Bang (Hard Rock Harlots Book 5) Read online

  I sneer. “I’d never give anyone control over my body. I don’t care how hot they are. Telling me what I can or can’t do? How to stand or when to sit? Making me beg? Fuck that.”

  Miles presses his lips together.

  “Say it,” I dare him.

  He looks at me innocently. “Say what?”

  “Protest. Tell me I’m wrong. Prove you’re right.”

  He stops and clasps my upper arms. “You’ll have to figure it out yourself. Nothing I can say will change your mind. Until you experience the power exchange with your own senses, you’ll never get it.”

  “Damn straight, I won’t. I’m sorry, but it’s seriously fucked up, Miles.” I glance back to Red, who watches us, biceps bulging over his hairy chest, and I shiver. “You really let that guy beat you?”

  He laughs. “It’s not about beatings. Not all the time. It’s about power. In our relationship, I have all of it.”

  “But you’re the bottom. How does that work?”

  “The bottom is the one giving it away. If things get uncomfortable, I have the power to end it. And he knows it.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t see it.” I came to this place, balls blazing, ready to let go of my inhibitions and make someone my bitch for a night, but now I’m skeeved out by everything. I don’t want control over another person, and I certainly won’t give mine away like Miles is suggesting. I’m not built for this.

  I don’t know what I’m built for.

  Miles takes my arm again like a gentleman soldier and pats my hand. “The burlesque show last year was fantastic. Costumes. Dancing. Singing. If nothing else, it’s great entertainment. Let’s have a look and go from there.”

  I sigh and follow him into a grand ballroom with plush velvet chairs lined up before a small stage. Ragtime music plays from hidden speakers. Dressed in gaudy red flapper dresses and matching hats, women of every skin tone kick their feet higher than their heads, dancing in sync to the ragged, syncopated beats. Unsurprisingly, no one’s wearing underwear. Palms sweating, I can’t decide whether to be turned on or horrified as Miles and I settle against the back wall.

  The song’s intro swells to a gentle climax, and a petite redhead glides across the stage like a big-top diva. She wears a mask like everyone else, but her ringmistress costume is flashier than the dancers’. The red-velvet waistcoat boasts wide black lapels and cuffs, both accented with soutache trim. Gold-fringed epaulettes cap the shoulders. Beneath the jacket lies a brocade vest, also gold, and a red-satin bra plumps her modest assets to the fore. A black-tiered ruffle skirt falls a few inches above her knees, which are topped off with black-and-sheer-striped stockings, held in place by garters I’d love to sink my teeth into.

  A mass of natural red ringlets tumbles around her freckled shoulders (dear God, freckles!) from beneath the satin top hat. Wielding a snappy black riding crop in one hand, she lifts the microphone in her other and unleashes the voice of an angel-demon crossbreed. Soft. Raspy. Seductive. Goosebumps scale my arms under the trench coat, and I hold my breath as the music shifts and she belts out a snazzy Frank Sinatra number.

  Time stills. The woman’s style carries an edge similar to Letty’s, but the promise behind it evokes an entirely different reaction in me. Whereas Letty projects pure power and fury and raging, unapologetic rock ’n’ roll, this siren is a practitioner in the art of subtlety. She hits the notes perfectly with a hint of fry that evokes longing for a simpler, freer time.

  I imagine winding my arms around her from behind, the bent hills of my wrists supporting her breasts, flattening my palms to her trim stomach as it tightens and loosens with each snatch of air between words. Her bouncy curls tickle my nose, cheeks, and chin. I rest my head on her shoulder, lulled by her music, calmed by the warmth of her body against mine.

  She tips her hat, and the spotlight reveals the face of a woman who’s far too young for me, but one I wouldn’t think twice about ruining if she’d bother giving me the time of day. She lowers the mic for a few measures, and the dancers take point. Her lips are small, her cheeks apple-dapple. Goddammit, I do want to ruin her. And I want her to keep the mask on when it happens.

  Saliva floods my mouth. I fan myself with a gloved hand.

  “She’s stunning, isn’t she?” Miles breathes beside my ear.

  I bite my lip and nod. “Who is she?”

  He looks away. “No idea, but I like her.”

  Me fucking too.

  A flurry of red spins from the dancers like mini tornadoes across the stage as the song nears its climax. The singer tosses the crescendoing lyrics upward like a spiraling baton. When she catches the high note, she holds it as her own for a second, then frees it, spine arched, hips thrown forward, tendons throbbing along her neck.

  This song is hers. It’s her blood, her religion, her life. She will see it through to its end and remember it for years after this moment passes. Everyone in the room will. It’s that powerful. And I was here to witness it on Mardi Gras in the French Quarter with the man I love and the man he loves lingering elsewhere down the hall.

  As the cymbals shimmy toward the final crash, movement that can only be felt, not seen, runs rampant through the room. The dancers fall into their ending poses, legs hooked around each other or splayed wide. Their peeking beavers don’t interest me. The music doesn’t interest me. The girl in the middle of the stage, whipping the onlookers into a frenzy with nothing but her voice and her amazing presence is the only thing I care about.

  The microphone lowers. The music stops. And her eyes catch mine with lures of sapphire and promises spoken on mornings after and vows sealed by clasped hands.

  Wishful thinking?

  Yes. Sue me.

  The audience applause deafens. I am lost, swept away by a woman whose face I can’t see, but whose voice convinces me that I can’t live without her.

  Yet, in a couple hours, I’ll have no choice but to live without her.

  Why does everyone but me get happiness? Letty and Shades. Jinx and Toombs. Miles and Red. It’s not like I haven’t tried. What’s wrong with me?

  In this absurd but sharp moment of weakness, I turn away and hug Miles, mumbling into his chest, “God, Miles, I’m so alone.”

  “What?” Concern tips his pitch higher as he covers my hand on his sternum with his. “Don’t say that, Jillian. What’s going on? This isn’t like you at all.”

  I don’t answer. Couldn’t if I wanted to because I have no idea what the fuck is wrong with me. The audience claps and cheers for the exiting performers. Miles guides me away from the scene that’s suddenly wreaking emotional havoc on me for no good goddamn reason.

  Shit, I’m losing my fucking mind.

  I stare down at the pretty carpet as we walk. Miles shows me to a quiet spot down the hall and sits me on a cube-shaped red-velvet couch. He settles in beside me.

  “Talk to me,” he orders.

  I look up at his handsome face and caress the stubble I used to kiss back when I thought we were one person but hadn’t figured out that our bodies no longer fit together.

  “I know this is terrible timing, but … I still love you.”

  Vanilla Meets Siren

  Miles’s jaw drops. “You love me? I’m not sure how to respond. I’m … flattered?”

  Leave it to him to be a smart-ass when I’m most vulnerable. “Don’t let it go to your head. I mean I miss you. Our talks. Having an adult around to vent to.”

  He chuckles. “You’re surrounded by adults all day long.”

  He has no idea. “Just because their birth certificates say they’re over eighteen doesn’t mean they’re adults.”

  What am I doing? He doesn’t need me unloading on him like this. Pull your head out of your ass, Frost, and act like the trooper you are.

  Reeling in my out-of-control emotions, I lift my hands in surrender. “Sorry. I’m running on fumes, and shit with the band is getting to me. That confession came out in a moment of weakness. I promise not to have any more of those.�
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  “No, something’s obviously bothering you, or you wouldn’t have mentioned it. What the hell is going on, Jillian?”

  “The truth?”

  “Please.”

  This may be my only opportunity for therapy anytime soon, seeing as how this awesome gig as Killer Buzz Float’s manager doesn’t always pay on time, let alone provide me with healthcare benefits. Miles is trustworthy, and I do love him. Not in the way I used to, but he feels like the only thing I have to hold onto right now.

  “I need some human contact. It’s been ages, and,” I sigh, “sometimes I wish you were closer. We made a good team.”

  He scoops up my hand. This is the kind of warmth I crave. I nuzzle against him. Better already.

  “I get it, Jillian. And I miss us too.”

  “Red seems nice and all, but I don’t like the idea of him hitting you. Even if you enjoy it. Call me protective, but—”

  “You’re protective.” He laughs, and then pauses. “Would you be amenable to joining us for a private session?”

  I open my mouth to protest.

  He cuts me off with a shake of his head. “Not to actively participate. To observe. I want you to see what it’s like.”

  “Watching him spank you? No, thanks.” So much for the short-lived comfort. We’ve just wandered past North Awkward into South Uncomfortable. I gather my handbag and stand. “I’ve overstayed my welcome. Sorry for the meltdown. I’m fine now. You boys enjoy yourselves.”

  “Please?”

  I sigh. I hate it when he flashes puppy eyes. Hate. It. “No, Miles. I’m out.”

  He hops to his feet. His lips part like he wants to say something, but nothing comes out.

  I cast one more look at him, blow him a kiss, and leave him behind like the memory he needs to become.

  If he hadn’t implanted racy images of his partner disciplining him in my mind, I might have been open to watching a tame public scene. Now my taste buds are spoiled.

  I keep my head down as I wind through the throng of ball gowns and tuxedos mixed with gimp suits and fetish gear. They don’t need to remember me, my outfit, my mask, or my stupid wedding ring.

  I unsuccessfully wrestle the antique silver band from my gloved finger. I look up one step too late and crash into the singer who stole my breath only moments ago.

  “Pretty ring,” she says, catching my hand and studying it. Her voice sounds completely different from when she was onstage. It’s harsher, clipped with the know-it-all authority of youth. “Are you collared?”

  BAM! I know very little about this lifestyle, but it seems a pretty forward question. “Not in the way you mean.”

  She tosses her curls and laughs, her white teeth glinting under the dim candlelight. Freckles dotting her pale skin taunt me. I suck in a hard breath.

  “So, you work for The Man,” she presumes.

  “And The Wo-man.” The lively aura surrounding her sucks the light out of the room. My heart races at her closeness. And the sudden possibilities that didn’t exist a few minutes ago. “I thought we weren’t supposed to talk about real life in this fantasy realm.” I gesture to the costumed harlots spinning around us.

  She leans closer and inhales lightly, as if sifting my scent and decanting it into a special vessel in her memory banks. The gesture elicits a primal response betwixt my thighs. “Then lie,” she purrs.

  “Oh, in that case, yes, I’m collared by a lovely young lass with an Irish disposition, fair of skin and red of hair. She finds me rather disobedient, however, as I’ve got quite a spunky attitude and a killer right hook with a law book.”

  She tips her head to the side and daintily twists her arms together like pretzel sticks folded over the alluring mounds of her breasts. What I wouldn’t give for a lick of those ice cream cones. Apple pie à la mode. Yes, ma’am.

  The kitten looks about twenty-five, a decade younger than me, though it’s hard to tell through the mask. I’ve never considered myself a cougar—I hate the term—but I’ll admit to being thoroughly intrigued by the possibility of enjoying the flesh of a younger woman. My experience with the fairer sex has been limited to women my age or older.

  Catching myself staring, I remember my manners and remove my gloves to offer my hand. “I’m J—”

  She wags her index finger between us and shakes her head with a smile dipped in sin and fire engine–red lipstick that can leave a stain on my collar anytime. “Uh-uh-uh. No names.”

  “Ah. Right. The temptation to break rules is strong in me.” I inch my shoulders back to plump my breasts into greater relief. I make no attempts to hide my assessment of her curves. Zero fucks given at this point. She either digs me, or she doesn’t. “What about pet names? You could be … Siren. I like the sound of that. Fits your voice and your attitude.”

  She returns the scrutiny, fanning her lashes down as she takes in my front and climbs slowly up to my face. My skin tingles everywhere her gaze grazes.

  “And who would you be?” She hikes a hand to her hip, kicking it out with a confident flare. I can’t stop staring at those goddamn freckles dusting her cheeks, shoulders, and the V between her C cups. Those breasts don’t call to me. They scream at me.

  My internal sensors react to the demand in her voice. The power surge starts in my chest, runs its course outward to my limbs, and ends at the hotspot between my legs, blaring like a horny beacon. Open for business and running a half-off sale, now through midnight. First come, first served.

  I bite my bottom lip. “Jesus,” I murmur.

  “I’m pretty sure that name’s already taken.” The minx winks at me.

  I laugh. “Sorry. Easily distracted.”

  She arches a brow and taps her foot playfully. “I’m waiting. Pet name.” She snaps her fingers. “Remember?”

  Do I ever. “I’m not very interesting. I can’t think of anything that fits.”

  “Any hobbies?”

  “I don’t get out much.” Unless you count disciplining twenty-something children on roving tour buses, arguing with vendors about getting paid, and bailing morons out of jail.

  “Music?”

  I flinch. “Absolutely not.”

  She purses her lips and bats her quarter-inch-long fake eyelashes. “I think you’re withholding information.”

  “Maybe. But if I remember correctly, that’s not only allowed, it’s encouraged here.” I glance at a passing mermaid sans seashells and track her swaying ass for a few steps.

  Siren concedes with a touché nod. “What’s your favorite flavor of ice cream?”

  “Vanilla.”

  Sapphire irises sparkling behind the mask, she parts her pouty, bow-shaped lips into an amused smile. “Perfect. Pleased to meet you, Vanilla.” Now she shakes my hand.

  The calluses on her palms at the base of her fingers and her short-clipped nails suggest she uses these hands for a living. Waitress? Welder? Zookeeper? Whatever the job, she’s probably nowhere near the upper strata of the socioeconomic hierarchy, which is a fucking relief. Spoiled little rich bitches do my head in. Met enough of those through the day job I quit a few months ago, and I’ll be happy never to have to deal with another if I can help it.

  But the iron grip and eyes locking hard onto mine tell me she makes it her business to take control of social—and sexual—situations. I’ve just been put in my place, and it’s at her feet. A switch flips in my psyche, and my perspective tilts. I swallow as I struggle unsuccessfully to break free of her mesmerizing stare.

  She could be just the no-strings-attached fling I need to let out my pent-up frustrations. I stoke the coals on the idea of letting her have me as a plaything. No commitment this early in the game, but I’m definitely warming up.

  “There you are,” Miles calls behind me.

  Shit.

  I turn around. “Excuse me for interrupting,” he says to Siren. Then to me, “Will you find me before you go? Red has a request.” He presses a meaningful look into my eyes that says, It’s important.

  I nod
and glance to Siren. “I was just on my way out,” I lie.

  “So soon?” She pouts. “You haven’t partaken in any of the carnal delights yet. The night’s young. You can stay a little longer.” There’s the subtle, irresistible command again. Her eyes move to Miles. “Your friend here looks like he might enjoy your company. If the two of you were to engage in a little friendly play, I wouldn’t mind watching.”

  Say what?

  I came here to find out what this Dominant/submissive thing was all about, not expecting to get involved in anything. Now an enchanting little she-devil suggests I hook up with my ex-husband so she can watch?

  Whoa.

  “I don’t know what to say.” I literally don’t.

  Miles looks at Siren, then to me, and grins. “Say yes. I’ll even up the ante. Red wants in too.”

  Siren’s demeanor flips from coquettish to hungry. “Do it.” Her voice lowers with the command.

  I’m used to giving orders, but when Siren speaks those two words, all I want to do is obey.

  If you never take a chance, you’ll never know.

  The quiver in my stomach cranks up to a full-blown Jell-O mold bouncing in the bed of a pickup truck down a rutty dirt road.

  I look at Miles. Behind the mask, his eyebrows lift hopefully.

  What the fuck have I got to lose? I haven’t had a night to focus on myself—to be myself—in ages, and it’s been even longer since I got laid.

  If Letty were here, she’d insist.

  Letty’s technically one of my bosses.

  It would be wrong to disobey my boss.

  I run my tongue over the tips of my top teeth and grin as excitement shimmies through me. “All right. Let’s go.”

  Get Involved

  Siren and I follow Miles to one of the small, private rooms away from the boisterous crowds and turned-up noses. Stag-headed Red waits inside the door, gripping a riding crop in his right hand. Stripped down to his black-leather skivvies, which appear to be stuffed with a generous bounty, he glances to Miles. A barely noticeable slackening of the skin around his eyes is the only hint of reaction from him, a nice cover for the devotion lurking below the hard exterior.