Page 9 of Filthy Rock Stars

“I understand,” I say quickly, my heart beating fast. He wants to keep it a one-off, and it’s fine. Neither of us suggested it would be more.

That’s a bummer, but I want to be chill about it.

The man grabs my bag from the back of his motorcycle and hands it to me. “Do me a favor,” he says, then brushes his lips across mine. “Keep smiling tonight, will you? Whatever was getting you down earlier, your ex or whatever, fuck it.”

I give him a wide smile. “Fuck it,” I agree and laugh.

He hops on the bike and kicks it on. I’m prepared to let him go, for this to be it. Goodbye, forever.

But he hesitates.

And I hesitate.

“Unless you want to meet up again,” he adds. “Anonymously.”

I swallow. “We just wouldn’t know anything about each other? How would that work?”

“Same as it worked this time. Strictly sex.” He cocks up a smile, the motor rumbling between his legs. “Your kink is hot.”

This is not my style. I prefer dates, expectations, and a slow build to trust.

A singular exception to fulfill a fantasy is one thing, but could I seriously keep seeing this guy without it turning into an emotional disaster?

He looks up at the sky. “One week from today. Sunset. I’ll be back here at the park. Maybe I’ll see you.”

Before I can answer, he pops his helmet on and speeds away.

CHAPTERTHREE

SHADOW

I’m playing with fire.Maybe I want to burn something down.

Otherwise, I wouldn’t have invited Park Guy to meet up again. I like to vet people before I hook up. Strangers are likely to go and spill every detail to the tabloids, and when I do take a chance, I try to avoid anything that would make a good headline.

Like sucking his beautiful cock in the park.

He might not have recognized me that night, but at some point, he’s going to see a magazine. I play guitar in one of the biggest rock bands in the world, for fuck’s sake.

Hell, I only offered him a ride in the first place because I thought he was a fan. He was staring at me, practically gawking, and I saw that he’d been crying. I figured whatever, I’ll give a fan a motorcycle ride. Then his shitty day will turn into a great story. Maybe it will improve my shitty day, too.

Except it became obvious that Park Guy didn’t recognize me, and thinking about it more, he doesn’t strike me as a Forbidden Destiny fan.

Can’t blame him. I hate our new stuff, too.

For years, I’ve been instantly recognizable to most of the public as the long-haired bassist from the hottest hard rock band on the radio. Since before we started the band in high school, in fact, I’ve kept my hair long, straight and messy. I threw it all over the place when I played guitar and let it fall over my face the rest of the time.

Until the day I met Park Guy, that is. I had been restless as hell since the band got back from tour, and that afternoon, I took a shot of whiskey and cut all my hair off.

Can’t lie. It helped. Cathartic or some shit.

Now it’s days later. I’m driving to our first band meetup since tour, and I still can’t stop thinking about that man.

How his delicate fingers felt, stroking my scalp.

It’s his energy that kept drawing me in. He’s soft, with these nervous, slight gestures that I find totally endearing. But the more time we spent together, the more I could feel something else pulsing in him, something alive and raw.

I liked it.

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