Always Sometimes Never: Sometimes Brooke Part 24

As I rub the sleep from my eyes and look around I realize I'm not with Xander...or Leo. I can't remember whose room I'm in or who I f.u.c.ked last night.

The only thing I do remember is that f.u.c.king the guy was about as exciting as f.u.c.king a dead fish.

"Who's Xander?" The guy's voice is deep. I still can't place it.

I was in a bar last night with Xander. We got into a fight. Not that we hadn't been doing that a lot lately, but this time he left me sitting on a barstool and never came back.

I had no way to get back home.

Or should I say back to Rayne and Harper's place. It's not exactly my home. I just crash there when we're not on tour with the band.

The bar was filled with b.u.t.ton-down s.h.i.+rt wearing douche bags. I picked the one who looked the least douchey, or so I thought. He said he didn't mind taking me home, but he wanted something in return.

Guys always want something in return.

He told me he didn't want to leave right away. That's when the tequila shots started coming.

I don't remember much after that. He told me something about playing guitar, but I had a feeling he was just trying to impress me when I told him I knew a lot of musicians.

He definitely didn't look like a guy who plays guitar. When you've been on the road as long as I have, you get to know a lot of guys in bands. Most guys in rock bands don't wear b.u.t.ton-down s.h.i.+rts, ties and dress slacks, even when they're going to a funeral.

I remember thinking his clothes and the fancy watch he was wearing looked really expensive. He was even wearing polished black dress shoes. And his huge smile and perfect teeth reminded me of a politician's.

And there wasn't a tattoo anywhere on his body. Definitely not typical for a guy in a band. Most of the guys I know have more ink than a newspaper.

"Who is Xander?" he says again with an edge of irritation in his voice.

Who is Xander? That's a really good question. I used to think he was my best friend. I used to think we'd be together for the long haul. I used to think that I was someone special in his life.

I don't think those things anymore.

"A guy I f.u.c.k," I say casually.

When he grabs my chin it knocks the wind right from my lungs. Fear surges through my veins and I brace myself for something even worse. His entire body goes rigid with tension and his eyes flood with rage.

"Don't ever speak to me that way again," he spits through clenched teeth.

"Okay," I squeak. My voice is so soft it doesn't even sound like my own.

"Show some cla.s.s."

He's holding my jaw so tight his fingers feel like a vice grip. All I want him to do is let go of my face before he bruises it.

"Okay," I repeat, even though I'm not sure how much cla.s.s I can show after f.u.c.king a guy I just met for a ride home.

I can't even remember the dude's name.

"Get dressed," he demands as he rises from the bed.

"You're still going to take me home?" My voice sounds so small and fragile. I don't remember feeling this vulnerable since I was a kid, long before I met Xander, Leo and Rayne and before they became Always Rayne.

The guy scrunches his nose and looks at me like I'm a piece of stinky garbage he has to get rid of. "Of course I'm going to take you home."

The last thing I want to do is put on the sweaty clothes I was wearing last night. They're in a wrinkled heap on the floor.

His eyes are on me as I rise from the bed. When he licks his lips like a hungry lion my stomach actually lurches.

Before I know it he's right behind me. He grabs my long hair in his hands and pulls hard enough that the motion jerks my neck back. "If I had more time I'd take you for another ride."

Then he smacks my bare a.s.s so hard it stings. "But I've got an appointment and I don't want to be late."

The ride back to Rayne and Harper's place is excruciating. The guy is cold and distant and doesn't say a word to me. I'm not sure why I expect anything different. That's how he was when he f.u.c.ked me.

It's definitely not something I'm used to. When I'm with Xander, or when I was with any of the guys from the band-and I was with them a lot over the years-it was always fun. We f.u.c.ked a lot, but we also laughed a lot and talked a lot and just enjoyed being together.

There's nothing to enjoy about being with this p.r.i.c.k. I just want to get as far away from him as I can.

I don't want him to know that I live with the guys from Always Rayne and their girlfriends. Always Rayne is one of the hottest bands in the world and the lead singer, Nic Rayne, is a complete freak about his privacy and having it invaded by the paparazzi. He would kill me if he knew I brought some guy I barely know anywhere near his house, or even more import anywhere near his girlfriend, Harper.

"Stop here," I state when we're about a quarter mile from the driveway of Rayne's estate.

"Why?" the guy asks without slowing down.

"I said stop the car," I demand. As soon as the forceful words leave my mouth I know they're a mistake.

Tension fills the air between us as the guy slams on the brakes. Luckily Rayne's place is a fair distance outside of Scottsdale and he owns a lot of land so there's no one else on the road.

When he turns to confront me the guy's face is like stone. "Don't ever yell at me again."

I want to tell him there's no way in h.e.l.l I ever plan on seeing him again, but I refrain. I just want to get out of the car without getting hit.

His fists are balled and his arms are so rigid they're shaking.

My heart is beating so fast I feel like I could pa.s.s out at any moment. As nice as his brand new Mercedes is I just want to get out of his car.

"I'm sorry," I tell him, even though I'm not. I just don't want to push him over the edge.

Luckily my apology seems to calm him down a bit.

Then he smiles. One of his big, politician grins. The guy is like Jekyll and Hyde. "I want to see you again."

By see he means f.u.c.k, but I'm not going to correct him. I'm going to be the good girl he seems to want me to be until I'm safely out of his car.

"Okay," I lie.

"Give me your number."

I'm tempted to lie and give him a wrong number, but something tells me not to. So I give him my cellphone number.

He immediately pulls his phone out of his s.h.i.+rt pocket and dials the number I gave him. We both hear my cell ringing in my purse.

"Good girl," he says.

When I reach for the pa.s.senger side door handle I notice it's locked. And there's no way to unlock it.

"Custom design," he says. "I'm the only one who can unlock any of the car doors."

That could be one of the creepiest things I've heard in a while and I've been on the road with a rock band for over a decade. That's like something from a serial killer movie.

"Can I go?" I ask with as much calmness as I can muster.

He nods. "If you're nice to me."

I gulp. I'm afraid to ask what being nice entails. I have a sinking feeling it could have something to do with my mouth and his d.i.c.k. My only saving grace could be that he told me he had to make it to an appointment.

I wait for what seems like an eternity for him to tell me what I have to do to be set free from his car.

Then he just points to his cheek. I'd like to punch him right in his perfect politician face, but I lean over and give him a kiss on the cheek instead.

"That's my girl."

The thought of being his girl makes me want to heave, but I try to keep it together long enough to get out of the car.

When he finally unlocks my door I practically jump out of the Mercedes. I cringe when I hear the arrogant son of a b.i.t.c.h actually laughing at me. As soon as I slam the car door shut he screeches away leaving me in his dust.

I take in a deep breath and try to clear him from my thoughts. All I want is to get in the shower and wash his smug stench off of me.

As I start the trek up Rayne and Harper's long driveway my phone buzzes. I've got a text.

Darrow Thompson: See you soon, Suns.h.i.+ne.

Is that some kind of a joke? No one would ever mistake me for having a sunny disposition. I'm about as dark as they come. Everything about me is dark.

Maybe the a.s.shole is trying to be ironic.

At least now I know his name.

About the Author.

SIERRA AVALON writes contemporary romance novels with a little sa.s.s and lots of spice. She lives in a small town outside of Phoenix, Arizona with her husband and their bloodhounds.

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