Stricken Desire
Authors: S.K Logsdon
Tags: #romance, #erotica, #sex, #bisexual, #music, #rock and roll, #sassy heroine, #pregnant erotica
Book One
S.K Logsdon
Copyright © 2013 by S.K Logsdon
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be
reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic
or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any
information storage and retrieval system, without written
permission from the author, except for the inclusion of brief
quotations in a review.
Editor: Heather Sowalla, Windy Hills Editing
Cover art by: Marika Kraukle
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Visit my Author Pages
You can find me on Facebook at:
https://www.facebook.com/sklogsdon
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http://sklogsdon.weebly.com
And
Goodreads:
http://www.goodreads.com/sklogsdon
I wanted to give a special shout out to authors
Samantha Towle and Michelle A. Valentine. Who inspired me to write
this series.
And thank my friend Goldie who has been full of
inspiration and encouragement throughout my writing endeavors.
If it wasn’t for her “The Raunchier the better”
theory I might not have written these stories as colorful as they
have become.
This book is a work of fiction created by the author
S.K Logsdon and is not associated with any real band, lives or
stories.
One
Standing in the front row of this hot as hell
outdoor venue in Las Vegas I think my skin is about to melt off.
July in Vegas wearing a gray tweed jacket and matching pencil skirt
embroidered with big pink roses what was I thinking? I should have
probably went with less clothes but I wanted to appear half
professional when I finally get the chance to introduce myself to
the band. I’d finally stepped up in the world. Luck of the draw as
I see it. Thanks to my very friendly, very male best friend Stacy.
He works the music biz and is a road manager to Stricken an
overnight rock phenomenon. With eight years’ total experience under
his belt he was plucked specifically for this job four years ago
once the band catapulted into stardom. But now it’s been too much
to handle. With his mom sick deteriorating thanks to dementia he
was forced to place her in the best nursing home money could buy.
All because he’s been so busy that he hasn’t had the ability to
take care of her himself. Not that she deserves it.
That’s where I come in. I got a call three
weeks ago to the day from Stacy. We’ve been long-distance best
friends for most of our lives. Growing up in the same small
rink-a-dink town in Indiana it was hard not to know everybody their
brothers, cousins and uncles. Our entire school K-12 consisted of
less than eight hundred kids. Stacy was five years ahead of me in
school but my seventh grade year and his junior our destiny’s
collided on the sports field. I was running the track that
surrounded the football field. I was a long-distance runner for our
school and was good, won a few championships locally and I even
competed state wide a few times. And he was busy being the hottest
football player in the district. From an early age Stacy was used
to having girls dripping off his arms. It’s not like he could help
it being six one, nearly two hundred pounds of all muscle with
shaggy dirty blonde hair and piecing blue eyes. Sex is what most
people could think of when looking at him. Including me.
But that fated day was when our paths finally
crossed. I was running, minding my own business my cd player
attached to my hip in a special fanny pack I’d gotten for
Christmas, jamming to N-sync the best boy band ever. I was going
for endurance more than speed and I was oblivious to what was going
on around me. Too busy focusing on the science test I had coming up
the next day on the periodic table of elements. Those are some
tricky buggers let me tell ya. I’m not exactly sure how it all
happened but I was running, my new bright blue adidas pounding into
the dirt when I was pummeled from behind. I hit the ground hard my
entire body went down in a free-falling dive. And Stacy was the one
who landed on top of me. Nearly all two hundred pounds of him and
it felt like having my ass handed to me by a brick wall. Needless
to say he was fine, not a damn scratch but I fractured my ankle and
tore the shit out of my hands. There was no more track for me that
year. I figured being a famous football player and all he’d just
shrug it off and leave me to fend for myself. But instead Stacy
felt terrible and scooped me up into his big arms and carried me to
the nurses. Where my parents were called and I had to go to the
hospital. Wore a cast around my ankle and foot for nearly a month.
He sent me flowers and even visited me once I got home. Somehow
we’ve been great friends ever since. I was his platonic date to
prom his senior year and once he graduated he went off to college
at UCLA to study music biz and play football.
I’ve held his hand through not one but two
divorces. No kids resulted in either of them. Thank god because
with those money hungry bitches I am sure he’d be screwed even more
than he already was. At least with the second he was smart enough
to get a prenup. I’ve been through one major breakup and he was my
rock through it all. Although I never dove too deep into any
relationship. It’s never been my thing. I can’t get attached. I
think it might be a defect in my DNA. Stacy’s agreed with me a few
times on that one. He dates women like it’s an Olympic sport and I
could care less. Thankfully I’ve never been into him and he’s never
shown any interest in me except maybe when he’s super drunk and
about to go home alone. Alcohol plus Stacy equals boobs, pussies
and usually more than one of both. From what I hear from his dates
if you’d call them that. He’s rockin in the sac.
So now at the ripe old age of twenty four my
best friend has called in a favor. I’m between jobs anyways thanks
to my old boss who decided my position as PR manager for his small
publishing company was no longer employable. All because I refused
to sleep with him. I guess after working there for eight months and
not opening my legs to a fifty-year-old, overweight, married man
with four kids meant I couldn’t keep the best job I’ve landed since
I graduated from NYU. Not that I’m bitter or anything. When I told
Stacy he nearly croaked and offered to come to NY where I live to
personally kick his ass. Which knowing Stacy he’d do it. That’s
just the kind of man he is. Loyal to his friends and I’m the
longest one he’s ever had and the only female. Well maybe not the
longest, I think he might still talk to Kyle my old next door
neighbor who played football too. But I don’t know.
So when he asked me to come to Vegas to see
Stricken’s play and take a job as his assistant I couldn’t resist.
He needed some of the pressure off himself and the record labeled
agreed to pay me only because they can’t afford to lose Stacy. So
here I am standing in the front row sweating my ass off with a mob
of sweaty men and women behind me.
Stacy wanted me to get the full effect of the
show so he forced me to take front and center. I could almost reach
up and touch the stage if it weren’t for the big ass bodyguards
dressed in all black standing in the way. Some punk rock band
calling themselves Xtreme Sex just exited. They were the opening
gig and to be honest I’d heard a lot better. Not sure how they
decide who opens for the band but I can only hope my job entitles
me to help in the scoping out new bands because they were seriously
under par. Maybe not for some Podunk rock show back home but in the
big leagues they sure as hell don’t belong.
The fans roar as the roadies set up the stage
for the main event. I can feel sweat dripping down the back of my
neck. Thank god I wore my hair up tonight and waterproof mascara.
No raccoon eyes for me. Stricken’s drummer enters first playing
around with his bright purple set. Which just drives the crowd
wilder and they all move forward to get a few inches closer. My
body is pressed tightly up against the bars leaving imprints in my
stomach. This is so not my scene. Drinking coffee and reading a
book in bed are the real highlights of my life. Not having a
woman’s sweaty breasts pressed against the back of my two hundred
dollar suit. I am so going to kill Stacy for this. And I will make
sure it will be a slow painful death. He deserves it for putting me
through this. It’s so not sanitary.
Next on stage enters the bands two
guitarists. Well I think one’s a bass guitarist. Whatever that
means. I am not into the music biz. I love music, all kinds of it
actually. And I’ve listened to all of Stricken’s albums, only
because Stacy mailed them to me prerelease. I even have one album
they’ve signed the cover of, thanks to Stacy. I’d never ask for
that. They’re good. I mean real good. Hard rock with a touch of
soft into the mix. I can see why the women love them; each member
is like sex on a stick. I turn my head to watch the crowd and
that’s when Johnathan enters the stage in all his Grecian god
glory. Stricken’s lead singer. Sex god and womanizer
extraordinaire. I know all this because Stacy tells me not because
I’m some media whore. I don’t do gossip and I sure as hell won’t
buy a magazine with it. Books are the only thing I read and maybe
the New York post if I want a change of pace. Which isn’t
often.
God Johnathan is hot though. He grabs the mic
like he’s making love to it and belts out the first song to kick
off the night. Women all around me are screaming his name and
shirts start to come off in masses. I’ve never seen so many women’s
boobs in my whole life. Big, little, old, young, tattooed. Oh god I
think I might be sick! I covered my mouth and take in a deep
breath. This is too much.
“How’s it goin' Las Vegas?” he yells into the
mic.
A whole lot of ‘I love you Johnathan’, ‘Show
us your cock’ and ‘Hell yeah’s’ are screamed in retort. I think I
might go deaf by the end of the night. Too much flesh. God this
life is so not for me. What was I thinking coming here? I do PR for
publishing companies not managing and PR for rock stars. I am so
going to kill Stacy.
“I want to give a little shout out to my
friends tonight. You know who you are.” He says again making love
to the mic. Then jumps off into the next song. I can’t tear my eyes
from the stage. They are mesmerizing. The atmosphere totally sucks
but the playing is out of this world. They are even better in
person. I looked over to the side of the stage and there stands
Stacy his hands tucked into his ratty jean pockets talking to some
tall blonde. She is defiantly his type. I think just about everyone
Stacy’s dated or even just fucked has been a blonde. That’s
probably why we’ve been friends for so long I do not in any way
shape or form fit into the leggy blonde model classification. I’m
five two at best. Not sure where my height or lack thereof comes
from because my mom’s almost six foot and my dad’s six four.
Sometimes I think I’m adopted. I have red hair and when I say red I
don’t mean auburn. I mean red, red. It’s wavy and long, hits about
the middle of my back dry and my butt when it’s wet. My skin is
pale, I couldn’t tan even if I wanted to. Now that is something me
mom and I both share and my dad used to be a red head like me but
now he’s bald and his eyebrows are gray with age.