Steady Beat (12 page)

And no matter how much she tried to fight it, Noah
knew
he and Pepper were going to be out together a lot in public. It was what couples did, famous or not.

His erection rubbed at the zipper of his trousers, happy with
that
notion.

Shifting on the bed, he gave Pepper a hopeful smile. “So? About that very public, very platonic taxi ride to JFK?”

Pepper’s answering smile was wry. “No.” She hugged her elbows. “But you can pick me up tomorrow if you like? To go to the…” She waved her hand about, a small frown playing with her eyebrows. “Wherever it is we are going to sing.”

Noah’s chest tightened. He nodded. “Deal.”

And before she could say another word, he straightened from the bed, dropped a brief kiss on her lips and hurried from the room.

He was going to kill Samuel when he got to the airport for calling when he had.

After he thanked him for the exact same reason. Samuel would be as confused as all hell, but Noah didn’t care. There was no doubt in Noah’s mind if his friend hadn’t called he would be buried deep in Pepper’s body right now and, as much as he wanted that, he wanted to show her he wasn’t just out to get his own way. Now all he needed to do was climb into his limo and get away from her before he ran back into her room and begged her to change her mind.

Thank bloody God, the limo
did
have privacy glass. It would take at least an hour to get to JFK, and the tension in Noah’s body wasn’t going to dissipate by itself. Not after experiencing the intoxicating power of Pepper’s pleasure. If he didn’t relieve the straining need in his cock, he’d be greeting Strings in a busy airport lounge with a hard-on.

Frank was nowhere to be seen as Noah crossed to the door of her apartment. That was fortuitous. Frank seemed a good bloke, but Noah didn’t have it in him to have a chat on the way out.

Rather than take the lift, he ran down the six flights of stairs to the foyer. By the time he reached it, his hard-on had softened somewhat. Enough to let him walk without pain. Enough to not be noticeable. He dropped into a spongy armchair to the side of the foyer entry and called the limo. “I’m ready.”

“Shall be right there, sir,” the driver responded.

Noah killed the connection and waited, his right foot bouncing on the floor in a frenzied blur.

“Motor running
,” his mum had called it.

“Inability to switch off and sit still
,” Heather had complained.

No one came into the foyer during the five minutes he was there. For that, he was grateful. He didn’t shun the attention fame brought, it had never really bugged him, but he wanted to sit and think about Pepper and what he was feeling for her without the distraction of interacting with anyone who recognized him.

Thinking about Pepper however, was a mistake. By the time the limo pulled to a halt outside the building a few minutes later, he was as hard as a bloody pole again.

He threw himself into the opulent backseat, said g’day to the driver, told him to drive to JFK domestic arrivals and then raised the privacy glass.

Five pumps of his hand later, just five, and his seed spurted from his engorged dick, filling the tissue he cupped over his bulbous cockhead.

Noah didn’t know whether to be ashamed of his lack of staying power, or accept the potent effect Pepper Kerrigan had over his body.

The situation still haunted him as he strode through JFK, sunglasses firmly in place. He heard his name whispered only once. The beauty of being the drummer for a famous band was only the real fans and music freaks recognized him. His face had never appeared on any of Nick’s album covers. He’d rarely had posters dedicated to him in the kind of magazines aimed at teenage girls. Even when footage of Nick singing live had been the video clip for his latest release, Noah had only appeared in it briefly, usually thrashing out on the kit, hair a sweaty mess of damp strands, eyes closed, head down. It was only when the band used to appear in public places like airports and restaurants
with
Nick that they would be assaulted by squealing women and paparazzi. Strings had suffered a similar frenzied attention as Nick, to a lesser degree, hence the employment of Brutal. That attention hadn’t abated at all, despite Nick’s retirement six years ago, most likely because Samuel still rocked the stage often with other music legends and performers.

Noah frowned.

Would that kind of crazy interest happen with Pepper as the lead singer of Synergy? Would the fans go wild for them with a woman as the front man? Or would the female fans drop off, only to be replaced by horny men lusting after Pepper?

Cold anger and jealousy speared through Noah at the thought.

He hadn’t given a toss about men drooling over Heather whenever she appeared in a
Sports Illustrated
. To be honest, he thought the idea kind of flattering he had something others wanted, so why was the idea of Pepper facing unknown adulation and frenzied worship so…unsettling?

“About time.”

Samuel’s disgruntled snarl yanked Noah back to the here and now. He blinked, surprised to find himself in the airline’s opulent lounge reserved for first-class passengers.

He looked about, wondering how the hell he’d walked into the place without being stopped. Or maybe he had. He’d been pretty bloody focused on thoughts of Pepper. Or should that be distracted by thoughts of Pepper? Giving his friend a grin, he shoved his hands into his pockets. “Y’know, you really do need to address this issue you have with taxis. Just because one driver turns out to be a insane fan who tries to abduct you doesn’t mean they’re all like that.”

Ignoring Noah’s observation, Samuel adjusted the beat-up leather cowboy hat he always wore out in public. “Ha ha. What took you so long?”

“I was wanking off.”

Samuel rolled his eyes. “Great. Now there’s an image I’m stuck with for life.”

“You’ve seen me jerking off more than once,” Noah pointed out. “As Pepper’s dad
did
point out in that article years ago, we weren’t exactly altar-boy candidates.”

“Speaking of wanking off—” Samuel held a folded magazine out to Noah, “—have you seen this?”

Taking the offered publication, Noah opened it flat and glanced at the front cover. It was one of those trashy gossip magazines that sold a shitload of copies and sprouted “anonymous source” bullshit in every edition. The kind most celebrities despised. There were some celebs however, who courted the sensationalized attention. The kind who knew how to use the pages within to further their public exposure. Those whose star was waning or hungered even more interest.

The cover of this edition was no different from any other—ridiculous headlines plastered over paparazzi-captured images of famous people. So-and-so’s career was in turmoil because of their dubious sexual activities, a Hollywood couple’s marriage was in crisis because the A-list actor husband was caught sleeping with the nanny, a baby was on the way for an award-winning songstress, but the father was not her fiancé. Same old same old.

Frowning, he looked up at Samuel. “So? What am I looking at? Holy shit, did you know Tom Hanks is sitting at the bar behind you? Did you—”

Samuel snapped his fingers in front of Noah’s face. “Focus, Holden. Focus.” He jabbed a finger at the cover, a sharp thrust that almost knocked the magazine from Noah’s grip. “Check out the bottom right headline.”

Noah returned his attention to the magazine.

Heather Lang Wants Her Drummer Back.

Noah’s heart kicked up a notch. He frowned. Read the headline again. A prickling itch razed over his scalp. Opening the cover, he sought out the page number for the article.

Forty-two.

Turning to the correct page, he found an image of Heather in all her sensual, bikini-clad glory filling one half of it. On the opposite page, a collection of images took up most of the space, two that tore at Noah’s chest, two that tore at his sanity. One that stole his breath.

“She’s a piece of work,” Samuel’s growl scraped at Noah’s roaring mind.

Noah didn’t look at him.

He stared at the images on page forty-three.

The top two were of him and Heather in better times, her hand wrapped around his right biceps as they shopped on Rodeo Drive; his arms wrapped around her waist as they played with Maxie the mutt on Venice Beach. They were laughing and obviously happy in each photograph.

The next two images were of Heather and their dog walker. In both, the two of them were kissing in a park somewhere, Maxie’s lead wrapped around their legs, their bodies pressed so close together Noah wondered where Heather stopped and Ricardo began.

The last image, taking up the bottom quarter of page forty-three, was of Pepper and Noah, hand in hand outside Rupert’s Bar two weeks ago.

Noah studied it, his throat thick.

Pepper’s naturally dark sable hair was such a contrast to Heather’s saloon-perfected blonde. Pepper’s sensuality seemed restrained compared to the overt lushness of Heather’s million-dollar curves. Pepper’s creamy skin was a pale mirror to Heather’s sun-kissed bronze.

They were so different.

“Well?”

Noah ignored Samuel, lifting his stare to the headline slashed across the top of the double-page spread.

I Was So Stupid
.

He read the first paragraph, his mouth dry.

Supermodel Heather Lang knows she’s made a mistake. It wasn’t the images of her long-time lover, Noah Holden, the drummer of Nick Blackthorne’s band, holding another woman’s hand that made her realize it. It was waking every day without him in the bed beside her. According to a source close to the model, Lang has regretted leaving Holden for their dog walker since she ended their eight-year relationship. Lang spends most of her days lamenting how much she loves the rock star and, according to the source, aches for him to take her back. “She’s devastated,” says the close friend, who spoke to us anonymously. “She’s stopped eating, is turning down jobs and listening to nothing but Nick Blackthorne albums, crying at every drum solo.”

“Noah?”

Noah swallowed. The words on the page seemed to swirl before him in a jarring mess. He blinked, his eyes scratchy, as if half the sand from the image of him and Heather at the beach were in them.

“Noah?”

Chest tight, he lifted his stare to Samuel.

“I take it you haven’t seen this before?”

Noah shook his head.

“Has Pepper?”

Noah let out a harsh breath. “Not that I know of.”

Worry pulled at Samuel’s frown. “How much did you read?”

“Just the beginning.”

Samuel released his own ragged sigh. “You need to read the last paragraph.”

Noah returned to the magazine, seeking out the end of the article. His gut knotted.

Pepper Kerrigan is the daughter of
Rolling Stone
journalist, Paul Kerrigan, now deceased. She was the manager of grunge-rock band, Black Toad Dare, before they found fame with a different manager. The source close to Lang believes Kerrigan is using Holden in a deluded attempt to gain access to the band, hoping to convince them to reform. The band’s manager, Roger Daltry, was not available for comment.

“Fuck,” Noah muttered.

“Yeah, you could say that,” Samuel said. “Not to rub salt into the wound, mate, but I told you from the get-go—”

“Don’t.”

Samuel’s eyebrows shot up at Noah’s low snarl. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t tell me Pepper’s just trying to—”

“Shit, Noah,” Samuel cut him off. “I wasn’t going to say that. I was going to tell you Heather wasn’t good for you. I was going to say she was toxic and you’re better without her.”

Noah’s rage left him in a silent sigh. He scraped his fingers through his hair, flicking his gaze around the opulent airport lounge. A distant part of his mind told him Brad Pitt had joined Tom Hanks at the bar. Another part noticed the ceiling needed painting. His chest ached, as if someone had dumped a floor tom on it. His heart slammed so hard and fast in his throat he wondered how he heard anything else at all.

But he did.

He heard the muted conversations of the passengers in the lounge, the clink of ice cubes in glasses, the thrum of luggage wheels on linoleum flooring.

He heard Samuel’s waiting silence as his friend stood before him.

He heard Heather telling him she loved him a lifetime ago.

He heard Maxie the mutt barking as Heather led him from their house in L.A. three months ago.

He heard Pepper singing in the Loft in SoHo. He heard the sublime beauty of her voice.

He heard the potent rapture of her orgasm.

“…if she asks you to go back to her?”

Noah frowned, sliding his stare back to Samuel. “What?”

Samuel studied him, his expression serious. “What are you going to do if Heather calls and apologizes? What are you going to do if she asks you to go back to her?”

Noah’s scalp prickled. He lowered his gaze to the image of Heather on the first page of the magazine’s article, taking in the curve of her hips, the round heaviness of her breasts barely contained by the skimpy white triangles of her bikini top. He looked at the glossiness of her parted lips, remembering the way they used to slide down his length.