Wycked Escape (Wycked Obsession Book 3) Read online

  I should have stayed, I know, but I hadn’t argued. It meant I could sneak away to meet my boyfriend and his Thursday night group of friends. They meet for sports—football this time of year—beer and wings, and I’ve missed too many Thursdays as it is. My smile turns into a grin as I think about how surprised Drake is going to be when I show up.

  Cooler, collected, I smooth one hand down the skirt of my floral sundress. I took an extra twenty minutes to run home and change, and I’m glad I did. Not only am I more comfortable out of my conservative work clothes—a pencil skirt and blouse—but I picked this particular dress because it’s one of Drake’s favorites. It’s white with big, blotchy pink and white carnations stamped all over the full skirt. The bodice and waist are tightly fitted, showing off my modest curves to their best advantage, and the style makes me feel . . . well, pretty. Like I deserve a guy like Drake. Like—

  Nope. I stop myself. Insecurities not allowed. They’re old news, no longer welcome in my life now that I’m all grown up. Adolescence, high school, college? Yep, they lived and breathed back then. But now they’re a part of the past, and they’re going to stay there.

  I straighten my spine, take another breath, and step smack into the chaos of the crowded bar. Cheers and catcalls echo around me, none directed toward me but at . . . well, whatever just happened onscreen. One of the teams did something I didn’t catch, half the room likes it, and the other half doesn’t. It’s a familiar argument in any sports bar in America, but especially Texas.

  I smile again. Football and Texas. They’re almost synonymous. Growing up here, I learned at a young age to follow it, understand it, even love it. I’m a devoted University of Texas Longhorns fan, a reformed Dallas Cowboys fan, and now a confirmed Houston Texans fan.

  Damn. I smack the heel of my hand against my forehead lightly and glance down at myself. The Texans aren’t playing tonight, but I should have worn my JJ Watt jersey. It would have been worth it to stir up some controversy among Drake’s friends; most of them are still Cowboys fans.

  “Paige?”

  The sound of my name brings me up short, and I glance around.

  “Paige Hamilton!”

  I blink, look again, and then I see him crossing the room.

  Oh. My. God.

  Oh, my God, I think again, and my eyes grow wide. It’s Noah Dexter.

  Noah Dexter.

  Drummer for the rock band Wycked Obsession.

  Flirt, party boy, and well-known manwhore.

  My high school boyfriend.

  “Noah!”

  I smile softly. I probably should be mad at him. We didn’t exactly part on the best of terms, but it’s been five years. Long enough to let bygones be bygones. Right?

  Besides, that’s the effect he always had on me. On everyone. Noah pulls whatever crap he can get by with, people get pissed, but they always forgive him. I always did.

  He’s nothing if not irresistible.

  “Paige!”

  He’s getting closer, and I can’t do anything but watch as he wades through the crowd. Damn, but he looks good in those tight jeans and Austin City Limits T-shirt. He’s tall, maybe an inch or two taller than in high school, with a powerful upper body that’s so much more than my memory of this man. Even having seen him on TV and in videos, the difference is marked. He was a boy when I knew him, and now his neck, shoulders, biceps, pecs are that of a man—well-muscled and amazing.

  How much of that is due to drumming?

  His hair is so much longer than when we were teenagers. It suits him. It’s the same chestnut brown and he has it pulled to the back of his neck, showing off earrings in both ears.

  Earrings? Damn, he didn’t have those in high school, either. A hoop and stud—maybe it’s a diamond—glint from one ear, while a black cross dangles from the other. God, it looks sexy.

  He wears a beard now, too, closely-trimmed and a little more coppery in color. Tattoos—also new—snake down his arms; I can see a part of the Thor’s hammer that he’s famous for. His eyes are still the brightest blue I’ve ever seen, and they’re looking right at me.

  He looks like the new-and-improved version of the boy who took my virginity and taught me everything I needed to know about sex. Maybe more than I should. I’m a little bit stunned.

  “Noah!” I say his name again, mostly to break the cycle of my thoughts, and he pulls me into a big, all-encompassing hug.

  “Sweetness!” He pulls back to look down at me, and I blush.

  Sweetness.

  It’s an old nickname, one I haven’t heard since he last used it. I shouldn’t be embarrassed, but the memories of the night he gave it to me surge back.

  It was right after the first time he went down on me. “You taste so sweet, baby,” he’d said, and I’d called him a liar.

  I was always sweetness after that.

  “Oh, my God!” he laughs. “You remember—and you still blush.”

  “Stop.” I push against his chest. He laughs harder, but I’m more interested in the solid strength of him.

  Just as strong as he looks.

  “How are you?” he asks.

  “I’m fine. Not as good as you, though.”

  He cocks his head, his gaze heats, and I know exactly where his thoughts are headed. Two years as his girlfriend taught me a lot, and I haven’t forgotten any of those lessons. He can turn anything into a sexual innuendo.

  “Not that.” I shake my head in resignation. “I meant Wycked Obsession. God, Noah. Wycked Obsession!”

  He grins. “Not bad, ‘eh?”

  I can’t help but laugh. “Not bad,” I agree. “So, you’re back in Austin.”

  “Yeah. We’re all from around here, so we came back after the tour ended.”

  “I didn’t get to see you in concert, but I’ve seen all your videos.”

  “And?”

  How can I describe watching my old boyfriend perform in a band filled with remarkable and insanely hot musicians?

  I smile and shrug just a little. “As much as I like the concept videos, I love the concert footage. I always did like watching you perform.”

  He pulls me into another hug. “And you were always good for my ego.”

  “I don’t remember you needing any help there.”

  “Touché.” He looks around. “So, what’re you doing here?”

  “Meeting friends.”

  I hesitate for just a second, eyes darting around the room, looking for Drake and his friends. Why does it feel suddenly awkward, standing here with Noah, and about to tell my old boyfriend about the new man in my life?

  It’s been five years, for God’s sake! I remind myself. Noah probably won’t think anything of it. Especially after the things that led to our breakup. He probably doesn’t even remember. He’s had maybe hundreds of girls since then.

  “Friends?” Noah asks when I don’t say anything.

  “Yeah.” My smile is weak, I know it, but I don’t know how to make it stronger. “My boyfriend and some of his friends.”

  “Boyfriend.” His expression goes blank for a second—or does it? I’m not sure, because it shifts so quickly I can’t be certain. When he waggles his eyebrows like a letch, I’m sure I imagined it. “Tell me all about him.”

  “It’s Drake. Johnson. You remember him from high school?”

  Noah’s eyes widen. Drake’s family was—is—rich. Their name carries a lot of weight in certain social and business circles. It never meant much to Noah and me back then, especially because Drake was a hell raiser. He liked to make a big deal about the money and privilege. He doesn’t do that as much anymore, thank God.

  “Yeah. I remember Drake,” Noah finally says with a quick nod. “Lucky guy.”

  I shake my head. “Still a charmer, I see.”

  “Always.”

  “They’re somewhere in the back. You want to come and say hi?”

  He considers me, his eyes darkening to a deep blue. Or maybe he’s thinking of the question itself. Finally he says, “S
ure, why not?”

  “Follow me.”

  I start for the corner where the guys always sit, weaving around boisterous tables, heavily-burdened waitresses, and cheering patrons. Finally I spot a group I recognize. Most are men, although a couple have girlfriends like me who come along from time to time.

  Drake sits with his back to me. His rigid posture and thick black hair make him easily recognizable. Then there’s the Dallas Cowboys jersey he always wears on nights like this. It has the numbers 00 and his own name emblazoned on the back, a gift he always claims was from the Dallas Cowboys’ organization.

  A guy sits on one side, and I angle my head to identify him. Drake’s buddy Marsh, I think. I don’t know the woman who sits on Drake’s other side. I can’t place the man next to her, either, and assume they’re together. I chuckle to myself. They’re going to get the shock of their lives when they discover Noah Dexter is approaching with me.

  And, boy, is he here. Right here. I sense his presence in a way that’s actually kind of weird. It’s like some kind of invisible connection that spikes a bit of electricity around us. It creates a heat that makes me want to step closer and at the same time run away. Most of all, I’m aware of the way he smells. It’s an odd combination of woodsy, nutty freshness, and I wonder if it’s just him or some special cologne that’s made only for him.

  “Hey, where’s Paige been these days?” asks one of Drake’s friends just as we get close enough to hear over the noise in the bar. “I haven’t seen her around in a few weeks.”

  The question brings me up short. Odd that he asks about me now. I never thought about these guys talking about me when I’m not here.

  “Are you trying to ruin my night, asshole?” demands the woman standing next to Drake, and then she moves closer to him and away from the man on her other side. She slips an arm around Drake’s waist and leans into him. His arm comes around her, too.

  “Jesus, Marlie, I’m just asking.”

  Marlie.

  She turns to Drake and licks—actually licks—his cheek. In that moment, I know.

  Holy. Motherfucking. Hell.

  It’s Marlie Davis, the woman I hate above all others.

  I stop. Abruptly. Completely. I’m not even breathing. I know it because my lungs get tight, but I can’t seem to do anything about it.

  “You didn’t answer.” Is that the first man speaking or someone else? “What’s up with Paige?”

  Drake shrugs. “She’s my weekend fuck.”

  “What does that make me, big man?” asks Marlie as sticks her tongue in Drake’s ear. “Your girl for the weekdays?”

  “Definitely your Thursday fuck,” laughs someone else, “if that show y’all put on last week meant anything.”

  “Fuck you.” Marlie flips off the table, but she’s laughing.

  They’re all laughing. It’s louder, longer, uglier, and I can’t do anything but stand there like a goddamned statue and blink. Even when Drake leans over and gives Marlie a long, tongue-down-her-throat kiss.

  “C’mon, sweetness.”

  I feel Noah’s arms wrapping around my shoulders and pulling me back against his chest. He’s hard and solid and keeps me standing up straight. I lose a ragged little half-breath, another, but somehow they sound loud and obnoxious. I try to swallow back everything else, but it’s too late.

  Between one heartbeat and the next, one of the guys on the other side of the table catches sight of Noah and shouts, “Holy shit!”

  They all turn, and it’s like watching a slow-motion movie through a long, foggy tunnel. I hear the shouts: Noah’s name, the band’s name, the curses of excitement and amazement. None of that means anything to me. I’m too busy looking at Marlie, her smile at first surprised, then pleased, and finally triumphant when her gaze lands on me. And Drake, whose curious expression slowly turns shocked and angry.

  Maybe even panicked?

  No, that isn’t right. I know better. That’s just my need to see something that isn’t there. Would never be there. Not when the choice is me versus Marlie Davis.

  Been down that road already. Lost the battle and the war. Retreated and retired solidly from the field.

  I say nothing. And, really, what is there to say? Zero. Zilch. Nada.

  I step out of Noah’s embrace, turn on my heel, but I have to swallow a frustrated sob when my exit is ruined by my shaky balance. Catching myself against Noah, I steal a second to regroup and then walk away with what I hope is more determination than I actually feel.

  It takes everything I have to force my way through the crowd, but I let nothing stop me. Shouting follows me, but I don’t respond.

  That doesn’t mean I don’t hear them.

  “Sweetness!”

  “Paige! Baby, wait! It’s not what you think.”

  “Fuck you, Drake!” Marlie. The only female voice among the noise. “It’s exactly what she thinks, and you know it,” she yells. “Everybody knows it! You and I are fucking, and we have been for months.”

  Chapter Two

  Noah

  Well, fuck me. What a shit show!

  It was supposed to be a quiet night. I came out with friends I hadn’t seen since I got back to town. We’d go to the hot new sports bar in town, have some beer, wings, watch some football. Catch up on each other’s lives after the last few months. It’d be fun. Low key. A change of pace after the hectic schedule on tour, the shitty rumors, the accusations, and now Zayne’s stint in rehab. I needed a break. Then I saw her.

  Paige Hamilton.

  My high school girlfriend.

  The only girl I ever kept. The only one I ever wanted to keep.

  I couldn’t, of course. Keep her, that is. She deserved a lot better than an asshole like me, and I guess I made that happen for her. I fucked it up, just like I always knew I would. Like I’d been doing my whole life, according to my old man.

  But . . .damn. Those two years I had with her were a couple of the best of my life.

  Now I’m following behind her as she works her way across the bar. Away from the humiliation of finding her boyfriend kissing another woman. Discovering he’s been fucking her, too.

  It’s all too familiar. For her. For me. It’s like fucking déjà vu, and I’m to blame as much this time as last.

  Sounds pound around us—the football game, the cheers, the shouts—but I can’t think about that now. I have to remind myself of who I am and not the useless piece of shit I was five years ago.

  I’m Noah Dexter. Noah fucking Dexter. Drummer for the band Wycked Obsession. Self-professed manwhore and, according to the tabloids, one of the bad boys of rock.

  What the fuck do I have to feel bad about?

  I run my gaze over Paige’s retreating back. I can’t help it. It’s been five years since I last saw her, and she looks as hot as ever. Hotter. At seventeen, she was a nice, pretty girl; at twenty-three, she’s an amazing, beautiful woman.

  Her coffee-colored hair is pulled back in a high, tight ponytail that swings from side to side across her shoulders. The purely male side of me wants to wrap it in my fist and pull her head back for my kiss—and that’s pretty fucking stupid. I know it’s especially true when my cock twitches in agreement.

  Don’t! I tell myself. Don’t think about that. Don’t think about the way her hips sway in that flowery skirt, or how the top hugs her waist, her tits. About how the slender curves of her body are exactly the kind of figure I’m most attracted to. It makes me feel all caveman or some shit, and that’s just wrong where Paige is concerned.

  It makes me think about her eyes. The way they used to light up when she looked at me. That deep hazel color that still haunts me sometimes. Catching that fucker Drake with Marlie put pain in her gaze that I’ve seen just one other time. I put it there then, and I hate like hell that anybody could do that to her again.

  But . . . Christ. Did it have to be Marlie?

  And Drake Johnson? What the hell is she doing with a guy like that? I mean, I’m an asshole, yeah, but Drake�
�s got me beat in more ways than I can count. He doesn’t give a shit what he does or who gets hurt as long as he gets what he wants. Especially when it comes to girls. Back in high school, he bragged about the shit he did to girls. Lying, cheating, even paying them to have abortions. He thought it was funny as hell, and the more shit he got by with, the meaner he got.

  Never impressed me much. Paige can’t know half of what he did, or she wouldn’t be with him.

  At least I’m always honest with the girls I fuck. They know what they’re getting with me. The best sex of their lives and absolutely no promises for the future.

  No, not quite.

  I correct myself as I realize something. There actually is a promise for the future—that there won’t be one with me. They get me, maybe another girl—okay, pretty often another girl—and that’s it. One or two nights, maybe a week, and then it’s over. Period. I never go back after that.

  But this isn’t about me and Noah Dexter’s Rules for Dating. It’s about Paige and how that bitch Marlie Davis is involved—again—in screwing with another of Paige’s relationships. She sure as hell was right in the middle of Paige and me breaking up.

  Now, five years later, she’s doing the same damn thing? Is the woman psycho? Like stalking Paige or something?

  The idea makes me snort in disgust, but I don’t have time for anything else. Paige has reached the door, and I need to concentrate on her. She needs . . . I don’t know what. Something. Somebody.

  Unfortunately, she’s getting me.

  Seconds later, she’s outside, I’m right behind her, and I grab her arm. “Sweetness, wait.” I pull her to a stop.

  She doesn’t want to. She tries to pull away from me, I resist, and she gives in easier than I expected.

  Or does she just give up?

  “What, Noah?” she asks softly, turning to me with weary, slumped shoulders.

  Those beautiful green-and-brown eyes are wet with unshed tears. She drops her gaze like she knows I’m seeing more than she wants me to, and I pull her close. Don’t mean to, but I can’t stand that look of pain on her face.