Tainted: The Complete Enemies-to-Lovers Rock Star Romance Box Set Read online

  “Oh shit,” Levi says, rubbing the back of his neck and grimacing. “Sorry, Red.”

  “Why didn’t you just give it to a shelter?” Coop says. He looks beyond me to my shit-box of a car, and his brow creases in this sexy furrow that makes all the blood in my body rush to my vagina in point-three of a second. “Are you living in your car?”

  I step defensively in front of said shit-box. “No.”

  “Guys, give us a minute?” Cooper says.

  “Here we go,” Zed mumbles under his breath.

  “What the hell, man?” Levi shoves Coop’s arm. “You said we were going to go get pizza?”

  “I’m gonna shove my fist up your arse in a minute if you don’t fuck off. I need to talk to Red.”

  “I don’t need to talk to you,” I say, sounding an awful lot like a petulant child. I do not like being told what to do.

  “Talk, riiiiight.” Levi says, and then turns to walk away, but Zed holds a hand out to stop him.

  “Wait. The booze,” Zed says.

  “Red, you wanna hold your pretty kitty down while Zed gets the booze from your car?” Levi leans in, propping his side against the door, flush with mine. “Or you want me to do it for you?”

  “Back off, Quinn,” Cooper warns.

  Levi raises his hands above his shoulders and steps away from me, walking back toward the studio. Zed grasps the handle on the passenger-side door.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you—”

  He yanks it open. Cat launches herself at him, clawing up his torso and across his shoulder. Zed screams as her tiny little claws pierce his flesh. The cat is freaking out. Zed is freaking out, and Cooper is just laughing. I stare at him like he’s fucking crazy, because he must be. There’s no way you couldn’t see that cat coming at you with claws and fangs exposed and not freak out the way Zed is. Coop makes this clicking noise with his tongue and the bitch cat leaps from Zed into Cooper’s waiting arms.

  “Fuck!” Zed roars, yanking off his shirt to assess his new injuries. Kitty drew blood, a lot of blood because it’s running down his torso in a thin watery stream, down hard pecs, and deeply chiselled abs, and—oh god. When did I become one of those girls who thinks with her cooter instead of her brain?

  Zed clears his throat, and I reluctantly trail my eyes up his broad chest one more time before I meet a mischievous smile and bright blue glinting eyes. “Your cat needs a rabies shot.”

  “Yeah, so does my vagina,” I mutter, still in a daze from all the pretty on display.

  Zed laughs and ruffles my hair. “I like you, Red.”

  “Well, seems like you’re the only one,” I mutter again. God, I wish my mouth would just stop moving, just for five damn minutes.

  Zed winks at me. Shoving his shirt in his back pocket, he leans into the open car door and piles the rest of the supplies on top of the carton of beer. He turns and carries his loot to the studio without another word. I watch his muscular back, and firm arse retreat and then I turn my attention to Coop, who’s currently holding my kitty in his arms like a baby, as though she’s a real cat that likes affection. And is that a purr?

  “You got a box you want her to go back into?” Coop asks. I peel my gaze away from Cat lounging in his thickly muscled arms—hussy—and I meet his eyes. His gaze is cool as ever. For a man who stands on stage in front of thousands of strangers and bares his heart and soul through his music, he’s surprisingly hard to read.

  “Yeah,” I say, and I walk around to the other side of the car, opening the door and stepping aside to let him put Cat in the kitty cage. He eases her gently inside, and she doesn’t protest. The bitch kitty doesn’t scratch and put up a fight like she does for me. She just curls farther back inside the box and licks her paws.

  Stupid cat. And stupid freaking rock stars, with their long-fingered and calloused-in-all-the-right-places damn hands. He steps back and I shut the door. Through the glass I see the arsehole feline hiss. I’m tempted to hiss back, but instead I let out a deep sigh and turn around, and come face to face with very pretty blue-grey eyes.

  “Why are you living in your car?”

  I blink in surprise. “I’m not living in my car.”

  “Don’t bullshit me, Ali.”

  “Excuse me?” I glare at him. “What are you my dad, now?”

  “No. I’m your employer. It’s my job to make sure you’re safe when you’re on my watch.”

  “Okay, first of all, you’re not my employer. Harbour Records is. And secondly, beyond telling Guidelli that I’m doing a bang-up job, you don’t owe me shit. Just like I don’t owe you anything,” I say, shoving off the car so he has no choice but to back the hell up. I really want to just get in and drive as fast and far away from Cooper Ryan as possible, but I’d probably get fired for it. Plus, I don’t have the petrol. So instead, I just tilt my chin defiantly and fold my arms over my chest.

  “I’m only going to ask you this once more: why are you living in your—”

  “Jesus Christ, no wonder your barefoot and pregnant girlfriend up and left you. You’re a fucking pushy bastard.”

  Coop flinches. He pulls away from me as if I just slapped him in the face. He turns and walks back to the studio, his shoulders set, hands in his pockets. He doesn’t look back. I don’t go inside. Instead, I climb into my car and wait for the band to be done recording.

  IT’S ANOTHER SIX HOURS before they all come walking out of the studio, tired, bleary-eyed, and looking so far removed from their hot megastar image. I mean they’re still hot, but they all look as though they could use a nap.

  Levi has his arm slung around the blonde receptionist. Ash trails behind the couple, his head down, and Zed and Cooper walk behind him, both engrossed in conversation. Cooper doesn’t look in my direction, but I know he can feel the weight of my stare as my eyes follow him in the rear-view mirror.

  When their cars pull out of the lot, I let out a sigh of relief. I wait until the producer leaves the studio and locks up after them and then push my seat back as far as it will go in the tiny vehicle and attempt to get some sleep.

  I’m woken at five am by a security guard tapping on my window. He asks me to move the car out of the lot, and I do. I park out on the quiet street until he leaves and then I drive right back in again, figuring I’ll get a little more shut-eye before I’m made Taint’s coffee bitch again.

  CHAPTER THREE

  OH, ICK

  ALI

  When I wake again, it’s because the cat is scratching to be let out of its box and there’s a man tapping at my window. I close my eyes, wanting just another half hour, but then I scream because there’s a man tapping at my window, and not just any man, but a super-hot rock star man.

  He stares at me with his eyebrow raised and holds a white bakery bag and two cardboard mugs of coffee up to the glass. I bring my seat up and crack the window open, afraid to get too close in case I knock him out with my death breath.

  “Dude, you’re here like really early,” Zed says, and I wince a little at the volume of his voice this early in the morning. “Wait. Did you sleep in your car?”

  “Uh-huh.” I close my eyes and lay my head back against the seat. Remembering that’s not something normal people do, I add, “Just this morning. I got here at like five, and when no one was here I just decided to go back to sleep.”

  I stretch and open the door. Zed steps back to allow me room to exit and then we both lean up against the car. He hands me one of his coffee cups and places the other on the hood.

  “Did you bring me coffee?” I croak.

  “Isn’t that your job?”

  “Right.” I nod, and then let out another frustrated huff. “I just got my foot in the door. I worked my arse off for years and in one split second of douchery I’ve been reduced to ‘Red, the Coffee Girl’.”

  “So you really are into this music thing, huh?”

  “This music thing?” I question. “Wow, Zed, I feel like I should strip away your rock star badge for that comment.”r />
  “Well you know, a lot of chicks get into this biz for the perks of fucking rock stars.”

  “Such as yourself?”

  “Maybe.” He grabs a pastry from the bag and ploughs into it, speaking again before he’s swallowed everything in his mouth. “I do alright with the ladies.”

  “I’ll bet.” I squeeze my hand tightly around the cardboard cup, relishing the warmth against my fingers, and sip it slowly.

  “You can drink it.” Zed tilts his head toward the cup. “I’ve already had two this morning.”

  “You had two coffees this morning? It’s not even—wait, what time is it?”

  “Six thirty.”

  “Holy crap. You guys didn’t finish in there until after two.”

  He shrugs. “None of us sleep much.”

  Yawning, I say, “Do you think that has something to do with all the coffee and drugs you filter into your system?”

  He shrugs. “Maybe.”

  Zed balances his empty cup on top of my car, and then without another word he gestures for silence by pressing his hand to his pursed lips. He closes his eyes and crushes the cup with his forehead, finishing with his palms in prayer.

  Did he roofie my coffee because ... really? Did I seriously just witness that?

  “Are you really sleeping in your car?”

  I sigh, and decide to answer him truthfully, because right now I’m tired of lying to save face and secondly, if I don’t get a shower in the next few days, then it’s gonna be pretty hard to hide the fact that I’m homeless anyway. “I lost my apartment. Got kicked out, actually.”

  “You can stay at my place. I’ll even let you be on top.”

  “Excuse me?”

  He shrugs. “I have bunk beds.”

  “You have bunk beds?” I question, because there’s no way in hell I heard him right. One look at his face tells me that I definitely did. I shake my head. “You’re not even kidding, are you?”

  “Nope.”

  “You’re a grown man, Zed. Possibly even one of the best drummers of our time, and I’m not going to lie, you’re definitely the hottest drummer of our time, and you sleep on bunks?”

  “I like bunks. They make me feel safe.”

  I laugh, because the idea of a big-arse giant like him needing to feel safe is about as ridiculous as the idea of him having bunk beds. “How do you even fit on one of those?”

  “King size.” He grins. “Custom made, baby.”

  “You’re insane.” I laugh.

  “Probably.” He smiles.

  A shiny Maserati, more than likely belonging to the owner of Decker’s Studio, pulls into the lot. A man gets out of the car and I’m surprised to find his clothes are just as casual as ours. He greets Zed and gives me a small nod before disappearing inside the studio.

  “Hey, Zed?” I say, and he turns to look at me. “Don’t tell Coop I’m living out of my car, okay?”

  “I’m pretty sure he already knows.” He shoves his hands in his pockets and glances over at the sleek black BMW that pulls in beside my car. “I think everyone knows.”

  “Great.” I sigh.

  “Except Levi.”

  “Except Levi what?” a new voice says from behind us, and I turn and find the devil in question, and a really pissed off looking Cooper Ryan staring at us.

  “Looking good, Red,” Levi says, sauntering around the car to stand next to me. He reaches out and tucks a strand of my hair behind my ear and whispers in a low voice, “Is that sex hair?”

  I swat him away. I’m just about to give him an idea of what beaten-up-by-a-girl-less-than-half-my-size hair looks like when Cooper’s icy voice has me glancing back at him again. “We got work to do. Where the hell is Ash?”

  “Lying in a pool of his own vomit, most likely,” Zed says, matter of fact.

  “Call him.” Cooper stalks past us, and Zed throws an army salute to his back.

  “Jones, we’re gonna need coffee and food when you’ve woken up long enough to drive a car.”

  “Yes, sir,” I snap automatically, and then regret it when he turns to face me with a smirk.

  Typical. It’s not enough for him to be a hot rock star—he has to be a control freak with a kinky-side too.

  THIRTY MINUTES LATER, I’m staring at my face in the mirror of a mall bathroom. I glare at my raccoon eyes and cringe. Jesus. No wonder everyone I passed stared at me like I was crazy. I look like shit. I look like a crack addict. I look like a homeless person. And all of this in front of the world’s hottest rock band—and I know I said I hated Taint and everything they stand for, but show me a girl who doesn’t want to look good in front of that many rock stars and I will eat my own damn pussy, or I’ll die trying.

  I run the tap and splash a little water on my face, trying to remove the makeup I slept in. My efforts only serve to smear it further, and make my panda eyes that much rounder. It could be worse, I suppose. I could have woken with jizz on my face—not that that has ever happen to me before, or anything.

  I pat my face dry with a paper towel and stare at myself some more. I don’t know how I got to this point. Three months ago, I was happy. Three months ago, Brad and I were moving forward. We were living in a slightly crumby but also kind of cool Ultimo apartment, along with our friend Tim. I’d loved living with those boys; there was no drama. There was cheap tequila, and a jar of peanut butter, and ramen noodles were our friends, but then we graduated from university and got jobs. Tim got engaged and moved out to live with his fiancée and Brad and I got desperate for a new roommate in order to meet the rent.

  We’d gotten a new roommate, alright—a stripper. I’d spent the weekend in hospital with my Grams and came home to find that not only had Brad not talked to me about the possibility of having to share my space with some whore who takes her clothes off for money, but that he’d already helped her move in.

  Before long, he and his mates were going to watch her shows, something he’d tried to hide from me at first, until Tim let it slip. He made out like it was just the boys blowing off steam, and I’d begged him not to keep going. Bad enough that we had to see her perfectly sculpted long body strut around the apartment in a towel—I didn’t want him seeing her pink bits up close and in stereo. Not long after that, I’d gotten my very own peep show when I came home and found her giving Brad his very own special lap dance. On. His. Face.

  I moved all my crap into my Grams’ house. It was nice—if not a little pathetic—living with my eighty-two-year-old grandmother, but it wasn’t long before her in and out visits to hospital turned into longer stays, and then to something a little more permanent. The leukaemia eating away at her frail body won, and suddenly, within the space of three months, my whole world had shattered. My Grams had raised me, she had always been there, and then she was nowhere ... she was just gone.

  The bank had foreclosed on the house, and by the time the funeral expenses were paid, all that I’d been left with was my shit-box of a car, my measly half of the savings that Brad and I had eaten away at while we made our way through uni and Grams’ bastard cat. The only good thing to happen to me in the last three months had been landing my dream job at Harbour Records. Sure, my boss was a mega bitch from hell, but everyone else in the office was fine, and all I had to do when the Lizard Queen started ranting and raving about how long it took to get a decent coffee was look at the pictures I had taped up against my cubical wall. Pictures I’d taken at concerts. Pictures of Josh Holme and Kings of the Iron Age that I’d cut out of Rolling Stone, and a picture of a very fresh-faced me with my arm slung around the shoulders of Billy Idol, and another of me with Robert Plant, a huge smile on my face and sparkling eager eyes.

  One day, I’d be managing bands like this—assuming there were any bands like this left to manage, because if Taint was the future of the industry then music was screwed every which way from Sunday. Okay, maybe that wasn’t true. If they could just pull their heads out of their arses for five minutes and quit letting the record label pressure them i
nto being just another emo punk rock band, I could totally learn to appreciate them.

  So far, I hadn’t seen much of Levi’s talent past having a massive member—that, let’s face it, probably deserved its own bunk on the tour bus. Ash had been pretty absent yesterday, but I knew from the tracks the label played around the office that he had skills, and I’d already been pretty clear on my feelings towards Zed and Cooper. I’d actually seen the band live before they’d gotten picked up. They’d played a little Irish pub venue near Central Station about a year ago, and as much as I disliked his stupid pompous arse, the fact remained that you couldn’t see Cooper Ryan on stage without feeling it right down to the very last nerve ending in your vagina. This was fact. And as much as I hated to admit it, I hadn’t been the exception to that rule.

  I run my hands through my hair. Not only is it sticking out at all angles, but it’s also limp and greasy at the roots. I move closer to the mirror, peering at the small white stick poking out from the nest at the back of my head. I wrap my fingers around it and pull out a lollipop, sticky and matted with my hair.

  “Oh, ick,” I say to my disgusted reflection and then I stare at the lollipop, wondering where the hell it had come from because I must have been all of seven the last time I had one of these. I throw the offending sucker in the bin and cradle my face in my hands. And for the first time since my grandmother’s funeral, I lose it. Right there on the disgusting floor of a dingy public bathroom, I fall apart. I cry. I breathe, and then I pull myself together. I leave the bathroom and I pull the last five-dollar note from my wallet. I march through the mall to the supermarket, where I buy a bottle of two-in-one. Then I go back to that bathroom and I wash my hair in a sink with a leaking tap and next to no water pressure, and I dry it by crouching down under the hand dryer.

  My hair poofs out like a big fluff ball. I look like a freaking Pomeranian, but at least I’m halfway clean. Just two more days and I’ll get paid. I can stay in a backpackers’ until I find somewhere more permanent to live. Just two more days and things will get better. I know they will.