The Girl's Got Secrets (Forbidden Men #7)



The Forbidden Men Series - Book 7


Linda Kage


he Girl's Got Secrets


Copyright © 2015 by Linda Kage


This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, businesses or establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.


All rights reserved. No part of this book—except in the case of brief quotations in reviews—may be used or reproduced without written permission of the author.


Contact Information : [email protected]


Publishing History

Linda Kage, November 2015



Cover Artist: Ada Frost

Editor: Stephanie Parent

Proofreader: Shelley at 2 Book Lovers Reviews

Proofreader: Autumn at The Autumn Review

Spanish Translator : Eli Castro





For Eli Castro

(Yes, The Original Elisa)


I can’t thank you enough, chica, for all the time and effort you put into helping me with this story and with, well, everything you’ve done.  You’re a one-of-a-kind amazing!


uthor’s Note:


I decided not to italicize all the Spanish terms in this story because there were so many of them. And in some cases, my Spanish translator’s suggestions contradicted my English editor’s marks (like the capitalization of proper nouns!) so not everything uses perfect Spanish grammar in difference to this being an English-told story, sorry.


For anyone not familiar with a Spanish phrase you may encounter, I have an English translation chart at the end of the story if you’d like to know what each word/phrase means!




opened my bleary eyes, half-awake from postcoital bliss as the naked woman on top of me shifted, the soft, smooth warmth of her flesh caressing my own. She slid off the bed and presented me with a spectacular view of the most perfect ass ever, and my smile grew eager...until she pulled on a pair of panties and then reached for her bra.

Wait, no,
wasn’t supposed to happen. Blinking myself back into better consciousness, I tried to sit up and found it damn near impossible. “What’re you doing? What’s wrong?”

She didn’t answer, which wasn’t surprising. I hadn’t been able to pull more than a dozen words from her since we’d met, and nothing she’d said so far had been in English. But in the lyrics of Jason Derulo, her booty hadn’t needed explaining. Not then, anyway.

Apparently, it did now since she’d gone and hidden hers under a silky piece of black lace. And damn, she looked really good in those silky black panties, especially from the back, where I could see two tanned cheeks peeking out the bottom of all that swirling lace.

“You’re not leaving, are you?” I tried to sit up again. Still wasn’t happening. I frowned at the fur-covered handcuffs constraining me to my headboard and spent a few seconds muttering until I could twist into a somewhat upright position.

Across the room, she pulled on her stretchy black yoga pants I’d taken off last night with my teeth.

I guess it was time to pull out my high school Spanish. This was going to get ugly, but I didn’t care.

“Sentarse.” Shit, no. That was
, not
, wasn’t it?

“Quedarse,” I tried again, finally remembering the correct word for

The waistband of her pants indignantly snapped into place on her hips as she spun around to send me a lethal glare; not that I blamed her. I
just given her dog commands.

I winced and repeated, “Quedarse,” then added a pathetic little, “por favor.”

She sighed and rolled her eyes before jerking on her top and reaching for her purse.

“No! Don’t go. Please, don’t go. I’m sorry. I don’t know what I did wrong, but I’m sorry. Shit, what’s sorry in Spanish?”

“Lo siento,” she said, her voice a quiet, sexy hum that was damn near a whisper.

No idea what
lo siento
meant, but it sounded stimulating as hell coming from her lips. My body responded, and I had to bend a leg to try to cover my exposed hard-on, so she wouldn’t see how aroused I was while she was trying to ditch out on me.

“Elisa!” I cried, my voice cracking with desperation. I even banged my cuffs against the metal rails of my bed’s headboard to get her attention.

When she paused at the doorway, her back to me, I held my breath. Such a crucial moment. Whatever I said now could be the deciding factor for her to stay or go. But all I could think to say was, “I’m sorry.” And I didn’t even know what the hell I was sorry for. I just knew I’d done something wrong, and it was making her leave.

It couldn’t have been the sex. Last night
this morning had totally rocked my casbah. It had hers too; the minx definitely wasn’t quiet when she came. So, what—

She turned back slowly. My heart stuttered in my chest when I saw the tears streaming down her face. “Elisa?” I whispered, worried as hell.

What in God’s name had I done wrong?

“En serio lo siento tanto,” she choked out, her face red as she began to sob into her hands. “Tengo que hacer esto.”

I shook my head. Derulo was freaking whack. This definitely needed explaining.

But as I opened my mouth to spit out more broken Spanish, begging her not to go, Elisa whirled back to the exit and raced up the stairs until I could hear the door at the top slam shut.

“Hey!” I yelled, my frustration morphing from the worried kind into the pissed kind. “What the hell? Elisa! You can’t just start crying and then run off like that. Get your ass back here and uncuff me from this fucking bed! Tell me what I did wrong. Please!

She didn’t return. And I couldn’t chase after her.

I spent the first thirty seconds of my solitary confinement throwing a major tantrum, thrashing on the mattress and trying to dislocate my wrists by failing at pulling them free of the handcuffs. The damn things were no longer fun...or kinky.

The next thirty seconds, I filled the air with a profanity I’d never used before, blatant and blaring. But nothing I screamed freed me from this bed.

After that, the panic set in. With bruised wrists and a sore throat, I wondered how long I was going to be trapped buck-ass naked to my own bed. People would worry about me eventually...after a few days maybe. The guys in the band. Pick. They’d come around to check on me.

But what if I dehydrated to death before then, or the building caught fire and burned down around me? Or...

Fuck. Now I had to take a piss.

Hadn’t Stephen King written a horror book about someone left handcuffed alone in a bed? I hated horror movies. I didn’t want to star in one of my own.

I jerked on my bonds a few more times to relieve some of my anger and rising fear, but I only succeeded in injuring myself further.

How the hell could she have just left me here like this? It wasn’t as if I didn’t know where she worked. I could find her. And, oh...would I be finding her. She would not be getting away with this without repercussions.

And what had those tears been about? It freaking messed with my head. I wanted to be nothing but pissed, except I was worried too. But I tried to focus on the rage.

“Wrong fucking move, princess,” I told the empty room, grinning bitterly as I plotted my revenge. Wonder how she’d feel if I handcuffed
to a bed and forced her to tell me every mysterious thought in that pretty head of hers with torture tools like feathers...and chocolate syrup?

And damn it, there went my stupid dick again, hardening at the thought of her in handcuffs and drizzled in something that needed to be licked off. Didn’t the little fucker realize I was in dire straits here? So not the time to be thinking about sex.

Even if last night had been the crème de la crème of marvelous encounters.

On my nightstand, my phone rang. I whipped my attention that way and gaped at it sitting so close and yet so far away.

It rang again, and I could make out the name “Sticks” on the screen. Perfect. If I could confide in anyone on earth during a situation like this, it would be him. I knew I could count on Sticks for discretion, loyalty and hopefully some freaking help.

Now, I just had to finagle a way to answer his call.

I swung my leg over and used my big toe to try to slide the
button on. Took two tries, but by God, I did it.

With another tap of the trusty toe, I turned it to speakerphone. “Hey, man,” I panted out, impressed by how casual I was able to sound while handcuffed buck-ass naked to my bed. “What’s up?”

“Not much.” His voice filled my apartment and was like music to my ears. “I was starving and thought pizza sounded good for lunch. Want to come with?”

“Sure,” I said; I even shrugged a bare shoulder to keep it all laid-back and casual-like. Yep, I was just chilling here without a care in the world.

“Cool. I’ll swing by and pick you up in a bit, then.”

“Sounds good. But, uh, quick question first.”

When I didn’t ask anything within five seconds, he said, “O...kay. Shoot.”

I bit my lip, debating whether I really had it in me to confess what had happened. The embarrassment would kill me. And though he’d be the kindest about it, I doubt even Sticks would let me live this down.

But then I thought about the whole Stephen King thing, and my bladder gave another lurch, reminding me how full it was. So I clenched my teeth and sucked up my pride.

“You don’t happen to have...handcuff keys, do you?”




One Month Earlier


Rocking my zebra-striped Chuck Taylors, ripped fishnet hose, blue jean miniskirt, silver-studded belt and a skintight tee featuring the band The Pretty Reckless, I readjusted my wig full of spiky blonde hair.

My toes tapped to the rhythm of the muffled music hammering through the closed door, and I let it pour through me, plugging me into the mood...until the drummer on the other side of the wall missed a beat.

Feeling the sympathy, I winced even as my heart accelerated with anticipation.

“So long, sucka.” The guy next to me chuckled as the guitars and bass inside the studio lurched to a stop, cutting the song short.

I glanced sideways at my bench companion, and he smirked my way, lifting his fist for a congratulatory bump. Since he was decked out in metal and tattoos, I figured he was competition, but ...oh well. I complied, knocking my knuckles against his as a small grin twitched across my lips.

There went one less drummer out of our way.

Picturing the ass-chewing the dude inside the auditioning room must be getting, I began a countdown, wondering how long it would take for the band to kick him out of there.

“Ten, nine, eight—” I murmured under my breath, never reaching seven because the double doors burst open, and a pissed-off guy in dreadlocks stormed into the hall.

“Fuckers,” he growled before sending a piercing scowl to the row of waiting applicants sitting on the bench against the opposite wall, all of us hoping to succeed where he had obviously failed. He gave us a derisive snort and spun away. His rampage down the hall accompanied him kicking one door and throwing his drumsticks as hard as he could toward a trash can.

“Kind of a sore loser, don’t you think?” my bench companion mused mildly as he watched the temper tantrum.

“Meh.” I shrugged. “I’ve seen my six-year-old cousin throw down more drama than that over a broken doll.”

With a smirk, he gave me an approving nod. “You’re all right, rocker chick.”

I was better than all right. But I didn’t want to scare him. I could tell by the cocky gleam in his eyes, he was certain he’d do better than I would today.

Didn’t want to crush his fragile ego, so I merely sent him a cool smile. Yeah, I was all right.

“Next,” an irritated voice called from within the auditioning room, making my heart leap into my throat.

Dios, was it my turn already?

Self-confidence plummeting, I stood on trembling legs and smoothed down the front of my skirt. Since the guy next to me had been so kind, the inner submissive in me itched to glance at him with worried eyes, seeking some kind of reassurance. But he was the competition; he didn’t want me to succeed any more than I wanted him to.

Except I just couldn’t help it. I glanced his way, biting the inside of my lip, and totally obliterated the awesome girl-power image I wanted to project. When he grinned and flashed me a thumbs-up with both hands, the boost I needed kicked me back to life.

I gave him a saucy wink and whirled away to sashay through the door, tugging my hot pink drumsticks from my back pocket as I went.

Low ceiling, dim lights, and a large open space surrounding the band in the middle of the room had me slowing to an intimidated stop as soon as the door clicked shut behind me. Only three people occupied the chamber, and none of them knew me, but I knew who each member was without even glancing at which instrument they held. Because I’d gone online to their website and done my homework.

I had only actually seen them play live once, at some Day in the Park event where all the local bands had come together to show off their talent at the Memorial Park’s pavilion. And they’d been good. But the best part: Fisher, my ex-fiancé—though not ex at the time—had hated them. Absolutely despised them. Probably because he’d been pea green with jealousy. Non-Castrato had better sound, more talented musicians, and a way hotter lead singer than
band. More fans too.

Back then, I’d loyally supported Fisher, telling him his band Fish ’N’ Dicks was so much better than Non-Castrato...even though they totally weren’t. In reality, I’d been mesmerized, unable to look away the entire time Non-Castrato had played.

The beat, the words, the awesome guitar riffs had moved through me with an almost unnatural fascination. I’d been waiting with Fisher and his boys behind stage because they were set to go on next, so I’d had a lousy side and kind of behind view of Non-Castrato’s performance. But had kicked ass.

After Fisher betrayed me months later and broke my heart, my trust, as well as my freaking iPod—the ass—I’d made sure to buy every song Non-Castrato had recorded, mostly as a kind of fuck-you to the man I now despised.

But the strangest thing happened after I listened to about their fourth song. I actually fell in love with their music. All of their music. Every single piece.

When I’d heard they were looking for a new drummer, it had felt like providence. I loved their songs, I loved their style, I loved how so many of their lyrics resonated with me, deep in my soul. I’d always wanted to be the drummer in a band. But most of all, I needed something to shove in my ex-fiancé’s face with a big fat, “Ha! I’m in a better, more popular, way more talented band than you are! Suck on
, asshole.”

And this was my golden chance to accomplish everything I wanted.

“Uh...can we help you?” The guy with a six-inch Mohawk in his orange hair asked. He was the bassist, Billy Galloway. The crazy bastard went balls to the wall every time he was on stage. He was the one who gave Non-Castrato their wild reputation because he liked to flash his junk at screaming lady fans...or so I’d read online.

I cleared my throat and nodded. “Yeah. I’m here to audition.” When all three of them just blinked, I shuffled my feet and cleared my throat again. “Umm...for the drummer’s position.”

Hello? Why else did they think I was here? I even waved my drumsticks to really drive the point home, since they didn’t seem to get it yet.

Finally, Galloway snorted. “Yeah...I don’t think so, sweetheart.”

Say what?

Though the bottom of my stomach dropped out, I frowned at him in confusion. Rejection was my biggest fear, and hearing it right off the bat was worse than all those hours of dreading it out in the hall put together.

When no one cracked a smile and told me they were just joking, I shook my head, puzzled. “Excuse me?”

Galloway leaned forward slightly as he pointed toward the door. “We don’t want you. So,


I glanced toward the other two members of the band.

The rhythm guitarist, Heath Holden, was the most nondescript. He didn’t dress harsh, act rough, or pretty much all. The only extreme things about him were the tattoos he had racing up each massive bare arm along with the badass biker beard he was growing. He didn’t seem like he had much of a personality, if you wanted my opinion. But, man, he could play a wicked lick whenever the occasion called for it.

As my gaze skimmed over him, the tops of his cheeks brightened and he suddenly turned busy, refusing to make eye contact as he concentrated on digging dirt out from underneath his fingernails.

So I moved my attention to the lead singer. Asher Hart. Aside from singing all their songs, he played the guitar, piano, and he was by far the designated hottie all the girls dropped their panties for and screamed over whenever Non-Castrato stepped onstage. His brilliant voice was the reason they had any talent at all.

And, wow, had I mentioned he was unbelievably hot?

A crazy-attracted sizzle rose from my belly as I took him in. But damn, he was too gorgeous to be real. Not that I was into lead singers. I was so totally over that phase, thanks to my lousy asshole ex.

You suck, Fisher!

Still, Asher Hart was a looker. And obviously too bored to care about me in the least. Paying no attention to my penetrating stare, he unscrewed the cap off a bottle of water and took a long drink as if I was taking up too much of his precious time.

Since the douchebag bassist was the only one bothering to talk to me, I focused my attention back on Galloway. “Is this some kind of joke?” Though I wasn’t amused, I let out a harsh laugh. “You haven’t even heard me play yet.”

“Don’t have to. You’re a chick.”

I lifted my hands in a what-the-hell manner. “Wow. Congratulations. Not many people get that right on the first guess. But, yes, I
female. So what?”

“So, we don’t want a girl in our band. We’re called Non-Castrato for a reason, honey. Because we all have dicks.”

Like I cared about any of their icky dicks! These days, all dicks sucked. To me, they could go choke on...well,

Besides, castrato would’ve meant they didn’t have balls, not dicks.
Except I didn’t tell Galloway that because I was too confused.

“But I’m great,” I argued. “I’m freaking amazing.”

Hart cocked a glance my way, lifting an eyebrow as if surprised to hear such glorious self-praise.

But Galloway only shrugged, totally not giving a shit. “Then go join an all-girl band.”

My mouth fell open. This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be happening. Here was a real, reachable chance to grasp my life’s dream, and some scrawny jerk-off bassist was telling me no because of my

No fucking way.

“I don’t want to join an all-girl band,” I argued, clenching my teeth as I glowered.

Actually, if there were any kick-ass all-girl bands within a two-hundred-mile radius, looking for a drummer, I might’ve been knocking down their doors for a position. But there weren’t. Besides, I wanted to be in
. Their music was my kind of music. Plus they needed a drummer, and I happened to be the best damn drummer I knew.
I wanted to show Fisher
band could out-rock his sucky, limp-dick excuse of a band any day of the week.

Joining Non-Castrato was the perfect solution for everyone.


If only these fools would open their stupid, sexist, pig headed minds to see that.

“Okay, fine,” Galloway said with a self-righteous, holier-than-thou grin. “Name me one mixed-gender band that hit it big, and maybe we’ll give you a shot.”

I smirked. Game on.

“Black Eyed Peas.”

“Fuck,” he muttered, not impressed as he sniffed derisively. “Those are all singers. They don’t play instruments, princess. They’re not a

“All right then.” I blew out a breath to flutter the spiky white-blonde wig bangs out of my eyes and began to rattle off a new list. “Fleetwood Mac, Blondie, Jefferson Airplane, The—”

Galloway gave another snort, cutting me off. “Yeah, and the only things the chicks in those bands did was sing. We got Hart; we don’t need another fucking singer.”

Talking Heads
,” I lifted my voice to speak over him. “Of which the chick was the
guitarist, I believe.” I spiked a derogatory glance to the bass guitar strapped over his shoulder. “And so was the bassist in The Smashing Pumpkins and—”

“None of which were
.” Galloway held up a hand when I opened my mouth to argue. “The fact of the matter is, we don’t
a female. And it’s our band. Our decision. So bye-bye now, sweetie. When I need a groupie to go down on me in the bathroom after a gig, I’ll give you a call.”

I narrowed my eyes at him only to turn toward the other silent members. “Are you two lemmings just going to stand there and let this douche make all your decisions for you? Is he, like, your
tator or something?”
Heavy on the dick

“Look, I’d listen to you,” Asher Hart finally spoke up. Dark green, penetrating eyes lifted to coast over my outfit before settling back on my face. When I only narrowed my eyes, he lifted his hands self-defensively. “Honest. But we’re picking our drummer by a unanimous vote, and you already don’t have that.” He glanced at Galloway with an irritated scowl. “Doesn’t look like you’re going to get it, either, whether he hears you play or not.”

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