Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 104498 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 522(@200wpm)___ 418(@250wpm)___ 348(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104498 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 522(@200wpm)___ 418(@250wpm)___ 348(@300wpm)
There’s no more talking after that. Only me fucking him, our bodies slapping together, and my balls smacking his ass with every thrust. Sweat gets in my eyes, and my muscles begin to ache, but the need inside me keeps growing until it overflows.
“F-fuuuck,” I scream as I come.
Jet still has his arms braced on the wall, and only when I stop convulsing inside him does he step away, pulling himself off my softening cock.
He smiles at me as he pulls up his pants.
I’m a little wobbly on my feet, not yet able to get my bearings, so Jet steps forward and takes care of the condom for me and then cleans up his mess on the wall.
My pants are still around my ankles when he comes back, and he helps with them too.
Smugness shines in his eyes. “You look wrung out when it should be the other way around.”
I pull him to me and just kiss him because, after that, there are no words.
There’s a knock at the door. “Now that you guys are done, Jay needs to come out here and deal with that comment he made onstage about Fiji.” It’s Luce.
“Damn,” Jet says. “Thought that might’ve caused shit.”
“It was kind of the truth though.” I laugh. “You did come to Fiji to pick me up.”
“Nuh-uh. I went to Fiji to escape my life. You inserted yourself into it instead.”
“You sound so upset by that. I mean, what we’re doing is so … hard to deal with.” My hands find their way to his now covered ass. I sigh at the clothing. I don’t like it. It should be illegal for Jet Jackson to wear clothes.
“Let me take care of the press, and then we’ll head back to the hotel, okay?”
“And then you’ll make an appointment with the tour doctor?”
“Someone’s eager.”
“Always am when it comes to you.”
Jet looks like he wants to say something to that, but instead, he gives me a peck on the cheek and walks out into the dressing room, only wearing his pants and no shirt.
I grab his shirt from the floor and follow him out, expecting to be totally annihilated by mockery for having very loud sex in a very small bathroom, but no one even bats an eye.
Marty must sense me waiting for the joke. “Don’t worry. It’s not a real rock tour if no one’s fucking in the dressing room.”
I could easily get used to this rock star lifestyle.
Chapter Twenty-Two
JET
Because Harley disappears after soundcheck in Seattle, and Soren and I disappear after Radioactive’s set, we avoid the inevitable run-in with him.
The same happens in Vancouver.
It gives me a false sense of security, which is why in Salt Lake City, toward the end of my set when I take the opportunity in between songs to take a drink of water, I don’t know what’s going on when the audience starts screaming as if Chester Bennington himself came back from the dead and walked onstage.
I turn. Nope, not Chester Bennington. Just Harley Valentine.
“Hello, Salt Lake City!”
As Harley passes Benji and comes straight for me onstage, Benji takes a step back and mumbles something to him, but Harley ignores him and keeps coming for me.
The crowd is still screaming, the sound echoing in my ears.
This is the closest I’ve been to Harley in the week since we rejoined the tour, and he still has the ability to make my nerves get the better of me.
Messy, short brown hair. Growth on his chin that has a ginger tinge. High cheekbones on full display. Sad but beautiful dull-blue eyes that are green in some light. It should be a sin how pretty my ex-boyfriend is.
I plaster on a smile and speak through gritted teeth, making sure my mouth is nowhere near my mic. “What are you doing?”
“Putting on a good show?” He turns to the audience which is still too busy going nuts to calm down. “I was chilling backstage, listening to Radioactive rock your world, when I realized I hadn’t officially welcomed them back on tour with us.” Harley has to yell into the mic to be heard over the noise of the crowd.
The joys of boy band mania.
“Now, Jay here. I happen to know he’s from a small town all the way down in Tennessee, so I figured a good ol’ ‘Tennessee Whiskey’ toast might be in order.”
I shake my head but play it off like “Aww, shucks” instead of “I want to fucking murder you.” He used to hum this song to mock me. I always found it endearing until now.
“Know your audience, dude,” I mutter. “No one here is gonna know that song.”
“You know I’m all about educating youth on good music. You gonna start? Can’t promise them something and then take it away.”
With a huff, I play the opening chords and take my position at my mic, while Harley sings and shows off the more soulful tone of his voice.