The Girl's Got Secrets (Forbidden Men #7)(2)

After that, the panic set in. With bruised wrists and a sore throat, I wondered how long I was going to be trapped buck-ass naked to my own bed. People would worry about me eventually...after a few days maybe. The guys in the band. Pick. They’d come around to check on me.

But what if I dehydrated to death before then, or the building caught fire and burned down around me? Or...

Fuck. Now I had to take a piss.

Hadn’t Stephen King written a horror book about someone left handcuffed alone in a bed? I hated horror movies. I didn’t want to star in one of my own.

I jerked on my bonds a few more times to relieve some of my anger and rising fear, but I only succeeded in injuring myself further.

How the hell could she have just left me here like this? It wasn’t as if I didn’t know where she worked. I could find her. And, oh...would I be finding her. She would not be getting away with this without repercussions.

And what had those tears been about? It freaking messed with my head. I wanted to be nothing but pissed, except I was worried too. But I tried to focus on the rage.

“Wrong f*cking move, princess,” I told the empty room, grinning bitterly as I plotted my revenge. Wonder how she’d feel if I handcuffed her to a bed and forced her to tell me every mysterious thought in that pretty head of hers with torture tools like feathers...and chocolate syrup?

And damn it, there went my stupid dick again, hardening at the thought of her in handcuffs and drizzled in something that needed to be licked off. Didn’t the little f*cker realize I was in dire straits here? So not the time to be thinking about sex.

Even if last night had been the crème de la crème of marvelous encounters.

On my nightstand, my phone rang. I whipped my attention that way and gaped at it sitting so close and yet so far away.

It rang again, and I could make out the name “Sticks” on the screen. Perfect. If I could confide in anyone on earth during a situation like this, it would be him. I knew I could count on Sticks for discretion, loyalty and hopefully some freaking help.

Now, I just had to finagle a way to answer his call.

I swung my leg over and used my big toe to try to slide the answer button on. Took two tries, but by God, I did it.

With another tap of the trusty toe, I turned it to speakerphone. “Hey, man,” I panted out, impressed by how casual I was able to sound while handcuffed buck-ass naked to my bed. “What’s up?”

“Not much.” His voice filled my apartment and was like music to my ears. “I was starving and thought pizza sounded good for lunch. Want to come with?”

“Sure,” I said; I even shrugged a bare shoulder to keep it all laid-back and casual-like. Yep, I was just chilling here without a care in the world.

“Cool. I’ll swing by and pick you up in a bit, then.”

“Sounds good. But, uh, quick question first.”

When I didn’t ask anything within five seconds, he said, “O...kay. Shoot.”

I bit my lip, debating whether I really had it in me to confess what had happened. The embarrassment would kill me. And though he’d be the kindest about it, I doubt even Sticks would let me live this down.

But then I thought about the whole Stephen King thing, and my bladder gave another lurch, reminding me how full it was. So I clenched my teeth and sucked up my pride.

“You don’t happen to have...handcuff keys, do you?”





One Month Earlier



Rocking my zebra-striped Chuck Taylors, ripped fishnet hose, blue jean miniskirt, silver-studded belt and a skintight tee featuring the band The Pretty Reckless, I readjusted my wig full of spiky blonde hair.

My toes tapped to the rhythm of the muffled music hammering through the closed door, and I let it pour through me, plugging me into the mood...until the drummer on the other side of the wall missed a beat.

Feeling the sympathy, I winced even as my heart accelerated with anticipation.

“So long, sucka.” The guy next to me chuckled as the guitars and bass inside the studio lurched to a stop, cutting the song short.

I glanced sideways at my bench companion, and he smirked my way, lifting his fist for a congratulatory bump. Since he was decked out in metal and tattoos, I figured he was competition, but ...oh well. I complied, knocking my knuckles against his as a small grin twitched across my lips.

There went one less drummer out of our way.

Picturing the ass-chewing the dude inside the auditioning room must be getting, I began a countdown, wondering how long it would take for the band to kick him out of there.

“Ten, nine, eight—” I murmured under my breath, never reaching seven because the double doors burst open, and a pissed-off guy in dreadlocks stormed into the hall.

“Fuckers,” he growled before sending a piercing scowl to the row of waiting applicants sitting on the bench against the opposite wall, all of us hoping to succeed where he had obviously failed. He gave us a derisive snort and spun away. His rampage down the hall accompanied him kicking one door and throwing his drumsticks as hard as he could toward a trash can.

“Kind of a sore loser, don’t you think?” my bench companion mused mildly as he watched the temper tantrum.

“Meh.” I shrugged. “I’ve seen my six-year-old cousin throw down more drama than that over a broken doll.”

With a smirk, he gave me an approving nod. “You’re all right, rocker chick.”