Dirty Past (16 page)

Dirty B. strum their final chord and the lights dim. The arena erupts. Screams. Claps. Whistles. Yells. It’s a wonder I can tell one from the other, and the curtains closing are a welcome reprieve from the intense schedule of tonight. Water, clothing changes, water, song changes, water, damp cloths, changes . . .

Tate puts his guitar down and meets my eyes in the darkness. I’m mad at him—hell, am I mad at him for his dumbass stunt earlier. I annoyed him, okay. But that doesn’t give him the right to annoy me back. It doesn’t make it okay.

I was being professional. He was being a royal dickhead.

Tate walks toward me, each step powerful. I move back, but he’s quicker than me. He wraps his arms around me, leaving one hand clasping the back of my head and the other falling between my shoulder blades. He’s strong and determined, the smell of sweat and cinnamon envelops me, and I get a brief glimpse of his fiery eyes before he presses his mouth against mine. And he, God, he forces his mouth onto mine deliciously. The force of his kiss knocks me back, and I forget that we’re surrounded by people, that eyes are on us.

All I think of is this mouth sweeping across mine, his lips making mine come alive in the best kind of way.

All I think of is his fingers splaying across my body at various points, the tips digging in, burning me, branding me,
delighting me.

He pulls back and I breathe in harshly. “Fuck,” he whispers roughly, releasing me and walking past me. He doubles back almost as quickly, grabs my hand, and tugs me after him.

I stumble with the force of his tug, but Ajax is hot on our heels and helps me to steady myself with a quick touch to my upper back. My heart is thumping as the doors open and we’re assaulted by bright camera flashes and a roaring scream.

Tate lets me go to Ajax’s side and moves to the girls clambering over the waist-high barriers for his attention. I swallow hard, my mind flashing with memory after memory as girls wrap their arms around him and he leans in close for pictures.

For too long, I watched someone who claimed to want me all to himself hit on girls. For too long, I was second best. For too long, I was worth the dog crap I stepped in in Central Park.

For too long, I had fear inbred into me, burned so deeply that I’d swear it’s burned into my soul. Mentally, emotionally, or physically, it doesn’t matter. Pain is pain—some kinds are just more visible than others.

And right now, Tate is hurting me. He doesn’t know it, and I shouldn’t let it hurt, but I can’t fight the sliver of pain that mixes with the heavy pounding of blood through my veins.

“Take me back,” I beg Ajax, turning and taking his arm. “Please. To the hotel. Take me back.”

“Ella, sweetheart . . .”

“Ajax,
please.
”

He sighs. “I can’t take you anywhere unless Tate tells me to go with you.”

I take a deep breath and step away from him. My feet take me to Tate, where I grab his arm and tell him, “I’m going back. I have things to do.”

He blinks at me harshly and, without looking at the fans, hands one back her pen and turns me by my shoulders. “Sorry, ladies. Gotta go.”

He urges me to the SUV, and Ajax opens the door. Tate grabs me and lifts me in, and when the door slams, I turn away from him. My arms curl around my waist, my stomach twisting. The harsh pounding of my heartbeat fizzles out to a slow throb as I center myself.

I’m not being beaten up or cheated on. I’m not being used and abused.

Not anymore.

I’m not that girl.

I. Am. Not. That. Girl.

I am Ella Dawson.

I fear nothing.

Neither of us says a word as we travel back to the hotel. The air is tense and it makes it hard to breathe, but it’s not a fearful tension. When we arrive, I unclip my seat belt and shove the door open before anyone else is out. I put every ounce of remaining strength in my body into not sprinting into the hotel and demanding a room to myself.

Tate puts a hand on my back, but I shove it off. He says nothing, but the sigh that leaves him says everything.

I jab at the elevator buttons and fight the burn in my eyes. Hell no, I’m not going to cry. I swore when I drove away from Manhattan that no other man would ever get my tears.

Tate unlocks the door and I shove past him and throw my purse onto the sofa. “The hell was that?”

“Was what?” he asks, shutting the door behind him.

“That goddamn kiss!” I point at him. “You spend the morning chatting up Carla and ‘Tits,’ ignore me all afternoon, then you walk off the stage and you kiss me! What the hell kind of bullshit game are you playing?”

“Yours,” he growls, advancing toward me. “The one where we’re intimate privately but strangers publicly.”

“We’re professional publicly!”

“You wish!” he snaps, winding his fingers into my hair and holding me solidly against him. “You want me to forget how you taste? How you feel? How you moan into my mouth when your pussy is hugging my cock? You think I can wipe that shit from my memory, Els? ’Cause I can’t. Not for a fuckin’ second. And for some goddamn reason you’re more than every fuckin’ girl I’ve ever brought back to my room. I told you I’d get under your skin, but that was before I realized you’re so fuckin’ under
my
skin that nothin’, and I mean fuckin’ nothin’, is gettin’ you back out.”

I squeeze my eyes shut. “How long?” I whisper. “How long do I have before a random girl comes knocking at your door?”

“What?”

“How long?” I push at his grip and he loosens it. “It happens, Tate. It always happens. It happened before and . . . Damn!” I take advantage of his eased hold on my arm and step back. “I saw it,” my voice is quieter. “Back there. You love it. You thrive on it. The girls. The attention. What happens when I can’t give you that anymore? What happens when they’re newer and shinier and prettier than I am? They take over. Just like before.”

“Ella.” He comes to me and takes me in his arms once more. “I’m not him, darlin’. I’m not that fuckin’ asshole and I never will be. I say you’re mine, then you’re mine, and it stays that way.”

“What if it doesn’t?”

“Forever.” He almost growls the word, each syllable sharp and fierce. “For-fuckin’-ever. No one is comin’ here except you.”

I crush my lips against his. Like a reflex, my tongue flicks against his and incites an intense fight. His grip gets tighter and my hands grasp at his shirt and our bodies slam together in a desperate collision. Together, we maneuver our way toward the bedroom, fingers tugging at shirt hems, lips sweeping irrationally. Together, we push through his bedroom door and collapse onto the giant unmade bed.

“Mine,” he whispers. “You’re mine, Els. In the most fuckin’ protective, possessive way, you belong the hell to me.”

I swallow my gasp and wrap my legs around his waist. I don’t care. I don’t care if we’re being waited on downstairs or if the past is clouding things. I care about touching this man, feeling this man, becoming one with this man. Even if it’s only for minutes. I want to feel it. I need to feel it.

I need his words to be proven by his actions.

Tate’s hands roam over my body, beneath my shirt, pulling it over my head, to my bra, cupping my breasts. His mouth ghosts down my neck to my cleavage. He unclasps my bra, taking a nipple in his mouth, sucking hard. His tongue swirls and spins around the hardened bud, and I grasp at him harder, begging for more despite the endless painful pleasure.

I tuck my hands beneath his shirt and run them up his back. The material crumples and I tug his shirt over his head, desperate to feel his body against mine. I need to feel his skin pressing mine like the night needs the day and the dark needs the light. Like touch needs reciprocation, I need Tate’s unabashed physique molded against mine.

My hands take on a mind of their own. They roam and explore every crevice of his back and his stomach. My fingertips dip and curve into every deep, muscled canyon of his body.

In return, he swipes his hands across me, every touch igniting fireworks and explosions across my skin and in my bloodstream. His hands cup, massage, probe every part of me. His fingers tease along the waistband of my pants.

My hands. They tease his hand, too. And my hands, they unbutton his jeans, undo the zipper, and tug down the cotton. I brush my fingertips along his rock-hard length and revel in the bobbing of it in my loose grip. I revel in the hardness of his cock in my hand and in the firmness of his grip on me.

And Tate removes my pants and tugs my legs up. He slides inside me in one long, easy stroke. He fills me entirely and completely and quickly. I conform to his body in the only way I know how. Explicitly. Entirely. Wholly.

His thrusts are fast and powerful. Each one dominates me and I give myself over to his determination. I give myself over to his powerful touch and hot breath and harsh moans as he drives into me.

I give myself over to him.

Pleasure floods my nerves. Heat swamps my skin. Adrenaline pounds through my veins. Every second, every touch, every sensation, I breathe it all in and I let myself go crazily.

I let myself go in his arms.

My name, whispered, follows his deep and drawn-out groan. I fold myself into him despite the fact that he’s still very much inside me, and he wraps his arms around me. His hold is warm and firm, and I bury myself in the certainty of his embrace.

“Mine.” The word is whispered onto the top of my head. “I fuckin’ told you,” he breathes. “Mine. Always fuckin’ mine, Els.”

“I think so,” I whisper back, curling myself around him, koala-style. Gripping him. Embracing him.

“I know so.” Hot, gentle breaths cascade across my skin, and I move into him farther. “My Els. My darlin’.”

I hold him, the lump in my throat too much to process.

How can someone want me so much? How can he want me so much that he can proclaim me his for more than just possessiveness? How can he want me in such a way that he’s willing to let me fight and resist until I’m helpless to the irresistible pull, too?

How can he want me the way he does, full stop?

“Why?”

“What?”

My fingers ghost across his chest. “Why am I yours? I don’t understand.”

Tate cups the side of my head, slowly, his fingers easing across my cheek. “Because you’re you,” he whispers, his mouth but an inch from mine. “Because you’re beautiful, and you’re sweet, and you’re so fuckin’ strong I can’t stand it. After everythin’, you’re so fuckin’ solid it breaks my heart, Els. Because you’re the best damn person I’ve ever met. That’s why. That’s why you’re damn well mine.”

I hold him, so tightly I can almost feel his tattoos beneath my fingers. “I’m afraid.”

“Don’t be,” he murmurs.

Tate

I wish I knew what the fuck it is about her. I wish I knew for a single damn second what it is about Ella Dawson that fucks me up in the best kind of way. I wish I knew how the hell she can look into my eyes and make me different. How she makes me stronger, gentler, more understanding.

I wish I knew how the fuck she can touch me with her soft hands and crack into the hard exterior my life requires. She doesn’t only crack it—she slips her painted nails between the broken edges until her fingertips are gripping them, and then she rips them apart, exposing the guy inside. Exposing the guy that’s as fuckin’ real as it comes.

She exposes the protector, the lover, the dreamer.

She exposes the guy hidden from all the other girls.

I wish I knew how the hell she made a dream come to life when I didn’t even know it existed. How she took my notion of a dream and twisted it until I looked back and realized it was never entirely fulfilled.

“Why’d you do it?”

“Do what?” I glance up from the tablet and at Ella sitting cross-legged on the other sofa of the tour bus. “The sex tape? We already went over that, darlin’, I didn’t know about it.”

She rolls her eyes. “I’m not talking about the sex tape, Tate. I’m talking about the . . . manwhoring.”

“Did you just willingly cuss?”

“ ‘Whoring’ isn’t really a cuss word,” she replies hesitantly.

“If Mila ain’t allowed to say it, it’s a cuss word.” Kye drops onto the seat next to her.

“And you screamed at me last night. Somethin’ about ‘fucking kisses’ and ‘bullshit games,’ ” I remind her.

“Ahh, words you’ve heard often, bro.” Aidan smacks my shoulder and grabs the back of the chair when the bus turns a corner.

“Which brings me back to my original question,” Ella mutters. “Why does every conversation have to go off on a tangent with you all?”

“Next we’re gonna get her to y’all.” Aidan grins, looking at me and Kye.

“Oh, yeah,” Kye agrees. “It’s so close I can taste it.”

I groan. “No. Ella ain’t allowed to y’all. She said ‘bless your heart, sugar’ and my dick was hard for a week. I don’t think I could cope with a y’all.”

Damn upper-class chick ain’t allowed to come here and talk with a sexy-ass Southern accent that only seems sexy on her.

Ella grins, her eyes shining with sass. “Poor baby. I’m sure there was someone there to soften it back up. Aaaand there we go again.” She smacks her hand to her forehead. “I give up trying to talk to you guys.”

“I’m sorry, darlin’, you’re just distracting.” I nudge her foot with mine under the table. “What was it you wanted to know?”

She twists her lips to the side. “I think I forgot.”

“Somethin’ about manwhoring,” Kye prompts cheerily.

“Oh! Of course.” She spins her water bottle between her hands. “Why are you guys such manwhores?”

Aidan chokes on his soda, and I laugh. “Well, come right on out with it why don’t cha?”

“I did.” She stares at me flatly. “Don’t laugh!” She throws the cap for her water at Aidan. “I’m being serious!”

“We ain’t good with serious,” I remind her. “Well, little brothers? Why are you such hound-doggin’ bastards?”

Ella presses her fingertips to her mouth to hide her smile.

“Us?” Aidan laughs. “Says Mr. Sold a Threesome Story, Mr. Nailed Molly Peters Before She Got Famous, and Mr. Secret Sex Tape.”

I hit him with a sharp gaze as Ella chews the inside of her lip. “All in the past, Ads. Way in the damn past. And two of those things weren’t even my fault.”

“You sold a threesome story?” Ella asks softly.

“I didn’t sell a fuckin’ thing!” I snap. “I took a couple chicks back to my room and one turned out to be a legitimate whore who got paid to fuck famous people and sell the story.”

“Oh.” Her voice is small. “Well, that’s . . . unfortunate.”

Unfortunate? Is she fuckin’ kidding? Oh, no, she ain’t—she’s looking at her fingers clasped around her water bottle and playing with the label because she’s just realized she’s fucked another total bastard.

She knew it already. Hell, she spelled out to me all the ways I’m a royal fucking cockhead without actually calling me one. Now that she’s getting it shoved in her face, though, it’s different.

Because the guy that did all that shit in the past isn’t the guy that touches her, kisses her. He ain’t the guy that fucks her soft and hard all in the same minute, and he sure ain’t the guy that wipes her tears and holds her through the night.

He ain’t the guy that keeps her midnight screams to himself just so she doesn’t have another thing to fear, because God only knows she’s got enough.

I give Aidan and Kye a stern look, and they get up. Aidan mouths an apology, but I don’t give a shit. They move to the back of the bus, their eyes flicking to me and away hesitantly.

I scoot along the seat. “Els.”

“What?”

My fingers reach out and tuck some of her hair behind her ear. “Talk to me, darlin’.”

“Why? I have nothing to say.” She swallows.

“Then look at me.”

A beat passes before she slowly turns her eyes from the label to my gaze. She doesn’t stop picking at the damn label, though, so I close my hand around hers. She takes a long, deep breath and fights to keep her eyes on me.

“Now I sure as shit don’t believe you. What’s wrong?”

“Your . . . past.” She blinks and looks away. “It’s . . . different from mine. Really different. Maybe I didn’t realize it until just now.”

“And it don’t matter,” I tell her quietly, running my fingers through her hair. “You wanna know why I acted that way?”

“Yes. No. I guess.”

My lips tug into a small smirk. “Because girls ain’t all like you, Els. The girls I took back to the hotel regularly, the ones who stood and screamed my name and made it clear I could have them with no strings attached, they’re lookin’ for a few things, and they ain’t good. Money. Hookup. Their picture in the paper. Fame. To be the one that bagged the reckless rock star.”

“So why didn’t they?”

“Because,” I slide my thumb across her cheek and turn her face toward me. “’Cause they didn’t know what they were askin’ for, and I wasn’t about to give ’em anythin’ but their desired hookup. If a girl’s gonna get her picture in the paper with me and my money, it’s because she wants me, not my status. Understand that?”

She nods slowly. “It makes sense. I just don’t understand why you had to be so . . . wild . . . about it.”

I grin crookedly. “I’m a wild kinda guy. If you’re gonna do something gently, don’t bother doin’ it all, because you ain’t doin’ it right.”

Ella tilts her head to the side and her lips tease up at the edges. “That’s some life motto.”

“You weren’t criticizing it last night,” I murmur so low only she can hear. She gasps, blood filling her cheeks, and I laugh, closing the distance between our mouths. With my fingers tangled in the back of her hair, I sweep my lips across hers, the sugary taste of candy lingering on the softness.

“You can’t kiss me here,” she protests against me.

“I’m the boss and I make the rules and I say I can kiss you wherever the fuck I like.” I grin into the kiss, and she fights it, but she can’t, because she smiles, too, and I pull her into me. She buries her face in the crook of my neck and I brush my nose against her silky hair.
Mmm. Vanilla.

Her fingertip trails up my inner forearm. “Why the notes?”

I tilt my arm a little. “It’s the first chords I ever played on bass. I was six.” I smile at the memory of me sitting in the corner of the room on Christmas morning, everything forgotten, because I finally had my damn bass guitar.

“Ahh. So they’re not all just random scribbles Mila could have done?”

“Hey!” I tickle her side and she squeals. “They’re works of art.”

“Yeah.” She ghosts her touch up to my bicep and under my shirt. “Eat your heart out, Vincent van Gogh.”

“Now you’re gettin’ it, darlin’.” I grin and turn my arm so she can examine my tattoos.

“Oh, yes. One day, when you’ve died, they’re going to preserve your body and put it on display in the Louvre, because who could resist paying to see this?” Ella teases.

The laughter in her tone soon fades into a shriek when I flip her onto the sofa. I lean over her, clasping her wrists. She laughs breathlessly, her head thrown back slightly, and looks up with a wide smile.

“You sassin’ me again, Els?”

“I’m
always
sassing you, Mr. Burke.”

“That ain’t my name,” I growl, lowering my face to hers.

“I’m always sassing you,
Tate
,” she corrects, her grin widening, her eyes sparkling a little more, her cheeks burning a little brighter.

“Y’all need to get a fuckin’ room,” Aidan grumbles, pulling open the fridge.

“We’ve got a fuckin’ bus,” I start.

“You’re just in it,” Ella finishes, poking her tongue out at my brother.

Kye whoops from the back of the bus. “Aaaand she’s back.”

I
swear Sofie gave Mila a shitload of candy before she dropped her at my hotel room with a “Thanks, see you later!” and fucked off on her date with Conner.

Mila runs around the sofa approximately seven times before she drops backward onto her butt. Seconds later, she gets up and spins on the spot until she falls again. The whole time she giggles, breathlessly toward the end. “Come on, Mimi, it’s bedtime.” I stand up and hold out my arms.

“No no no,” Mila sings, scrambling up and running away.

“Yeah yeah yeah!” I counter. In two long strides, I catch up with her and loop my hands around her tiny waist. I spin her and lift her over my shoulder smoothly, pulling even more giggles from her.

“Taaaaay,” she coos from between her peals of laughter. “Noooooo bed! Noooo bed!”

“Mimiiii!” I sway her side to side and sigh. “Mama will kick Uncle Tay’s butt. You got that? I promised her you’d be in bed at seven, and it’s . . .”

“Almost nine,” Ella offers helpfully.

I freeze and look at her. “Is it? Shit!”

“Dollar!” Mila screeches. “Bad word! Dollar for pig!”

Ella grins when I set Mila down and riffle in my pocket for my wallet. Shittin’ hell. I flip it open and pull out a dollar bill. Mila stares at me expectantly, her chubby hand held out in front of her.

“I give you this, you go sleep, okay?”

Mila narrows her dark eyes. “You bad.”

“Yes. But so are you. So take this, go to sleep, and we’re even. And . . .” I bend down, lean in, and whisper, “I’ll get you a blueberry muffin for breakfast tomorrow before Mama wakes up, all right?”

“Tate!” Ella scolds.

“Okay,” Mila sighs dramatically. “My dollar, tankoo.”

I smack the green bill into her hand then lift her. Ella throws Bunna and Dolly across the room to me. I catch them expertly with one hand, one after the other, and pass them to Mila, who snuggles into my chest with them.

“Muffin promise?” I hear Mila ask sleepily.

“I promise. You know I don’t break those crazy things.”

“Awite,” Mila mumbles.

“Night, Mimi.”

“Anight, Tay.”

I kiss her forehead and back out of the room, closing the door quietly. My eyes meet amused dark brown ones and I shake my head. “Kid’s fuckin’ nuts.”

Ella says something under her breath.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.”

“What did you just say?”

“I said nothing!” She laughs and holds her hands out. “Don’t start or you’ll disturb her.”

“Right,” I grumble. “First night in fuckin’ New Orleans after hours on the road and I’m on goddamn babysittin’ duty.”

“Oh, poor thing. Did you want to go and experience the NOLA life?”

“Would you have come with me?” I glance at her over my shoulder and pick up the room phone. I reel off an order for some beer and a bottle of wine.

“Given that I’m your fifth limb for the foreseeable future, I don’t understand the question.” Her words are sharp, and bitter, and if they were physical things, they’d be made of ice-cold steel.

My shoulders drop a little. “Darlin’ . . .”

“Don’t ‘darlin’ ’ me like that, Tate.” She sighs and looks away. “I know, I get it, it’s for my own protection, but, sheesh. I’m okay in the hotel, aren’t I? I mean, isn’t that why we sat in the parking lot for almost an hour while Ajax went into the hotel and broke more than a few privacy laws?”

“Sssh, you don’t know who’s listenin’.”

“Oh, yeah.” She tips her head back so she’s staring at the ceiling. “Don’t worry, God, I’ll make sure Ajax goes to confession this week so you can redeem him from his sins.”

I laugh loudly and lean against the counter. “I’m sure God appreciates the effort, Els. You gonna send me, too, darlin’?”

She drops her head forward and stares at me through her eyelashes. “Tate, I’m not the goddamn pope.”

Another laugh leaves me at the knock on the door. I open it and collect the tray with the beer and a wineglass on it, plus the ice bucket with the wine bottle inside.

“Correct. But you are a fuckin’ saint for dealin’ with my crazy-ass family.”

“For dealing with you, you mean.”

“Hey, I’m a fuckin’ dream. Easy as hell to live with.”

Ella takes the glass I pass her with a snort. “Right. Now I suddenly
am
the pope. And quite possibly the queen of England.”