Dead Serious by C.M. Stunich

Author:C.M. Stunich [Stunich, C.M.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Romance
Publisher: Sarian Royal
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

I'm sitting at the table in my room, spinning my cell phone in lazy circles. As far as I know there's nothing preventing me from calling out, from telling someone about this shit. I might not have family out there that gives a crap, but I could call any number of news sites, TV stations, magazines. They'd listen to me, print what I had to say even if they didn't believe it. I could call the cops. Stephen Hammergren can't possibly own every cop out there. There's just no way. I could call in an anonymous tip to a random police station anywhere in the United States. But who would believe me? What I am really trying to report anyway? Help, my manager sent the paparazzi after me! I think she's hiding something related to this whole Stephen plot. Oh? You don't know what Stephen I'm talking about? Just the guy who used to be CEO of the world's largest privately owned record label. Until … what? Until my manager, the manager of – let's be honest – a pretty middle of the road rock band. Or at least that's what we were. Now, we're a fucking sensation, and it's not because of my music or my mad guitar skills, it's just because we're caught in some sort of sick game.

I sigh and lean back, letting cigarette smoke trail out between my lips. A few feet away, Turner Campbell sleeps on his belly on the bed, still not wearing a shirt, still hot as fuck. I drop my chin down and look at him, listening to the gentle rumble of voices outside the hotel. There's a veritable mob out there. Every once in a while, a chant breaks out and I can make out what they're saying. Indecency! Indecency! Indecency!

I ignore them, leaning forward and putting my elbows on my knees. Beside me, the bag of blow sits undisturbed. Trust me, there's nothing I'd like to do more than fuck myself up, but I have a bad feeling that everything is about to come to a head. I want to be sober for that shit.

“Turner.” I say his name, but he doesn't stir. His back rises and falls with the soft pulse of his breath and his arm hangs limp over the edge of the mattress. I close my eyes and listen to my memories, letting them play in my head like a movie. There's Turner with either side of his head shaved, star tattoos bright on his skull. His black hair is spiked up in the center, not quite a Mohawk but definitely not a fucking faux-hawk either. God. That concert, the night we met, that was so killer. I could feel his voice inside my bones, could hear his heart beating with each breath he took against the microphone. I was starstruck. Not gonna lie about that. Turner was … glitz and glamour and a lifestyle that was so different from what I'd been living that it sounded like heaven.

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