ROCK HARD (A BRITISH ROCKSTAR BAD BOY ROMANCE) (15 page)

C
atherine and Liam
lay in bed in Liam’s LA mansion, as Catherine read from the Rolling Stone article she’d written. They’d been holed up for a month, allowing time for Liam’s shoulder to heal.

“You think I’m insanely handsome and brutally sexy?” Liam said, interrupted her.

“Sometimes,” Catherine replied. “Hush!”

“Changed the size of my cock, that’s for sure,” Liam quipped. “In fact, I think it’s growing again right now, luv!”

“Stop it! Shall I stop reading?” Catherine said, her voice filled with laughter.

“No, no, go on!”

“You included a disclosure?” Liam asked.

“Yes, I had to, it’s only ethical,” she replied.

Liam grabbed the magazine from Catherine’s hand as she read.

“Stop! I’m getting to the best part!” Catherine protested.

“Unless you’re wrote about how skilled my cock is, I’m not interested in hearing about myself anymore!” Liam said, pulling Catherine into his arms and kissing her.

After being subjected to Callum’s deranged lunacy, the two of them had come together and written a song while Liam spent a week in the hospital. The band recorded it quickly, the label releasing it immediately as a surprise single, and the world had eaten it up.

It sold five million copies in the first day, and had gone on to sell millions every day since then. All the proceeds went to the charity, and they’d raised ten times the amount Callum had pissed away.

After learning Callum had abused Ally, Liam was making sure he was prosecuted to the full extent of the law. He was looking forward to seeing Callum locked away for a very long time.

“Wait, you have to at least skip to the end,” Catherine said, opening the magazine back up. “Read the last paragraph.”

“Oh, alright, if it means I can get you naked faster.”

“Just read!” she insisted.

“Fine!”

“What!” Liam cried out excitedly.

He looked over at Catherine, and saw her smiling eyes, tears running down her face as she nodded enthusiastically.

“You’re pregnant?” he asked.

“I am. I didn’t know how to tell you…”

“I’m going to be a father?” he yelled.

“Yes!” Catherine cried, as Liam’s lips crashed down on hers, his arms pulling her in tightly.

“I can’t believe this,” he said, breaking away, his voice cracking with emotion.

“I know it’s sudden, I know we just met, but I —-,”

“But nothing! This is bloody fantastic, luv!”

“You’re happy?”

“Happy? I’m fuckin’ ecstatic!” His eyes lit up with excitement.

“Wait here!” he said, leaving her alone on the bed and disappearing into his closet.

“Liam, what are you doing?” Catherine called.

“Just wait!”

A moment later, he walked back in the bedroom and climbed back on the bed with her. He brought his hand from behind his back, and revealed a tiny black box. He opened it slowly, and the biggest, brightest, shiniest diamond she’d ever seen shined back at her.

“What is that?” she squealed.

“Catherine, luv, there’s only one thing in the whole world that could make this day better. Please say you’ll marry me.”

“Yes!” she cried, as he jumped off the bed and picked her up, twirling her around in his arms, kissing her as best he could through the huge smile on their faces.

“I love you, Catherine,” he whispered, setting her back down gently.

“I love you, too,” she replied, her eyes shining with happiness.

“Now, darling, be a good girl and drop those knickers…” he whispered.

H
ey to all
my sexy readers! I hope you LOVED ROCK HARD as much as I loved writing it! Please don’t hesitate to leave me a review - you are the reason I write, and I appreciate all of your support

As always, I’ve included a little something extra for my loyal fans. Turn the page for a FREE copy of my Amazon top-10 bestselling novel, ARROGANT BRIT! And don’t stop there. Keep turning pages and I’ve also included my bestseller ROYAL PRICK!

I hope you enjoy this little collection of stories, and when you’re done, go check out my website or sign up for my email list so you can get early notification on my latest releases! I’m working on three all new novels right now and I can’t WAIT to share them.

You are the reason I write.

-
N
ikki
Wild

O
f course
I’d be running late for the most important banquet of the fucking month.

I scrambled to check myself in the mirror. The makeup was a thinly veiled hack-job, and my hair was barely kept in line.
Image
was the name of the game,
image
and
proper representation
… but I knew that I didn’t have the time to prepare myself any better.

At least my makeup covers the bases.

It wasn’t going to win me any awards.

But I’d leave a good enough impression.

With a slice of toast between my teeth, I quickly darted down the stairs and hopped in my ancient piece of junk Honda. No time to be cute and civil now, and I was starving. I could touch up my makeup at a red light…of which I anticipated there would be several because, you know, I was running late, and
why the fuck wouldn’t there be red lights all the way there.

Twisting the keys in the ignition, I listened as the engine sputtered to life and ignored the obnoxious chime of the check engine light – the constant death knoll was ritual by now.

Moments later, I was on the road, a cavalcade of excuses and apologies whirling through my head. I didn’t know what I was going to say to the others when I arrived.

Forty-five minutes and a minimum of eight red lights later, I finally pulled to a halt in the parking garage, six floors above where I needed to be. I raced to the elevator, frantically punched the button, and rode it down the chasm towards the lobby. It was only halfway down that I realized I probably could have slipped down the stairs faster.

The Marines’ banquet was already starting by now, probably. All eyes were going to be on me as soon as I walked in.

Fantastic.

As I stepped out into the lobby, evading eye contact with absolutely anybody, I marched straight through the doors and to my people. There they were, standing in procession around our portly, impatient leader as his furious gaze fell down upon me.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me…I need to speak with one
tardy
Clara Campbell.”

Everyone’s gaze fell on me, and I felt small.

“You’re late,” Arnold told me after pulling me aside. Even with his whispered tone, I could see the others judging me as they paraded around the room. “I thought I could count on you to never be late. Where’s my Clara? I don’t see her here, just this tired,
tardy
young lady.”

“I’m sorry,” I replied truthfully. “It won’t happen again. Traffic was–”

“
Don’t
let it happen again,” he cut me off.

I nodded quietly, knowing that there would be no further discussion. All those half-hearted explanations in my head fell to the wayside, and I knew that he didn’t care to hear a single syllable.

Arnold cast me one final, judgmental glance before turning to the others, who collectively pretended to be occupied with their own devices.

“Very well then. Places, everybody!”

I grabbed a drink tray.

Oh. Wait. You thought I was going to be
in
the banquet, didn’t you?

Nope.

I‘m not the plucky romantic lead in a book, fawning over my billowing attired and preparing to take the arm of a sexy, rugged Marine. I wasn’t wearing a nice dress, although I
did
have a fetching black bow tie beneath my collar.

I bitterly adjusted my bow tie and waistcoat.

That’s right.

I’m on the fucking serving staff.

This
was my place in life. My role was to work in the trenches while other people got the nice, glamorous lives. Being a banquet server meant working behind the scenes and making sure nobody saw what was really going on beneath our careful, manufactured smiles and in hidden corridors around the event rooms.

Spreading crisp, flawless tablecloths over ancient, folding wooden tables…

Stepping through concealed staff entrances into dank, filthy hallways, refilling ice pitchers and returning mountains of discarded plates…

Lining up in an assembly line of servers around a massive kitchen – marked with years of use and old appliances – to whisk out huge black trays of carefully plated entrees…

I saw the muck behind the charm.

It was my job to make sure
they
never did.

I’d never be the beautiful princess, or the intrepid reporter, or the esteemed socialite. I was just Clara – a working-class server, part of a freelance banquet and bartending crew that rounded out local hotels, sports games, and catered events. Being anything more than that just wasn’t the world that was in front of me.

Or so I thought.