When attorney Jami Dillon strides into the conference room to meet her new client, she’s stopped in her tracks by an all-too familiar figure. Jackson Paige. He’s her tall, tattooed, and sexy as hell hook up from law school—who also broke her heart.
Jackson Paige was, in fact, Jax Pain, the drummer of Manix Curse.
That thing in Jami’s chest tightened, making it hard to breathe.
Jackson Paige, aka Jax Pain, has worked hard to put that unfor-frickin-gettable fling behind him and the nasty secret that made him leave her. Truth is, life as the playboy drummer of Portland’s hottest metal band hasn’t helped him to forget the fiery, sexy woman who stole his heart. Lucky for him, Jami was just hired as his band’s new attorney. But when he sees the look on her face when she realizes who her new client is, Jax wonders if maybe being this close to her again isn’t such a great idea. The explosive chemistry is there, but so are the dark secrets…
“Did he just wrap a pair of women’s underwear around his wrist before going up on stage?”
Jami turned slowly, still in a Jax-induced haze. Ella and Gabby stood behind her. Oh shit, had they witnessed the whole scene play out between her and Jackson? That was exactly why she shouldn’t be here. Why she had to stay away from him. He was dangerous. He made her think wearing a short denim skirt, heels, and a tiny top were good ideas. That coming to a heavy metal show in downtown Portland was a good idea. Or that letting a tattooed, pierced, six-foot-four wall of narrow, twisting muscle wrap her hair around his fist in a packed bar and kiss her breathless was a good idea.
It wasn’t. Not a good idea. Definitely a very bad idea.
She stared at her friends. What had Ella asked her?
Behind her, a guitar began to play a slow, pulsing melody. Soft, sweet, building to something bigger. More solid.
The steady beat of a bass drum. Then more drums.
Ella and Gabby pointed to something on the low stage behind Jami. The band. Of course, the band was starting. More specifically, Jackson’s band, her client, Manix Curse, were beginning their set. Her heart dropped into her belly. She swiveled around, her eyes tracking the hundreds of hands with their fingers held up in heavy-metal salutes.
The lone spotlight shone down on the tall and shirtless Marco Dane as he tossed back his mane and bellowed to the sky about the cruelty of love. His perfect torso was already glossy with the sheen of sweat. But it was the tall, rangy man beating the drums with feral efficiency that made her blood boil with prurient lust. His head hung low, but his short, messy hair was already dark with sweat despite the fans circulating air around the stage. Conner leaned into a mic in front of Mandi and they joined the chorus.
Jami watched in awe, mesmerized by the pure raw power of the four band members and how seamlessly yet viciously they tore apart and reconstructed the song. She’d never seen anything like it. Never heard any band with such vitality and brutality, and yet a dash of melody. Even in her wilder youth, when she’d snuck into every concert and club possible, she’d never seen anything quite like Manix Curse.
Not one for crowds or other people actually touching her, Jami barely registered the audience members pushing into her, clamoring for a closer look at Manix Curse. Or even the couple of losers who attempted gropes before Ella—or she assumed it was Ella—slapped away a restless, errant hand.
The band abruptly ended their song and the crowd went wild, screaming their names and favorite songs into the chaos.
Marco growled into the mic, and the women in the crowed squealed. “You guys here to see Manix Curse?”
The crowd screamed louder.
“You here to rock the fuck out?”
They yelled louder still.
Then Jackson raised his head and searched the crowd. The smirk that transformed his face when his eyes locked on Jami’s could only be described as wolfish. The voice in her head began to whisper again, filling her with all kinds of dark and dirty thoughts. Because gone was the laid-back, easygoing Jackson everyone knew. In his place was the man she’d met years before.
And her blood turned from liquid into steam and evaporated from her body, leaving her a hollow shell of need.
He flipped his sticks around his fingers in a manner that, for some unexplained reason, made her wet. Then he pointed one stick at her, and sure enough her freaking panties were wrapped around his wrist like some ridiculous rock-and-roll talisman. People turned to stare at her, obviously wondering what, or who, had caught the playboy drummer’s eye, but she just stared at him.
Award-winning debut author KASEY LANE writes sexy romances featuring music, hot guys with ink, kick ass women, and always a happily ever after. A California transplant, she lives with her high school crush turned husband, two smart, but devilish kids, two Papillions, three cats, and several chickens in the lush Oregon forest.