How to Reprimand Your Rock Star (DommeNation #2) (4 page)

“Maybe that ticket would let you into the dressing room. And the rest of the band would have left and just Keaton would be there, naked.”

I snickered and tried to avoid the ire of the captains, who were taking notes on the game. I should have been paying more attention. “Why would he be naked?” I giggled.

“He’d be waiting for you. With some tape, some ropes, a can of whipped cream, and maybe a blindfold.”

I looked at her sideways. “You know a little too much about his sexual preferences.”

She held back a giggle. “I don’t get that from the tabloids, I get that from reading naughty stories on my Kindle.”

I tsked. “And here I was, thinking you were reading playbooks during all those long bus rides.”

“A girl’s got needs,” she whispered, crossing and uncrossing her legs emphatically. “When we’re away, sexting Jeff’s not going to cut it. I need some
stimulation
.” Callie wiggled her tongue.

I blocked my ears. “Enough!”

“Whatever, sorry to offend your virgin ears.”

I stiffened and punched her shoulder. She was always teasing me about not dating as much as I should. We lived in the athletes’ dorm, where hot basketball and hockey players lived on the same floor as us and ate at the same dining hall, and according to Callie, they
all
wanted me. You know, except for Wes, but I’d rather eat a week-old burrito than make contact with his wormy lips. “With those killer legs, you should be getting more ass than the seats at the arena,” she had always said.

“Callie,” one of the captains shouted, “who’s number fifteen for Vanderbilt?”

“Jessie Statham,” she answered. The captains grumbled and went back to watching, satisfied enough with her answer.

As I watched the game, I couldn’t help but think of Keaton. I pulled out my phone and started googling him discreetly, phone in my lap under a throw pillow.

Fuck.

He did a lot of shows shirtless apparently. And despite seeming to be lost in our locker room, that man knew his way around a gym. He wasn’t muscle-bound the way athletes were, he was lean like a fighter. His body was marked by countless tattoos, which were normally a turn-off for me, but I couldn’t look away from the artwork that spiraled up and down his toned arms and abs, which, I might add, were always covered in beads of sweat. It wasn’t gross, though, it was like they were pretty little points of light. Sweat was what athletes like me did . . . Keaton though, he perspired. Totally different. Way more hot. And that grin, that rascal grin was in every picture, taunting me.

I caught Callie glancing over my shoulder and she waggled her tongue again. She could show Gene Simmons a thing or two. It was completely gross.

“Text me how big his dick is.”

I gasped, the team shooshed.

“I’m never going to see his dick, Callie. Now leave me alone.”

She shook her head no and made the sign of the cross. “Lord, forgive me for what I am about to do,” Callie whispered in a raspy, ominous chuckle, and wound up and punched me right in the stomach.

“OW!” I shouted.

Donelle and Reese stood up. “What the fuck is going on with you two?”

“Thea’s been puking
all day
,” Callie said. “She should go home before she gets the rest of us sick.”

I watched in stunned silence, clutching my stomach.
You little . . .

“You do look pretty rough, Thea,” Donelle said, eyes wide. “Go, but watch the game from home, okay?”

I nodded, pale and hunched. “I’ve been off for a few days.”

“That explains it,” someone muttered.

My heart skipped. I’d be able to see him! I tried not to get too excited, but the reality was that I wanted to look at him again. Slam him against something and kiss him hard.

I skittered out of the apartment in a flurry of apologies and ran all the way to the concert, knee be damned.

I approached the arena, which seemed to be shaking with music. I didn’t know any Trickster City songs, but apparently everyone else in New England did, because it was an absolutely packed house. I used the ticket and wormed my way toward the seat Keaton had saved for me. Security seemed to be lax out front since everyone had entered the concert hours ago. Part of me wondered how he procured such an amazing spot for me in the crowd—the floor was standing room only but there were several seats beyond the reach of security guards where some VIP fans stood. Was I really a VIP?

The song was ending, and the lead guitarist’s solo had the audience thrashing. Keaton jammed along, black shirt open all the way, revealing the tight abs I recalled from the impromptu google-fest. I was amazed at the way he worked the whole stage even when he wasn’t singing. He bounded around, whipping the audience into a frenzy. He climbed up nimbly, despite his height, onto the speakers and perched high above everyone. The crowd went wild for him. I stood there, ramrod straight and unmoving as he rocked, jumped down from the outrageous height and turned his attention back to the audience, right in front of me. I must have stood out, a wild-haired girl in a sporty T-shirt who wasn’t dancing, because his eyes fixed on me pretty quick.

The song stopped and Keaton licked his lips then flashed the audience his signature rascal grin. The crowd went absolutely bonkers. I felt pushed and pulled from both sides, watching women and men alike propel themselves forward to be closer to him. The entire room of thousands was right in the palm of this charismatic musician’s hands.

And I was right there with them.

“This one’s about newfound infatuation,” he said into the mic, looking at me squarely and quirking a pierced eyebrow. “And it’s dedicated to a goddess.”

A number of girls in the audience squealed. He probably called all the hot women he met “goddess.” He surely didn’t mean me.

I was annoyed with my naiveté.

But then I felt my stomach tighten and my body tingle as he opened his mouth and began to sing. A tremor of emotion rippled through me as he sang the tune—part anthem, part lament, part siren song—and a side of me I didn’t recognize stirred and stretched. I couldn’t take my eyes off him, his mouth wide with music and his body muscled and clenched with effort. His face, once so smug and impish, was now racked with powerful emotion. Fuck, he was amazing. I felt rooted to the spot, watching him move to the music of his own voice, and was positively mesmerized.

I swallowed hard and knew I wanted his vision to be true—I wanted to end up in a Miami penthouse with him, and ever since he had made that comment, I’d been itching to get my hands on some rope. And chains. Fuck. My fingers itched for skin to touch, and my mouth watered at the implication of tasting his sweat, which was now running down his body in delicious rivulets.

The song took a momentary break from vocals and the guitarist stepped forward for another solo. Keaton took this opportunity to take the black, sweat-soaked shirt off and throw it to the side. He ran a hand through his hair, gloriously peaked and black and blue, and pulled a pair of handcuffs out of the back pocket of his tight leather pants.

Oh God.

The crowd screamed with a deafening peal, as he cuffed himself to the microphone stand and looked at me. He sang the chorus again; voice ragged and thick with emotion, and my mouth fell open as he serenaded me. Wet, bound, wanting. The song ended and he fell to his knees. Maybe he was dedicating the song to me after all.

Ha, yeah right, Thea
.

The crowd clawed toward him, squealing, possessed. I remained anchored to the spot, wanting nothing more in my life than to take him up on his offer. He winked at me, and the cuffs fell off. The crowd applauded. Was that some trick?

“Thank you again, UConn!” he shouted, and the band escaped backstage.

The crowd pushed toward the doors and I remained in place, stunned. I grabbed the person next to me. “What about the encore?” I asked.

The burly man shrugged. “That was the encore.”

Just then, my phone buzzed in my pocket.

It was Callie.
UNC won
, it read. I knew what that meant. We would be playing the best team in the league in their house when we traveled to the sub-regionals games there. Idly, I googled Trickster City’s tour schedule and saw to my dismay that they were going to be playing in Chapel Hill, North Carolina.

On the day that coincided with our game.

Okay, I had to do this. I had to find him backstage. My newfound crush compelled me.

I nearly grimaced at the word
crush
. It was so innocent, innocuous. It implied we wanted to hold hands and drink from the same milkshake.
Crush
was not the word to describe what I’d rather do with my hands and mouth instead. Maybe I’d call it an infatuation. Yes, that was much sexier.

The same security guards who had blocked my way down to the locker room stood in front of the hallway where I knew the stage let out. I smiled, grateful I had such insider knowledge of the arena’s workings.

“You forget your tape again?”

I shook my head. “I’m going backstage.”

“VIPs only,” the corked one said. “Not basketball players.”

I held up the badge. “I’m both.”

Their mouths fell open as they both examined my badge.

“It’s legit,” the other said sadly, and allowed me to pass.

Scanning the hallway and doors, my mind strategized how to find Keaton. I put my game face on and tried to imagine where he’d be. Hooking the badge around my neck, I walked with a purpose and marched my way through the winding hallways.

As soon as I saw more security and less people lounging around, I knew my directions were correct. The room to my right was a large suite and I figured that’s where he would be.

“Mister Lowe is expecting me,” I said to the guard at the door, who was as large as a refrigerator.

He frowned and looked at my badge. “Name?”

“Thea.”

The man disappeared behind the door, and after a minute, he returned. “What’s your real name?”

I frowned, annoyed with Keaton again before I even laid eyes on him. “Athena.”

The fridge nodded and allowed me to pass.

And then, there was nothing left in the world but blue eyes and muscled ink.

“You came,” he said, voice gravelly and tight from the show. I watched as he toweled off in what seemed to be slow motion. My heart nearly forgot to beat and I tapped my chest just to check in.

“I snuck out.”

Keaton grinned. “Naughty.”

“Just the way you like,” I replied and nearly passed out from shock at my response. Who was he turning me into?

He took two sultry steps toward me and I tried to stave off complete heart failure. “Look, we need to get onto the buses even though the next show is just over in Hartford,” he said glumly. “Benjamin, my manager, is a total fascist. Anyway, I’d like to exchange numbers. I want to see you again.”

“You give me your number,” I said, boldness again overtaking reason, “and I’ll text you if I feel like it.”

Keaton tipped his head back and moaned softly. “Fuck, you’ve got me under your thumb, don’t you, Goddess?”

I smirked and realized that yes, I liked this weird little thing we had. This power exchange. Handing him my phone, I willed myself to keep cool as he typed in his information.

Just then, a slew of executive types swarmed Keaton’s room and scurried about wildly, grabbing clothing and items. One cold-eyed son of a bitch looked at me with a dismissive sneer. That must be Benjamin.

“I’m so sorry,” Keaton said as the guy who looked like his manager ushered him off. “But I’ll make it up to you sometime.”

My heart thudded against my chest.

I walked home in an aroused daze. My feet stepped in front of me but I couldn’t feel the pavement. Why did he want me? How soon could I see him again? Was it a coincidence that we’d both be traveling to North Carolina in two weeks?

But fate was for gods and war, not rock stars and basketball.

As I floated up the dorm stairs, readying myself for Callie’s onslaught of questions, I looked down at my phone to see if he really did put in his number.

I looked up my contacts and there he was. And he added a note.

Pity I got ushered off before I could give you a proper good-bye. Luckily, I hear we’ll be travelling together in a couple of weeks. Sweet dreams, Goddess.

I wasn’t a religious person, although I was raised Greek Orthodox, but something in my mind told me that none of this was a coincidence. How could it be that I meet this guy who was probably impossible to get near, that he was into me, that he made me crazy, and that we’d be traveling at the same time to North Carolina and then to Miami if the team won.

I mean, was this fate?

As a classics major, fate versus free will was something that we bantered about all the time. Poor Oedipus tried to exercise his free will and avoid the horrible fate that he was foretold, only to end up fulfilling the awful prophecy through what he thought was his choice. The gods, they said, were the ones who decided our fates, not us mortals.

So was someone up there pulling the strings for me to get together with a rock star? I grimaced at what my Yaya would think at my imagining there was divine intervention that leaned toward the kinky persuasion. Maybe it was Aphrodite and not God or fate. Who knew? The only thing I understood to be true was that this was out of the ordinary and I couldn’t ignore it.

And I decided to do something very, very stupid.

“I’m sick,” I said to Callie, who had returned from class to get changed for practice. I was in bed, blankets up to my chin, trying to make the saddest face I possibly could.

“You’re sick for not fucking the daylights out of Keaton Lowe the other night,” she grumbled. “Like, really, when are you ever going to get an opportunity like that again?”

She seemed sympathetic . . . good.

“Tonight,” I responded with a smile, kicking my covers down to reveal a decidedly not-basketball outfit. I put on some skinny black jeans and a tight red tank. It was the closest thing I had to concert wear.

Her eyes bugged. “What?”

I held up the VIP pass. “This tag is good for the Storrs
and
Hartford shows. He’s in Hartford tonight. I’m going.”

Callie blinked so hard I worried her freckles would pop off her face. “You’re skipping practice? After the ACC loss?”

My smile fell. She didn’t think it was a good idea. “I know I need to redeem myself, but the team already thinks I’m sick. Another night off won’t make that much of a difference.” I said the words, but believed them less than I had five minutes ago. This was risky and possibly very stupid.

But this seemed like a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I had to know more about him, and I had to see him again before North Carolina. I mean, who knew if he’d even be around to see me then?

“Do it,” she said, nodding. “You never have any fun, you’re a fucking prude and a half, and if anyone in this world deserves to get laid by a sexylicious rocker, it’s you. I’ll cover for you.”

I twirled my hair around my finger, debating. An idea had popped into my head and I didn’t know which would be better, having Callie cover for me and confirm my illness or . . .

“What if you could come?” I asked.

She bit her lip. “Nuh-ahh.”

“Ya-huh,” I said. “If I asked for a second pass, he’d procure it. I’ve got him wrapped around my finger,” I said, totally exaggerating our relationship. But something inside me told me that yes, he’d get me an extra ticket, and yes, he was most definitely wrapped around my finger. And I loved it.

“I’m going to the pharmacy, buying some ipecac syrup, and totally puking on Dunks’s awful blue sneakers.”

I frowned. “A bit dramatic?”

She pounded her chest with her fist. “I’m taking one for the team, baby. Team Theaton.”

“Theaton?”

“Kea-a?”

I shook my head at her.

“Dude, I’m pulling a Bennifer and giving you guys a combo name. You’re officially Theaton and yes, I will boot all over the court if you and I could go to that concert together.”

I nodded. “You are truly the best of friends.”

She hugged me close. “If he asks you if you’d be into a threesome, you’d have to tag me in and not their fine-ass drummer, okay?”

“Um, okay,” I replied.

“Unless the drummer wanted in, too, and then it would be fucking awesome.” I felt her head nodding next to my hair, and I was starting to get creeped out by how far she thought this little excursion was going to go.

“Please stop planning orgies. I’m just taking you to a concert.” I pulled out my phone and texted Keaton. I tingled as I hit send, stunned at the whole situation.

“That’s how this kinky stuff always starts,” she said, pulling away. “Read more smut.”

CALLIE ARRIVED HOME FROM PRACTICE
within ten minutes, looking ghostly white but otherwise unfettered.

“Totally yacked everywhere. So glad I had green Gatorade before practice—really added to the effect. Nothing says illness like colorful vomit.”

I grimaced. “You still coming?”

“Dude, I minutely poisoned myself on your behalf. The least you could do is tell me you’ve arranged for at least my ticket and orgy.”

I nodded, smiling at my phone. Keaton was thrilled to hear from me. “Ticket, yes. Orgy, pending.”

She put on her towel and headed to the shower with a salute. I looked in the mirror and tried to figure out what to do with myself. I only wore makeup to prom, and the most I’d ever put on for a party was some flavored lip gloss.

Yaya always said to just pinch your cheeks and bite your lips and that was enough makeup for a pretty girl like me.

But Yaya didn’t prepare me for a date with a rock star. Was I supposed to skank it up and make up my eyes like some sort of rebel raccoon? Wear a colored bra under my tank so he could see I wanted to take my top off. Wait, was I going to take my top off?

My phone buzzed and I looked down.
So happy you’re coming tonight. Missed you since the other night. Waiting for a kiss from a goddess
.

So, yes on the flavored lip gloss?

“We’ll see,” I said, prolonging the hunt. I knew I’d kiss him if I had the opportunity, but he didn’t have to know that.

All I saw the other night were those brown eyes and wild curls
, he typed back.
You made the crowd disappear
.

My fingers twitched and I nearly dropped the phone.

Was this how he earned the title “Heartbreaker of the Century”? My stomach soured like I had swallowed some of Callie’s puking syrup. I wish I knew if this was real. Best to chase him but play it safe.
See you tonight
.

He texted back some details about how to get backstage, where to show my badge, where to pick up comp tickets, etc.

I decided on some eyeliner, a bit of bronzer, and caramel apple lip gloss with a bit of a shimmer. Nothing too thick or sticky, just enough that Keaton would like the taste. Ahh!

Callie came back in, dropped her towel, and started dancing around naked to some Trickster City song she had queued up on her iPhone. I avoided watching her jiggle and instead listened to the song. It was the one that I heard during the encore the other night. I actually liked it.

Within minutes, Callie’s hair was dry, and she was dressed and made up. She went with the slightly gothic eye and eyebrow and totally worked the look. “When in Rome,” she said with a shrug.

“Wasn’t Rome known for their orgies?” I joked.

She fanned herself. “Don’t get me started. I read some Julius Caesar fan fiction last week that would—”

I held up my hand and cut her off. “I’m traumatized already. Stop.”

“He was all,
Et
tu Brute
, when they were—”

“Can we please go?”

She made the zip-lip gesture and we stealthily made our way off campus in my car. It was only a half hour from Storrs to Hartford, and the ride passed quickly as she taught me more of their songs and we joked about the crazy—and a little bit scary—situation. We were going to go backstage. My parents would hate this! Oh well.

Keaton had briefed me before the show about how things would go down. I’d go to the will-call window and give them our names and IDs. They’d see we were on the friends and family list and give us another, more specific badge. There were lots of types that got backstage—VIPs or other famous people, press, and friends and family. I was pretty darn proud to have that badge.

Once we were in, we’d be sent to a preshow green room area, and then we’d be able to watch the show from the side of the stage. Which was pretty damn cool. I have to say, though, when we arrived at the venue, all the things he had told me flew right out the door. The crowds, the fanfare, the posters and tees, and Keaton’s face on everything . . . I couldn’t contain myself. I started to mentally run through the songs that had become my favorites in the car and started to hum to myself as we walked. I was actually excited to hear them perform, and not just ogle Keaton with thousands of others.

The fans here were colorful and amazing, some looking like exotic birds with neon Mohawks and piercings in places I didn’t know were possible. One girl had a diamond dimple, another a Marilyn Monroe–style beauty mark that glittered. Trickster City’s fans were pretty cool.

Callie and I went to the will-call window and I tried my best to remember the set of instructions Keaton gave me, but once the guy behind the counter got my ID, he told me what to do anyway. Grinning, I took the comp tickets and friends and family badge and nearly skipped hand in hand with Callie all the way to the special waiting area. I needed to see him, it wasn’t just want. It was a compulsion in my body. Need to see Keaton now.

Once I had passed security, eyeing us like we were some sort of groupie duo, triple checking our badges, we entered the green room. There was free merch such as Trickster City tees and hoodies and even condoms. Interesting. I saw Callie pocket a few. The place served drinks, both alcoholic and non, and even had some snacks.

“He said he’d be in the third dressing room, the one with the ginormous bodyguard,” I said as we passed smiling clusters of friends, fans, and press.

I spotted the room and flashed my badge and ID to the giant man guarding Keaton’s door.

He looked at the two of us and nodded. “Right this way, Thea,” he said, remembering me.

I nearly giggled. They knew me! The door opened and I was thankful I taped up both knees because they were about to give out.

There, plucking at the strings of his gunmetal-gray guitar, was Keaton.

The air was sucked out of my lungs at the sight of him. He was in his preshow glory, not rugged and untamed like he was at UConn. That was hours before the show, before hair and makeup teams descended upon him.

This, I decided, was a rock god.

“Goddess,” he said, moving toward me. “I’m so glad you could make it.”

I nodded as he slipped his arm around my waist and pulled me into a hug. We were on a hugging basis. Oh dear. Is this a base?

“This is my roommate, Callie,” I said, gesturing to her, since Keaton didn’t seem to see anything else in the room but me. Which made me squirm a bit.

“Roommate, best friend, stylist, and life coach,” she said, shaking his hand firmly. “You be good to my girl here.”

I wanted to bury my head in my hands, but I tried to remain upright as Callie calmly lectured a rocker on how to date me.

Wait, were we dating?

“I’ll be more than good,” he crooned into my ear, crooking his pierced eyebrow up. A croaking sound came from my throat and I wondered if it was the sound of my internal organs liquefying. It was sexy rocker-induced Ebola.

“Callie, why don’t you avail yourself of some free T-shirts and swag? My buddy Rex can show you around, too,” he said, and a handsome, eyelinered rocker-type swooped in from the adjacent room.

Callie’s eyes widened. “I like, um, your drum skills.”

Rex just smiled and showed her out.

“Are you trying to get me alone?” I asked, marveling at how suggestive that sounded. Go, me! Where was this confidence coming from? Actually, I didn’t care. Keep it going, girl.
Cosmo
, and Callie’s other magazines, had always said that confidence was attractive. I beg to offer a different definition.

Confidence is powerful.

His arm was still around my waist and I was suddenly conscious of each piece of his flesh that was touching mine.

“Do you want me alone, Goddess?” he whispered, looking at me through black kohl with his ultra-pure baby blues. I had to make him stop making me swoon.