Make Me Yours (Bridgewater County 5)

Poor Tessa didn’t deserve this heavy conversation so I shrugged and gave her a wan smile. “Okay, book me the retreat. Make sure it has plenty of long, hot baths. I only have two weeks between now and the next tour. Let’s make them count.”

“Yes! That’s the Lacey Lee I know and love.” Tessa clapped her hands, then whipped out her tablet.

As she fired off retreat options, I picked up the stack of tabloids. The glow of the tablet screen made the headlines seem lurid and too ridiculous for words.

La-Chris was an absurd couple name. Chr-acey was even worse, but at least the sentiment was right. Crazy was just the word for all of this. For the fake relationship I had with a guy I barely knew.

One headline made me huff a laugh. Tessa glanced up. I brandished the paper at her. “Rock4Ever? What is this, a time machine back to the nineties?”

Tessa didn’t get a chance to answer. The car slowed in front of my house, which was lit up like Christmas. Trucks and cars alike parked up the driveway and the lawn.

“Holy shit.” Tessa leaned over me to look out the window, eyes bugging out. “Is that a tour bus?”

“What’s going on?”

Tessa and I looked at each other. At the same time, we both groaned, “Chris.”

Nobody else would have the nerve to turn my million-dollar house into a freaking party palace. Especially while it was well known I was out of the country. Or had been.

Music pumped from every window, so loud I could hear it inside the car. As I watched, horrified, three women I didn’t know pranced out the front door, stark naked, carrying wine glasses and passing a joint between them.

Tessa made a disgusted sound. “I can’t believe this. Stay here. I’m going to clean this mess up and get rid of Chris.”

I reached for the door first and waved her back. “No, don’t. You go home. I’ll handle this myself.”

I might not have any control over the media’s portrayal of my so-called love life, but I could sure as heck tell one person the truth. If Chris thought he had a right to anything I’d busted my butt to earn, he was dead wrong. This wasn’t a relationship, this was a self-centered asshole using my name.

Flinging open the car door, I grabbed my carry-on and marched right through the pack of drunk groupies. My front door was hanging wide open. That would have been perfect for my dramatic entrance except for one thing.

Chris wasn’t there to see it.

The people who were around were either too blitzed to notice me or they just didn’t care that they’d been caught trashing my home. They probably didn’t even know whose home they were in. And why would they care? Chris’s people were all from the rock scene, musicians and groupies. A rager of a party was the norm, even in the middle of the day—whatever time it was. Mine was probably the third house or hotel they’d wrecked this week.

Head pounding from the blasting music and the wicked strobe lights someone had installed, I wandered from room to room. The house wasn’t big by LA standards, but it had floor-to-ceiling windows with incredible views. When I didn’t find Chris on the first floor, I headed upstairs, avoiding empty beer cans and carelessly strewn panties.

I didn’t even bother checking the guest rooms. If Chris had the nerve to invade my house, he wouldn’t behave like a guest. Following the trail of discarded clothes and shoes, I walked through my open bedroom door to a sight that would have shocked me at eighteen.

Some blonde I didn’t know was on all fours on my bed while Chris pumped away behind her. Up until this moment, I’d walked through the house with a sort of numb sensation, my vision freaking out over the light show, the crazy partying. Now the numbness evaporated and sharp clarity rushed me.

I didn’t want this. I didn’t want any of it. Not the fancy house I’d purchased because that’s what LA stars did, not the famous rocker boyfriend fans thought completed my image. Not the drugs, parties, and endless travel.

I didn’t want any of it. I was done. D.O.N.E.

Leaving my bag beside the door, I walked over to stand directly in front of Chris and his groupie, the sound of his hips slapping against a perfect quarter-bouncing ass filling the room.

Chris didn’t display an ounce of shame when he saw me. The opposite, in fact. He grabbed his sex toy’s hips and jerked her ass against his

groin lewdly. If he was caught, he didn’t want it to be with his dick hanging out. No, he wanted it buried deep.

He grinned, giving me that drop-dead gorgeous look cameras loved. Tousled blond hair, square jaw, perfect body. Even his dick was good looking—when it wasn’t filling up some nameless, faceless chick. He disgusted me. Nothing about him appealed to me—even before I had to stand here and watch him fuck someone else. His personality was narcissistic. He dreams, shallow. So was his behavior. No, he was an asshole and I had no idea why I let the PR people string this along. They must have loved me being in Asia; I couldn’t see what the real Chris was like with the Pacific between us.

“This cock’s occupied, Lace,” he said, his voice deep and yet full of mocking humor. “If you want in on the action, you’ll have to ask my lady friend for some tongue.”

“Your lady friend.” My eyebrows couldn’t possibly rise any further. She was no lady and I would bet my house he had no idea what his friend’s name was.

Yeah. D.O.N.E.

“You know what, whatever.” I tossed up my hands, let them fall back to my sides. “I’m not going to ask. You and your lady friend need to get off my bed before I call the cops.”