Dirty Past (4 page)

My lips part. Swallowing in a desperate attempt to kill the dryness in my mouth, I reply, “My name is Ella.”

“That wasn’t the question.” Tate’s lips quirk to the side. “Is he hotter than me?”

“Obviously I am if you gotta ask,” Aidan scoffs, shutting his door behind him. This time with his shirt on.

“Well?” Tate pushes, ignoring him.

“I, er . . .” I straighten. “I really don’t think I should answer that question, to be honest.”

Tate’s eyebrows go up. “It ain’t hard, darlin’. All you gotta do is say my name.”

I don’t know if I should laugh or be shocked by his brashness. He’s unlike anyone I’ve ever met, and I’m not sure if that’s a good thing. He’s completely arrogant, but not in an unlikable way. Which makes absolutely no sense to me, because the most arrogant person I know is the person I hate the most.

“But if I say your name, you might think I like you.” I hook my thumb in my pocket. “And then that would boost your ego, and if it gets any bigger, I’m afraid you won’t fit on the stage tonight. So, as your assistant, it’s in my best interests not to do that.”

Aidan bursts out laughing just as Kye’s door opens. He looks around and opens his mouth, but when he sees Tate, he shuts it again.

If Tate’s eyes could spit fire, I’d be going up in flames. His shadowed jaw is set tight, and I can see the tiny tic in his cheek from the pressure.

I reach behind me and push the button for the elevator. “You have to be downstairs in two minutes, ready to leave.” I look between all three of them, then step back. “Oh, and Mr. Burke?” I focus on Tate, my gaze steady. “To answer your question, I’m going with Kye.”

His eyes darken and he moves to speak, but it doesn’t matter, because the doors close on his words and end the conversation.

I drop my purse to the floor and flatten my back against the wall of the elevator. I stare at the doors, holding my breath.

I don’t know what that was—that switch from scared to sassy. It’s not the first time it’s happened since I got here, and I don’t know where it comes from, but I think I like it. It reminds me of the girl I was before any sense of myself was beaten out of me.

I retrieve my purse from the floor and step out of the elevator. The lobby is bustling with the guys’ security team, and I can see why. Outside the hotel there’s a large group of girls barely being held back by yet more security guards dressed head to toe in black.

“Is it always like this?” I ask Ajax, stepping up beside him.

“Yes, ma’am,” he replies. “We take it in stride.”

The elevator doors ping open and I turn to see Conner with his arm around Sofie and Mila, flanked by Aidan and Kye, and finally, a still-angry Tate. I fight my urge to shrink back as he approaches us. Instead I cross my arms over my chest and defiantly hold his gaze.

“We ready to go?” he asks—presumably—Ajax, his eyes still on me.

“Yes, sir,” Ajax responds. “Conner, you and the girls get in the car first.”

“Got it.” He nods. “Ella?”

“She rides with me,” Tate says firmly. “We need to have a word or two.”

My chest heaves. Maybe it’s his words. Maybe it’s the visible tightness of his tattooed arms stretching the material of his shirt. Or maybe it’s the look in his eye. The one that’s scary and . . . a little . . .
exciting . . .
at the same time.

“Ella?” Sofie questions, moving slowly toward the door.

“He’s the boss,” I reply, blinking harshly.

Tate’s jaw clenches. “Get in the second car,” he orders through clenched teeth. He storms past me, and I force myself to inhale slowly.

He isn’t him. He isn’t him. He isn’t him.
I chant relentlessly inside my mind as I follow Tate’s tensed, muscular body to the car. Girls are screaming his name, but he ignores every one, determination to get to the waiting vehicle evident in every one of his steps.

He yanks open the door of the black SUV. “Get in,” he demands, nodding at me.

I climb into the backseat and scoot along it.

“Then ride with Ajax,” Tate snaps to someone over his shoulder. He jumps in the backseat and slams the door behind him.

I edge a little closer to the door as he leans forward and closes the partition. My heart thumps—that thing, it’s soundproof. This is a tiny space. Enclosed. Totally private.

I wipe my now-sweating hands on my thighs.

“All right, Els. Let’s have a talk.”

“My name is Ella,” I snap. “It’s not hard.”

Tate rests his hand on the seat between us and leans forward. “I’ll call you ‘assistant’ if that’s what I wanna call you. I’m your fuckin’ boss, and if I wanna call you Els, I’m gonna call you Els. You got it?”

Annoyance warms my stomach. “What? Is El
la
too complicated for you to remember? Two syllables too many?”

His fingers twitch. “You talk too fuckin’ much.”

“So do you.”

“I can remedy that.”

“I dare you.” I glare at him. When he doesn’t move, I continue, “As you just said, you’re my boss, and yet again this is a highly inappropriate conversation. Unless you have me in here to discuss something serious with me, I don’t wish to continue this.”

He clicks his tongue, and a tension-filled silence ensues. And, boy, I’d hate to get into a staring contest with Tate Burke, because he’s relentless. For what seems like the millionth time, his eyes are on me, studying me, unnerving me. Intense and angry and fiery, those turquoise eyes are so bright they’re rendering me immobile.

“Watch your damn mouth.” Each word is edged with anger and saturated in restraint. “I don’t give a shit how you spoke to people in your fancy-ass, upper-class world back in New York, but I sure as hell ain’t gonna have some stuck-up daughter of a high roller comin’ into my world as my fuckin’ employee and talkin’ to me like I’m worth less than her.”

Did he just—?
“Excuse me?” I gasp. “Talking to
you
like trash? If you demand respect, Mr. Burke, you should perhaps try and respect other people. Funnily enough, that doesn’t include turning every conversation into something remotely sexual. Not every woman you meet wants to take a ride on what’s inside your pants.” I put my hand back on my purse as we pull up outside the arena. “And you’re right. You don’t know a thing about my life in New York, so don’t sit and assume I’ve lived twenty-two years of glittery rainbows and frolicking unicorns.”

I’m shaking as I shove the car door open and get out. Fear and anger are swirling through my body, both of them battling for dominance with the adrenaline pumping through my veins. It’s unnerving, the anger. It’s so out of place for me, and so are the words I just spoke.

I don’t argue. I don’t answer back, and I sure as hell don’t disrespect people.

I didn’t.

I
didn’t.

Ella Dawson, perfect fiancée of Matthew Hamilton, didn’t.

As of two days ago, I’m not her.

I’m Ella Dawson, not a victim, and not afraid.

I fear nothing.

If I keep telling myself that, maybe I won’t be so shocked the next time Tate Burke decides to annoy the living crap out of me and I bite back.

Tate

She’s a pretty fuckin’ firecracker all wrapped up with a demure little bow.

One minute she’s wiping her sweaty, trembling hands on her legs, and the next she’s staring me down and twisting my balls so tightly with her words that they’ve turned blue from blood loss. And, sweet fucking Jesus, where the hell did it come from?

Shoulda leaned over the damn seat and kissed her when she dared me to.

To hell with being her boss. To hell with Sofie’s damn stupid-ass rules. To hell with Ella’s sassy little smart mouth.

Next time she so much as glances at me with a hint of her sass, I’m gonna kiss it right out of her. It ain’t my fault she’s got pretty, pouty pink lips just begging for it.

She goes from shy to confident faster than a damn yo-yo spins on its string. And I don’t understand it. Or her. A single fucking bit.

I shouldn’t want to, but I do. From the point of view of her employer. If she’s gonna be all bipolaresque on our asses we should know.

I roll my shoulders, ignoring the screaming coming from the front of the stage. Yeah. As an employer. That’s why I wanna know.

“Five minutes,” Carla says, a headset on her ear and a tablet in her hand. “And—”

“Don’t fuck up,” we all say, our voices echoing.

“We know, Carla. We know,” Aidan adds.

She frowns for a second. “Be ready. They’re screaming out there.”

“We got ears, ya know.” I lean back. “Pretty sure I’ve heard them chantin’ my name more than once tonight.”

Carla’s lips curl in both annoyance and amusement. “One day, Tate Burke, you’re gonna find yourself a girl that’ll rip you off your pretty little pedestal. I for one cannot wait. Three minutes.” She casts her eyes over us before disappearing again.

Conner chuckles. I look over at him. “What?”

He smirks. “She’s right. ’Cept I think I know that girl.”

“Bro, Sofie’s got attitude, but not that much attitude.” I snort.

“Ella, dumbass,” Kye interjects.

“Right. The fancy-ass New Yorker that has to organize our shit. Yeah, that’s the one, man. She’s the girl that’s gonna bring me to my fuckin’ knees.” I shake my head and lean back in the chair. “Can’t you see? I attached my Chucks to my knees already so I’m prepared for the fall.”

“Attached them where?” Sofie asks, walking in. “To another girl’s bedpost? I wouldn’t be surprised.”

I snap my eyes to the door where she’s standing, Ella at her side. “Yeah,” I respond, looking at Sofie. “That’s exactly where they are. Ready for tonight.”

“Well, be back in time to take your niece to McDonald’s for breakfast like you promised.” She purses her lips. “Because I’m not taking her in place of your lazy ass.”

Conner nods in agreement, and I glance between them. Holding my hands up, I say, “Y’all think I’m gonna let my Mimi down? Hell no. She got her mama’s attitude already, and I ain’t that fuckin’ dumb.”

“Makes a change,” Kye retorts, grinning.

I stare at him flatly. Yeah, I’m an asshole. I’m a fucking prick, a heartless dick, a love ’em and leave ’em guy. I don’t even love them. I fuck and leave. Simple. But letting Mila down is out of the question.

The first time she grabbed at me, squealing “Tay,” she wrapped me around her chubby little finger. If that baby girl needs me, you bet your ass I’m gonna be there. And fuck it—if I promised her a McDonald’s breakfast behind her mama’s back, she’s gonna get it.

“Two minutes,” Ella says softly from behind Sofie. “You guys needs to move.”

I look at her, breathing heavily but slowly as the rush of adrenaline builds inside me. It’s always the same. Until the last call, until the moment we have to get off our asses, I’m cool. We all are. Then we’re called for two minutes, and we have to move into the wings, and it gets real.

There’re more name-screams; the excited kind that tingle across my skin, and soon, there’ll be more echoing and deafening yells of our lyrics.
Our damn lyrics.
The ones we wrote over breakfast at the kitchen table, at family parties in the corner, and even the ones we wrote at Mom and Dad’s wedding anniversary dinner.

It’s another stage. Another concert. Another fucking sellout. Another dream come true.

“Now,” Ella adds, her eyes barely lingering on mine for a second before they drop to the floor.

Another moment of staring at her passes before I get up and turn away. Shit, I fucking hate it when people don’t look at me when they’re talking to me. This chick only does it when she’s pissed at me with some bullshit adrenaline-induced bravado.

I slam the dressing room door open and walk the halls until we reach the wings.

“Thirty seconds,” Carla whispers.

Her eyes fall on each of us, one after the other, her gaze full of apprehension and confidence. A crazy mix, one that should make no fucking sense but does. It’s the feeling I have swirling in my stomach right now. I’m nauseated yet excited as hell. Ten steps and I’ll meet my Kryptonite, my dream, my happily fucking ever after.

My guitar.

“And . . . go.”

Conner steps past me and leads us out the way he always does. The youngest leading the oldest—get a fucking load of that.

But it doesn’t matter.

Because the crowd screams. Conner grabs his mic. Me and Kye grab our guitars. Aidan spins his drumsticks.

And the music is all that matters.

I
down the bottle of water Ella hands to me and drop it into the trash. She nods softly, stepping back as we make our way back out for the second half of the show.

There are the screams—always the screams. Shouts and yells and the damn screams that make my ears ring.

I adjust my earpiece until the backing track starts playing. We fall into the music, Conner’s words unknown to us. All that matters here is hitting the notes and getting it right.

Our names are screamed, we’ve hit the billboards and are on the verge of a platinum album—but we’re still teenage boys in our parents’ garage. We’ll never fucking forget that.

I never will.

Our priorities are what they were then—getting it right.

The song peters out and Conner rests his mic in the stand. “Phew,” he says, wiping his brow. “Hey, can I get a towel here? I’m doin’ an Olaf and meltin’!”

Cries ring out as a towel comes flying and lands by his feet. Conner bends down, grabs it, and wipes it across his forehead.

“Damn,” he drawls, throwing his towel into the darkness of the wings. “It’s a good thing y’all are worth meltin’ for. Am I right?”

My lips twitch up. Fucking crowd-pleaser. That’s why he’s the front man—he makes them swoon even when he ain’t singing.

“All right, ladies, keep them panties on,” Conner teases, laughing. “Y’all can form an orderly queue to give ’em to Tate after the show. There are even Sharpies provided for your number-writin’ convenience.”

He turns back and winks at me dramatically.

“You know I ain’t turnin’ that down, baby brother,” I answer, just like they expect me to. Same shit, different concert. “Back door, ladies,” I cast my eyes over the crowd, “I’ll make sure security pass ’em on.”

Aidan adds a drum roll for good measure. Quietly, he laughs, then smirks at me.

They all know I don’t call those fuckin’ numbers. If you’ve got the balls to walk up to me and be honest, I’m on that shit like a whore in a brothel. Hand your scribbled-on panties to my security and they end up in the trash.

“All right, all right,” Conner interjects to the swoony-screamy thing going on. “Y’all want some music or are you here to see my brother?”

There’s a mixture of “music” and “brother,” and I chuckle. Grabbing my mic, I say, “How about I sing y’all a little somethin’? Yeah?”

The four of us meet eyes as they scream. It’s for sure. Every time. Conner might make them swoon, but I make them melt. Their panties, that is. End of story.

“Okay, ladies. Y’all ready? Grab those panties,” Kye says, strumming on his guitar. “Shit’s about to get real.”

I look down at my guitar and run my fingers across the strings. Aidan counts us in, and I close my eyes, the music humming across my skin.

Word after word, the lyrics fall from my mouth, giving them something to dream of, to believe in, although it’ll never be theirs. They hope anyway, grasping onto my words until everything is gone.

One night only,

Grasping sheets,

A crinkled quilt,

The rising sun,

One last good-bye, baby,

I sing. The beat picks up, and . . .

The butterflies, they’re nothin’,

The heart pounds, mean nothin’.

One night, that’s all you get,

It’s all we got, take it now,

One last good-bye,

I’ll give to you,

One last good-bye, baby.

I strum the last chords of the song, the final words crushing everything the song built it up to be. But—hey, if they’re gonna make me sing a fuckin’ song, don’t expect it to be a love ballad. It’ll be the damn truth.

I’m too focused on the band for something more than one night.

Aidan smiles at me from his perch on his stool and I glare back at him. He’s as bad as I fucking am. His longest fuck lasted a week—mine was Nina, before she sold my family out for her own ass. Even then, she was lucky to get ten days of my time.

I look back at my guitar and let the next song flow over me. The music, the lyrics—they’re second nature, even our newest single is. They’re all buried under my damn skin, pounding with every beat of our collaboration.

My fingers tease the guitar strings endlessly. The music flows through my veins, a rush and comfort. An exhilaration and a soother. A total contradiction, but one that makes sense nonetheless.

Song after song it goes, one after another, beat after chord, chord after lyric, lyric after scream, scream after blackout.

We set our instruments down softly and walk back into the wings. Ella is standing in mine, clasping a bottle of water. I close my fingers around the neck of the bottle, my pinkie barely an inch from hers, and pause.

“You did good,” she says softly, swallowing before she looks up and meets my eyes.

I stare into her dark eyes, the color of dark chocolate, of a black coffee after a night of no sleep, and I reply, “I know.”

I take the bottle from her, unscrew the cap, and tip it up, walking past her. I don’t need my cute-as-fuck assistant getting into my head tonight.

No, I need some fangirling, groupie-ass bitch to bend over for me so I can relieve this stress.

Stress? What fucking stress?
From the stuck-up assistant? I’m done.

I give the fuck up.

I throw the empty bottle in the trash and walk outside before my brothers do. Sofie and Ella will get my shit—it’s their damn job. It’s what I pay their asses for. I don’t pay Sofie to fuck my brother, and I don’t pay Ella to get me wound tighter than my mom’s cross-stitch panels.

I pay to make sure I get out of the stadium, get a girl, get off, then get her gone.

Simple as fuck.

I run my hand through my hair and shove the back doors open. There are a few VIP fans there waiting for us, and thankfully, my brothers are out right after me. We scrawl on sheets of paper, on books, on photos, and pose for endless smartphone pictures.

A blond chick approaches and slinks up beside me, her arm wrapping around my waist as her friend takes our photo. I glance down—her tits are popping, and that’s all the encouragement I need.

“The Viscount,” I murmur in her ear. “Room 445.”

Her fingers stroke my side. I smile for one more fake photo and break away from her. I head for the SUV without waiting for anyone else and direct the driver back to the hotel. The drive is quick and easy, our route to the hotel unencumbered by anyone else.

I get out of the car and stop to scrawl on sheets of paper and postcards. Carlos, one of our guards, flanks me, making sure the fans don’t take things too far. I work my way down the line to the lobby door and, at the last minute, dart inside.

This bitch better turn up.

I ride the elevator up to my floor and walk the length of the corridor to my room. No sooner have I shut the door behind me than I hear a knock. It’s the blonde—tipsy and grinning, her tits even more on show than before.

I tug her through the door and slam against her. My lips push hers harshly, and the taste of vodka makes me feel sick.

“Don’t you want to know my name?”

I squeeze her ass tightly. “I don’t fuckin’ need it.”

She moves with me to the sofa as I wrench her purse and phone from her hand. They land on the floor as I cup her pantie-covered pussy. I pop her tits from their concealment with my other hand and rub them, giving them a cursory nipple-lick, but I don’t give a shit about this chick’s pleasure.

I rub her clit for a minute, then roll a condom on and shove myself inside her. She cries out but she grabs at me. Her nails dig at my back as I drive myself into her in the most selfish way I can imagine. Still, her pussy tightens, and with a few short pumps, she cries her release around me.