Authors: Kate Stewart
For my heavenly father God who helps me to take notice of my blessings every day. I have never, ever regretted betting on the green.
To all the bloggers who have supported me and continue to take the time to do what you do because it’s what you love. My hat is off to you. I am in awe.
To my Author 101 support group-I wish I could buy us all a bottle. Thank you for your endless advice, for your tips, for your ear and for your priceless friendships.
Erica Fischer-Thank you for knowing me so well, and telling me I am ugly when I cry and holding my hand through the rough stuff. You never give up on me, so I don’t either.
Lisa Rutledge, Cezanne Dilbert and Giulie Kiessling- you are the greatest virtual friends a girl could ever meet.
Sarah-Jane Bookham-I love thee!!!, Tabatha Washington, Jessica Berthelot, Stacy Hahn, Cheryl Dent, Sharon Dunn, Akeisha -Unique-Rain, Donna Mackenzie and all my Asskickers, wow. Wow, WOW!! You guys are truly amazing. I can’t believe how lucky I am every day to have an amazing group of women who support me and my novels with such enthusiasm. I am shaking my head as I type this because it’s still unbelievable.
Abbie Moore- My first #1 fan, because of the blessing of your friendship I have done nothing but grow as an author. Thank you for forming my street team, for being so insistent that I deserve it, for believing in me, and for making me laugh so hard I choke. I stand firm you should have been a comedian.
Jessica Ramirez-Wow, you really surprised me by being a true friend on some dark days. I thought about you when writing Ellie for the book, so I sure hope you like her. Thanks for putting up with my crazy, and for your support and your awesome friendship.
Anne Morrillo-What can I say? I love you, lady. Thank you for encouraging me on days when I feel like writing a book, let alone two, was the dumbest damn thing in the world to do. Your love for my characters and my books fuels me to keep going. You make me brave.
Yamara Martinez- God blessed me the day you agreed to be my PA. The late night messages, the constant crying, I don’t know how I put up with you. Oh wait, that’s me. Anyway, thank you for being the most amazing PA a girl could ask for. I still pinch myself.
Edee M. Fallon- My soul sister. Never ever change a damn hair on your head or a thought in that beautiful mind of yours. I love you. Thanks for erasing my mistakes in type and making my books beautiful. And for not laughing at me when it was totally appropriate.
Juliana Cabrera--Thank you for continuing to talk me off of the ledge, for your patience, but mostly for your friendship. You are amazing and the world is just a better place to dwell with you in it.
Thanks to my Charleston Girls -Dawn, Allyson, Caryn, Maria, Teresa, Joan, Mandy, Amanda, Nichole, and Jill. I am a better friend because you set the standard.
Thanks to my amazing and supportive family. I still laugh every time my brothers call me to congratulate me on writing a smut book, but it means the world to me. To my amazing step mother Alta and my father Bob, thank you, thank you, thank you!! I am beyond lucky to have the parents I have, and I know it. To my mother who rests in heaven, Nancy (fancy pants), you are always with me. And to my beautiful sisters Kristan and Angie, I hope you see our relationship throughout my books. It’s the only way to document our insanity without naming names. I love you both madly.
To Nick-My partner, my best friend, my nightmare on legs, I love you. No one will ever know me or love me better than you do, and I am so thankful for that. Thank you for teaching me what real love is.
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Jag
Stevie J. Cole
Chapter 1
My mouth was dry, like someone had shoved a fistful of cheap off-brand cotton balls in it. I ran my tongue over my teeth in an effort to wipe the film of bourbon off of them. Yawning, I rolled onto my back and stretched out in the king-sized bed before lifting the sheets back over my body. The smell of the detergent floated up to my nose and my lips curled up. No matter how nice the suite was, the sheets always smelled like that damn hotel laundry detergent. I couldn't
stand
that smell.
I heard someone next to me pull in a deep breath, and then the covers shifted off my body. Seconds later, I felt warm skin against mine and then a hand wrapped around my stiff-ass dick. Fingers skimmed along its length, stopping to play with the metal bar lodged through the head.
Slowly, I opened my eyes. The sun was beaming in through one of the windows and all I could see out of it was an overly crowded skyline. The sun glinted from the windows of the grey concrete skyscrapers competing for space; only a few slivers of blue sky managed to peep between them. I'd almost forgotten that I was in New York City. I couldn't really recall how she'd ended up with me, and I certainly had no idea what her fucking name was. To the best of my knowledge, I guessed she’d been at the club the night before. It wasn’t out of the usual at all for me to wake up with an unknown woman beside me, it was habitual. One day, I'd probably luck out and bring back a psycho that'd try to off me, but I'd worry about that when it happened.
Most
of the time the sex was worth that small risk – at least it usually was when I could remember it.
Do I
want to look over and see what she looks like, or not?
That’s one of the pluses about not letting them stay with you. You don’t have to look poor judgment in the face.
Her grip tightened and she gently stroked me in her hand. "Good morning,” she whispered.
I grunted and closed my eyes again. I hated when they ended up staying the night. That was never the plan because it was so fucking awkward the next morning when I was sober and trying to piece together what all we’d done. I hated having to talk to them, having to listen to them go on and on about what a big fan they are, that this is the most amazing thing that's ever happened to them, and worst of all, having them ask me if they can post the pictures from last night on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram. Fangirls, they’re just dying to brag about having been bent over backwards and rammed by me, and rightfully so. It was quite the achievement.
Peeping through one halfway opened eye, I saw a woman.
Okay. Well, at least I got that right despite being completely wasted.
She looked to be about twenty-four.
And thank God. She's legal.
Her platinum blonde hair stuck up in all directions and black rings of mascara were smudged underneath her eyes. This girl was an absolute mess. It was
obvious
I'd been there
and
had a good time marking my territory.
She wasn’t bad looking, but absolutely no different than the rest of the other privileged rich girls whose daddies bought their horny daughter’s way into the VIP areas. When she smiled, nothing on her face moved. When she abruptly sat up and slid her way down to my dick, her unnaturally round tits didn't budge either. It was evident she'd already started with the plastic surgery addiction. This was the kind of girl I was used to: Fake, horny, and willing to do anything for a brush with fame.
A slight giggle bounced from her lips as she tugged the covers off my naked body, and then her warm, slimy tongue coated with morning breath germs traced up my shaft. The sensation of it sent a small tingle shooting up from my groan. I looked down to find her staring up at me, her eyes intimately locked on mine as she sucked half of me back into her throat.
Letting out a short sigh, I leaned back and shut my eyes, no hint of a smile on my face. The way she was wrapping her tongue around me felt damn good, and even though I really had no interest in her being there, I wasn’t going to deprive her of the joy she’d get from watching me get off
one
more time. I tried not to be selfish with that.
After just a few minutes of her head bobbing up and down, her hand twisting at just the right moments, and her choking a few times, I felt my body relax. My legs stiffened up and then my entire body heated from the overwhelming rush of endorphins coursing through me. It’s amazing how quickly orgasms come when you’re not strung out on coke, or a bottle of oxycodone, or speed. Quicker – but weak compared to the euphoria drugs granted me.
When that initial warm and fuzzy feeling wore off, I was ready to get her the hell out of my hotel room. Sitting up, I said, "Thanks for the great blow job. Pretty sure the door’s still unlocked.” And I flung my naked ass back down across the bed.
I watched her blink a couple of times, shocked at how rude I was being. I mean, she
had
just given me the gift of oral pleasure, and who knows what I told her the night before – I may have promised her she could go on tour with us. She narrowed her eyes.
Here comes the 'OMG, I can’t believe what a bastard he is' huff that chicks are so good at in 3, 2, 1...
A loud breath escaped her and the springs of the mattress bounced as she hopped up. She mumbled to herself while gathering her things and I just laid there staring up at the ceiling.
I tapped my finger in beat with her heels as they clicked across the tiled floors, and then they stopped.
Raising my head from the pillow, I glanced up at her, arching one brow as I shot an uninterested look in her direction. The girl, whose name I’d never bothered to ask for, glared at me for a minute before a smile inched across her face.
"I can't believe this!” She fell silent and shook her head, then covered her mouth with her hand. “I'm – getting kicked out of
Jag Steele's
hotel room. OMG! This. Is.
Amazing!"
she squealed and pulled her phone to her face, her fingers typing furiously and the grin growing wider by the second. I guess she had to check in on Foursquare and let everyone know she’d just become the one-thousand, five hundred and sixty-seventh woman to have her tonsils rammed by me – or some number close to that, because I sure as hell didn’t try to keep count anymore.
Her eyes darted up at me and I could tell she was debating on something. I caught her pointer finger creeping down the side of her phone and I cleared my throat. "If you take a photo of me like this and post it, my lawyers will be in touch with you." I shot the biggest, most asshole-ish smile I could shape over at her. "Got that, princess?"
Her excited expression relaxed and her jaw dangled open. She managed to huff out a dejected, "Uh, yeah,” as she lowered her phone and dropped it in her purse. And there she stood, frozen, by the door.
Still nude, I rose and brushed past her, opening the door and circling my finger in the air before pointing directly out into the hallway. "Enjoy the rest of your day," I said.
Miss no-name skirted through, taking one last glance at me over her shoulder before I shut the door.
Rubbing my hands over my face, I made my way to the bathroom. I flipped the light switch and gave my eyes a minute to adjust to the artificial light. Sometimes I felt guilty after I kicked a girl out like that. I didn’t used to be such a jackass. And during my fleeting
moments
of sobriety, I could recall that I used to actually be really nice, sometimes even shy. Funny how well-rehearsed you can become at being who everyone
thinks
you should be. There was no doubt that I was a different guy.
At this point, life just annoyed the shit out of me.
A few hours later I was leaning against a doorway, watching the interns scamper around with lattes and double shot espressos. My eyes traced over the black cords running from the cameras and then up at the canned lights hanging from the ceiling. The bustling New York City crowd was visible through the large window at the far end of the room, constant movement of people going through their mundane daily routines. Every so often someone would stop, cup their hands around their face, and peer into the studio.
Two more hours until I had to be in front of those cameras and my nerves were already tightly bundled up, my stomach uneasy, and all I could think about was running into the bathroom and snorting a few lines real quick. The only problem with that was I didn’t have any coke – oh, and I was supposed to be clean.
I hated being interviewed, especially when it would require me to rehash all the ridiculous shit that had happened over the past few years. Really, the biggest problem I had at that moment was my sobriety. I’d never done an interview sober and I doubted that I could make it through this one.
"Excuse me, Jag," one of the hipster interns attempted to get my attention.
Turning, and not saying a word, I faced him.
The intern didn't glance up from his pad as he continued, "They need you to come back to the dressing room. Do some makeup before they start."
I pushed myself off of the door frame, then followed him down the slender white hallway.
He glanced back at me, a slight grin shaping his lips. "Man. I know I'm supposed to act all chill and stuff, but I can't help it. Pandemic Sorrow is my favorite band. You’re a legend."
Shoving my shades up through my hair, I forced my lips to curve up. I'd been told in rehab that I needed to act more appreciative, but when you're as numb and arrogant as I am, sometimes it's hard to act thankful about anything.
I forced out what I’d been told was an appropriate response. "Thanks, man. Really appreciate that.”
The guy stopped, dropping his clipboard down by his side, and stared at me through his thick, black-rimmed Buddy Holly glasses. He shook his head and looked me dead in the eyes. “You guys aren’t really done, are you? Those are just rumors?"
“Nah. We can’t go nowhere. Music’s all we know.”
Pleased with that response, he turned and continued to the dressing room.
About seven months ago I’d almost made my heart explode, or almost overdosed, if you want to get technical with it, but I think the exploding heart things sounds much better, less accusing. I had been
forced
into rehab, kicking and screaming because I didn’t have a damn problem. I just got a little too excited, a little too carried away and snorted one too many lines. That’s not a problem, that’s an accident. Right after I finished my treatment and was told I was “cured” from my “habit,” I threatened and swore that I was going to leave Hollywood behind in an effort to stay clean. Of course, when that happened, people thought the band was done for. I hadn’t threatened that because I wanted to stay clean – honestly it all just sounded like a hassle – but more so that I wanted to get the fuck away and have some privacy. At times the idea of fading into the background, of having a life where each damn breath I drew wouldn't be scrutinized and slapped across the front page of every tabloid in existence – well, sometimes that just seemed abso-fucking-lutely amazing.