The Forbidden Beat (A Stepbrother Romance) (11 page)

"This professional jealousy thing has got to
stop," Presley added, plunking the vase onto the bar so hard that water
sloshed over the top. "You're taking it way too far now."

"True story," Rafe said. "The bus thing was
kind of funny. But you're dead-on creeping now."

Dion turned to me. "Want to let me in on the pile
on?"

I pulled the note out from my pocket and handed it to him
without a word. He took it, shoving the drumsticks in his back pocket. His
posture stiffened as he read the note. He reached the end and crushed it in his
hand.

"Who sent this?" he demanded.

"You did," I said.

 "Did you call the florist to find out who sent this?
Is there a credit card with name on it?" he asked.

"Well, no—" I started.

He pulled his hair back from his face, frustration etched in
it. "Then why the hell would you accuse me of this, Nik?"

"Who else could it be?" I countered.

"I don't know," he said, his voice raising.
"Maybe it's Rafe, did you think of that?"

Rafe stood. "Me? Why the hell would I do that?"

"Exactly," Dion said. "So why the hell would
I?"

"Enough!" Presley yelled, slamming her hand down
on the bar. "Assuming it's not Dion—"

"Big assumption," I cut in.

Presley shook her head at me. "Assuming it's not, I
think we need to call the cops."

"No cops," I demanded.

"Why the hell not?" Presley asked.

"Because I don't want this in the media. We have too
much riding on this tour."

"I don't know about that," Dion said. "It may
fuel some solid press. This could blow up on social."

I snarled at him. "Or blow up in our faces. No
cops."

"Fine," Presley said. "But we're telling
Vince."

"What will that do?" I asked.

"Maybe he can put a security detail on you," Jett
said. "Nik, there are a ton of crazies out there, and the more Rogue
Nation blows up, the more nuts come out of the wood work."

"You probably should tell Vince," Rafe agreed.

I rubbed the back of my neck, massaging out the knots
created by this conversation. "Fine," I agreed. "Call
Vince."

If Dion was behind the notes, bringing in Vince would put a
stop to it.

Presley pulled out her phone and pressed a button. She had
Vince on speed dial. She whispered into the phone and then pulled it away from
her ear. "Vince wants to call the cops."

"No way," I yelled.

Presley put the phone back to her ear. "No, Nik wants
nothing to do with the cops," she said into the phone. She pulled it away
from her ear again. "He's insisting."

"Put him on speaker phone," I grumbled, making my
way out from behind my drum kit. We all huddled around Presley as she put her
phone on the bar and hit the speaker button.

Vince was in mid-sentence. "...Talk some sense into
your daft sister and call the damn cops. This is insane."

"You're on speaker, Vince," Presley said, shaking
her head. "We're all here. All of us."

"Including the daft sister," I added.

"You are daft," he said. "In lieu of cops, do
you want to cancel the gig?"

I joined the chorus of “no’s” coming from Vince and Rafe.

"So then we call the cops," Vince said.

"I don't want the press getting wind of this," I
said. "That will turn this tour into a side show and I don't want
that."

"Why don't we call in Alice, let her weigh in on
that," Vince suggested.

I cringed. The last thing I wanted was Grimm's Wicked Witch of
PR getting a hold of this. "Let's leave Alice out of this, please. Satan's
Sisters are not signed to Grimm Records and I want nothing to do with
her."

"But she is PR for Rogue Nation," Dion reminded
me.

"The drummer doesn't matter, remember?" I shot at
him.

Vince let out another mega-sigh. "Nikki, from what
Presley tells me, the threats are getting more specific. I'm worried. I think
doing nothing is a mistake."

"Thanks for worrying, but I'll be fine," I said.
"Whoever is doing this is behaving like a schoolyard bully, not an
outright psychopath."

Jett curled her lip. "Don't you think sending flowers
with a note like that is kind of psycho?"

"It's grade school, Jett," I lied.

"It'd be more psycho if the flowers were dead,"
Presley pointed out. "Live flowers seems kind of lazy."

I glanced at Dion, but his face remained unreadable.

Vince sighed, his breath creating a tinny windstorm through
the speaker. "Thanks for the assessment, all of you. No cops, gig on. But
Devlin's going to call the florist and see if we can track whoever did this.
And I'm asking Beef to trail you tonight."

Beef was on the road crew and he was exactly that. Huge.

"Fine, Beef can trail me," I acquiesced, turning
my back to keep my smile hidden. Buddhist Beef was opposed to any sort of
violence. The protection I'd get from that gentle giant was more spiritual than
actual.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

"It's all good, Beef," I said, knocking on the
door to Dion's motel room. "We're with a reporter, my room is just two
doors down. I don't think I'm in any danger."

A shirtless Dion yanked open the door. Beef grunted a
greeting.

"I'll walk her home, Beef," Dion said, leaning
against the door frame.

"You sure, man? I'll stand guard outside the
door," he said.

"Go to bed, Beef," I insisted. "I'm
fine."

"Okay," he said, hesitating a few times as he
walked away.

"Good gig tonight," he said, watching Beef amble
away. "Considering everything."

His buff body still blocked the door. My eyes moved down his
muscled chest to his hips, his jeans slung tantalizingly low with the button
undone. Mussed hair, half dressed... My stomach knotted.

I swallowed down my jealousy. "Is the interviewer
here?"

"Mmm hmm," he said, not budging from the door
frame.

"Want to let me in, then?" I hissed.

"We need to talk about something first," he said
with a smile. My heart dropped into my stomach.

"Oh god, Dion," I squeaked. "Did you have sex
with the Rolling Stone reporter?"

Dion's rich laugh echoed through the quiet Motel 6 parking
lot. "I want to talk about the interview. One of the questions Rolling
Stone has about tonight's gig. They know about the threats. Do you want to
admit them?"

I pressed my hand against my forehead. "Crap. No. I
don't know. What if they find out I lied?"

"Alice thinks we should talk about it," he said.
"She said to get out in front of the story."

"You called Alice?" I said, raising my voice. Dion
shushed me.

"Of course I called Alice," he replied. "I
don't know how the hell to handle this shit either."

I stood still, quieted by his admission. The man was self-assured
to a fault. Hearing him admit uncertainty was refreshing.

"Nik?" he pushed. "How do you want to handle
it? I told you what Alice thinks."

"I don't want this to be all about this crappy thing
that's happened," I said. "The tour was going great right?"

"Yeah, it was. It is," Dion said. "It's gonna
be what it is. Let's just get it over with. Lemons into lemonade, that sort of
thing. How it gave us bonding time covering the graffiti on the bus. That sort
of thing."

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, Dion's post-gig
scent —a mix of primal sweat lingered with cedar wood and sage—filled my nose,
and my knees weakened. "Okay," I agreed. "I'll do it your
way."

He grinned. "Let's get this over with then."

"Wait," I said, stopping him before he opened the
door wider. "You never answered my question. Did you just fuck the Rolling
Stone reporter?"

He winked at me and opened the door wide. A balding,
30-something man with a slight beer belly sat on a hard-looking chair at the
small table. The Rouge Nation concert t-shirt he wore hung lose around his
narrow shoulders.

"You need to have more faith in me," he whispered
as I past him into the room.

"Daniel Metterie, Rolling Stone magazine," the man
said, standing up and extending his hand. He gripped mine for a weak shake, his
hands felt soft in my drum-stick calloused ones.

Dion flopped on the bed and rearranged the pillows into a
decadent throne. He shot me a wicked grin and patted the space next to him.
"Come sit, Nik."

"I'm good," I said, sitting in the stiff chair
across the table from the reporter. Dion exaggerated his pout.

"Let's get started," Daniel said. He sat back down
in his chair and brandished a voice recorder.

I swallowed and felt beads of sweat sprout along the back of
my neck. This was my first interview without my sisters by my side. And with
Rolling Stone no less. I cleared my throat and glanced at Dion, who was propped
up, Cleopatra like, amongst his pillows.

Daniel dropped a bomb on his first question. "What went
through your mind when you heard your brother overdosed?"

 The blood drained from Dion's face, and he lost his
trademark swagger. "What went through my mind? What the hell do you think—"

"Kyle's death is off limits," I jumped in.

The writer shut off his recorder and stood. "Without
Kyle, you guys are a non-story." without

"If you want something juicy..." I paused and
looked at Dion. He nodded at me, color slowly creeping back into his cheeks.

"I'm listening," the writer said, sitting back in
his chair.

I leaned forward and gave him a smile that made Presley's
seductions look amateur. "I've been getting death threats the entire
tour."

He raised his eyebrows and pressed the record button.
"Really? When did you get the first?"

Dion cracked open the mini fridge and passed around some
beers. We spent the next hour sharing tales from the road with the writer. The
death threats added a measure of comic relief to a grueling tour schedule,
particularly the way Dion shared the stories, embellishing in all the right
places. By the time the hour was up, we all had a healthy buzz from the beer
and were carrying on like old high school pals.

The interview wrapped and Daniel split, leaving me and Dion
alone in his room. Dion handed me another beer, but I shook my head and handed
it back.

"I should go," I said, nodding to the door.

"You missing curfew or something?" Dion razzed.

"It's late, we've had a long-ass day."

"I'm wired," he said. "Come on, hang out.
I'll behave."

He flashed me a wicked grin. "Want to play strip
poker?"

"That's not behaving," I pointed out.

"Seriously though," he said. "I want to talk
to you. It's serious."

Dion patted the spot on the bed next to him and I crossed my
arms over my chest. The smoldering look he gave me made my nipples perk up. I
didn't want him to know that just a stupid look from him turned me on.

"What do you want, Dion?"

"I want to apologize for being an ass," he said.
"It clearly effected your ability to play when we were recording the song,
and I don't want that."

"It did not—" I started, but he cut me off.

"This isn't easy for me to say, so let me get this
out," he said. "You're a good drummer, Nik. Better than good. One of
the best I've heard, ever. And that includes Ace."

I dropped down next to him in silence, taking that in.
Saying I was a better drummer than Anthem's was not a small complement. Ace was
considered one of the best in rock and roll.

"You make the band better," Dion continued.
"Dad thinks your version of Ruined is going to land on the Billboard
charts..."

"My version?" I echoed.

"Your version," he repeated, running his hand
along my arm. "Grimm's people think it will break the Top 10. We've never
charted before, forget Top 10. And it's because of you."

"Oh boy," I said, holding my breath.

"Whatever happened between us," he continued.
"It's just what it is, right? Too many bands fall apart when there's shit
going on between members. We have a shot at something here, and I don't want to
blow it."

"Dion, I have my own band," I reminded him.
"I am just a fill in for this tour."

"I don't want you to be a fill in for this tour,"
he said. "I want you to join Rouge Nation. Permanently."

I swallowed. "Oh, man. I don't know what to say."

He squeezed my hand. "Say you'll join us. For
keeps."

I stared as his fingers twined around my own. "I don't
know, Dion. I can't just leave Satan's Sisters."

"Plenty of bands have side projects—" he started.

I snatched my hand away from him. "Satan's Sisters is
not a side project."

"Okay, okay," he said. His hand moved to my leg,
running them lightly up and down the top of my thigh. "Come on, Nik. Let's
figure out a way to make this work."

I swallowed. "You mean the band, right?"

His hand dipped into the gap between my legs. "What do
you think I mean?"

"I have no idea what you mean anymore," I
whispered.

"White Stripes, Fleetwood Mac, Sonny and fucking
Cher," Dion said, his voice low. He moved off the bed and knelt on the
floor in front of me. He ran his hands along the top of my thighs he pushed my
legs apart.

"What about them?" I murmured. Dion crawled
between my legs.

"They split up the band," he said, pulling my head
toward his, his mouth meeting mine. His body slid up against me, pushing me
down to the mattress.

"Jack and Meg White continued playing together after
they broke up," I corrected him, breathless.

"So there's hope," he groaned.

"God, Dion, there weren't supposed to be any
benefits," I whispered before his mouth covered mine.

He pinned my arms above my head while drawing me in with his
deep kiss. His tongue teased my mouth, running along my lips before diving
deeper, teasing my own tongue to life. I wrapped my legs around his waist and
pushed his pelvis into mine. His hardness pressed against me, straining through
his jeans. He released my arms and in one fast movement pushed my tank top and
bra up, exposing my breasts, his hand rubbing one roughly. I writhed with
desire as he ran his thumb back and forth over my nipple.

 I stretched my arms down between us and yanked on the
button of his jeans. His cock sprung out, and I took it in my hand, rubbing the
pre-cum around the tip. I pressed my thumb on the sensitive underside of the
head.

He groaned, nipping his teeth along my neck. "Damn,
Nik, this is why I can't stay away from you."

"I know the feeling," I panted as his teeth moved
from my neck to the rounds of my breasts. He licked his way around the areola
before zooming into my nipple, his teeth grazed it lightly, teasing it to
attention. I lifted my hips to meet his.

Dion rolled off me and pulled off his t-shirt. I marveled at
his hard body while he shimmied out of his pants. He moved over me, stripping
my leggings and panties off. Then he flopped over and relaxed against the
pillows.

"Touch yourself," he commanded. I reached for him,
but he pushed my hand away. "Not yet. I want to watch you touch
yourself."

"Dion—" I started.

"Come on, get on your knees and open your legs,"
he said, his voice husky. "I want to see."

I knelt in front of him on the bed, spreading my legs open.

"Tilt your hips so I can see your pussy," he said.

"I feel weird," I said, giving him a tentative
glance.

"Don't," he said, running his palm along his
shaft. "You look so fucking hot."

I closed my eyes and titled my hips, opening myself towards
him. "What do you want me to do now?"

"Dip your finger in and get it wet," he said. I
did what he told me, my finger covered with my juices. "Now spread that
wetness around, Nik. Rub your clit."

Again, I followed his instructions, shuddering in pleasure
as my fingers worked my clit with tight, fast circles. He pumped his cock with
the same rhythm.

"Open your lips, baby, let me see you."

I slid two fingers along my labia, spreading it open.

He sucked in a breath. "Bring that to me. Now."

I crawled up the bed towards him. When I got within reach,
he grabbed me by the hips and pulled me up to his mouth. I straddled his face,
and he plunged his tongue into my pussy. I gripped the headboard and cried out
at as pleasure rolled every inch of me.

He lapped up and down my slit before he pressed his tongue
against my engorged clit, alternating between working it in circles and then
sucking on it. Then he slid a finger into my wet slit, then a second one,
stretching it, feeling its way up to my sensitive spot. My toes curled as his
fingers found that singular spot against my inner wall and his tongue continued
to work on my button.

He took me to the edge and as my breath rushed out me, he
pulled back, bringing me just to the edge of pleasure again.

"Dion," I gasped, desperate for the sweet release
an orgasm would bring. "You are driving me crazy."

"I want to be inside you when you come," he said,
sliding his body back towards the headboard.

"Do you have a condom?" I whispered, almost afraid
to ask, because I sure as hell didn't and stopping this runaway train was near
impossible.

He reached for his jeans, which were crumpled on the bed,
and pulled out a condom. He ripped it open with his teeth. I watched him roll
it down his shaft. My pussy ached for him to fill me as I lifted my hips and he
guided his sheathed cock into me.

He closed his eyes as I slid down his shaft, slow and
controlled. I stopped halfway and pulled up, then slipped down again, going a
little further thing time. I did this over again, then again. Both of us moaned
in pleasure on the final pass, when I took his cock entirely inside me.

I moved my hips in waves, getting our bodies in synch. His
breath came faster, and he gripped my hipbones. I watched him, eyes half
closed, his already beautiful features made even more so with each movement.