Vivian pulled on my hair again. “Fuck you, Cole!” she seethed.

I lifted my head from the curve of her neck and grinned. My hands hastily pushed up her skirt and I ripped her panties off in one of those macho, romance novel moves. I was pretty proud of myself. I dangled the shredded white lace off the edge of my finger, twirling them in a circle before tossing them onto the floor.

Without preamble I dropped to my knees and spread her legs so I fit between them. I looked up at her from my spot between her thighs.

“I plan to, sweetheart,” I promised before helping her use all that rage to make us both very, very happy.

2

I fell out of the bed.

I hadn’t done that since I was six years old. But here I was, sprawled out on the carpet and dazed from being pulled out of a deep sleep.

“Ouch!” I whined, rubbing my elbow where it had collided with the bedside table. I got up on my knees and squinted in the poor lighting. The blackout curtains were drawn over the windows so it was hard to see. Sunlight filtered around the edges and the clock said it was already eleven in the morning.

I braced myself on the edge of the king sized bed and hoisted myself up. It was no wonder I had fallen off. Cole was taking up the entire space. His legs and arms were spread out as he lay like a starfish across the mattress.

The covers had been kicked off at some point between passing out after our marathon sex-capade and falling out of bed. His naked ass was on proud display, his lean back, covered in black tribal ink, demanding that I ogle him.

I ran a hand through my tangled hair and let out a sigh.

I sort of hated myself right now.

I got to my feet and stood on top of a mountain of condom wrappers. I grimaced as I saw five empty packets littering the floor.

When would I ever learn?

I slowly headed to the bathroom and closed the door quietly behind me, so as to not wake up Cole. Though honestly, a nuclear blast wouldn’t wake him up after a night of sex and drinking.

I turned on the bathroom light and tried not to run screaming from my reflection. I looked like a war victim. My long hair, normally a pretty and perfectly styled strawberry-blonde, hung in a gnarled mess down my back. I tried to smooth it out but it would require a deep condition and a good amount of time with the hair straightener.

I tilted my head to the side and gingerly touched the red and purple skin. I looked like one giant hickey!

Upon further inspection I could see several, very obvious bite marks on my boobs and one on my inner thigh.

I turned on the shower and cringed as I stepped inside. I was sore. My muscles ached and my vagina felt as though a tractor-trailer had driven through it.

Marathon sex with Cole Brandt was rough on the body.

And the self-respect.

I lathered the hotel shampoo in my hair and thought about what had happened yesterday.

I had flown into Dallas, Texas from Virginia to see the Generation Rejects show. The venue had been their biggest yet. After almost a year of touring around the country and playing in small bars and nightclubs, they had finally gotten a break.

A huge, change-their-lives-forever break.

Their manager, Jose, who had taken over duties from Maysie six months ago, had gotten them on as an opening act for Primal Terror, an indie rock band with a very radio friendly sound out of Portland, Oregon. Primal Terror had just been signed with a huge label and was on their first official nationwide tour.

Jose had connections. And it was lucky for Cole and the guys that he had seen something in them he liked. Because since he had come on board, their visibility and success had started to skyrocket.

What had once been nothing more than a bar band with sex appeal, was becoming something so much more.

And I was excited to see it.

I loved Generation Rejects. I had been friends with Jordan Levitt, Maysie’s fiancé and drummer in the band, since we were freshmen at Rinard College and he was dating his then girlfriend, my former Chi Delta sorority sister, Olivia Peer.

I remembered the first time I heard the Rejects play at Barton’s Bar and Grill, the local watering hole in Bakersville, Virginia, where we went to school.

I had been there with Olivia and a few other girls in Chi Delta. I didn’t know the other guys in the band. Olivia had said, with quite a bit of disdain if I remembered correctly, that they were townies, aka guys not in college and thus not worth our time.

Whoever they were, they had kicked ass. They didn’t play my normal style of music. I was typically the queen of bubblegum pop. And Generation Rejects played music meant to make your eardrums bleed and your brain turn to mush.

But they had stage presence. Their songs were good and the lyrics, when you could understand them, were amazing. I hadn’t been able to take my eyes off them.

And that had mostly everything to do with the man in the front. The lead singer, with a voice made of razor blades and liquid sex.

Cole Brandt.

In the early days of our acquaintance, when Jordan and Olivia were still together, our interactions were minimal. A hello here and there when I saw him in Barton’s. A beer passed when I had gone with Olivia to Garrett’s house after a show.

He had always been with a girl. He was good-looking but he was a townie. And our social circles rarely ever intersected.

I was the happy sorority girl more interested in frat mixers and planning rush events.

Of course I had liked to party as much as the next slightly rebellious college girl. As I went through school I started to develop a bit of a reputation for being a crazy drunk. My wild side became the total antithesis of who I was the rest of the time. Because somewhere along the way, the prissy pretty girl who liked to match her lip-gloss with her handbag started to become notorious for getting wasted and making scenes. For dancing on top of bars and showing the room her crotch.