Page 9 of Country Heat

This is baby-making music. This is what I want to hear her singing. What I want her to say to me.

I need to hear these words coming out of her mouth—innocent meets filthy, angelic meets devilish. I’m getting hard just thinking about it.

I glance at the unopened bottle of Bourbon in the corner. Usually, I’d toast the end of a song with half a bottle. Instead, I walk over and chuck it all—the whiskey, the beer, the cigarettes—straight into the trash. Done. I don’t need that shit anymore. I have her.

I no longer need to ease the pain of existence. Not when existence with her in the world is so damn sweet.

In three days, at Graham Marshall’s big launch party on his ranch, I’ll finally see her again. My brain is already spinning fantasies of cornering her somewhere private, pressing her up against the wall. Maybe I’ll whisper these lyrics in her ear and watch her cheeks turn pink. The idea makes my blood run hot.

It makes my cock rock hard.

Instead of the bottle, I wrap my hands around my hard dick and start stroking. Thinking of her. Thinking of Thursday…

It can’t come fast enough.

CHAPTER FOUR

Lola

Ialways get so nervous at these celebrity parties. Imposter syndrome is running hot as I walk up the long driveway to the giant doors of this insane mansion.

Graham Marshall is rock and roll royalty. He was the lead singer of Cyanide Twist for two decades and is now going solo after the unfortunate passing of the other core member of the band, guitarist and singer, Niles Walker. It’s been five years since Graham released an album and apparently, it’s amazing from what I’ve heard. This giant star-filled party is here to celebrate its launch.

Everyone loves Graham. He’s been so good to so many people. He’s always so inspiring and loves to get all these creative and talented people together.

My first contact with him was when a video of me singing an acoustic version ofOf You, For Youat the Huntington Fair went mini-viral. He sent me a nice handwritten letter urging me to continue with my music career and to never give up since Ihad ‘real talent.’ I nearly died. That letter is still framed on my bedroom wall.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” my guitarist Sasha says as she looks around all wide-eyed with a big smile on her face.

“Holy shit,” my bass guitarist Clyde says, looking at the various Ferraris and Lamborghinis parked on the huge cobblestone roundabout in front of the mansion. “That’s Drippy Don.”

I look over and see the hip hop star sitting on the hood of a yellow Bugatti while talking on the phone. This is surreal.

Rachel hooks her arm around mine and grins as we walk. “Think Cash is going to be here?”

“I don’t know.” I shrug innocently, but my nerves are bouncing around like buzzing electrons. I’ve been thinking about him nonstop all week.

“I saw the way he was looking at you,” she says with a grin. “He’s going to be here.”

God, I hope so.

My heart is pounding as I look down at my outfit. I had no idea what to wear and after trying on every outfit in my closet at least once, I settled on a sparkly black mini skirt, a designer gray tank top that shows just a hint of cleavage, and some black cowboy boots. I’m also wearing my favorite gold necklace that my parents gave me when I graduated high school. It’s simple and probably the least expensive piece of jewelry on this whole entire property, but I adore it.

My blonde hair is loose and wavy. I think I look good. I hope I look good enough for Cash.

“Welcome to the Marshall residence,” the largest of the four giant bouncers says, opening the door when we arrive.

“Thank you,” I say, grinning as I walk in with my band.

The place is massive. Even larger than it looks from the outside.

I’ve never been in a house like this before. The house I grew up in could fit in this entrance. You could probably buy my freaking childhood house with just one of those paintings hanging on the wall.

“Xing dynasty,” Clyde says as he reads a little golden plaque beside a giant vase next to the grand Titanic-esque staircase. “How much do you think this is worth?”

“More than your life,” Rachel says as he grabs the rim and looks inside. “Don’tbreak it.”

“Don’t even touch it,” I say as I rush over, take his arm, and pull him away. Clyde is an amazing bass guitarist, but he’s a little clumsy. I don’t want to have to explain to Graham Marshall that we broke his priceless Chinese vase.

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