Dirty Laundry (Get Dirty 2)

But it’s the other moments where he’s attentive, open, and intriguing. Not to mention, he’s just so damn sexy when he gets all bossy and gruff. I’ve always gone for confident men, but Keith is on a whole different level. It’s not confidence. It’s raw power over his domain. And fuck, do I want to be in his domain.

That means I’m not being objective, and that makes me hesitate before I start to write. The words come slowly, slow clicks of my old-fashioned keyboard that start to string together, slowly becoming like machine gun spurts of words, long pauses shortening until I find my stride.

This first article, it’s going to be mostly surface, about a country star who cherishes his privacy but is allowing his fans a peek into his private life. I’m careful to paint an accurate picture, including his gruffness and larger than life presence along with his passion for his music.

By the time I hit my two-thousand-word goal for the first feature, I think I’ve managed to hit all the points I need to, both the basics and giving hints at a deeper picture. There are no groundbreaking dirty secrets, but even if I had any, I wouldn’t want to spill too soon anyway. But I’ve got a solid, intriguing hook so readers feel a more intimate connection with Keith and to the series for follow-up feature reads.

After some edits, I hit Send and submit it to Donnie with a smile.

Now . . . what am I going to wear to Keith’s concert?

Chapter 8

Keith

Pulling up in the service’s rented Lincoln Town Car, I tell my driver to let the engine idle for a moment as I take in Elise’s apartment building. It’s pretty standard for East Robinsville, far enough from the downtown center to be needing a coat of paint, but probably close to work for her and has rent that fits her paycheck. Seems safe enough, I guess, although the homeless guy lounging up against the corner seems a bit out of place. I’m about to hop out to ring the bell when the bodyguard in the front seat does it for me.

Fuck.

I swear sometimes I forget that I can’t just do shit like that, even if it should be no big deal. But since I topped the charts for the first time, the label keeps putting in new rules on their ‘investment.’ Number one, I can’t do shit when I’m dressed in my usual boots and hat, making me more recognizable. Chances are, it’d be fine. But just in case, that’s what the bodyguard is here for. I sigh, leaning back in the seat . . . until I see her come out.

Behind the dark tint of the car window, I can look my fill as she comes closer. And what a fill it is. She’s strutting, but not in an overt way, just a subtle natural feminine roll of her hips. And oh, sweet mercy, her legs, just thick enough to make them sensual, covered in slightly torn white denim that looks painted on. She’s got on slouched black cowgirl boots, and I wonder vaguely if they’re new, but when I scan up . . . my breath catches in my chest.

She’s the epitome of country sexy, with her hair curled and fluffy, makeup that looks sultry and sexy, not too dark but not too bright either. She’s got a face that could sell about ten million pickup trucks back home right now, and that might be a conservative guess.

But what grabs ahold of my attention is the fullness of her breasts, pushed up high in the simple black tank she has on. I can see the outline of a bra, but that makes it even sexier, like she’s dressed down but dressed up at the same time. She’s somehow managed to be both girl-next-door and femme fatale all at once, and my cock surges in my jeans. I press my palm against the fullness, willing it down by sheer mental force.

I clear my throat, needing to get my head on straight before the door opens. I wish I could step out, greet her like a lady, but I can’t. Security rule number two . . . stay in the vehicle unless instructed by the guard.

Sigh. All it took was for one dickhead to threaten one guy, and now the label’s gone apeshit whenever I have to be ‘the artist’ Keith Perkins. Sometimes, I miss the days when I showed up by pulling around back in my pickup and grabbing my guitar case out of the truck bed.

But as she ducks in, climbing in beside me, I forget about my first world problems and try to make up for my apparent lack of manners.

“Holy fuck, Elise. You look gorgeous.”

Okay, so maybe my manners aren’t quite up to snuff after all. I can’t help my mouth, except around Carsen, and even then, I slip up every now and then. I am human.