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The Gilded Lily smelled like home — expensive whiskey, a cocktail of girly perfume, and so fucking many bad decisions I didn’t know where to begin. Exactly what I needed after six months of stale tour buses.
I was already buzzing hard when we walked in. The flight back home had been a long one, and I had started emptying the old JD well before the plane had pulled off the tarmac in LAX.
The second we stepped through those tall, frosted glass doors, the whole club seemed to tilt in our direction. People whispering, women smiling — the usual rockstar greeting.
Black Psalm was finally back where it belonged.
I was halfway through scanning the room for our usual table when I saw her.
She was standing there in the middle of the purple haze, wearing almost nothing, that tiny black slip barely covering her ass. Same soft mouth. Same wide green eyes I’d watched roll back while she rode a neon orange dildo. Same body that I’d pictured under me since I had found her OnlyFans page.
Baby Doll.
In the flesh.
No pink wig. No heavy makeup. Just her. Looking nervous and edible and so goddamn real it made my cock twitch.
“Well, goddamn,” I muttered under my breath.
Killian said something next to me — probably asking where we were sitting — but I wasn’t listening.
Shit, she was blond under that wig. Who woulda thought, right?
Well, if we’re real damn frank and honest — I did.
I had thought about her all bent over that fucking tour bus table, taking my dick until she choked, screaming my name when I pounded into her, my hand slipping in her hair — her real hair — fuck the wig.
Blond, though? I had pictured her as a redhead.
Don’t know why. Maybe I just had a thing for redheads. Who the fuck knew anymore.
Didn’t matter. Blond was working just fine for me right now.
But before I could act on it, I was being pulled toward the VIP section. We claimed our usual booth in the back corner — the big circular one with the best view of the stage and the floor. The red velvet rope here was pointless, just for show; half the regulars hopped it without breaking stride.
I dropped into the leather, legs spread wide, already signaling for a bottle.
Killian slid in next to me, grinning like an idiot the moment he spotted Dahlia on stage. “Six fucking months, man. Feels good to be home.”
“Feels better not having to tape Brett’s wrist every night,” I muttered, accepting the glass of whiskey a waitress immediately placed in front of me. Not her. Not Baby Doll. I didn’t even try to hide my disappointment.
Brett — our drummer — snorted from across the table, holding up his casted right wrist like a trophy. “Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up. Doc said I’m out for at least six weeks. Tour’s officially fucked.”
“Was already fucked after Vegas,” I said, taking a long sip. The burn felt good. “Crowd was dead. Should’ve known that was a sign.”
The conversation flowed easy — the usual post-tour bullshit. Which cities were worth it, which venues tried to screw us on the guarantee, which groupies in which city were actually memorable. Another round came. Then another.
I was on my fourth whiskey when I noticed her again.
Four empties crowded the table’s edge, and through the gap between Owen’s shoulder and Brett’s stupid cast, I caught the curve of her moving between tables.
A tray was balanced in her hands, her head slightly down, thinking if she kept her eyes low enough, nobody would clock her. Smart instinct. Bad execution.
I watched her over the rim of my glass, the scent of whiskey tickling my nose.
More girls had started circling our table. A stacked redhead was already in Killian’s lap. Another — some blonde with fake tits — had parked herself on the arm of the booth next to me, running her nails down my chest. I mean, I appreciated the gesture but I was not interested.
My eyes kept finding Baby Doll.
Remy, the floor manager, must’ve noticed too, because a few minutes later I saw her heading our way with a fresh bottle of top-shelf bourbon and a tray of glasses.
Complimentary, no doubt. The club loved when Black Psalm came through — liked the money we wasted here even more.
So, if you think about it, no bottle was actually complimentary.
She approached our table cautiously, that little slip riding high on her thighs.
When she leaned forward to set the bottle down, I got a perfect view of her tits.
That was it. The whiskey, the long night, and six months of watching her fuck herself on camera finally snapped something in me, and fuck if I wasn’t gonna be stupid about it.
I reached out and caught her wrist before she could straighten back up.
She froze. The whole tray rattled, glasses clinking together.
Her eyes snapped to mine and — fuck — up close she was even worse.
Better. Whatever. The screen hadn’t lied about the eyes, but it hadn’t done them justice either.
Green, and wide as hell right now, pupils blown out with something caught somewhere between recognition and pure animal panic.
A lyric popped into my head about jaded eyes.
She knew exactly who I was.
And I was pretty goddamn certain she knew that I knew exactly who she was.
“Well, ain’t you just the prettiest thing,” Owen, our bassist, chirped, drunk off his ass. I ignored him, as did she, her eyes fixed on where my hand was holding her.
“Hey,” I said. Just that. Just hey.
“Hi.” Her voice was smaller than I expected. Softer. I imagined her mumbled sweet nothings in my ear when I slipped in her.
I still had her wrist.
She glanced down at my hand. Then back up at me.
“You going to let me go?” she asked.
“Probably not,” I said honestly.
Killian shot me a glance.
Brett shot her a glance.
“So, you want to join us—”
“Fifteen K,” I cut Killian off. “Hell, twenty if you ask real sweet. It’s stupid money, but I’ll pay every fucking cent. I think you know what I’m talking about.”
The silence that followed was loud as hell.
She went very still. But not the still that meant she was about to bolt.
Then the flush crept up her throat.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said.
Her voice was steady. I’d give her that.
“Sure you don’t.” I let my thumb drag slowly across the inside of her wrist, right over her pulse point, and felt it jump hard against my skin. Shit, I was drunk, but that quick thu-thump, thu-thump made the last dregs of my sobriety focus on her. “Your heart does, though.”
She pulled her hand back then. I let her take it, although every inch of me was screaming to yank it back and place it over my throbbing cock.
She straightened up fully, tucked the empty tray against her hip, and looked at me with this expression that got my dick real excited.
Did I mention I was drunk? Well, I think it’s worth mentioning again.
I was hammered, but somehow nobody could ever tell.
Maybe perhaps because I was always drunk? Food for thought.
“I’m working,” she said.
I flashed her a grin. “Thirty grand. My final offer, Baby Doll.”
Killian’s eyes shifted between us. “You, uh, mind filling us in, man? The fuck you’re negotiating here?”
“Yeah, care to share with the classroom?” Owen added.
She looked at Owen. Then she looked back at me, and whatever professional mask she’d been trying to hold together cracked just enough.
Oh, she was fucking mad.
I bit my lip, smirking at her. The blonde stirred beside me, her hand slipping down to my belt, reminding me of her presence.
“You sure?” I asked Baby Doll when she didn’t say anything. “OnlyFans can’t be payin’ that good.”
She should’ve slapped me. Oh, I prayed she would.
“OnlyFans?” Owen repeated.
Baby Doll’s jaw tightened, and for half a second, I thought she might actually throw the tray at my head. Would’ve been worth it just to see her lose that careful control.
“You have me confused with someone else,” she said, voice clipped. Made me want to drag her into my lap and see how well she fit against me.
“Nah.” I leaned back, spreading my arms across the booth. The blonde’s hand was still on my belt, but I barely registered it. “I don’t think I do. See, I got a real good memory for faces. And…” My eyes slipped to her tits. “…other parts.” Then even lower. “Among other parts.”
Killian was staring at me now, trying to figure out if I was about to do something monumentally stupid. It was safe to bet on ‘I was’. Brett just looked confused, his broken wrist resting on the table like a useless club.
Owen, though — Owen was grinning like Christmas came early.
“Hold on, hold on.” He leaned forward, squinting at her through his drunken haze. “You’re telling me this little thing’s got an OnlyFans? What’s your handle, babe?”
She didn’t answer. Kept standing there, tray pressed against her hip, that angry flush creeping higher up her neck.
“Baby Doll,” I supplied helpfully. “Though I’m guessing that’s not the name on your driver’s license.”
“You want to know my name? That’s what you’re getting at?” She cocked an eyebrow.
I clicked my tongue. “I’m stupid when it comes to women, but not that stupid. Thirty thousand for your name? Nah. Now, thirty thousand to taste your pussy? That sounds fair.”
That did it.
Her face went from flushed to pale in about half a second. The tray slipped an inch, caught, steadied. Her fingers were white-knuckled around the edges.
“You’re drunk,” she said.
“I’m always drunk. Doesn’t change the offer.”
“Then you’re insane.”
“Also always. Still doesn’t change the offer.”
Owen let out a low whistle. “Thirty grand? Shit, Cross. You got it that bad? And while there’s a chick already on your arm?”
I looked at the blonde. Tapped her thigh and nodded for her to scram.
“Apparently,” Killian muttered, but he was watching her now, too. Curious.
“Yo, maybe we should just chill the fuck out for a sec,” Brett cut in. “Thanks, doll.”
“I think we’re pretty fucking chill, man,” I said, my eyes never straying.
“Just go,” Killian mouthed to Baby Doll.
But she didn’t move.