ARROGANT BRIT (A BRITISH BAD BOY ROMANCE) (39 page)

–Nikki Wild

Chapter 1

Trent

“Dude! These groupies are
totally
ready to go!” My dreadlocked
bastard of a bohemian
guitarist
laughed, splashing his bottle of beer in an arc.

The two hot young girls
wrapped around him cooed a chorus of flirtatious giggles. They must have been
just barely eighteen, clad in tight, low-cut shirts that made their silky,
angelic breasts practically burst out of the seams.

Despite my lack of interest,
I wasn’t about to rain on his parade. I lightly raised my own bottle of music
festival beer to him, shaking my head.

“You go on ahead, man. Not
feelin’ it tonight.”

No matter where we went,
fans were throwing themselves at us – and my band-mates were always eager to
take the free, willing pussy back to the bus for a fresh bang.

In fact, my bassist and
drummer were already back there now, getting their freak on with a few nameless
groupies now.

“Serious?” Waylon asked
drunkenly.

His limber playing hand slid
under a skirt and along a tanned, tender ass, drawing a blush from the
groupie’s cheeks. The sight made my cock almost twitch.

Almost.

“You sure you don’t want to
try a piece of this Alabama ‘tang?” He pressed on. “Plenty to go around. I’m
not greedy.”

The groupie twosome puffed
their chests and wiggled provocatively for me, giving me the deepest pair of
sultry, lustful looks that they could muster.

They looked cute.

Cute, and too young to be
acting like this.

“Think I’m just gonna relax
and ride the vibe,” I reaffirmed. “Go get your dick wet.”

“If you say so!”

“And ladies,” I continued,
turning towards the girls, who settled down and looked at me almost fearfully.
“Don’t keep him up all night. This guy needs to be shredding licks same time
tomorrow.”

They nodded respectfully,
but Waylon jumped up to his feet, his dreads scattering around his face
briefly.

“Ain’t gonna happen. This
train rides ‘til sunrise! Ain’t that right, ladies?”

They chuckled with big,
goofy hero-worshipping grins on their faces. He scooped them up against his
sides, and soon they stumbled off towards the back of the after-party, heading
for our bus.

Joke’s
on them,
I thought to myself.
Waylon’s
a two-pump chump on a GOOD day.

Truth of the matter was that
I’d been in a funk. For the last few weeks, I had turned down sex left, right,
and center from even the most flexible little minxes.

A constant stream of the
hottest goddamn chicks around went fucking wild for us on the regular.

And why shouldn’t they?

We weren’t just anybody.

We were
Trent Masters and the Whiplash,
the hottest fucking rock band in
America.

On national radiowaves dominated
by DJs making music off of laptops, mainstream child stars glammed up and given
backing bands, and egotistical personalities lacking substance and spitting
shit…we brought something better.

Something
harder.

Something
real
.

Something apparently sorely
missed.

Our latest album,
Twelve Machines,
was flying off the
shelves across the country. The last two singles went platinum. Hell, talks of
a Grammy nomination were already in the pipeline.

I was on top of the fucking
world.

Or I should have felt like I
was.

But all I felt was empty
inside, and even the quick fix of endless sex didn’t quell the tension.

It was hard to think I was
taking advantage of these girls when they grinded up against me at
after-parties like this, always seeming so desperate to give my cock the old
spit-shine.

It just didn’t feel right.

But… I couldn’t tell what I
wanted instead.

What I
needed
.

I drank another swig from my
bottle of beer, watching the other bands delight in the attention. We were in
town for this badass music festival called the
RipFest
, and we’d shared the stage with some serious rock legends
and decent upcoming talent.

They were having fun. Even
the older, crustier guys looked like they were having a blast, likely filled
with enough drugs to bring down a Bull Rhino in its prime.

It’s not like I wasn’t
grateful… I was just… Lost.

The constant attention was
overwhelming – too much of a great fucking thing. I had to be careful about the
shit I said, because rock stars were even
closer
to scandal in this day and age.

Everything constantly
recorded, rumors spread with the speed of a tweet and the snap of a camera on
some girl’s iPhone.

It was all about being
careful and avoiding the wrong kind of spotlight. Blogs are eager for clicks,
and the whole world is ready to tear you down to build an audience.

I’d paid my dues.

No more practicing in oily
garages and filthy bars. No more struggling in hard labor and backbreaking jobs
to make ends meet. I wasn’t going to let some little misstep tear me down.

Despite the bullshit, the
throne on this rising fucking star felt grand.

But as the light grew
brighter…the shadows only grew filthier. Despite all the fame, all the success,
all the money and women and the fancy toys. I knew the truth.

The world is a filthy place.

And I am the reigning king
of the filth.

Chapter
2

Angel

Summoning every drop of
charisma that I could find, I smiled and plunked down the glasses at the
four-top bar table for the graying, slovenly bikers. I rattled off the orders
as I sloshed the drinks in front of them in turn, each of them smiling
grotesquely.

“Four drafts: Bud, Bud,
Miller Lite, and Abita. And four shots of Fireball, because
why not
,” I added mirthlessly.

“Thanks, darlin’,” the
closest biker chuckled, lifting his shot and suddenly grabbing a nice handful
of my ass.

I flinched and drew back
from him, preserving my pride – and my job – by not responding poorly to the
harassment.

“Can I get you guys anything
else?”

It was less a question, and
more a growl.

“One other thing.”

He dropped his menu on the
ground, and looked at me expectantly.

“Step onto that.”

I was used to this by now,
and I suppressed a heavy sigh and a filthy look. Instead, I stepped
meaningfully onto the discarded menu.

“We’ll take one of
you
,” he grinned.

“You can’t have one of me.”

“But darlin’, you’re on the
menu!”

They broke into riotous
laughter, as if this was the cleverest fucking joke ever.

It
was
pretty funny the first time someone did it to me. Months ago…
People are less original than they think. I heard this one twice a week.

“Looks like we’re fresh
out,” I responded, scooping the menu off the floor and strolling away.

Out of the corner of my eye,
I saw their laughter die down, and they were looking at me with annoyance for
not playing along.

To
hell with ‘em.

To
hell with everything about this stupid goddamn job.

I hated working this
ancient, decrepit dive bar. The money was just good enough to keep myself
afloat, and bartending was fun enough, but not somewhere like this.

If it wasn’t bikers, it was
rednecks.

If it wasn’t rednecks, it
was thugs.

If it wasn’t thugs…

A shiver went up my spine. I
didn’t like to think about that.

Old Greg owned this place,
and he was a friendly enough guy. Hell, he’d been a godsend. A lifelong
resident of this backwater little town, he was old enough to be my grandfather.
His best patron was our sheriff – someone who turned a blind eye when I was brought
onboard to tend bar at sixteen.

At least
that
was no longer a problem. I’d turned
eighteen pouring drinks.

When it was slow and I was
cleaning glasses or wiping surfaces, I dreamed of exactly what you’d think a
bright, young girl who dream about in a place like this:

Getting the
hell
out of Riverton.

That was the name of this
place. The town, not the bar. Well, the bar too, technically.

Riverton
Bar
, in
Riverton… On
Riverton Avenue.

Remember when I said people
aren’t original?

That applies to the friendly
ones, too.

Dropping the drink tray off
at the stack, I passed back around the counter and checked on my other patrons
– several working-class stragglers, downing cheap beer specials, an older
fellow nursing a whiskey neat, and a few older crones sipping heavy martinis.

Satisfied, I began taking
stock of my liquors. I was gonna have to pop open a bottle of Crown soon, and
we were still out of half our rum…

While I checked things off
on my clipboard, I noticed someone approaching the bar. I didn’t think much of
it, and I continued my work for a moment. I was busy, and the shadow could see
that.

Whoever it was, he could
wait a minute.

Ticking a couple of more
checks, I finally turned around to see the same biker from before – the jester
of the group.

Well, more like the leader,
from the way the other bikers regarded him. He was leering at me for some
reason, and I felt a pit deep in my stomach.

“You forgot something,” he
grumbled.

“Sorry,” I answered, letting
my tone demonstrate how unapologetic I really was. “My memory’s a bit fuzzy.
What was it?”

He sat an empty shot glass
on the counter.

I glanced at it, then back
up to him.

“I wasn’t kidding. I really
don’t remember. What was it again?”

His eye twitched, but he
backed off a little.

“Crown.”

“Oh, right,” I nodded,
reaching for the liquor bottle. “Fireball shots for everyone, and another Crown
for you.” If he’d have been any less of a total creep, I would have snuck him a
second one, just to make up for it.

It wasn’t becoming for a bartender
to have to scribble down the drink orders, but I’d been managing pretty well
all night. On crazy nights, I took the excuse to do it, which made things run
way less stressful for me.

Of course, it was on a
simple shot for the most intimidating and questionable guy all night that I’d
lose my train of focus.

“Here you go,” I placed it
back down on the counter for him.

“Thanks,” he grumbled,
walking away.

But he was still watching me
out of the corner of his eye. I didn’t like it.

I sighed inwardly, turning
to my other patrons. They’d been trying to ignore the raucous bikers, but even
they
could sense the unsettling tension
in the room that had developed around the group.

And
there was the way they looked at me…

Maybe I’d get lucky and
they’d lose interest before closing time. Risking a quick look, I caught the
big biker staring, a crooked smile growing across his unshaven face.

I’d never been a very
lucky
girl…