Behind the Lyrics by Melissa Riddell

Chapter 10

Viktor Farrow

The owners of the recording studio spared no expense with my entertainment. Several barely clothed women pranced around the oasis pool, flicking their hair and sashaying their hips as they walked past, their glances telling me I could do anything to them, and they’d enjoy it.

I lounged in a chair, content to watch them under the cover of the starry sky and old-fashioned tiki torches scattered around the water. Hidden speakers, disguised to look like natural rock scattered around the area, played an eclectic mix of hard rock, metal, and old-school grunge. To my right sat a platter of fine meats and cheeses, along with crackers, fruits, finger sandwiches, and chocolates.

A server stopped at my side with a tray of bubbling champagne in flute glasses. “Would you care for one, sir?” He bowed lower, making it easy for me to snatch one if the urge hit.

I hesitated. Fuck yeah, I want one. That old familiar desire to down the alcohol rose inside me, whispering I could have one, just one. One wouldn’t hurt me, would it? My fingers reached outward, but I stopped. One always led to two, and two to five, and then I’d find myself right back where I’d been two years ago.

Instead of gripping the stem of a glass, I waved him away. “Get the fuck out of here.” I slipped a finger into my pocket and stroked the most important thing on me. No, not my dick. Okay, the second most important thing on me.

The server’s face blanched, and he straightened. Back stiff, he marched away, offering his poison to other members of the recording team who happily downed the liquid.

Several of my bandmates had tried to talk to me earlier, but I ignored them, lost in my thoughts. No, not just lost in my thoughts, consumed with them—particularly that little nymph named Angela. The gall of her rejecting me. It still irked my blood. To be turned down, so coldly and completely, had done something to my pride.

One of the scantily clad girls, a blonde with big green eyes, licked her lips and adjusted her top with a slow, measured grace, her stare sultry as she winked.

Yeah, I still got it. I patted the top of my thigh. “Come here, doll.”

A bold smile stretched her lips. She strolled to me and sat on my legs, twining her hands around my neck and grinding her ass against my lap.

She was lovely and smelled of chlorine and summer. Her hair, still damp from an earlier swim in the pool, cascaded down her back, and I twisted my hands in the strands. I wonder what Angela’s hair would feel like wrapped around my fists?

My dick stirred at this image in my head, of that little angel straddling my hips, her long hair sliding across my naked chest.

For fuck’s sake, man, what in the holy hell is wrong with you?

This blondie, whatever her name was, I forgot, nuzzled my neck, scraping her teeth across the skin. “Viktor Farrow,” she whispered. “You don’t know how many times I dreamed of this when I was a little girl.”

I frowned. What? The way she’d said it made me feel old. Whatever stirrings of desire I had promptly died out. I pushed her off my lap.

“Hey.” She stumbled backward. “What did I say?”

“Run along, Tonya, Tanya, or whatever the fuck your name is. You’re still a little girl.” What had I been thinking? She wasn’t interested in me. She was starstruck by the rocker she’d idolized since she was young, which, by looking at her, wasn’t that long ago.

Something in that made me tired. I wasn’t old, thirty-five was still considered one’s prime, yet I’d spent too many nights in the arms of nameless women who’d only wanted in my pants for the glory of saying they’d shagged Viktor Farrow, the Angry God.

Being turned down by Angela pissed me off, of course, yet there was a challenge in it, too. She very obviously didn’t care about my rock-star status. As a matter of fact, she’d made it clear she couldn’t care less.

I loved a good fight. Over the years, I’d only overcome one, and that had been with the help of rehab and a good psychologist.

Energy and excitement poured through me, and I texted Andy.

Me: Get me the address for Angela Morales.

Andy: Huh?

Me: …

Andy: The DJ girl???

Me: Yes.

Andy: Why?

Me: I don’t pay you to think. I pay you to do.

He didn’t respond for a couple of minutes, so I crammed a couple of weird tortilla things into my mouth. I think Americans called them pinwheels or something. Cream cheese and some sort of meat burst with a smoky flavor. Quite good.

Andy: Okay, it’s 5986 Stryker Boulevard, Apt 273. Can I at least ask why you need it?

Me: You may.

Andy: Sigh. Just don’t do anything that’ll result in negative publicity. We’re trying to rebuild your career—not sabotage it.

I didn’t bother answering him. I’d got what I needed and headed to my room for a change of clothes. I wonder what a little angel would find attractive. Perhaps I’ll trade in my black attire for something a little more…colorful.

Tonight, she and I were going to finish our conversation, and I’d take on the challenge named Angela Morales. I’d gladly get her into my bed, and once she was out of my system, I’d drop her like a hot rock, giving the sexy devil a little dose of payback.