Dirty Past (9 page)

She does, slowly.

“So what do I do?”

“Nothing,” Ella sighs. “There’s nothing you can do, Tate. Not until you hear from your lawyers. They’re already offering a significant amount of money to the media outlet to release the full interview transcript to them.”

Tate.
“I love it when you say my name,” I murmur, my eyes set on hers.

She blinks. “What?”

“Tate. You said it last night, too. And just then. I fucking love it.”

Again she blinks, but this time her eyelashes flutter in quick succession. “We’re not here to discuss what I’m calling you.”

“Darlin’, you could call me Lord Fuckass Dickhead if you wanted, and it’d probably still be hot.”

“Are you serious? I’m here to discuss your legal issues, and you’re more concerned about what I’m calling you?”

“You just told me I can’t do anything about it. Why can’t I think about how hot it is when you finally say my name instead?”

“Because. It’s unprofessional,” she manages, a slight stutter on her words.

“Yeah?” I lean forward. “Was it unprofessional when your tongue was in my mouth last night?”

“Yes! And it was wrong!” She slides across the sofa and grips the arm. I slide after her, and her grip tightens, and she really does stutter.

My arm goes around her waist easily. Her breasts are against my chest, her breath tickling my neck.

“Tate. I don’t . . .” she draws in a deep breath, and her fingers brush against my forearm.

“You don’t what, darlin’?” I sink my fingers into her hair.

“Think you should . . . I should . . . we should . . . um.” She pauses. “Do this. It’s not right.”

I laugh low, because nothing has ever felt as right as kissing her, and I touch my lips to hers. A sharp squeak buzzes through our connection, and I tug lightly on her bottom lip with my teeth. Fuck, she tastes sweet, like candy and Moscato wine, like summer breaking through a fall day.

She grabs my bare sides and I lean into her more, pushing her back onto the sofa. She goes with me, her grip on me tightening. Our bodies fall flush together, and as I kiss her deeper, swiping my tongue against her bottom lip, she eases her hands around to my back.

Her hands are soft and so fucking warm, each touch is a burning trail across my skin, one I feel tingling everywhere, because, fuck, fuck, fuck.

Too many girls, kisses, touches. None like this.

No softness beneath me, no hot fingertips against me, no deliciously sweet lips against mine.

No Ella.

“Wrong,” she breathes.

“You afraid?” I whisper.

She inhales sharply, but she shakes her head. “No.”

“Then it ain’t wrong, darlin’.” My mouth descends on hers once again, and I sweep my lips across hers. Her body is responding, slightly arching into me, but it’s her mouth, her kiss, that fucking consumes me.

Her tongue meeting and battling mine sends me into another fucking dimension, some ten million light years above ours. Consuming me, fucking with me, she drives me crazy yet again.

Knock, knock
. “Hello? Tate?”

“Sofie,” Ella breathes. “Oh hell. Off.” She shoves at me, then rolls off the sofa. She runs into my room and the bathroom door shuts behind her.

I close my eyes, still leaning over, and run my fingers through my hair. Motherfucker. Two kisses and we’ve been interrupted both times by something.

“What?” I snap, sitting back.

Sofie slides her key card and opens my door. “Did you see Ella tonight?”

“Yep. She’s in the bathroom. She spoke to our lawyers.”

Sofie relaxes. “Oh, good. Why didn’t she call all of us?”

“Because it’s his crap to handle.” Ella stops in the doorway, her hair smooth and her lips so glossed that there’s no indication we were kissing just seconds ago. “It’s legal stuff. I had to talk to him first.”

“Of course.” Sofie looks between us. “Y’all were going to tell us, right?”

“Obviously.” I rest my elbows on my knees. “Once we’d spoken about it.”

Her eyes cut between us again. “Tate . . .”

“We talked,” Ella cuts in. “That’s it. I was just using his bathroom before I came down to meet you.”

“You were supposed to meet me twenty minutes ago.”

“She talks a lot.” I lean back against the sofa and grab my guitar.

“Or, rather, you argue a lot,” Ella retorts, grabbing her purse. She looks at me. “I’ll meet you all after breakfast tomorrow, and we’ll go over your schedule for the week. I know you have to be in the gym at nine a.m., so please don’t be late. If I hear anything from Marc or your lawyers I’ll let you know.”

There’s no backward glance as she sweeps past Sofie and disappears.

Sofie stops, though, and she hovers two fingers in front of her eyes then points them at me. “I’m watching you,” she mouths, repeating the hand movement.

I stare at her flatly until she closes the door. I bet she fucking is.

Shame she’ll never see a damn thing.

Ella

I rub my hands over my face, ignoring the guilty twinges in my lower stomach. They popped up the second Sofie smacked Tate on the head yesterday and explained everything.

Extra media attention on Dirty B. is the worst thing that could happen. Even if the #TateSexTape trend on Twitter tells a different story—
and wow, are these girls so obsessed they’d watch him have sex with some girl?

I knew this was a risk, taking this job. I wasn’t, and am not, naive to the fact that I’m very much in the public eye. I’m not so stupid as to think I wouldn’t get snapped on camera at least once or twice, but it didn’t matter, because petty celebrity matters are far beneath my family and the Hamiltons. Even my friends rarely checked the tabloids.

Hell, I only did it on my phone when I went to the toilet, then I had to clear my browser history.

No, this job is the safest risk I could have taken. Not least because I’m constantly surrounded by big, strong-as-hell men nearly sixteen hours a day.

Sometimes the safest place is the most obvious. Hiding in plain sight.

I shake my head to clear the crazy thoughts. I don’t have time to lament the past or the danger the media attention could put me in. I’m safe here. I know that. I. Am. Safe.

Fear nothing. You’re only afraid of the things you let scare you.

I grab my purse and head toward the elevator. With Sofie out with Mila, I’m left alone to manage the guys by myself for the first time. I’ve been here nine days, and while I can’t deny I’m nervous, I’m anxious to prove myself, too. Mostly to myself. That I can do this. I can do something I wasn’t forced into, and I can be around men without freaking the hell out.

Then again, I think the fact I’ve ended up making out with Tate twice in as many days proves the latter point.

God. No. I am not thinking about kissing him. I’m not thinking of the warmth of his hands on my skin or the soft pressure of his lips on mine. Nope. Nope.

I am doing a job, dammit. And I’m going to stick to it.

No kissing or being attracted to the boss.

Simple.

I run my fingers through my hair and dig the tablet from my purse as I walk down the hall to the gym. Sheesh, I need to clean this thing out. Or maybe not. I kind of like having random stuff like three pens, a mini-notebook, two ChapSticks, and a half-eaten Hershey’s bar in the bottom of it. Because God forbid I did that back home.

It’s the little acts of rebellion that make me feel strong.

I hum Ariana Grande’s song “Break Free” to myself. Such a guilty-pleasure song, and I’m indulging in all the guilty pleasures right now. One bar of chocolate too much, one more glass of wine . . . kissing a handsome, tattooed rock star.

Yup. So much for not thinking about him.

It’s not even the kiss. It’s how he held me when I panicked. The words he whispered into my ear.
You’re safe with me, darlin’. Always.

And call me crazy, but I believe him.

I bump the gym door open with my butt, still humming to myself, and swipe across the tablet’s screen. Looking up, I see Kye running on a treadmill, Aidan on the bench press with Conner spotting him, and Tate. . . . Oh Lord. Oh Lordy Lordy Lord. Tate.

He’s sitting on the weight machine, performing chest fly after chest fly. His body is tensed, his tattooed biceps bulging, and I swallow at the sight of him shirtless. His tattoos swirl onto his chest, shaped to his pecs, and there’s a couple of things by his waistband I can’t make out.

Sweat drips down his body, and his nostrils flare with every fly he completes. His eyes are down, and I can’t help the way mine ogle him unashamedly. I wish I could make them look away, but I can’t. Because, holy muscles. That’s it.

Just muscle.

And tattoos.

The absolute epitome of the bad boy.

“Fuuuuuuuuck!” Aidan groans, lifting the weight up.

“Two more!” Conner encourages him. “Do it, you pussy!”

“Fuck you!” Aidan roars back, lifting it again.

“One more!”

“Fuck off!”

My lips twitch up to one side.

“Done!”

“I’m gonna break your legs, you little asshole,” Aidan hisses, wiping his hands down his face, completely spent. “Adding fuckin’ lifts to that. Ten more than usual!”

“You’re lookin’ a little small, bro,” Conner replies. “It might ruin your reputation.”

“I swear to God, I’ll kick your goddamn ass.”

“Don’t be a pussy!” Tate yells to him, looking at him.

“Muscles. Equal. Pussy,” Kye pants, the treadmill slowly coming to a stop.

“Running doesn’t,” Conner chuckles.

“Good to see you all have your fitness regime for the right reasons.”

Four pairs of eyes snap around to me.

“What? Never seen a girl in a gym before?”

Tate’s eyes drop to my arm. “Not with a purse hanging off her arm.”

I walk to the seats and set the purse down. “Better?”

“Sure you should be wearin’ yoga pants?” Aidan asks, his eyes dropping to my thighs.

I raise my eyebrows. “You want me to wear jeans to run on a treadmill?”

“Impractical,” Kye agrees. “And yoga pants are very, very practical.”

With three sets of eyes on my hips and thighs, I twist my lips to one side and snap my fingers. “My eyes are up here, gentlemen.”

“Up where?” Aidan asks, his gaze lingering on my chest.

“Another few inches!” Tate snaps, standing up and grabbing a towel.

He wipes his face, and when he drops the towel to his chest, where my eyes are lingering, I blink harshly and look up. He smirks, having caught me red-handed, and I swallow, looking back down at my tablet.

With one last peek up I see if I can make sense of the smudges at his waistband. I can—two angel wings, one by each hip, hovering above the material of his shorts.

“Keep your balls on, dude,” Aidan says, grabbing a water bottle from the crate next to me and sitting down. “I’m way too sweaty to hit on her.”

“And Sof told y’all to lay the hell off her,” Tate growls back.

“Told you, too,” Kye shoots at him.

“Sheesh!” I explode. “Do I look like a china doll?” I stare at all of them, and when they don’t respond, I continue, “No. Exactly. While I appreciate the sentiment, don’t feel like you all have to hold back on me because my ex was a royal asshole. And, let’s be honest, you four are about as scary as the rabbit Mila carries around everywhere.”

Conner laughs and makes his way over to me. He rests his arm over my shoulder and squeezes. “And this is why you belong with us, Ella. You took shit, and now you don’t, and I fuckin’ love it.”

“Thanks?” I flick my eyes to him and away again. “I think.”

“Personally, I take offense,” Kye says, dropping onto a chair. “I’m terrifyin’.”

“Like a toddler with a sugar high,” I reply. “Can we get to the point now, please? My phone is blowing up with messages from people who somehow managed to procure my number and want a quote from you.”

“What?”

I look up at Tate. “My phone is blowing up,” I repeat. “You got it that time?”

He stares at me flatly, annoyance sparking in his eyes. “It’s being changed.”

“Excuse me?”

“Your number. It’s getting changed. On a regular basis. Water please,” he adds, to Conner. He throws a bottle across the room.

“Uh, why?” I question as Tate catches the water.

He unscrews the cap and takes a long drink, eyes still on me. “Because,” he wipes his chin, “if media vultures can get your number, that fucktard can.”

“I’m not afraid of him.” My voice is stronger than I feel, because I never considered it.

“You sure?”

“You plan on getting laid tonight?”

Tate smirks in response.

“Then there’s your answer.” I unlock the tablet once again. “Moving on, boys. Since you all decided to skip breakfast to hit the gym,” I glance at them all, annoyed. “I’ve had to haul my butt down here to sort you all out.”

“Guilty,” Kye says. “Sort me out, Ella.”

Aidan throws his empty bottle across the gym at him.

“I have the kick of a mule and several pairs of stilettos in my suitcase, so I’d watch what you’re asking for, Kye.” I bring up the week’s schedule. “Sit down and be quiet,” I add, rolling down the document to today. “You all have thirty minutes to shower and get ready to practice. The Royal Room is booked for you for the next three days and set up per your preferences. I have your performance song list here, and it’ll be printed and ready for you by the time you get there. Carla will meet us here tomorrow, and as of then, she’ll be watching your practices, and a certain one of you’s behavior.”

“Els . . .” Tate warns.

I ignore him. “I’ll go over tomorrow’s schedule at breakfast, so make sure you all show up.”

“Ella.”

“Now I’m going to work out. Try to keep your eyes up.” I put the tablet back in my purse and pull out my phone. I plug my headphones in and start my running playlist on Spotify.

“Break Free” blasts into my ears, and ignoring the stares of the Dirty B. collective, I hop on a treadmill and start it up. Holding my thumb down on the speed button, I match the pace as it goes up and up.

If there’s anything I have to thank Matthew for, it’s my fitness. His insistence that his fiancée be the slimmest, most toned woman in Manhattan means far too many hours were put in at the gym. Never mind that it was never enough—that my hips were always too wide, that my ass was too round, that my boobs were too provocatively big. I’m fit and healthy, and my boobs and hips aren’t something I can shrink. And hey, I like my curvy butt.

The track changes to “Neon Lights” by Demi Lovato. Another favorite. Another guilty pleasure. Another addictive pop tune with a beat that makes my feet pound against the treadmill belt. Over and over, relentlessly, I run until I feel sweat beading on my forehead and the rest of the room melts away.

“Ella!”

The treadmill slows and stops, and I look up into Tate’s frustrated turquoise eyes.

“What?” I snap, pulling my headphones out.

“You wanna explain what that was a minute ago? About behavin’?”

I glance over my shoulder and see the other Burke boys watching us. “Water, please.” I hold my hand out and Aidan passes me one. “Thanks.” I turn back to Tate, unscrewing the cap. “I’m not sure what your problem is, Tate. You have to behave, and you know it. I spoke to Marc. He told me in not so many words that the only hole your cock is getting is the one you make with your right hand.”

Tate’s jaw tics, despite the laughter behind. He’s mad, I know he is, but dammit, I’m not going to let any of them know we’ve shared more than words.

“You’re testin’ my patience, Els,” he says in a low voice that rumbles through me. “You’re testin’ it real fuckin’ good.”

“And you’re testing mine,” I whisper, leaning forward. “If you think for one second I’m going to let anyone know you kissed me—twice—you can think again, Tate Burke, then you can shove those thoughts.”

“Someone’s real sassy now that she’s not hiding.”

“Someone’s finding who she was meant to be all along, sass and all,” I retort, just as quietly, then add louder, “You guys need to shower and get down to the Royal Room to practice in fifteen minutes.”

“You gonna check up on us, darlin’?” Tate drawls.

“Unlike the women you usually associate yourself with, I have no issue checking up on your butts in my workout clothes before I shower. It isn’t pretty, so if I were you, I’d leave now.” I stare at him intensely, hoping he gets my message.

Get the heck away from me.

After a long moment, he presses the On button on the treadmill and steps back. Just as I’m thinking
Thank God
, a palm taps my butt and I squeal, looking over my shoulder.

Tate backs out of the gym, empty except for me, grinning wolfishly. He points at me, then at himself, then at his mouth in a clear message.

You. Me. Make out. Soon.

I shake my head and turn my attention back to the treadmill. Seconds later, my phone buzzes in my bra. I pull it out and open the incoming message.

You. Me. My cock. Your pussy. Comprende?

My eyebrows shoot up and I almost trip. I steady myself on the handlebar and hit reply.

You. Me. You wish. No chance. Comprende?

You crush me.

You’re supposed to be behaving.

I just had the utmost pleasure of seeing your gorgeous, tight ass in yoga pants. Darlin’, there ain’t a chance in hell I’m behaving myself around you.

I ignore that pound my heart does, because that thing is dumb, and tuck my phone back into my bra. I’m not sure what game Tate is playing, but he won’t win it. I need to break free from one man before another moves in—kisses not included. Kisses are . . . something simple and attraction-fueled. Something I never got to randomly experience until now.

Yay for your parents choosing your future husband and forcing you to fall in love with him.

Maybe I need to start a bucket list.

Kiss just for fun
: I can tick that off.

Have random sex.

Fall in love.

I
lean against the doorframe as Dirty B. finish up their practice. They’re singing the song Conner introduced when they were back home a few weeks ago without clearing it with their label or manager. Turns out it was so popular among fans that they were forced to practice and perform it on tour, ready to record the second it’s over.