Wild Collision (Us 4)

Prologue

Hollis

The pounding pulse of the club music vibrates through my entire body.

It doesn’t matter what country or city you’re in, all these places are the same.

Too loud music, overflowing drinks, and sweaty bodies gyrating together.

The sexy brunette who’s latched onto me for the night grinds her ass against my dick.

“Someone’s getting laid tonight,” Cannon, one of my best friends and the bass player in our band, calls out to me.

I smirk back at him even as he looks on in disapproval.

Last night. Tonight. Tomorrow night.

They’re all the same, only different faces—and fuck, most of the time I don’t even remember them.

The girl turns, wrapping her arms around my neck and pushing her rock hard fake breasts into my chest. I suppress a groan.

She licks her plump overly filled lips, looking at me through hooded eyes. “My place or yours,” she purrs.

“Neither,” a new voice growls.

I turn, stumbling in my drunken state.

“Oh shit,” I mutter.

My bandmates exchange similar sentiments.

“I drove all the way to D.C. for your sorry asses. Why am I not surprised you’re at a place like this?”

The middle-aged man shakes his head, clearly disappointed with us.

“Hayes, man,” I plead. “It’s only some harmless fun.”

“Yeah, harmless fun when you’re supposed to start recording your first studio album tomorrow. You might’ve had a few successful singles but don’t think for a minute if you fuck up people won’t move on to the next band.”

I swallow thickly at his threat.

Joshua Hayes is the guitarist for one of the biggest bands in the world and we’re damn lucky he wants us to be his first producing job.

“I’m sorry.”

He looks like my words mean nothing. I guess they don’t—they’re some of my favorite and I rarely mean them, so why would now be any different.

“We thought one more night of fun before we buckled down to record our album would be okay,” Fox, another friend, and the guitarist, calls out. He’s the jokester out of all of us—the rest of us are far too broody and serious, at least according to the media. They have no idea who we really are.

I prefer to think of myself as introspective and a deep thinker.

Unless you put a hot chick in front of me—then all I think about is ass, ass, and more ass.

“Yeah, well it’s not okay. At least not for me. I want to know you’re serious—because if you aren’t then I’m not wasting my time. What you’re doing here … this does nothing to alleviate my worries.”

Harsh.

“How’d you find us anyway?” Cannon asks, having ditched the girl he was dancing with and joined us. He crosses his muscled arms over his chest.

I belatedly realize the girl I was with has left, blending into the crowd and lost from my sight.

Hayes tosses us a look like a pissed off dad who found his kid sneaking out the bedroom window.

“Rush,” is all he says.

The three of us turn and as one we cringe when we spot our drummer on top of the bar, with a bottle of whiskey, on fucking SnapChat.

“Get your asses outside and into my car. It’s the Range Rover. I’ll get Rush.”

Before we can reply to Hayes h

e’s bled through the crowd and is heading toward the bar.

“I thought he was our producer, not a fucking babysitter,” I mutter.

“He is part of one of the most successful bands ever, maybe we should listen to him.” Cannon shoves his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans, his shoulders shrugging up to his ears. I swear I hear a girl moan when she gets a look at his neck tat.

I have a bigger cock.