And I realized I didn’t have to. Not really. Brody was one of the good ones. If I’d ever had qualms about the idea of any of my friends hooking up with my sister—and I did—Brody wasn’t one of them. Still; if he didn’t pull his head out of his ass and quit putting that bratty look on her face, I was gonna have to say something to him about it… sometime.
My wedding night, though, was not that time.
But at least one thing I knew for sure: Brody wasn’t gonna let Zane or anyone else fuck with Jessa.
I sighed. “Babe,” I said, standing up and extending a hand to Katie. “Let’s go.”
Katie beamed her sweet smile up at me, like she’d been waiting on those words all night. She took my hand and I yanked her to her feet. She fell against me, her tits squishing against my chest, just like I wanted them to.
I wrapped my arms around her waist and leaned down to give her a kiss. It was soft and slow, and earned us a bunch of whoops and growls from the guys.
So maybe I was showing off. A bit.
Then we did the obligatory round of goodnight hugs and kisses and backslaps. We got congratulated, yet again. Then I picked up my new wife and tossed her over my shoulder, despite her mild protests, and finally, we got the fuck out of there.
“Don’t come back ’til she’s popped your cherry!” Zane called after us as we disappeared into the dark of the trees.
“Go easy on him, Katie!” Dylan added. “He’s new at this!”
And then my friends all laughed, which was understandable. They were, after all, jealous.
I couldn’t blame them for that.
Get A Dirty Wedding Night
Sneak Peek: Dirty Like Seth
Dirty Like Seth (Dirty #3)
They all thought they knew him…
but she knew his heart.
Seth Brothers had it all: the hottest album in the world, more money than he’d ever dreamed of, and Dirty—the band he loved like family. But as Dirty hit the big time, Seth hit bottom.
Now all Seth’s got is the guitar on his back, a heart full of regrets, and one last chance to get it all back… including the one thing he never expected.
Her.
Elle Delacroix has it all—talent, money, fame… except the one thing that truly matters.
Love…
The only thing Seth has left to give.
There are two sides to every rock ’n’ roll story;
it’s time for Seth to tell his.
DIRTY LIKE SETH
CHAPTER ONE
Seth
I’d done some dangerous shit in my life. Stupid-dangerous shit.
Getting hooked on heroin.
Overdosing.
Almost dying at the age of twenty-two.
Yeah; those were definitely top three.
But this, right now, had to rank right up there on the stupid-dangerous list.
For one thing, I was trespassing on private property, on the lot outside a bar owned by a member of my former band, Dirty. The entire band was inside the bar, and while they had no idea I was here, they were about to find out. And I really wasn’t sure how they were going to react.
But no doubt, they probably weren’t going to roll out the red carpet for me.
For another thing, the bar was crawling with security, and the security guys who shadowed Dirty these days were mostly of the ex-military or biker variety. Which meant a whole lot of dudes who knew how to draw blood.
And last but not least, I was leaning on a motorcycle parked at the back of the parking lot behind the bar. A Harley. A bike that didn’t belong to me but clearly belonged to a serious biker—one of the West Coast Kings, according to the skeletal black King of Spades insignia painted over the gas tank.
It was Jude Grayson’s bike. Head of Dirty’s security team. At least, I was banking on that being the case.
If it wasn’t Jude’s, I was banking on, at the very least, that it was the bike of someone he knew, and therefore I was not about to get murdered the instant the biker in question stepped out the back door of the building.
I was doing what I always did when I was nervous: playing guitar. But my mind was on that door. It was painted red, with a security cam on the wall above, pointing straight down. It wasn’t pointed at me, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t some other one that was.
It was early evening and the lot was deserted. There were a few big trucks, the kind that hauled band gear and film equipment and stage shit, and several other vehicles jammed into the narrow parking spaces. But there was a high fence around the lot with a locked gate, and apparently no one in Los Angeles was stupid enough to climb that fence to get in.
No one but me.
I was halfway through Pink Floyd’s “Wish You Were Here” when the red door cracked open and some dude’s head popped out. He kicked the door wide and stepped outside; he walked right over to me, winding his way through the parked cars as the heavy door swung shut behind him. And yeah, he was a biker. A baby biker. Couldn’t be more than nineteen. He had an overstuffed taco in one hand, half-eaten, so I must’ve interrupted his dinner.
Could’ve been the dude with the earpiece who’d materialized on the sidewalk shortly after I’d scaled the fence; could’ve been someone on the security cams. But someone had tipped him off that I was out here. And since it wasn’t Jude himself who’d come outside, whoever it was probably didn’t recognize me.
Someone new to the team.
This kid, wearing a black leather Kings cut over his T-shirt, a badge stitched to the chest that read Prospect, looked more stunned with my idiocy than pissed off. I didn’t know him, and whether he recognized me or not seemed beside the point. Either way, his eyes were stabbing out
