Heart Broke (Hard Rock Roots Book 8) (17 page)

I glance back towards the stairs looking for Sydney again, but she's still nowhere to be seen.

Fuck.

One half day into our new relationship and I'm getting possessive. Christ no. I don't want to end up acting like Turner Campbell.

I run a hand through my hair and try to concentrate on getting through this interview without making an ass out of myself. Thus far, I'm pretty damn sure I've 'failed' all the others.

I realize I'm frowning and put on a more neutral expression, my gaze sliding back over to Brayden Ryker.

He's gone.

My body tenses, my hands curling into fists as Miley clears her throat about a dozen times and forces my attention back in her direction. I imagine that's something she's used to doing, drawing attention like that. I hate her already.

I focus my attention back on the cameras, on Rain Colbert, that producer bitch that's apparently attached to Miley at the hip.
What a fucking nightmare. I hate Hollywood almost as much as I hate the girl sitting across from me.
She watches Rain for a moment and then turns her flashing smile on the camera.

“Hey there
Live Work
fans, this is Miley Culbrath checking in with a special sneak peek at the network's newest show, a reality television program that is so
on fleek,
you're gonna wanna get your brows done just to watch it.” Miley slides her thumbs over her arched blonde brows and tosses a smile at me. For my part, I just try not to throw up. “We're counting down the cast of the show, starting with Dax McCann, the drummer for the band that's got everyone talking: Amatory Riot. So mark your calendars and get ready for the upcoming premiere of reality television gone wrong …” Miley pauses to make a
rock on
symbol with her fingers and stick out her tongue (she looks ridiculous by the way). “Get ready for
Hard Rock Roots
!”

My breath catches in my chest as I glance sideways out the window and happen to catch Sydney on the edge of the wall surrounding the property.
The hell is going on? When the fuck did she sneak
out of here?
I sit up straight and watch as she drops to the ground on the other side, running her hands down the dusty fabric of the white maxi dress she's got on. When she tosses a look my way, our eyes meet and I know, just
know
that something weird is going on.

“So, Dax, it's no secret that you, and your band, have been through hell and back. Can you tell me a little more about that?” Miley leans forward, blonde hair scraping past her ears as she stares at me like she gives two craps about me and mine. I can barely look at her before my gaze is drawn right back to Sydney. Without skipping a beat, she flings the sliding glass door open and comes to stand directly in front of the camera.

There's a moment of complete silence as she stares at me, panting hard, face sweaty from the dry heat I can feel sweeping in the open sliding doors.

“Dax,” she says, just that one word.

It's more than enough to scare the shit out of me.

I'm on my feet in an instant, my fingers curling around her upper arms. Sydney is usually so …
Sydney.
To say she doesn't show emotion is a lie because she's expressive as fuck, but this is different. I've never seen her so open, so vulnerable, so … excited?

Those gorgeous curvy lips of hers curl up in a smile, dressed in bright red lipstick that shimmers like wet paint. I want to watch it smear across the head of my dick as she sucks me off, and then I want to kiss the rest of it off her face. For a second there, I almost forget about the cameras. I don't think that's the case with Sydney. Pretty sure she's fully aware of their existence; she just doesn't give a fuck.

“I got another gig,” she says, leaning back and looking up into my face. “I got another offer.”

“Excuse me, we're in the middle of an interview here,” Miley says, her voice as full of venom as a fer-de-lance pit viper.

“Shut your trap, I'm talking,” Sydney says before reaching down and grabbing my hand. Her fingers are hot and sweaty where they brush against my flesh, doing absolutely nothing to help my growing erection. I think I have a serious problem here. Like, a call the doctor and get my dick checked out kind. It's not normal to have a woody for hours on end.

“The hell did you say to me, you basic bitch?” Miley says, rising from her seat like one of those angry ass monkeys you see at the zoo. My gaze flicks over to Paulette Washington and the Kafkaesque grin spread across her Beverly Hills perfect face. Yup. Exhibits. We're all fucking exhibits.

“Maybe we should take this somewhere else?” I ask, curling my fingers around Sydney's hand and hoping like hell this situation doesn't spiral out of control. The expression on her face is hard to read, but I recognize the same violet flicker of anger that crossed her blue eyes before she called America out as a bourgeois bitch.
Shit.
And all of this is happening on frigging camera. By no accident, I'm sure. I'm happy for Sydney, but a modeling contract that rolls in like a flash flood? No way that's simple happenstance.

“So not worth my time,” Sydney murmurs, and there's this crystal clear moment where I compare her smack up against thoughts of Naomi Knox. If some chimp-faced celebrity had called Knox a basic bitch, blows would've been exchanged for sure. Sydney, she's smarter than that. She knows when and where to pour her energy, and Miley Culbrath just doesn't rank.

“Miss Charell,” Ponytail squeaks from behind us, but we're already moving, fleeing through the archway into a sitting room furnished with nothing but a desk, a pair of sparsely decorated bookshelves and what's got to be a freakishly expensive Persian rug.
How did Turner and his buddies end up buying a house owned by America's sister? That's no accident. No fucking accident.

“Sorry about your interview,” Sydney says. She doesn't sound sorry at all.

Fuck. I really like this girl.

“You got an offer?” I ask, reluctantly releasing Sydney's hand so she can lock the door behind us. There's an entire wall of glass open to the backyard, but I guess that doesn't really matter as long as Paulette and crew can't hear us. I reach down, unclip my mic and move over to the sliding glass doors, tossing it outside on the patio before I close them again. “Out of the blue?”

“I'm not an idiot,” Sydney says, waving her hand around like she's not offended by my statement, but like she's already fully aware of the implications. “I got a phone call after you went upstairs, so I went outside to smoke a cigarette and talk.” She takes a deep breath and smoothes her hands over her blonde hair. “
Tin Dolls
Magazine,” she breathes and my heart skips like, sixty beats.

Tin Dolls
is a hundred times, a
thousand
times bigger than
Tattoo Terror
. They sell more physical copies than
Sports Illustrated—
and that doesn't even begin to describe how many people visit their website.

So. My new girlfriend naked in front of millions. Me. Standing here like an asshole, wanting to be all women's rights and sexual freedom and fuck modesty, but goddamn it. I'm jealous as hell.

“That's incredible,” I blurt, and even that comes out sounding … not quite right. I start thinking about Billy Crystal quotes from
When Harry Met Sally,
and have to choke back on my nervous goofball twitch.

“A little
too
incredible,” Sydney says, swiping some sweat from her brow as she stands there all too-cool and don't-give-a-fuck with her hip cocked and her striped bikini clearly visible beneath the thin, flowing fabric of her dress. “So I said
fuck yes, sign me up.
And then I climbed the wall and had a small panic attack. Brayden followed me out there and told me what I already figured. The Washingtons, they own
Tin Dolls
,” Sydney says as she fluffs her hair and makes a growling sound in her throat. “I mean, of course they do, right?” She gives me a look that says she's not surprised, just pissed. “Oh, and LMTV. And Rockersbloodpills.com. And
Rollin' Strong
Magazine.”

“Fantastic,” I say, my throat as dry as the fucking desert outside the wall of windows. I mean, you hear of global elites, families with net worths in the billions, creepy ass clandestine monopolies and corporate plots, but … to actually be embroiled in one? Kind of fucking freaky.

I close my eyes for a second and take a deep breath, only to feel Sydney's hands at my belt buckle.

“Oh God …” I start, but Sydney's not doing what I wish she was doing, not yet anyway. Instead she's biting her lower lip and looking up at me with a face that could launch—and sink—a thousand ships. She always plays everything so cucumber fucking cool, but right now, that look on her face is speaking volumes.

“Do I turn down the offer on principle?” she asks me, sliding her hands up and under my shirt, nails scraping across my abs. If I wasn't already hard … well, you get the drift. My muscles clench tight as she touches them, heading straight up to my nipples. On impulse, I reach up and clamp my hands over her wrists, pinning her arms under my shirt.

One blonde brow slides up and a wicked smile crosses those shiny red lips.

“You do realize I was in the middle of an interview?” I say, almost breathless.
Jesus fuck, but I'm totally into this chick.

“At least I didn't French you this time,” Sydney muses, trying to pull her hands out from under my shirt. “I was just trying to be all girlfriend-y and shit. I came to you first, you know. We might be on day one of our relationship, but it's never too early to start, right?” My heart swells at her words—and it's not the only body part responding favorably to her presence, her touch. “So, tell me, what do you think? Do I take the offer, even if it's bathed in blood? Or do I tell them to fuck off?”

“Do you have to pose naked?” I ask, feeling my lip quirk up in the corner. Briefly, I lift my eyes from Sydney's face to look out into the backyard. I don't see anyone, just the cool blue of the swimming pool and the gentle sway of palms. “Because even though I really hate to admit it, I'm jealous as fuck.”

“So there's come caveman in you yet,” Sydney purrs as I flick my gaze back to hers, taking in her white-blonde hair, the navy blue liner around her eyes, the sea of colorful tattoos on her chest and shoulders. Sydney Charell is a fucking art piece, a museum worth visiting, and I'm not sure how I feel about crowds getting in line for my exhibit.

Fuck.

Did I seriously just think that? Maybe all men are pigs. I thought I was more evolved than Turner, but I'm having a really hard goddamn time thinking past my dick right now.

“We've already sold our souls to the devil,” I say, referencing the contract for our new reality TV show.
Hard Rock Roots, huh? Catchy title.
“So why the fuck not? If we're going to be bossed around and threatened and shot at, we might as well make it worth it.” I swallow hard. I'm still not comfortable with the fact that Sydney's been caught up in all this shit. It's not fair and some distant part of me is afraid that it's because of me. If Sydney and I hadn't been so drawn to each other, if she hadn't been there to see Tara die, spent so much goddamn time trying to keep me from pulling the trigger on myself, would she be safe?

“So … you're saying go for it?” she asks casually, and I realize with a start that Sydney isn't just trying to be nice right now. She actually gives a small fuck about what I think. “I mean, obviously I was going to anyway, but if you're saying I should then I can feel a tad bit less guilty about the whole affair.”

“Your fingers are massaging my nipples,” I tell her with all due seriousness. “Do you think I'm capable of saying anything less than yes at this point?”

Sydney grins at me as I let go of her arms. Instead of stepping away from me, she moves her hands to the hem of my shirt and helps me pull it up and over, sliding it down my arms before tossing the black fabric on the floor in a heap.

I should be concerned about the interview, about Paulette Washington or Brayden Ryker or even Miley and her manager, Rain Colbert, but all I give a crap about right now is Sydney.

Her moist red lips press against my left pec, the hot flick of her tongue burning its way down my chest as she alternates kissing and licking my heated skin. The AC might be on in here, but I'm burning frigging hot right now.

My right hand comes up, the dark ghastly twist of pain tattooed across my skin a stark contrast to the bright colors of Sydney's tattoos, the pale color of her hair as I slide my fingers up her neck and tangle it in my fist. An uncontrollable sigh escapes my lips as my stomach muscles tighten involuntarily, overwhelmed by the thrill of Sydney's mouth. When she makes it down to my waistband and starts working her way across my lower abs, I lose control and give her a gentle push down to her knees.

In less than five seconds, she's got my belt undone, opening the fly on my jeans and taking my swollen cock into her hand. When Sydney splays her right hand on my hip and slips my dick between her bright red lips, I almost come right away. Looking down at her like this, her curves ridiculously obvious beneath the thin fabric of her dress, I can't think straight anymore.

“God, yes,” I groan, putting pressure on the back of Sydney's head, seeing how far she can take me into her throat. All-the-fucking-way apparently. My balls tighten as she slides back, her lower lip bumping into my piercings, electrifying my body through the shaft of my cock until my heart's been jump-started and my brain ceases to function. I'm barely human when I come hard inside her mouth, feel her swallow my seed while she's still got my dick crammed in her throat.

When Sydney pulls back, I kneel down in front of her, keeping my grip on the back of her head. When we kiss, I taste myself on her lips and it turns me on even more. Her moans fill my mouth as I slide my left hand up her side and massage her breast through the fabric of the dress.

“You gonna love me right, Dax McCann?” Sydney whispers as I pull back with a small smirk and look down at her. You'd think with so much going on around me, I'd be distracted, nervous, upset, but I just don't have it in me anymore. I've spent the last few weeks moping around and acting like an asshole, but now that I've given myself permission to try this thing out with Sydney, to stop fighting myself on it, it feels like a weight's been lifted off my shoulders.