Blue Shoes #1: New Adult Rock Star Erotic Romance (Morris Music Book 6)

BLUE SHOES

People are staring at us, the young couple in the bright blue Maserati GranTurismo. Even in a city like Los Angeles, this car is a head turner.

We round a corner and drive slowly down a street dotted with restaurant patios. All eyes are on us. A teenaged girl points at us and elbows her friends.

She screams, “Dylan Wolf!”

Her friends all scream. The pack of them start to chase after the car.

I turn to catch Dylan’s reaction. He keeps looking straight ahead, smirking. His dark hair is wildly tousled, and I can see through the side of his dark sunglasses that his brown eyes are full of mischief. He lets the girls get close, then hits the accelerator.

The car’s engine climbs from a purr to a roar. Its powerful rumble quakes through my body.

I close my eyes and squeal.
I sound just like the girls chasing after us.
Dylan laughs at me, his voice gritty and sexy.

We speed for a block then slow down. I barely catch my breath. He guns it again. The car shoots down an empty side street like a bullet. Gravity means nothing to a Maserati.

“I think you lost them,” I say. My heart is pounding from the race car speed, and I’m jumpy with adrenaline.

He takes one hand off the steering wheel and rests it on my leg. His palm is hot, and his touch grounds me, as always. I feel calm again.

His voice thick and raspy, he asks, “Jess, are you telling me to slow down?”

I bite my lower lip. “Never slow down on my account.”

This is exactly what he wants to hear. I can see his whole face light up, even with his eyes hidden behind dark glasses.

He makes two more speedy turns. Now we’re back on the street where we saw the girls.

“Do you mind?” he asks.

Of course I mind.
But I’m not going to tell him what I really think.

I reach for my oversized purse and pull out the glossy photos I always carry. “Do what you gotta do.” I give him a sweet smile to let him know I support him completely.

“Five minutes,” he says.

“Five minutes,” I repeat.

He pulls the car over to the side of the street. He takes the pre-signed prints from me and steps out to greet his adoring fans. I stay in my seat with my big sunglasses on.

I can feel their eyes on me. The girls pose for photos with Dylan and scream when he hugs them, but when they’re not looking at him, they’re looking at me. I’m the non-famous, non-musician Jessica Lynn Rivera. My only claim to fame is being the fiancée of singer Dylan Wolf.

They can tell I’m not much different from them. I have dark brown hair and brown eyes. I’m five foot seven, and twenty-three. I look like a million girls in L.A. I should be able to disappear easily into a crowd, but lately the paparazzi have been after me.

It must be this diamond ring on my finger. The press knows we’ve been engaged for a year, and they sense something’s about to happen.

I hear more squealing as even more girls rush to surround Dylan. He’s getting mobbed by them, like a victim in a zombie movie. I chuckle to myself, imagining the fans as zombies.

If only.
At least zombies are honest and just try to eat your brains.
These crazy girls are always trying to give Dylan their phone numbers, or get him to come to parties with them.

I take a deep breath and tell myself I’m okay. The fans are the ones who buy his music and go to his concerts. They’re the reason I’m in a Maserati, imported from Italy. They paid for our house. And they’re mostly harmless.

I catch a glimpse of a tall blonde kissing him on the cheek.

He quickly pushes her away. “Easy now,” he says. “My fiancée is in the car. Behave yourselves or she’ll drive off without me.”

I laugh to myself.

The five minutes he asked for pass by. Then ten minutes. More people have gathered around him on the sidewalk. They ask him to sing for them. He just laughs and asks them questions, engaging his fans. They’re eager to answer, fighting each other for a chance to talk to
the
Dylan Wolf.

I glance over at the keys in the ignition. I could drive off without him.

He ditched me once, and it wasn’t in a neighborhood as nice as this. My heart shattered that night. Him walking out on me is something that can never happen again.

Every day, though, I live with the fear that it will happen. That’s why I don’t tell him when I’m upset, or start fights.

Dylan’s emotions run deep and powerful.

They’re a blessing and a curse.

His passionate, soulful songs touch people’s hearts. The public adores him. But they don’t know his dark side like I do.

When Dylan feels betrayed, he’s a wild animal. He channels his last name: Wolf.

So, as much as I’d like to climb over to the driver’s seat and rev the engine, I won’t. There are things we can joke around about, and things we can’t.

I pull out my phone and check messages. Today is Saturday, and everything’s set up for shopping this afternoon. After I catch up on some work, I’ll meet my best friends at a bridal boutique.

My mouth curls up in a devious grin. The girls think I’m buying a bridal gown that’s just for publicity photos. They don’t know I’m buying the
real
gown, and that the wedding is secretly happening in six weeks.

I feel bad lying to them, but these are the things you have to do when you’re marrying a celebrity. I need my private life to stay private. I won’t let the paparazzi ruin our wedding. I won’t let
anyone
ruin our wedding.

Dylan finally opens the driver’s side door and slides in.

“That was a long five minutes,” I comment.

His face twitches in irritation. “Life is slow in the fast lane.” He runs his fingers through his dark hair to tousle it back up again.

“Were they touching your hair?”

“Don’t worry about it.” He lifts his sunglasses and winks at me, his dark brown eyes dazzling. “There’s enough of me to go around.”

“Gross.” I let out a laugh-snort.

His eyes get darker.

“Just kidding,” I say quickly.

He starts the engine and pulls out into traffic, squealing the tires.

After a moment, he says, “Are you sure you need to work? You could blow everything off and hit the beach with me.” He glances over at the hem line of my skirt, falling mid-way along my thighs. “Let’s work on your tan.”

I tug my skirt down. I can still feel his eyes on my skin, making me warm. My cheeks are flushing. He has such a powerful effect on my body, turning me on with just a glance. I hate it, but I love it. All he has to do is say the word, and I’m giving myself to him.

“Never mind my tan,” I say.

“You’re worried about burning. We’ll get some suntan lotion and I’ll rub it all over you.” He turns and looks at my bare legs again. “All over.” His attention feels good, like he’s touching me. Undressing me. Kissing me. Spreading my thighs. Pushing his way into me. Kissing me everywhere.

I bite my lower lip to keep from speaking my desires. I want him to pull the Maserati into a secluded parking lot. I want him to yank my skirt up, rip off my underwear, and make me cry out his name, over and over. I want the world to disappear, so it’s only us.

My phone buzzes with incoming messages. I snap out of the fantasy.

“Work?” he asks.

“Of course.” I sigh. “
You
can blow off anything. You’re the rock star. I’ll get fired. So, unless you want me tagging along everywhere you go, like some lovesick fangirl, you’d better take me to Morris Music. I’m already running late.”

“Morris.” He nods, just like a chauffeur. “We’re headed the wrong way. You know what that means.”

I look around for something to grab onto. There’s a hand-hold near my head. I grip it tightly.

Dylan hits the gas and roars through traffic. He changes lanes and pulls ahead of the pack. He gives me a watch-this eyebrow raise, and then he hits the gas.

We rip through the streets of L.A., disobeying the laws of gravity.

The Maserati is sexy, scary, powerful.

Just like Dylan Wolf.

All I can do is try to hang on for the ride.

In six weeks, we’ll be married.

Unless…
No. I can’t even think about the unless.

Three hours later, I’m still craving Dylan’s touch when I get a phone call at my desk. It’s security, telling me I have a male visitor.

I turn away from my computer and glance over at the calendar on my office well. It’s Saturday, so I’m just catching up on some work while it’s quiet. I had one meeting, but the rest of my day is unscheduled.

“Is it Dylan?” I ask.

“Uh, I dunno.” The security guard on the phone must be a new guy. He’s clueless.

I ask him, “Is my visitor tall, with brown hair?” I imagine Dylan’s gorgeous face as I twirl the phone cord in one hand.

“Uh, yeah,” grunts the security guard. “He won’t give me his name or show any ID.”

Dylan.
When he dropped me off three hours ago, I told him I’d take a taxi to the bridal boutique. Now he’s here. I’m touched by how sweet he is to come and pick me up anyway.

I smile and shake my head. It’s just like Dylan to surprise me like this. He used to sneak into my bedroom using a ladder.

“I authorize you to give him a temporary pass and send him up.”

“But… Miss Rivera… I’m not supposed to…”

“Are you new here? What’s your name?”

“Uh, yeah. I’m Carl?” He says his name like he’s asking a question. Poor guy.

“Listen, Carl. You know I’m up here on the top floor. The executive floor. I’m only twenty-three, and I started here a year ago. You know where I worked for the first month? In the basement. Archives.”

“Uh.”

“I worked my way up by keeping my eyes open and proving my value.”
Technically, I did a lot more than that, but Carl doesn’t need to know the details.
“Send my friend up now, and I’ll put in a good word for you.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Carl is so excited to be of service, he drops the phone without saying goodbye.

I quickly rush around my glass-walled office, tidying things up for Dylan. Because it’s the weekend, there are only a few of us in working. We just finished a big meeting about our partnership project in Rome. My boss is trying to get me to drop everything here in L.A. and jet off to Italy for a few weeks.
Hah!

In the meeting, it was hard to keep a straight face while I made up excuses to not go. I couldn’t tell him I need to stay here and plan my secret wedding. Nobody can know. All it takes is one little slip-up, telling the wrong person, and suddenly the press is on you like a swarm of hornets.

The paparazzi crashed my birthday party. The gossip websites and magazines ran photos of Dylan in his swim trunks and me in my bikini. They called me White Wolf, because my skin was so pale.

I guess I could work on my tan this afternoon.

The elevator dings with my visitor arriving.

I pull out my phone and start composing a message to send to the girls. They can come meet us on the beach.

A man walks into my office. His walk doesn’t sound at all like Dylan’s. My blood runs cold. I jerk my head up.

It’s a skinny young man in black, with piercings all over his face. I know him, and he’s the last person I expected to see inside Morris Music.

“Hello, Jess,” he says.

I reach for the phone to call security, then stop.

My visitor is Nick Clark. He was my supervisor when I started here at Morris Music, down in the basement archives. I didn’t know he was the son of Maggie Clark, the vice president at the time.

The two of them were fired when they got busted trying to take over the company. Dylan was a pawn in their game. I was a pawn, too, until I figured out what they were doing.

What hurt the most was that I thought Nick was my friend. I trusted him. I’m much more careful now about who I trust.

I make my voice cold and hard. “What do you want, Nick?” The words come out like I’m spitting them.

He’s still standing in the doorway to my office, a ghost from the past. Like Dylan, Nick is tall and has brown hair. Unlike Dylan, Nick has pale skin, hollow cheeks, and an assortment of piercings all over his face, from eyebrows to lower lip.

The security guard might have mentioned the piercings and saved me from this encounter.