Oops! I Married a Rock Star Read online

  Oops! I Married a Rock Star

  Nadia Lee

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Titles by Nadia Lee

  About Nadia Lee

  Copyright

  To Chris.

  Chapter One

  Devlin

  I squint, my eyeballs feeling like they’ve been rolled in the burning sand outside. The damn curtains aren’t completely shut. A thin beam of light is cutting through the dark like a cleaver, slicing into my brain.

  Who forgot to close the curtains?

  My head is pounding, making a worse ruckus than Cole banging on my drum set. A groan that sounds like a toad’s croak tears from my throat. My mouth feels drier than the midday Vegas air.

  Finally, my vision adjusts to where I can see a hotel room. Not mine. Mine is a swanky suite with a piano.

  What the fuck…?

  This room has blood-red hearts stenciled all over the walls. The ceiling reads, Happy Honeymoon.

  Honeymoon? I’m not even married, so there can’t be a honeymoon. Although…I’m not alone in bed. There’s a strawberry blonde curled up next to me.

  That, at least, is par for the course. Axelrod just finished its latest world tour and every city has a hot chick or two I can sleep with.

  What isn’t par for the course is that I still have clothes on.

  So does that mean…?

  Wait just a damn minute. My Batman shirt is pushed up almost to my chest, so that’s kind of a half-credit in the clothes department. And my pants are unbuckled and unzipped. In fact, my pants and underwear are stuck down to a couple of inches below my knees, like I got tired in the middle of getting undressed and gave up.

  Shoes are still on…

  I press the heel of my hand to my forehead. What the hell happened?

  I remember drinking, hanging out with Killian, Max and Cole, then, to deal with the damned bet I’d lost, I went out to the Strip, and then…

  …and then…

  Shit gets fuzzy after that.

  More precisely, last night is a blank, like somebody took an ax to my memory and chopped it off.

  Damn it. Not good. Not good at all. I try not to lose control like this. Last time I did, some crazy chick made a video of us having sex. Thank God my legal team yanked it from YouTube within an hour of her uploading it and slapped her with a cease-and-desist demand so mean it made her cry.

  But first things first.

  I reach over and grab a bottle of water from the nightstand. I rip off the tag the hotel put around its neck, twist the cap open and chug the whole thing down.

  After a few moments, I start to feel marginally better. I climb out of bed and pull my pants and underwear up. I make my way to the bathroom but don’t turn the light on, since my eyes just can’t handle that much brightness right now.

  Once I shut the door, it’s pitch-black. I almost trip over something and bang the hell out of my shin.

  Cursing, I hit the switch on the swiveling magnifying mirror. A dim orange light illuminates the bathroom. I look down and see a bathrobe lying on the floor. Used bottles of body wash, shampoo and conditioner sit on the soap dish in the shower stall. So, the blonde showered last night. She should’ve hung the robe up instead of leaving it on the floor like a booby trap.

  Annoyed, I kick the heavy terry cloth out of the way. It lands limply by the huge tub.

  I take a leak, splash my face with cold water, then brush my teeth with the dental kit next to the sink to get rid of the gross, sour tang left from all the crap I drank yesterday. The toothpaste isn’t even close to enough, so I gargle with a mouthwash strong enough to sting my nose.

  After downing another bottle of water, this time with some minibar aspirin, I feel reasonably human.

  As I wait for the aspirin to work its pharmacological magic, I study the blonde who’s still curled up in sleep. Her face is buried in pillows, but the body’s definitely hot enough to be in my bed. She has nice curves, all gentle and sweet. I like women with generously sized tits and hips, since you might as well sleep with a guy otherwise. And she definitely has both, based on the outline. It’s too bad I can’t remember having fun with them.

  Or maybe there was no fun to be had… my insidious mind whispers.

  My throat dries for reasons that have nothing to do with last night’s overindulgence. Cold fingers of humiliation run down my back. Did I have another incident? Ever since the mind-blowing sex with Ms. Bad from New York six weeks ago, my dick has been having issues. It’s gone on fucking strike, refusing to rise to the occasion and do the one job it was created for.

  Bastard. I couldn’t go to a specialist because it got hard when I thought about Ms. Bad. If I could get a replacement I would, just so I could enjoy the reliable erections I’m entitled to.

  But then, as I trace the blonde’s curves with my eyes, blood starts to flow south…and…

  Hey, look at that!

  Boom! Hello, morning wood! How nice of you to show up after going AWOL for so long. How are you?

  Well, I’m fine, thanks for asking. Sorry I’ve been missing for weeks. But I’m back and reporting for duty!

  Well, well, well. So good of you to remember you have a job to do.

  Looks like it probably performed last night. If it can get hard now, I don’t see why it couldn’t do the same a few hours ago. My not remembering doesn’t change anything.

  So…where the hell are the condoms from last night?

  I force the gears in my head to turn. The rubbers should be somewhere near the bed. I mean, there’s no way I walked to the bathroom with my clothes around my calves. But I don’t see any. And there’s no way all this woman and I did was sleep. That’s just not how things go when Devlin Marsh enters a hotel room with a chick.

  I root around, looking under the bed, under the pillows, between the mattress and box spring, in the drawers of the two nightstands and in my pants pockets. My blood chills. I never, ever have sex without protection. I’m not interested in making any little Devs. No matter how drunk or tired I am, I always keep my swimmers away from eager, unfertilized eggs.

  A baby would mean responsibilities. Having to do things I don’t want to do. And I will jump into a swamp full of gators before letting myself get saddled with bagga
ge I can’t unload.

  Maybe your dick was still on strike yesterday.

  Great. So it’s a choice between temporary limpness or possible procreation? What amazing options.

  The girl makes a noise in her throat, like the light’s disturbing her, and shifts with a small whine. Her hair falls from her face, and I gawk as I take in the thick, dark lashes, the pale porcelain skin, the small, cute nose, and the surprisingly full rosebud mouth that reminds me of a bing cherry.

  Holy shit. It’s Ms. Bad from New York herself!

  I look away, then back again to make sure it’s really her, not some doppelganger. How the hell did she get here? I had no way of getting in touch with her after New York. She left our bed before I got up and didn’t leave a number. Which was really odd, since women usually love to stick around as long as possible.

  But her vanishing like that doesn’t mean I forgot about her, like I normally would with some random woman. I’ve been wondering about her since our scorching encounter. As a matter of fact, I wanted to see her again since my dick quit on me that evening. Like no other woman would do. Ever.

  And I can’t really blame my penis for that. She’s easily the best I’ve ever slept with. All soft, sweet and mouth-wateringly delicious. And she smelled like a warm pear compôte made with a dash of rum I had once in New Orleans. I could’ve spent the entire night in New York just licking her.

  It is definitely her. Unless she has an identical twin…

  My vision shorts out for a moment as I consider the possibility. The idea is super-hot, but I doubt God created two Ms. Bads. That’d just be too good to be true.

  What’s she doing in Vegas? Did she know the band was going to be here and decide to chase me across three time zones?

  Normally that’d be shudder-inducingly stalkerish, but with her it’s cute and sexy. Especially since it’s making my dick hard again.

  I bend over the bed, feeling like a champ and absurdly pleased. Now that we’re close, I can smell her ripe pear scent. Lust zings through me, leaving me slightly dizzy with need.

  I should do something nice for her. Spoil her and treat her like a queen until we leave Vegas. Maybe ask her to come with the band. She’d probably love it, and I haven’t asked a girl to spend time with me like that since the whole fuckup with Ashley.

  Ms. Bad scratches the tip of her nose and squeezes her eyes even more shut, like she’s doing her best to stay asleep just a little bit longer. Something winks on her finger. The world seems to freeze for a moment, then I inhale sharply.

  A wedding ring.

  “You’re married?” I say it before I can catch myself. “What the fuck?”

  She shifts, her eyes slowly come open and that violet gaze hits me, still soft with sleep and something else that looks like ninety percent satisfaction and ten percent relief.

  And it makes my blood heat. Not simply with outrage, but with lust, too. Because she’s glorious when she comes. I remember how she fights for air, how unfocused those eyes get when she’s lost in pleasure.

  God damn it. What the hell is wrong with me? Focus on the wedding band, not how she looks when she climaxes!

  My dick doesn’t get the memo.

  “You were totally single in New York six weeks ago.” I point an accusing finger, furious that she’s married and my hormones are out of control for her.

  “Oh, you noticed?” She stretches a bit.

  “Yes, I noticed! I always check because I don’t screw married women, no matter how hot they are.”

  “That’s a good policy.” She finally sits up, and the sheets slide down, revealing a white…nightshirt…?

  Why is she in a nightshirt? Especially one made with boring white cotton?

  Damn it, everything’s so hard to process. “Did you get me drunk to take advantage of me?” I demand, feeling dirty somehow. Which is ridiculous, because I definitely have a rep with ladies. And it’s the kind that would make any father want to hide his daughters.

  “No.” She’s looking at me curiously.

  There’s something weird about the way she’s staring, but I can’t put my finger on it. My brain doesn’t work as efficiently without caffeine in the morning. I should’ve called room service for coffee before starting this confrontation.

  “I paid you,” she adds. “There was no advantage taken.”

  Paid me? “My ass,” I say when I can breathe again. “I don’t charge for sex. Although, you know, technically I could…”

  She raises a skeptical eyebrow.

  She doesn’t think I’m that good? Even after experiencing Devlin Dementia firsthand?

  “It’s true. Supply and demand. There are millions of women who want me”—including you—“but only one me. But I don’t do that, because sex is supposed to be fun, and I don’t want to cheapen myself that way because I’m not for sale, and…” I shut my mouth because I have no fucking idea why I’m saying all this. I’m probably more hungover than I thought.

  I really need coffee.

  “But you took the money,” she says. “Ten thousand up front.”

  “Ten thou…” My jaw nearly hits the damn floor. “As in dollars?” Just how drunk was I last night?

  “Obviously. I used PayPal. And don’t worry, I’ll pay the rest as scheduled. It was just a deposit.”

  This is like a trip into the Twilight Zone. I start to put a hand across my mouth, unsure what the hell is happening. It passes through the sliver of light and something glints.

  What. The. Fuck.

  There’s a ring on my finger, too. And the damned thing looks just like the one she has on hers. With three little diamonds!

  I feel sucker-punched. I stare at the wedding band like it’s a scorpion, then look at her. This must be how people feel when a roller coaster breaks and their car’s about to jump the rails.

  “Are we…?” I try clearing my throat, but still can’t choke the word out. “Are we…?”

  “Are we what? Married? Yes.”

  “How is that even possible?” I demand. “I don’t remember anything.”

  “Well, you were pretty drunk.”

  “It has to be illegal to rope a drunk guy into marriage!”

  “Actually, it isn’t. It’s all legal and proper.”

  “Bullshit. I don’t even know your name.”

  She gives me a look. “It’s Becca. I can’t believe you forgot already.” The look is saying, I can’t believe you’re senile already.

  “Fine. Becca. I’m getting this whole thing annulled, Becca.”

  She looks as unshakable as a mountain. “No, you’re not.”

  “What?”

  “I said no. I’m not annulling anything.”

  “Why the hell not? I didn’t agree to this farce!”

  “Actually, you did.”

  The urge to get violent is almost overwhelming, but of course I can’t hit a woman. “I was drunk. I don’t even remember seeing you yesterday.”

  She sighs and spreads her hands. “Well…sorry.”

  “Look, it can be a quick, quiet annulment. I’ll pay all the fees. No harm, no foul. Are we good?” I paste on a friendly smile. A bit of sweetness might work better than screaming.

  She shakes her head. “Too late to get cold feet. The contract says no backing out. Didn’t you read it?”

  “The contract?”

  “Yes.” She squints at me like I’m an idiot who just made a pact to sell my soul for a candy bar. “I really need a husband. I thought I made that clear.”

  I open my mouth, then stop. Something about the way she phrased it sounds…

  She needs a husband? What the hell does that even mean? I cross my arms. Nobody needs a husband. Unless she’s looking for a meal ticket. Jesus. That has to be it.

  But we’ve been married for less than twenty-four hours. There’s got to be some way to get a quick, easy annulment. I’d rather run my tongue down the Vegas Strip than give a penny to some gold digger.

  “Your needing a husband isn’t my
problem. We aren’t doing this.” I grind the words out.

  Then I storm out, pissed at myself for not seeing that she’s a manipulative bitch.

  With or without her cooperation, I’m ending this farce. Then I’ll sue her for entrapment. I’d bet both my balls she approached me in New York to set this up.

  Chapter Two

  Devlin

  –six weeks earlier

  Classical music quartet. Check.

  Tiny finger food with French names. Check.

  Overpriced art that looks like someone threw a bucket of paint at the canvas. Check. Anonymous platinum blonde on my arm. Check.

  Private art gallery exhibits and receptions aren’t my jam. I haven’t dressed up since Killian’s wedding, and fit into this scene about as well as a clarinet at a death metal concert.

  Max asked everyone in the band—which would be me, Killian and Cole—to come to this event during breakfast. He even used some large words. And that meant this was super important, because he always acts like it costs a year of his life for each syllable coming out of his mouth. If he were in charge of writing songs for the band, all our lyrics would be grunts…maybe with a few growls thrown in for variety.

  I didn’t catch why this matters to him so much, though. Maybe I was distracted or something. But whatever. There’s probably a chick he wants to pick up at the reception. He doesn’t share himself as generously with ladies as I do, but he’s not a monk, either. And if he needs my help to score some girl he’s dying to bang, I’m willing to sacrifice a free day in the Big Apple for the cause.

  And there is a bright side. This reception being so different from a rock concert, I might run into a woman who’s different from the groupies who usually hang around Axelrod. And a little female variety wouldn’t be bad, even if I have to pretend like I’m a connoisseur of…well, stuff that makes zero sense to me.

  I gather from snippets of pretentious conversation that it’s this artist’s first solo show, so it’s a big deal. I still don’t get the paintings, though. They’re too abstract. I like pieces that are more concrete. Easier to understand, and more eye-catching than paint splatters and weird color combinations on the canvas.

  Much to my disappointment, the women here don’t seem that much better than groupies. They all seem enthralled by the works hanging on the walls. But how many of them are faking it to look smart?