Nola Marie's Blog - Posts Tagged "sons-of-sin"

Playlist
https://music.amazon.com/user-playlis...
Second Chance – Shinedown
Fall to Pieces – Velvet Revolver
By the Way – Theory of a Deadman
Do I Wanna Know? – Artic Monkey
Better Than Me – Hinder
Dust in the Wind – Kansas
If You Only Knew – Shinedown
Black – Pearl Jam
Careless Whisper – Seether
Please Forgive Me – Bryan Adams
Never Be the Same – Red
In My Life – The Beatles
Heaven – Bryan Adams
When You Love a Woman – Journey
Easy to Love You – Theory of a Deadman

Prologue
Roses?
Check.
Breath?
Check.
Reservations at the nicest restaurant in the city?
Check.
I check my pocket for the ring and tug on the collar of the damn suit someone convinced me to wear. I knock on the door to the apartment, even though I live here. It seems like the thing to do in this situation.
I’ve planned this for a while. I’ve been with her steady for a couple years now. It’s just the natural progression of thing. Seems like this is the next logical step.
After a few minutes, I knock again as I wonder what’s taking her so long to answer the door. Probably taking a shower or something since she has no idea what I have planned. Now that I think about it, maybe surprising her wasn’t such a great idea. She’s not going to be happy knowing we have reservations in an hour. She has a tendency to throw tantrums when things don’t go her way.
They don’t bother me. Not really. I’ve got my own hang ups and issues too.
With a sigh, I take out the key and insert it into the lock. I open the door to find the living room and kitchen empty. My shower idea makes even more sense.
I stop at the mirror. My damn eyes are bloodshot as fuck. I search my pockets for my eyedrops. They’re not there. Guess I left them in the office.
I place the long-stemmed yellow roses – her favorite – into a vase then make my way to our bedroom.
Moaning and panting coming from the other side of the door make the blood in my veins run cold. I move to turn the knob when I hear voices. Very fucking familiar voices.
I push the door open. Ice floods my veins before turning to fire. The sight before me turns my stomach.
I see Jason Wexler thrusting into my girlfriend from behind. In our bed. In our bedroom. In our apartment.
As she screams out his name, I jerk him away from her.
Rage fuels my entirety. My temper flares from my wounded pride. You can feel the fury pouring off of me in waves filling the room like a living thing. I don’t give anyone a chance to say a word. I begin slamming my fist into his face over and over. I hear yelling all around me but none of it registers. All I can see is the person I am supposed to trust betraying me.
Finally, I stop. I look at the guy I have had a love/hate relationship with for years in disgust. His eyes are already black with one closed shut. His nose is bleeding profusely. His eyebrow is cut. Not the first time he’s felt my wrath.
I throw his clothes at him. He tries to speak but the look on my face shuts him up quickly. He turns and runs out of the room then out of the apartment.
I turn to look at her. Her eyes open wide in fear.
I walk to her, take her by her arm to lead her out of the apartment. If she wants him, then she should go be with him. I toss her naked ass out into the corridor. Then I throw the clothes that were on the floor with her.
I listen to her crying and begging on the other side of the door for an hour as I drown myself in cheap one hundred proof vodka and do another line because the effects of the one from earlier just aren’t doing the job right now. My ego and pride are thoroughly upset. I won’t say my heart is broken because it’s not. Maybe that’s fucked up of me but it’s the truth.
Then the cries and pleas become angry beating and banging, demanding that I let her back in. She is shit out of luck if she thinks I’m letting her back in. This is my apartment. My name is on the fucking lease.
I’m not sure when it all stops. Maybe it was before I passed out. Maybe it was after. But my phone ringing wakes me from my semi-coma.
“Hello,” I answer gruffly.
“Angel, bro, how you been?” a familiar voice calls out from the other end of the line.
“Been fucking better, man. How about you?”
“Yeah, I’ve been fucking better too,” Jake tells me. “I’m calling because I need a favor man.”
“What’s the favor?”
“I need your help. Can you come to New York?”
That was the last thing I expected him to say. But I swear it couldn’t be better timing. I remain cautious though. “What’s going on?” I asked worried.
He fills me in on his current situation.
And I thought my night was bad. A little hurt pride is nothing compared to what he’s going through. That shit is harsh.
“I know it’s asking a lot, Angel, but I can’t let anyone down.”
If he’d asked me all of this yesterday, I still would’ve said yes but with a hell of a fight from the bitch that I just threw out. But things change in an instant. I need a change of scenery. I need a fresh start. A second chance away from this bullshit that convolutes my mind. The answer is easier than it should be.
On an exhale of a breath I didn’t realize I was holding I answer, “when do you want me there?”

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.