Rock Him
Authors: Rachel Cross
Rachel Cross, author of
Rock Her
Avon, Massachusetts
This edition published by
Crimson Romance
an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.
10151 Carver Road, Suite 200
Blue Ash, Ohio 45242
Copyright © 2013 by Rachel Cross
ISBN 10: 1-4405-7270-4
ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-7270-8
eISBN 10: 1-4405-7269-0
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-7269-2
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations,
events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination
or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons
(living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
Cover art © 123rf.com
For my girls.
Acknowledgments
Many thanks to those who read and critiqued: Chris, Brona, Selena Laurence, Debra
Kayn, Monica Tillery, Nicola, Stacie, Holly, Kristi, Gina, and Daniel.
Thanks to my editors: Jennifer Lawler, Tara Gelsomino, Jess Verdi, and a special thanks
to developmental editor extraordinaire, Julie Sturgeon.
Finally, thanks to Kim who shared her experiences.
Asher Lowe lay atop his buttery-soft, Egyptian cotton sheets, sandwiched between two
women. The brunette on his right snored delicately into the pillow, exposing a booty
so spectacular it was said to be insured by Lloyd��s of London. Last year’s Miss November,
a stacked, all-natural blonde, was curled up to his left, hogging the covers.
Clubbing most of the night and living out every man’s fantasy into the wee hours was
easier ten years ago. Well, the recovery from the all-nighters was certainly easier
back then. The part in bed was easier then. Getting women into bed? Thanks to money,
a wall full of platinum albums, and a couple of Grammys, that part was easier now.
Asher lifted his head and immediately regretted it. His head throbbed from all the
damn Hennessy. Would he
ever
learn not to drink with rappers?
He glanced at the clock on the nightstand and did a double take. Eight
A.M.
? Why on earth was he up so early?
Bzzz
.
Asher cringed. The headache reached nightmarish proportions and nausea rushed up as
he broke out in a cold sweat.
More buzzing. What was that? Had some device been left on?
He sat up gingerly, moving to his knees, swallowing back bile, careful not to disturb
either of the bed’s occupants. The brunette stirred and he froze. He didn’t have it
in him for round three. Hell, he wasn’t sure he had it in him to make it to the bathroom.
Asher’s gaze swept the floor. Strewn about the plush, cream carpet was an assortment
of satin underthings, an empty box of condoms, a pair of black thigh-high boots and
a lacy, red thong. La Perla, by the looks of it. No vibrating paraphernalia.
He frowned. More buzzing. Coming from the corner of the room.
He inched his way to the bottom of the bed and stood. A wave of dizziness swept through
him and he rested his hands on naked thighs, biting back a moan. Things were way worse
vertical. Getting back to sleep would be impossible until he turned off whatever it
was.
He spied his phone on the dresser, the telltale light coming on as the insistent noise
started again. His brows went up. His phone? Who the hell would be calling at the
crack of dawn? Must be a wrong number.
Only a handful of people even had his private cell number, and not one of them would
call before noon.
The brunette mumbled something. Snagging his phone, he hustled to the bathroom. He
put the phone down and rifled through the cabinets in search of some kind of hangover
remedy. He tried a sip of water with a pink-stuff chaser. God. He had been here countless
times over the years and it was never worth it.
Examining his reflection in the mirror, he saw the lines that marked years of exposure
to the California sun and the inexorable march to forty. Bags and circles highlighted
bloodshot eyes. Leaning against the vanity countertop, he cast a glance over his shoulder
at the bathroom. Why were there towels all over the floor and a bottle of bubbles
overturned, leaking clear goo — ?
Oh yeah. The two in his bed had wanted to play in his hot-tub sized bathtub.
His phone vibrated on the counter and he picked it up to stare blearily at the display.
Six missed calls and six voice-mail messages from a familiar Vegas number.
Asher’s mouth twisted. His father knew his cell number? Interesting. Finishing in
the bathroom, he stumbled out to the bedroom where he hauled on last night’s jeans.
Shutting the door carefully behind him, he padded to the kitchen.
Dealing with Sterling Lowe would require coffee — in vast quantities.
He set the phone on the counter and pulled out the beans. The phone vibrated again.
With a glare that renewed the throbbing in his head, he picked it up.
“Yeah?” he drawled.
“Asher.” His father’s voice was raspy.
Asher tensed.
Sterling Lowe drew a ragged breath. “Asher … I … I don’t know how to tell you
this. I … I hate to do it on the phone … ”
His hand clenched into a fist, a cold, hard knot formed in his stomach. “Are you sick?”
“It’s Delilah.”
Delilah — Dee — Asher’s half-sister.
His body grew cold. The hair on the back of his neck stood up.
“What?” he whispered.
His father choked back tears, voice rough. “She was killed by a drunk driver in a
head-on.”
Asher collapsed onto a barstool.
“Ella?” he asked.
“She’s here. I have her this weekend. Dee … Dee had a girls’ weekend … I … haven’t
told Ella. I don’t know what to do.”
Some part of Asher could not believe his father had said that. Sterling Lowe always
knew exactly what to do, or at least thought he did.
His father took a deep breath. “Can you come?”
“Of course.” He gritted his teeth. He loved Dee. God knows he had been a better brother
to her than Sterling had been a father. It was on the tip of his tongue to say something
caustic when he heard a muffled sound. Asher pulled the phone from his ear and stared
at it. Through all the divorces, the battles, in thirty-seven years, he had never
heard his father weep. He put the phone back to his ear. “I’ll be there as soon as
I can.”
“The jet is fueled up and ready at LAX. I sent a car — ”
“I’m on my way.”
“Wait. Asher?”
“Yes?”
“What do I tell,” his voice was thick with tears, “Ella?”
“Can you wait until I get there?” He knew exactly who to call.
The older man let out a long, relieved sigh. “Okay. Dee wasn’t supposed to pick her
up until later today.”
“I’ll see you soon.”
Ella. With no father in the picture, what would happen to her?
His lips tightened and his hands formed fists. He’d be damned if he let his father
ruin another childhood.
Asher hung up the phone and dialed Justin. He had been Asher’s assistant for ten years.
Next to Dee, Justin Montoya was the closest thing to family he had.
“
Asher
? What the hell? It’s eight — ”
“I know.” He managed to speak through a throat half closed by unshed tears. “It’s
Dee.” He gritted his teeth against a wave of grief, afraid if he said the words they
would become true. “She was killed in a car accident in Vegas this morning.”
“What?
Oh God
, Asher, not Dee — ”
“I need to go,” he interrupted before the sympathy in his friend’s voice made him
lose the slim bit of control he had left. “The plane is waiting. Do I have a bag packed
somewhere?”
“Hall closet. What about Ella?”
“She’s okay. She’s with my dad.” A thump from upstairs made him squeeze his eyes shut
in frustration. “Listen, there’s a couple of girls here. Can you — ”
“I got it covered man, you just go.”
“Thanks,” he said.
Ten minutes later, the car arrived and Asher’s hands had finally stopped shaking.
Memories of his younger sister flashed before him. Ruthlessly, he pushed them away.
He sent a group text to a handful of friends.
Dee killed in car accident. Headed to Vegas
.
Better they hear it from him than from the news.
He put his bag in the trunk of the long, sleek, black limousine, nodded his thanks
to the driver holding the door open and climbed into the rear seat.
Ella.
Delilah had become pregnant with Ella in her mid-twenties when she was still thoroughly
enmeshed in partying with other children of the ultra-rich. It was a scene Asher avoided.
A scene he tried unsuccessfully to extricate his sister from.
Knowing Dee’s crowd during that time, he was pretty sure the men she hung out with
would either be horrified by the idea of becoming a daddy or thrilled for all the
wrong reasons. Knocking up the daughter of one of the richest men in America had its
advantages.
Asher had asked once, gently, about the father and Delilah told him she didn’t know.
He left it alone. Having a baby changed Dee. She had renewed purpose and vitality;
being a mom and a good mom was everything to her.
He made the call to Kate Sawyer, wife of his best friend, Alec. Kate was a nurse and
ran a foundation for terminally ill parents with dependent children. She and her sister
had lost their mother at a young age. If anyone could answer questions about how to
deal with Ella and grief, it was Kate.
He filled Kate in on the events of the morning, forcing the words out through numb
lips.
“Oh, no, Asher.” Her breath hitched.
“I’ve got to get on a plane in a few minutes and when I get there I need to know what
to tell Ella.”
“Oh Asher,” her voice shook, “I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine what you’re going through.”
Asher heard Alec in the background, asking questions.
Kate shushed him. “What is Ella now? Five? Six?”
“Five.”
Kate sighed. “The first thing you need to know is that her understanding of death
will be limited.”
“What does that mean?”
“Understanding death is a process at that age. She’ll only understand what her mother’s
death means as she gets older.”
“I’m not following you, Kate.” Asher’s control was slipping and he knew he sounded
impatient.
“You need to explain to her in very simple terms that her mother died. She’ll need
to be told that death is nothing like sleep, and that her mom is not coming back.
She’ll cry and grieve but … it’ll take time. Even once you think she understands,
she will probably ask for her. Sometimes it takes months or longer for a child that
age to grasp that Mom isn’t coming back.”
Oh God
. She was going to be asking when Delilah would be
back
? He fought another upwelling of grief mixed with acute nausea. “Children can also
think something they’ve done or haven’t done may have caused the death … ”
“
What
?” he ground out through a stiff jaw, “that’s insane.”
“Asher, they don’t think like we do. They aren’t mini-adults. She’ll need constant,
patient reassurance. There are therapists who can help with this. I know a few excellent
ones in LA. I’ll call this morning if you like.”