowing with other jackets. “Everyone else is already here.”
“Great,” I mumbled.
True enough, there was a goodly amount of noise happening within the multimillion-dollar Pearl District loft. Anne and I didn’t come from money. Quite the contrary. If it hadn’t been for her encouraging me to go for scholarships and supporting me financially by paying for books, etcetera, I’d never have made it to college. Last year, however, my normally sensible and subdued sister had somehow found herself shacked up with rock ’n’ roll royalty.
I know, right? How it all happened still confused me, somewhat. Between the two of us, I’d always played the role of the bubbly one. Whenever Anne got down, I’d pick her back up again, fill the spaces in the conversations and keep right on smiling through the rain. Yet here she was, high on life and crazy in love, truly happy for the first time in just about forever. It was wonderful.
Details regarding their whirlwind romance ranged from vague to none. But just before Christmas, she and Malcolm Ericson, the drummer for Stage Dive (about the biggest rock band ever), had tied the knot. I was now counted as part of the band’s extended entourage. To be fair, they’d embraced me wholeheartedly from the start. They were good people. It was just the thought of seeing
him
reducing me to a jittering, nervous wreck with super enhanced puking abilities.
“You’ll never guess what happened.” Anne linked her arm with mine, towing me toward the crowded dinner table.
Toward my doom.
A crowd of about seven sat around it with drinks in hand, laughing and chatting. I think it was The National playing quietly on the sound system. Candles flickered and small twinkling party lights hung overhead. My mouth watered despite my queasy stomach, what with all the delicious foodie scents filling the air. Wow, Anne and Mal had really gone all out for the occasion of their two-month wedding anniversary. Suddenly, my black tights and pale blue tunic (a loose-knit fabric which in no way hugged or hindered the waistline) seemed insufficient. Though it was hard to go for glamour with a plastic bag in your pocket just in case you needed to hurl.
“What happened?” I asked, dragging my feet ever so slightly.
She leaned in and whisper-hissed theatrically, “Ben brought a date.”
Everything stopped. And I do mean everything. My lungs, my feet … everything.
A flicker of a frown crossed Anne’s face. “Liz?”
I blinked, slowly coming back to life. “Yeah?”
“You okay?”
“Sure. So, um, Ben brought a date?”
“Can you believe it?”
“No.” I really couldn’t. My brain had stalled, same as everything else. There’d been no date in my plans for speaking with Ben tonight.
“I know. First time for everything I guess. Everyone’s slightly weirded out, though she seems nice enough.”
“But Ben doesn’t date,” I said, my voice sounding hollow somehow, as if it were an echo coming from far away. “He doesn’t even believe in relationships.”
Anne cocked her head, smiling ever so slightly. “Lizzy, you don’t still have a crush on him, do you?”
“No.” I barked out a laugh. As if. He’d disabused me of such idiotic notions, in Vegas. “So much no my cup is overflowing and the no is spilling onto the floor.”
“Good.” She sighed happily.
“Lizzy!” A booming loud voice rang out.
“Hey, Mal.”
“Say hello to your Aunt Elizabeth, son.” My new brother-in-law thrust a black-and-white puppy straight at me. A wet little tongue swiped my lips, and warm panting puppy breath, ripe with the scent of dog biscuits, filled my face. Not good.
“Whoa.” I leaned way the hell back, trying to breathe through the urge to yet again heave. Pregnancy was the best. “Hi, Killer.”
“Give him to me,” said Anne. “Not everybody wants to French kiss the dog, Mal.”
The blond, heavily tattooed man grinned, handing the fur baby over. “But he’s a great kisser. I taught him myself.”
“Unfortunately, that’s true.” Anne tucked the pup under an arm, giving him a scratch on the head. “How are you? You said you’d been feeling sick, the other day on the phone.”
“All better,” I lied. Or partly lied. After all, I definitely wasn’t sick.
“Did you go to the doctor?”
“No need.”
“Why don’t I make an appointment tomorrow, just in case?”
“Not necessary.”
“But—”
“Anne, relax. I’m telling you I’m not sick.” I gave her my brightest smile. “I promise, I’m fine.”
“All right.” She placed the pup on the ground and pulled out a chair in the middle of the table. “I saved you a place next to me.”
“Thanks.”
And so it was (with me trying not to barf while wiping dog spit off my face) that I saw him again. Ben, sitting opposite, staring straight at me. Those dark eyes … I immediately looked down. He didn’t affect me. He didn’t. I just wasn’t ready to face up to this. Wherein this equaled him and me and that room and Vegas and the consequences that were currently growing in my belly.