Perfect Ten: A Rockstar Romance Read online

  Pulling my beanie lower, I step out of the elevator and look around anxiously, hoping like hell nobody recognizes me. Not that I don’t love my fans, because I do, but it’d be nice to go out every once in a while without every single eye focused on me, scrutinizing and dissecting my every move.

  I’m heading in the direction of the casino when the sliding glass doors off to the side open. The movement catches my eye, but what holds my attention is the angel stepping in off the busy strip.

  My gait slows until I just fucking stop in the middle of the lobby, and damn it if my mouth’s not hanging open with what surely has to be a dumbass look of awe. I probably look like a goddamn trout, but I can’t bring myself to fix it because holy fucking shit.

  Girl’s built like something straight out of a wet dream—huge tits, narrow waist, and an ass that just won’t quit. The more I gape, the more I can’t understand how her dimensions are physically possible. She looks like a real-life Jessica Rabbit.

  Her tits jiggle with each step, and I’m suddenly growing hard just picturing them bouncing as I fuck her. I wonder what color her nipples are? Are they big, or little?

  Jesus Christ, man, get a fucking grip. You’re in the middle of a goddamn casino and you’re sportin’ wood?

  Shielding my crotch, I glance around.

  Normally it takes several strokes or sucks before I even start to get hard. So how can this dark-haired bombshell get my blood pumping from all the way across the fucking room?

  She veers off toward the bar and before I can even think about it, my feet are following in her direction. Brows pinched, I bite my lip as I watch her ass sway.

  Lord have mercy, I think I’m in love.

  THREE

  Caroline

  Shit. Vicky’s not here.

  I frown and look around the crowded bar. How am I supposed to score free drinks without my hookup? I can’t afford to gamble, and I don’t feel comfortable taking free drinks from guys.

  They always expect me to put out as payment. Like dropping $20 on me is the key to sex.

  The men currently checking me out, however, probably have no way of knowing they won’t get lucky since I’m dressed like a $2 whore.

  Crap. I totally forgot I’m still wearing my “work uniform,” which consists of my silver bikini top, a fishnet sweater, and an embarrassingly small, skintight miniskirt that basically stays on by the grace of God. I’d been too focused on getting the hell out of Dodge to worry about changing back into my regular clothes.

  I bite my lip, debating on whether or not to duck into the bathroom to change. My street clothes are in my tote bag, after all…

  I finally decide to go ahead and get out of these ridiculous clothes, even though it looks like I’ll be going straight home instead of getting that drink I so desperately want. It’s not that I’m embarrassed to be seen half-naked or that I’m particularly shy—after all, I was a stripper up until about fifteen minutes ago—but my mom will be home, and she has no idea how I really make my money. As far as Lorraine Talbot knows, her daughter’s a cocktail waitress at Caesar’s Palace, and that’s how I intend to keep it.

  My hand grips the strap of the tote bag as I shift it higher on my shoulder and head for the nearest restroom.

  I think there’s a half-empty bottle of peach schnapps on top of the fridge…

  No matter how much I try to convince myself otherwise, I know deep down that schnapps won’t cut it, not after the week I’ve had. I need something stiffer than a girly-flavored, 50 proof drink.

  Feeling deflated, I grit my teeth and push back against the tears starting to prick my eyes.

  I will not cry, I will not cry—

  I’m halfway to the bathroom when some guy steps in front of me. He’s got a beer in his hand, and from the look of his glazed, slightly unfocused eyes, it’s not his first.

  “Where you runnin’ off to with that big ol’ frown? You havin’ a bad night, sugar?” His country twang is so thick I can’t even be mad that he just up and “sugared” me. He probably talks to everyone like that.

  Well, everyone with a vagina.

  If I were in a better mood he might even be cute. He’s fit and young enough, with pretty blue eyes that probably make all the ladies swoon. But I’m just not feeling it tonight.

  “Just going home,” I say, smiling politely as I try to step around him.

  He steps in front of me again, blocking my path. “You’re all dressed up and you’re gonna waste it by going home?” He shakes his head. “That’s a damn travesty. A beautiful woman like you deserves to be shown off, not hidden away. Why don’t you come out with me? Spend a night out on the town, my treat.”

  My polite smile is stretched too thin. Anyone sober could tell I’m not interested, but this guy’s not getting it.

  With a slight shake of my head, I put my hand up and try to walk around him again. Only this time an arm snakes around my waist and pulls me close.

  My whole body goes stiff at the sudden appearance of yet another guy—one who doesn’t seem to understand the concept of personal space.

  Ink covers his arms in makeshift sleeves, disappearing under his t-shirt where they re-emerge curled around his neck. The vibrant tattoos are practically the only color he’s wearing. Everything else is black, from the t-shirt adorned with the logo of some band I’ve never heard of, to the ripped black jeans sitting low on his hips, the scuffed black boots, and the small black gauges peeking out from the parts of his ears not covered by his black beanie.

  I seriously doubt the man in black is with the cowboy, which makes this all the more confusing. I open my mouth to tell them both off but before I can get a word out, the man in black says, “I just talked to the guy at the chapel. Elvis can officiate the wedding after nine, but if we want to get married before then, it’s Sammy Davis, Jr. Your call, babe.”

  He leans in and kisses my temple, flooding me with the subtle scent of cologne, a touch of leather, and a bite of whiskey. I’m too dazed to stop him, too dazed to be offended, although I probably should be.

  Who is this guy? Is he off his meds?

  The cowboy raises his hands in surrender, too drunk to recognize the bewilderment written all over my face. “My mistake, ma’am. Didn’t know you were gettin’ hitched.”

  I didn’t either.

  Shocked, I watch him leave.

  I can’t believe that worked. But more importantly, I can’t believe my fake fiancé just came up with that on the spot.

  The man in black releases me and steps back a foot. “Sorry. Yosemite Sam didn’t seem to be getting the message.”

  I’m still frowning as I stare at him, at a total loss for words. He must take my expression as anger, because he takes off his sunglasses and curses under his breath. “I was just trying to help, I swear. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

  His words go in one ear and out the other when I see his whole face for the first time, because oh my god. My fake fiancé is hot as fuck.

  His eyes are the color of sea glass and his lashes are so thick it almost looks like he’s wearing eyeliner. A day’s worth of stubble covers a jawline so perfect you’d think it was carved by Michelangelo himself, and a silver lip ring sits on the side of his very kissable bottom lip.

  This is the kind of guy my mother warned me about. The kind I’ve avoided like the plague ever since cooties turned into cuties.

  Feeling my face heat, I look down as the sudden urge to suck it into my mouth nearly overtakes me.

  “It’s fine,” I say, shaking my head to get rid of all these dirty thoughts bombarding me. “In fact, I should be thanking you for being so quick on your toes. That was kind of brilliant what you did back there, even if I thought you were crazy at the time.”

  If I thought he was gorgeous before, then his smile is nothing short of spectacular. It makes the butterflies in my stomach feel like they’re all trying to take off at once, only to knock into each other and tumble back down.

  “If you really want to th
ank me, then have a drink with me. We should probably get to know each other at least a little before we say ‘I do’, right? Imagine how awkward it’ll be when I ask you for your name in front of Sammy.” He cringes.

  The smile that tugs on my lips is the first genuinely good thing to happen to me in days. I feel some of the tension I’ve been carrying around float away like balloons. “So we’re going with Sammy? I thought you said it was my call.”

  He scratches his jaw, pretending to think. “I did say that, didn’t I?”

  I nod, amused that he’s taking it this far.

  “Okay, fine,” he says. “You pick the officiant, but I get to decide what we do from now until the wedding.”

  My mind immediately goes into the gutter, where I’m sure his is already splashing around.

  He laughs as soon as my face falls. “I’m not talking about sex, if that’s what you’re worried about. But this activity does involve two big balls,” he says, winking at me.

  My eyes narrow on him as I cautiously say, “Okay.”

  Part of me hopes this isn’t just an elaborate ploy to get in my panties, but when my eyes settle on his lip ring again, the other part of me kinda hopes it is.

  FOUR

  Tennessee

  Her eyes dart around my wing of the penthouse in awe, going wide when they land on the bowling alley in front of us. It’s an impressive suite, but I wasn’t trying to show off by bringing her here.

  I just thought it’d be easier.

  People downstairs were starting to stare and whisper. I don’t know if this girl recognizes me or not, but she’s not acting like some starstruck groupie. It’s refreshing as hell. And if she doesn’t already know who I am, then I’d sure as shit rather not tip her off. I don’t want to be “Tennessee King” tonight, nor do I want to deal with the real world and all its bullshit.

  I just want to hang out with this gorgeous girl, drink some beer, and do some bowling.

  “What do you say?” I ask, nodding to the row of bowling balls. “Feel like playing with some balls?”

  She laughs. “Sure. But I should probably change first.”

  She might have a point. She looks hot as fuck, but she’ll probably break an ankle if she tries to bowl in those heels.

  Plus, I’m legit having a hard time keeping my eyes off her. All that exposed skin and those deadly curves? I’m like a walking Viagra commercial over here.

  “Bathroom’s around the corner,” I say, clearing my throat as I point out the way. As soon as her back’s turned I adjust the crotch of my suddenly-too-tight jeans. They’re starting to cut off my dick’s circulation.

  She disappears and I use the opportunity to send a group text to my band mates, telling them I’m done for the night and want to be left alone. I might end up striking out with this chick, and if that happens, I don’t want it to be because those idiots walked in at the wrong time.

  I want to fail on my own, damn it.

  Ryan and JD are the first ones to respond with simple “K”s, but they’re not the ones I’m worried about. Sawyer is the dumbass motherfucker who’s likely to come barging in.

  Hopefully those two girls I left him with will keep him busy all night.

  I slip my phone back in my pocket as she comes around the corner. Gone are her super-revealing clothes and in its place is something even sexier: a frayed pair of Daisy Dukes and an oversized sweatshirt that’s hanging off a pale shoulder.

  She’s even wearing a beat-up pair of Chucks.

  Christ Almighty, how can she still look this good when she’s dressed down? It’s like this chick can do no wrong.

  She gives me a tentative smile, and that’s when I realize I’m staring at her again like some kind of mouth-breathing creep. Right. I busy myself with the controls, sitting down as I enter my name into the system as player one.

  “Help yourself to something to drink.” I say it as nonchalantly as possible, like she didn’t just catch me eye-fucking her.

  Watching from the corner of my eye, I see her smile to herself as she walks around the bar. That’s a good sign, right? If she weren’t into me at least a little, she probably wouldn’t be smiling.

  She’d probably be looking for the closest exit.

  “Ten, huh?”

  I turn around and see her reading my name from the giant flat screen over the alley as she walks back with a bottle of Patrón and two glasses.

  “It’s short for Tennessee,” I say. “My parents are…eccentric.” Which is a nice way of saying my rock star dad and supermodel mom were coked up for most of the nineties.

  I wait for the flare of recognition, almost bracing myself for it because I don’t want it to come. I don’t want things to get weird. I don’t want this to end before it’s even started.

  But all she does is set the glasses on the little desk in front of me and pour us drinks, picking up hers and tipping it back with as much grace as if she were sipping water. Not a grimace or even the slightest frown.

  I don’t know if I should be impressed or ask her if everything’s okay. In my experience, you don’t drink like that if everything’s coming up roses.

  Licking her lips, she pours herself another. “What brings you to Vegas, Ten?”

  How do I answer that? “Work,” I finally say. “What about you?” I ask, trying to steer the conversation toward her. Because really, that’s all I want to talk about.

  “I live here. Born and raised.”

  The way she’s looking at me—assessing me—is way too fucking unnerving. It’s like she can see straight into my soul and I’m over here getting nervous that she won’t like what she sees. It’s got me picking up my drink and slamming it back just to have something to do, which is a weird goddamn feeling.

  Girls don’t make me nervous. I’m supposed to make them nervous. I’m Tennessee fucking King.

  The tequila warms my chest as it slides down. I put my glass down and say, “Tell me, player two. What should I call you?”

  “You don’t even know your own fiancée’s name? Tsk, tsk.” She takes another drink before saying, “It’s Caroline.”

  My face lights up and I start belting out the chorus to Sweet Caroline.

  She rolls her eyes, but the smile on her lips and the blush coloring her face gives her away. “You’ve got to be the millionth person who’s done that after hearing my name.”

  “A million, huh? Does that mean I get a prize?”

  “I’d ask what you want, but I’m pretty sure I already know.” The corner of her mouth tilts into an almost imperceptible smirk.

  Her little tease has me grinning way more than it should. “Look at you, gettin’ all cocky.”

  Caroline pours us another drink. “Am I wrong?” she challenges.

  “Yes. As a matter of fact, I find you…repulsive.”

  She lifts the drink to her mouth, pausing to say, “Is that right?” She’s clearly not buying any of it, but then again, I’m not selling it very hard.

  “Absolutely. Your face is just grotesque, and that body…” My eyes drift down her as she stands in front of me. Sighing, I shake my head. “Good luck finding someone who’d want to see you naked. All that pale, smooth skin…” I shudder. “In fact, you should go put more clothes on because I can’t stand the sight of you.”

  This just makes her smile widen. “Is that why you keep staring at me so much? Because you can’t stand the sight of me?”

  My mouth automatically turns down. I was hoping she hadn’t noticed all that.

  Shit.

  “Yep,” I say slowly, almost embarrassed that she caught me. But then I roll with it. “I need to know where you are at all times, so I don’t turn around and get surprised by your grossness. That level of horror might give me a heart attack and then you’d feel bad for killing me, so really I’m doing it for you. You’re welcome.”

  Feeling victorious, I turn back around and start typing in her name for player two. Just when I think I’ve won that weird ribbing match we stumbled into,
I feel her fingers dance across my shoulders in feather-light traces as she walks around me.

  My eyes instinctively snap shut as I soak up her touch. I feel like a cat basking in sunlight even though she’s not actually touching my skin, just my shirt. Christ, I think if she were to actually touch me I’d cream my jeans like some fourteen-year-old virgin. My cock throbs, trapped in its denim confines as she leans down to whisper in my ear, her tits pressing against my back.

  “I think you’re wrong,” she murmurs.

  Brows furrowed, I try not to bite my lip. Or groan. “About what?”

  My eyes pop open as soon as she moves, plopping down next to me like she didn’t just leave me high and dry. “I wouldn’t feel bad,” she says, grinning.

  Shaking my head, I pour myself another drink. I’m going to need it with this girl.

  ***

  Turns out I’m a shit bowler. I’d like to blame it on the alcohol, because I’m fucking sloshed right now, but I didn’t really get drunk until I started losing. Caroline’s made me drink after every game I’ve lost, and well… I’ve lost a lot of games.

  It’s her turn now and she does that slow, under-handed granny roll again. She looks ridiculous, but I’m not about to tell her that. Because every time she does it, I get a sweet view of her ass as she bends over in those tiny shorts.

  I don’t mind losing if it means I get that view.

  The sound of all the pins knocking down grabs my attention. “Did you seriously just get another strike?”

  “Yep,” she says, popping the “p” as she gives me the biggest shit-eating grin. God, even when she’s gloating she’s fucking breathtaking.

  The room’s starting to tilt as I stand up and collect my bowling ball. “Are you sure you don’t do this for a living? ’Cause I’m pretty sure you’re hustling me.” Is it just me, or are my words slurring?

  “For what, free drinks?”

  “Drinks?” I whip around in mock outrage. “I thought we were playing for sex. Loser has to fuck the winner.”

  Caroline laughs. “How is that fair? Either way you’d get laid.”