Rock Me Faster (Licks of Leather #4) - Jenna Jacob
“I packed your bags and set them by the door for you,” Angie, my longtime friend and housekeeper, announced softly.
Lifting my eyes from the screen of my cell phone, I slid a gaze over the woman leaning against the doorframe.
“Thank you.” A tender smile I rarely shared with anyone tugged at a corner of my mouth. “You didn’t have to haul them down for me. I would have done it.”
“I know. But the Cessna to New York I booked leaves in a few hours.” She hesitated. “Need to work out some…frustrations before you go?”
Normally, suggestion would flicker in her dark eyes and her voice would sound husky. Not today. What was that about?
As drummer for celebrated rock band Licks of Leather, I was looking forward to the start of another US tour. At the same time, I was dreading it. The band’s usual three-month respite had been cut short thanks to Quinn MacKinnon—friend, agent, promoter, and president of Fusion Productions. After he’d acquired a stunning ranch and state-of-the-art recording studio in Texas, we’d spent nearly all of our normal downtime on the outskirts of Denton. I’d only been home in Chicago for less than a week. And though my band brothers and I had laid down some killer tracks for our upcoming album, I hadn’t been able to mentally prepare for six long, celibate months on the road.
“I’d like that.” I nodded.
“All right. I’ll meet you upstairs.” She sounded more like she was going to face a firing squad than fuck me.
“You okay, Ang?”
She didn’t answer right away. “Fine.”
Before I could call bullshit, she turned and walked away. At the same time, my phone dinged. I glanced down to see a new photo had been posted to the Licks of Leather social media page. Opening the app, I issued a low growl.
Syd Wilson, bass player and resident prankster, had posted a photo of me crashed out in a chair. Legs askew, head lolled to one side, mouth open, and arms dangling toward the floor. At least the cockbag hadn’t captured me in my underwear…drooling.
“Asshole,” I grumbled.
Closing the app, I drew in a deep breath and stood. As I headed down the hall, I shoved aside the command I’d once wielded in another lifetime and locked it behind a thick wall of steel. Taking the grand staircase to the second floor, I focused my thoughts on keeping Angie safe…and figuring out what the fuck was up with her.
When I reached my bedroom, I found her—like always—lying naked on the mattress, legs spread, fingers teasing her pussy. Readying herself for me.
It didn’t matter that Angie was seventeen years older or that she had once been my mother’s best friend. The laugh lines etching the corners of her mouth and her soft body now affected by gravity didn’t bother me, either. At forty-nine, she was still elegant, toned, and attractive. She was also blessedly trustworthy.
Four years ago, I’d left rehab, clean and sober. My eyes had finally been opened, but my control was in shambles. While the tabloids were having a heyday with the dirty details of my sins, I’d returned home. Like an angel of mercy, Angie had appeared on my doorstep. It had taken a couple of weeks, but I’d finally grown a set of balls and confessed everything to her.
To this day, she still holds my demons, triumphs, and dreams sacred.
Though I’d conquered the monsters that fed my addiction, their ghosts still hovered, whispering all the reasons I should lose myself in the euphoria of cocaine again. I blocked them out for sobriety’s sake, while Angie did her part to keep me sane through equal parts salvation and humiliation. And for that, I owed her more than gratitude. More than the obscene amount of money I gave her each month. And far more than the few minutes of hollow pleasure we sometimes shared.
If the shrinks back in rehab knew the things Angie did to me, they’d stroke out. But they could go fuck themselves. They hadn’t lived through my hell. Angie understood—and she didn’t judge. She knew I couldn’t trust myself with anyone else yet. So, she helped me.
Hands working the fly of my jeans, I kicked them off impatiently, sending them sailing across the hardwoods. Then I tugged my tee over my head and tossed it in the other direction before taking six long strides to the edge of the bed.
“How close?” I asked in a voice thick with need.
“Halfway there,” she answered, rubbing a finger over her stiff