Illicit Behavior: A Bad Boy Rockstar Romance(8)

By: Nikki Wild





I shook the thought from my head. I couldn’t help but wonder why alcohol seemed to be the common denominator in pretty much everything I did, despite how much I hated the stuff.



Dabbing lightly, I checked his cuts and bruises. After applying some of the rubbing alcohol to his wounds, I ducked out of the room and came back with a hot, soapy rag.



“Nothing broken,” I observed. “Worst thing I’m seeing is a few deep bruises and the lump on your head. Still not sure about that concussion, but you don’t look too worse for wear. It’ll hurt later. But you probably don’t need a doctor.”



It was clear that he was starting to finally remember things as I cleaned him up.



“What happened after I hit the floor?”



“You’d be surprised how fast a bunch of fat ass bikers can run when you point some buckshot in their direction.”



“Remind me never to piss you off,” Trent said, letting out a low laugh. “Did they hurt you?”



“I’m fine, thanks to you,” I replied.



“Oh yeah?”



“Yeah. You were a beast. You kept taking punches and returning them harder. Those bikers weren’t exactly pushovers. And you took on four of them at once.”



“You had two of them distracted.”



“Still. That’s no easy feat.”



“You sound impressed,” Trent said, cocking a smile.



“Maybe a little, but let’s not forget that I saved your ass too. With a shotgun and everything. I mean, I’m not gonna lie, it was pretty epic. You should have totally been there, instead of unconscious.”



He smiled at me for a moment, before the grin faltered. “What about the bikers, though? Are they coming back, or…?”



I shook my head. “Called the Sherriff. He picked them up on the interstate headed west. They won’t be bothering me or anyone else for awhile.”



We sat in silence for a moment while I wiped him down. There wasn’t a lot more I could do. He was going to need some painkillers for the morning, which I didn’t really have access to, so… yeah.



“So, who are you, anyway?” I asked him.



“I already told you. I’m Trent Masters.”



“Yeah. Doesn’t exactly really ring a bell.”



He flashed a cocky smile, as if he was about to announce himself as the lord of some distant land. “You ever heard of Trent Masters and the Whiplash?”



I laughed aloud.



I didn’t think this could get any dumber.



“Yeah, your name probably would have tipped me off if that meant anything to me.”



Trent looked a little disappointed.



“I figured,” he murmured with dejected irritation. “If you didn’t recognize me when I came in, you probably weren’t going to, anyway.”



“So, enough with the bullshit. Who are you? What’s this about whiplash?”



Trent grinned cockily. “We’re a rock band.”



“Funny,” I chuckled. When his grin only grew wider, my face only hardened. “Wait, you’re serious? But I’ve never heard of you…”



“You’re right. I clearly made that up. I mean, I can’t imagine how a tiny, backwater town halfway up the ass of Alabama might have missed a band that tops the hottest Top 40 stations.”



“I’m more of a country girl,” I conceded. “But we get radio here. Wait…”



It started to dawn on me.



“Wait, no, there’s this one rock song that comes on every once in a while, what is it…I can never hear the name, they never announce the band or the song title…”



“How’s it go?” He asked.



“Nuh-uh. I can’t sing.”



He shrugged. “Recite some lyrics.”



“Um.”



I thought for a second.



“Reeeeaad my bones, whispered, taken?”



Trent laughed with amusement.



“That’s…wrong. That’s really wrong. But yeah, that’d be us. You’re talking about a song I wrote, Wicked Wilds.”



“I see,” I thought aloud. “So, that’s you?”

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