Nola Marie's Blog - Posts Tagged "preview"

Prologue
Dane
I am being dragged across a very crowded dance floor by a petite brunette who is swaying her hips to the music. I shake my head as I wonder why I am going along with this crazy woman, because dancing is not my thing. There is just something about those big dark eyes that won’ tallow me to say no.
When we find a space in the middle of the dance floor, she spins around to face me, her dark hair blowing around her face like you see in the movies. She grabs my hand with a wink and a smile and starts to move around me. I can’t help but laugh at her enthusiasm.
“Come on, Big Boy,” she teases as she places her hands on my hips, “dance.”
“I’m not built for this kind of dancing,” I practically yell over the music.
A server walks by with a tray of shots that Camilla readily accepts two of, tossing them back with a smile. Not to be completely outdone, I grab one myself, then hand the girl a few twenties.
“Why do guys with muscles always say they can’t dance?” she taunts, grabbing my hand again, spinning out from me.
I pull her in with her back to my chest. I dip my head low to her ear, so I don’t have to shout. “It’s not the muscles. I have no rhythm.” I spin her out causing her to toss her head back with laughter.
The song changes to a slow song, and I expect us to head back to the VIP booth where Maddox and Ryder, the two guitarists for our band, Sons of Sin, are doing God only knows what. Hopefully, they’re keeping their noses clean or at the very least being discreet about it with Josephine around.
Angel, our bass player, paid for all of this for her birthday but stayed behind. He knew if he was here, she wouldn’t have come. Their history is definitely a complicated one, but he will be pissed if those two are getting Josephine fucked up or worse.
To my surprise, Camilla wraps her arms around my neck. Guess we’re still dancing.
“So you expect me to believe a drummer has no rhythm,” she pops a brow with a very adorable, sassy expression.
When she puts it that way, it does sound mildly unbelievable. “That’s different. I can hear the beat and the rhythm, but my feet don’t cooperate.”
“But your hands do?” she smirks.
“Baby, my hands have all sorts of talents,” I whisper in her ear, letting the innuendo hang.
I look down to see her face has gone red as a tomato. A boisterous laugh erupts from me. She shakes her head with a smile, realizing I accomplished exactly what I intended.
“You are shameless,” she laughs.
“Let’s go back up and get some drinks,” I jerk my head toward the stairs.
“It’s too little, too fucking late,” I hear Josephine yell as we reach the top of the stairs.
“What the hell is going on here?” I demand, looking between Maddox, Ryder, and Josephine.
“Not a thing. Not a goddamn thing,” she practically spits. “Now if you’ll excuse me. Like I said before, I am going to dance and get laid.” She storms past Camilla and I in a huff.
I look between Maddox and Ryder. Maddox looks stressed and Ryder looks pissed. “Do I even want to know?” I question them both.
“No,” is the response I get from Ryder.
“Should we go after her?” Maddox looks worriedly towards the dance floor.
“Let her have fun,” Camilla insists.
She walks to the table where several shots and our drinks are waiting. Along with the tell-tale white powder remnants of Maddox and Ryder’s go-to party favor. I turn my eyes to my two friends with a hard glare, but I don’t say a word.
Camilla grabs two shots of tequila tossing them back then downs half her margarita.
“Maybe you should slow down,” I say, only half teasing.
She shakes her head as she continues to down the drink then licks the salt from the rim. “Come on, Big Boy,” she says, grabbing my hand again. “I want to dance some more.” And for some inexplicable reason, I let her drag me back.
A few hours later, all hell breaks loose. Maddox is on the verge of a panic attack because Josephine is showing all the signs of an overdose, even though he and Ryder both insist that not only did they not give her the coke, she only did one line. Ryder is trying like hell to calm Maddox down while taking care of Josephine at the same time. I am carrying a completely wasted Camilla as we make our way down the corridor of our hotel.
Ryder and Maddox manage to fish Josephine’s key card from her purse. I’m not as lucky. Camilla’s is nowhere to be found.
My only alternative is to take her to my room.
“I think I’m going to be sick,” she moans as soon as we’re over the threshold.
I take off for the bathroom at light speed. When I set her to her feet, she barely makes it to the toilet. I hold her hair back while she retches uncontrollably until there is nothing left in her stomach.
“Oh God,” she moans in agony, “I think I’m dying.”
“Not quite,” I chuckle, still holding her hair.
“I’m sorry I’ve ruined your night,” she says pitifully just as another bout of gagging takes over as she dry heaves violently.
“You’re dehydrated,” I tell her, running a wet washcloth over her face. “We need to get some water in you. Think you can manage the shower while I find some?”
“As long as I can do it sitting,” she moans.
I leave her sitting on the floor and go into the bedroom to dig out a t-shirt and shorts with a draw string on them for her to wear. I reenter the bathroom, setting them on the counter then scoop her off of the floor. I set her on her feet carefully, the counter bracing her from behind while I hold her up.
“You okay with me seeing the goods?” I ask, even though I know she is too drunk to give me a cognizant answer. Even so, it’s better to ask permission.
“I’ve seen yours,” she says, referring to every night she dresses the band for our shows. As the wardrobe director, it’s her job and she’s never been bashful about it. “You may as well see mine,” she waves her hand, stumbling to one side.
“Whoa, Baby,” I laugh, helping her back upright. “How about we keep our hands down, yeah?”
She gives me a nod with a clumsy smile. “Good idea,” her hand slaps my chest.
Before I set myself to task, I give my dick a good talking to, reminding him that coming to attention right now would be ten levels of wrong. Because I’m not blind. The girl is all kinds of gorgeous and sultry. I noticed the first time I saw her a few weeks ago. It was a helluva disappointment to learn she had a boyfriend, but it wouldn’t have mattered. My track record with women is worse than Lars Ulrich’s personality.
All that aside, she’s also shitfaced. I may be an asshole, but I would never take advantage like that. Not saying I haven’t had some drunken hookups but not when it was one-sided like this. I am stone cold sober. It seemed necessary when she downed her sixth shot. How this petite thing is still conscious is beyond me, but for some reason, I feel like it’s my job to take care of her.
I reach to her side, lowering the zipper. I slide the thin straps down, letting the material pool at her feet, and I am thanked for my gallantry by the universe throwing me a middle finger and screaming fuck you, asshole.
If the universe didn’t hate me, I would’ve gotten a reprieve. An intermission of underwear to prepare myself for the sight of her completely naked. Of course, my silent discussion with my dick helped nothing, leaving me with no choice but to draw up my emergency boner killer.
The memory instantly sends a shudder through my body and makes my stomach turn. I absolutely hate that particular memory, but it works every time I’m in a jam. The issue down below is already completely deflated and trying to bury itself inside my stomach.
An hour later, she is out of the shower, dressed, and working on her third bottle of water. Once she has it drained, I lead her to my bed.
“I’ve never had anyone do this for me before,” she says softly as I pull the covers over her.
“Do what?” I ask, not sure what she means.
“Hold my hair back, help me in the shower, or just take care of me. I mean sure my parents when I was a kid but no one since then. It was nice. Thank you.”
My first thought is what the hell kind of boyfriend does she have to never have felt taken care of. Isn’t that his fucking job? But then again, it’s part of the reason I’ve always struggled with women. They never felt cared for enough because all of my attention was on my sisters.
My second thought is that I’m glad I could give this to her. Camilla, I have learned over the last few weeks, is as sweet as she is fiery and as giving as she is ball busting. “You’re welcome, Muñeca,” I smile.
“Muñeca?”
“It fits,” I shrug.
“You’re a good guy, aren’t you, Dane Pierce?” It sounds more like a statement than a question.
“I don’t think I’m a bad one,” I laugh again.
A huge yawn breaks free from her. “Goodnight, Dane.”
“Goodnight, Camilla,” I tell her, but she’s already snoring softly.
I pull a chair to the bedside and get comfortable. For the rest of the night, I make certain she is okay and safe.