Rock Me (New Adult Rockstar Romance) (3 page)

Carla calls after me as I near the elevators. “Did you finish everything, Jodie?”

“Yes!” I yell back. “All done, I’ll see you tomorrow!” I dash around the corner, heading home.

***

Fuck.
I scan the document in my hands for the fourth or fifth time, making sure I fully understand it. The medical jargon is beyond my expertise, but I’m very capable of grasping the four-digit figure stamped innocuously at the bottom of the page.

I’d finally scraped together the funds to pay for a doctor to examine my shoulder, which still ached three weeks after my fall. The visit hadn’t been cheap, but the figure that the doctor was quoting for drugs and physical therapy was way beyond my budget.

Despite the endless hours I spent at the grocery story and temping at Mr. Bellamy’s office, I was struggling to make ends meet. Food, tuition, rent, utilities – the things I needed to survive had a nasty habit of sucking every last cent from my pathetic paychecks. Most weeks I lived on Ramen noodles and hot dogs. Now I couldn’t even afford medical care, and I sure as hell didn’t have any insurance to cover the costs.

I fold the invoice and put it back into its envelope, dropping it on my bed. I will have to look at it again after work, but for now, I need to go. Mr. Bellamy awaits.

It is colder outside than I thought possible. Flurries are swirling through the air, stinging my ears and face as they slash by. I put my head down and pace to the subway.

At least I can be warm here
, I think, as I shrug off my coat and scarf while stepping out of the elevator onto the twentieth floor. I greet Carla with a wan smile as I go to my desk.

I glance out of the corner of my eye at the door to Mr. Bellamy’s office. Every since he returned from his business trip, I have noticed the intensity of his stares flaring up. He leaves his office now more than he ever did before, strolling like a shark between the desks of the office workers, never saying anything, just watching. I try to never look him in the eye but every now and then I catch him staring at my body. Every time, I shudder.

Today, his door is propped open. I can hear him on the phone. He slams it down and yells out, “Carla!” She bounces up from her seat and scurries into the room. Their voices go back and forth for a few exchanges before she re-emerges. She scans the room looking for something, until I see her gaze lock on me.

Boom. Boom.
My heartbeat is audible in my ears.
Boom. Boom.

She zig-zags between the desks, headed slowly but surely in my direction.

Boom. Boom.

The roar of blood coursing through my veins is so overpowering that I can’t hear anything else. She is almost to me.

Boom.

Five feet away. Four. Here. Carla leans over and whispers in my ear. “Jodie, Mr. Bellamy has a special task that he’d like for you to complete. If you’ll go in his office, he’ll let you know what you need to do.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I stammer. “Right now?”

She nods and gestures for me to move. I comply, rising up and taking the dreaded steps towards his door. I have no idea what will happen on the other side.

***

I slink in. A chair is set up in front of Mr. Bellamy’s desk. He points towards it. “Take a seat, Jodie,” he says. The fact that he knows my name makes my skin crawl.

He stares at my face for a long while before speaking again.

“Jodie, are you well off?” he asks. There is a sardonic edge in his voice.

“What do you mean, Mr. Bellamy?” My voice is soft, weak.

“I mean, do you have enough money?” he laughs. “Are you living in a way that is comfortable for you?”

I hesitate at first, but as soon as I start talking, the words spill out. “Umm… Not particularly, I wouldn’t say so, no, sir. No, I don’t have enough money. I don’t have enough money at all. I can’t pay my rent, I can’t pay my electricity and water bills, I can’t buy food. I can’t even pay for a physical therapist to fix my fucking shoulder.” I clasp my hands over my mouth, realizing what I had just said. My eyes are round and panicked.

Much to my surprise, Mr. Bellamy laughs again. “I didn’t think so. Then I have a proposition for you. What if I offered you a raise, say, doubled your salary? What would you say to that?”

Without thinking, I gush, “Please, Mr. Bellamy, that would be incredible!” I’m leaning forward in my seat. Suddenly, I notice that my breasts are squeezing out of the top of the threadbare scoop neck shirt I am wearing and that my voice has reached a frenetic high pitch. His eyes are drinking in my fervor. The manic
rap-tap-tap
of fingers on the surface of his desk fills the room.

Something occurs to me. “What… did I do to deserve a raise, though, Mr. Bellamy? Not that I’m ungrateful, not at all! But… did I do something in particular?” I ask slowly.

His shark smile broadens another tooth. “Not yet, Jodie. You haven’t done anything yet. But what I’m offering you is a simple deal. You need money. And I happen to find you startlingly attractive.” Another tooth.

Emotions begin whirling in my chest. On one hand, I find him vile. Ever since I found the magazine, I couldn’t get the image of out my head of that woman, gagged and bound, submitting to the man behind her. Only instead of the models, I kept picturing my face over that woman’s, and in place of the man, I saw Bellamy. The picture sent shivers racing across the nape of my neck.

On the other hand, though… I needed the money. I couldn’t go another day without fixing my shoulder. It sears with pain constantly. I don’t know what I should do.

I try to hide the conflict raging in my head. “What do you want from me?” I say. He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he stands up from his desk, walks around, and sits on the edge of the table in front of me.

He looks me dead in the eye. “Very little for now, Jodie. For me to double your salary, all I want is your hand.” He cocks his head to the side, never breaking his gaze. He is very close to me now, inches away. I can smell his cologne, woody and imposing, sloshing over me in waves.

Slowly, very slowly, he reaches a hand down towards mine where they lay crossed in my lap. I am rigid with tension until the second his fingertips brush against the back of my wrist. As soon as he touches me, I lose all the will to resist.
I need this money.

I let my whole body go limp, so that when he gingerly wraps his fingers around my wrist and begins to pull it up towards his crotch, I do nothing but exhale and let him.

It feels like a dance, the way his hand leads mine gently. I follow its lead, submissive, willing.

He rests my hand on the bulge beneath his zipper. My breath is caught in my throat. Fear washes through me.

“You can’t tell anyone,” I plead. “Please, promise me that this stays between us.” He grins devilishly, the smirk of a predator.

“Oh, Jodie,” he says, his breath heavy with desire and guile. “It will be our little secret.”

I do not believe him for an instant.

Mr. Bellamy relinquishes his soft grip so that my hand drops down on his crotch. I can feel it rising to meet my grasp. Biting my lip, I picture one more time the money that this will earn me.
Just a touch,
I think.
All I have to do is make this sick bastard cum and then I can fix my shoulder.

I squeeze the tiniest bit. A tiny moan trickles from beneath his clenched teeth. I start to stroke my hand up and down the length of his member, still encased in his slim-fitting black trousers.

Up, down, up down, pressing lightly along the shaft.

Up, down, up, down. Over and over again, I am rubbing the cock of my boss, this billionaire lunatic. I can hardly believe it, but I keep thinking of the money as I stroke him.

His gasps are increasing in rhythm and volume. His manhood hardens another degree. I can feel him clenching, nearing orgasm, as every tap of my fingertips on the swelling bulge straining at his zipper brings him another inch closer to cumming explosively.

Up, down.

Up, down.

With a sharp choke, he bangs his fist on the table as I squeeze the head of his manhood. I feel the spurts of cum start to slap against the inside of his pants. I keep stroking until the spurting eases and his breathing slows. I’m still in shock as to what just happened.

Mr. Bellamy’s eyes open and he smiles again. He looks me in the eye.

“Our little secret,” he says.

CHAPTER THREE

Waking up the next morning is surreal. I had slept the sleep of the dead – no dreams, just still, black nothingness. It takes me a long time to re-orient myself to my surroundings when my eyes first open; nothing looks familiar. Flashbacks are trickling through my mind’s eye while I shower and dress.

Bellamy’s cock under my hand.
The greedy smirk on his face
. “Our little secret.”

The money. The money. The money.

I look on my nightstand at the folded hundred-dollar bill he had slipped into my hand before I had left the room. I feel used, like a tissue, a prostitute.
But the money!
I think to myself.
The money is going to fix things. I need this.
My thoughts keep spiraling between need and disgust. I shake my head to quiet the internal yapping.

A look in the mirror isn’t quite as shocking as it had been in the days immediately after my fall almost a month ago. The purple bruises on my cheek are largely faded away and my swollen lip has calmed down to its normal size. My shoulder, though, still pounds with pain most of the time, like a sledgehammer on the sidewalk.
Boom. Boom.

I laboriously pull a shirt over my head and trudge out the door on my way to class. Textbooks tucked under my arm, I wind my way between the crowds of people swirling across the sidewalks. Around 97
th
, I start to see identical bright squares of color strewn everywhere on the street – in people’s hands, crumbled under their feet, perched on the edges of trash cans. I pick one up – it is the same flyer someone had given me the other day.
Lying Lions,
it reads.
Performance Tonight!

I think back to my conversation with Sarah last month at the grocery store. The idea of going out, of enjoying myself, had sounded so good then, so necessary. But now, in the wake of everything that had happened with Bellamy, I couldn’t even bear to think of anyone ever looking at me like that again. I look at the face of the lead singer on the flyer. His green eyes are radiating a raw, primal sexuality. Even through the page, his carnality is overwhelming.

I crush the paper into a ball and dump it in a trash can as I walk in the door to class. Once I sit down at a desk in the lecture hall, though, I see more of the flyers. Almost every student had one stuffed in their back pocket or spilling out of their backpack. Two girls seated to my left are ogling at the singer’s picture, giggling and whispering to each other.

“He’s so hot,” says one.

“I know. It’s unreal,” the other girl says. “And it doesn’t hurt that they’re about to make it big. He’s gonna be super famous.”

“So then we gotta get with him tonight, before all the professional groupies get into the mix!” They both laugh hysterically.

My stomach churns. I don’t want to be like those girls, fawning over some wannabe rock star. I don’t care how hot he is –
although, you’ve gotta admit, he’s pretty damn hot,
says a little voice in my head – he is sure to be arrogant as hell. I don’t want any of it.
Fuck that show. Fuck these girls. I’m not going.

The professor walks in and a hush ripples over the crowd. He starts writing on the chalkboard, then pauses and turns around to face the amphitheater.

“Quick poll,” he says. “Who’s going to the Lying Lions show tonight?” Two-thirds of the class raises their hands, laughing.

I get up and leave.

***

My phone buzzes as I walk back towards my apartment. I answer. It's Sarah.

“Hey, what’s up, Sarah?”

“Hey girl, nothing much. I’m just calling to make sure you’re gonna come out with us tonight, right?”

“Eh… I don’t know. I don’t think so,” I say shyly. “I’ve got a lot of, um, stuff to do, you know?”

She bulldozes through my answer like I hadn’t even said anything. “Great, so glad to hear you’re in. I’ll come by your apartment at eight! You still live in the same place, right?”

“Yeah, but Sarah…” I say. I can hear the bubbly excitement in her voice, breaking against the gray mélange of my reluctance.

She cuts me off again. “It’s gonna be so much fun, I can’t wait. We haven’t gone out together in so long! I’m so excited. Anyways, I gotta run for right now, lots of shit to do before tonight. But yeah, I’ll see you at eight! Love you, girl.”

“Uh… well, wait, Sarah…” The line clicks dead; Sarah is gone. I sigh.
When she comes over, I’ll just tell her I’m not going
, I say to myself.
No big deal.

Later that night, I am neck-deep in homework. There is more than a month to go until finals, but I am already feeling the stress settling into its familiar home in the pit of my stomach. Numbers and equations wash through my head, tumbling and blotting together. I snap a pencil in frustration, screaming “Fuck!” as I throw the halves across the room.

Someone knocks. I gather my weight and stand, then walk towards the door, weaving between piles of clothing and stacks of textbooks until I can peep through the eyehole and see who it is.

Sarah is standing outside, dressed like she is ready to party – knee-high black leather boots, a tiny black mini-skirt that squeezes her round thighs, and a blood-red crop top that showcases the sparkling stud in her belly button. I open the door a crack, intending just to tell her that I am sick and can’t go out, but she breezes inside cheerfully, babbling a long stream of nonsensical enthusiasm.

“Jodie, girl, lemme tell you, this is long overdue. We’re gonna have so much fun, I can’t wait, you’ll love this band, Garret is so so
so
hot, and their music is great, too. I remember your taste and I’m one hundred and fifty percent sure you’re gonna love the whole show…” She goes on and on while picking through my closet and running her hand across the fabric of my comforter.

“Listen, Sarah…” I interject.

“Yeah?” she says, peering into my closet.

“I don’t want to be a fun-killer, but I don’t think I can go out tonight. I just have too much to do,” I say.

She spins to face me. “Are you crazy?! This is gonna be so fun! No, not optional. You’re coming. You have to,” she says firmly.

I start to speak up again, but she doesn’t even let me get started.

“No, no, no, I don’t wanna hear any of it. You work too hard and you deserve a break. Now get dressed and let’s get out of here. The drink special ends in forty-five minutes and I want to be wasted by the time the show starts.”

I sigh heavily for the second time that day. She clearly isn’t leaving until I give in.

“He’s that hot?” I ask her.

Sarah looks me dead in the eyes, grabs my chin between her hands, and drops her voice a note so I can see how serious she is.

“The
hottest.
”

I might as well get dressed.

***

The line for the bar is snaking around the corner of the block. Sarah grabs my hand and pulls me straight towards the entrance, ignoring everyone who has been waiting in the cold for close to an hour.

“C’mon, I know the bouncer tonight. He’ll let us cut the line. Plus, you’re looking super hot,” she yells back over her shoulder to me. I blush. Sarah had convinced me to wear the sluttiest outfit I had ever assembled in my life – red, four-inch heels that wrapped halfway up my calf and a matching dress that barely reached the top of my thick thighs. Every time I bent over, even the tiniest bit, the hem in the back pulled up and threatened to reveal my lacy black thong.

A few people in the line catcalled as we march forward. “Ow ow, big mama’s out to get some tonight!” one belligerently drunk man screams through cupped hands. My cheeks redden another degree. Sarah looks back again and grins at her handiwork.

We reach the front and Sarah starts talking to the man at the door, an imposing giant who looks like he was carved out of pale granite. She brushes his chest with her hand and his grimace cracks into a broad smile. I stand back, nervously tugging at the edge of my dress. He unhooks the velvet rope and ushers us through.

“Enjoy your night, girls,” he rumbles, offering me a friendly smile as I nudge past him.

Inside is mayhem. Roadies are scrambling across the stage, whipping wires and lugging huge speaker stacks into position. A scrawny bald guy sits on top of an amplifier, tuning a bass guitar. Behind the bar, the blonde bartenders pirouette around each other amidst the chaotic roar of patrons demanding service.

Sarah squeezes my hand tighter as we slice through the crowd towards the bar. We quickly snag a bartender’s attention and order drinks. Leaning up against the bar, I survey the scene before me.

I feel withdrawn, isolated within myself. The sounds and motions of the night crash up against my outer shell, but inside I still feel silent and cold. The people cavorting past me don’t know what it is like to work like I have had to work. They don’t know what it is to grow up like I had to grow up.

They are masters of letting go, throwing caution aside, living with abandon. I forgot that skill – the knack of truly releasing my worries – a long, long time ago. I don’t think, growing up in my mother’s house, that I ever had a chance to learn it. The drink in my hand – the idea of it and of the people filling the bar, the idea of release – are foreign to me.

Sarah leans over and starts to whisper in my ear, more of the nonsense about the band and the crowd and school and her life. She fills the space of the night with friendly words, caring words, the words of a friend. The words themselves don’t matter; both she and I know that. What matters is that, slowly, for the first time in forever, I start to feel a tiny chink in the tight clench of fog around my head. A beam of light and real emotion peeks through.

An opening band comes on to applause and hooting. Their set passes by in a blur as Sarah and I drink, talk, and laugh. It might just be the alcohol, but I can feel myself easing in tiny degrees. The hours are slipping by in curious hitches, fast and then slow, like I am zooming in and out of the scene. A while later – I don’t know exactly when – the opening act leaves.

“Okay, show time! Let’s go!” Sarah says. I follow her lead around the edge of the crowd, drawing closer to the stage. We reach a roped-off section directly in front. A bouncer in a tight black shirt stops us and asks our names.

“I’m Sarah Symore,” she tells him. “I’m friends with Joey, the bass player. He said he reserved seats in the VIP section for us. And this is my friend Jodie. She should be on the list, too.” He consults a clipboard, scratches off two items, and hands us wristbands.

“Here you go, ladies. Welcome,” he says, stepping backwards to let us through. We enter, settle into seats in the front row, and turn our gaze towards the stage.

The crowd quiets when a figure starts to saunter from the dark backstage towards the spotlight shining on the microphone stand in the middle. I can see his silhouette before his face comes into view. He is tall, over six feet, with broad shoulders. His arms swing confidently and his whole posture screams of a leonine confidence.

When he steps into the light, I see why. He is stunningly gorgeous. A sharp jaw-line coalesces into a perfectly pointed chin. High cheekbones and smirking wrinkles draw his emerald eyes into bright relief. The blond hair that frames his face is sexily shaggy.

A collective shriek rises up from the females of the audience – mostly wordless, with the occasional “Fuck me, Garret!” thrown in. He raises a hand and grins in acknowledgment.

“Thanks, all,” he says. The words that come out of his mouth are smooth but strong, like rocks tumbling under a stream. He goes on, “My name is Garret Lyons. I appreciate everyone being here tonight. It means a lot to me that you all are coming out and supporting us as a band. The boys and I can’t thank you enough.”