Page 20 of Wicked Truths

“Which one of them are you fucking?” I lean against the wall of the elevator, giving her a shitty grin.

I need a distraction, and other people’s drama sounds like a decent option to focus on.

Oakley frowns. Her eyebrows pull together as she glares at me.

I chuckle, shrugging unapologetically. “It’s pretty clear they hate each other. I figure I deserve to know what I’m walking into.”

“Do you smoke?” she asks, eyeing me head to toe.

“Weed?” Now I’m the one frowning.

Yeah, I mean doesn’t everyone from time to time?

“Cigarettes.” She swipes a hand through the air, aiming it at herself. “I need a freaking cigarette.”

The elevator hits the parking garage level, and Oakley saunters out without waiting for my reply. She doesn’t aim for the cars, instead, she takes the sidewalk that leads toward the front of the building.

“Hey,” I murmur, grabbing her wrist. “Why didn’t you exit through the lobby if you were going to go that direction anyway?”

“Force of habit, I guess. We always leave through the garage. Are you coming?” she asks, but again she doesn’t wait for me. As she turns to head off somewhere, her curvy backside sways.

“Smoking is exceptionally bad—”

“For my health. Yeah, I know.” She continues walking without looking back.

“I was going to say for your voice and musical career, but yeah, that too.” I chuckle, jogging to keep up.

The curvy little woman stomps off at a rapid pace.

My eyes zero in on the bruises on the back of her arm and thighs just above her knees. If I didn’t recognize those as sex related marks, I’d be right fucking pissed. My dads weren’t great to my mum, but those bruises she’s sporting are a different sort entirely.

“Is it both of them?”

“What?” She spins to face me. Her strawberry blonde hair glints in the sunlight as it bounces.

Oakley Graves is a beautiful woman. Her nose and cheeks have a smattering of freckles that seem to match her perfectly. Her plush, pink lips are turned down slightly in a frown as she looks at me expectantly. Those huge blue-green eyes narrow at me the longer I take to answer.

I grin because it’s kinda sexy when she’s pissed off.

She still doesn’t say anything.

“You’re fucking both of them, right? That’s why they hate each other. Love triangle at its finest.” I barely hold back the smile at the murderous look she shoots my way.

“I’m not with either of them,” she says in a weirdly prim tone. “Sullivan is a friend and Marcus is my bandmate.”

“Do they know you’re banging the other or is this, like, insider information?” I toss an arm around her back and lead her toward wherever we were originally headed.

“They do not because that is not the case,” she snaps, slapping away my hand.

“Well, this should be interesting,” I mutter under my breath.

* * *

She’s absolutely fucking one of them.

I’m pretty sure it’s not the farm boy with enough tattoos to rival my own count. I don’t have the first clue whose room is next to mine, but I’ve heard her begging moans a few times over the last week.

I’m bored. The entire goal is to get enough traction with the local community and songs created that we can put on steady shows. We’ve practiced our asses off, and things are finally beginning to come together.

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