🫦(M+) Entry#2 Rockvine Sneak Peek

LYNDI

Did I sign my life away?

My phone beeps like crazy—no doubt the girls want to know what’s up. Jasmine, the Layne PA, ignores everything but the sound of her own, perfectly annunciated voice. I’m stuck teasingly just inside the suite door as she reminds me of the strict no-visitor policy, reiterating the legal repercussions should I break the contract I signed. I smile and nod. “Got it. Thank You.”

So many damn rules!

No visitors, no overnight guests, no accessing other rooms in the West Wing, no using the elevator or stairs. I can only use the hallway to the right of the suite to get to the club. If I need anything, I’m supposed to call guest services from the suite or text Jasmine.

Most importantly, I can’t tell a soul what I see or hear within the mansion’s walls beyond a basic review of the suite and any performances I attend. I cannot discuss what happens at the after-party, exclusive to members and VIP guests.

I find this unsettling. Something doesn’t feel right. What if I witness something beyond scandalous, bordering on criminal? What if I see or experience an actual crime? Is this contract legally binding? The resentment I feel over Damon arranging this stunt deepens. I already got what I wanted out of this. I heard Vixxen sing live. I got to experience the crowd’s reaction to our music. It was magical. But then again, a pall overshadowed it.

Xavier Layne.

His name thrums through me, speeding my heartbeat. It’s not just that he’s a brilliant musician--I mean, I knew he was good, but I hadn’t seen him live. He’s the real deal, even better in person. But it’s more than that. Real or imagined, I heard him in my mind, and I want to know why. Speaking of Xavier...

Goosebumps creep over my body as his image stares back at me from behind glass in the foyer. His deep-set eyes seem to track me as I approach the tall, curio cabinet. I know an antique when I see one; this cabinet is a rare beauty. Even in picture form, I feel the weight of Xavier’s eyes upon me as I run my hands along the polished wood. A heavily carved oak finish with fluted posts flanking its door, and topped with carved pineapples. I tug on the small door latch, but it’s locked.

Peering through the smudge-free pane, I examine the objects on the middle shelf. Beside a set of pink, sunflower depression-era glasses, like the ones Granny had, there’s an ornately framed picture of Xavier standing with a woman.

Who is she? An ex? A fan? She looks my age, with shoulder-length bleach-blonde hair and smoky brown eyes, wearing a tight black leotard tucked into torn jeans. She isn’t looking at the camera; she’s looking at him, gleaming with a wide smile.

Xavier seems unmoved by the moment. Eyes locked with mine—just an illusion, I know. But even now, he pulls me in. Maybe it’s the dark look in his eyes, looking up from a sinister downward tilt of the head. Is he being in character, the doom-metal rocker? Or is he a dark soul deep down? He’s certainly believable.

I pause at his mouth. His full lips are drawn into a frown, this angry, brooding mouth I’ve already memorized. And the dark hair falling around him, with mean, dark brows framing those intense green eyes. What a—

Boo! comes an echoey female from behind, and I jump before jerking around. My heart races as I scan the room, decadently appointed in red and black silk and velvet. My eyes dart toward a faint giggling near the window. There is a rustling before the room goes dead quiet. Eerily quiet.

No. No, I don’t believe in ghosts. Just my mind playing tricks, that’s all. But I jump again when a knock comes at the door, causing me to yelp. I bring my hand to my chest, exhaling. Okay, get a grip, girl. It’s probably just the PA back to explain another rule.

Wishing there was a peephole, I blindly open the door. Instantly, I’m hit with a shockingly attractive masculine scent. He’s taller than the door frame and dressed in dark clothing. He bows his head, emerald eyes hitting me like lasers—oh. shit. It’s fucking Xavier.

Why is he here?

He’s even taller up close. Taller and scarier, with a cocky smile edging his mean mouth, and his eyes seem to emanate a light of their own in the dark hall. Predatory eyes, analyzing me like a wolf to prey.

“Thought I might find you here,” he rumbles, words rolling off his tongue with that same entrancing quality as on stage. The flash of the memory of his music reverberates like a dark dream. I blink my eyes, clearing my mind. “Uh...hi...” I manage, trying to regain composure.

I’m not usually one to feel starstruck. I can’t count how many celebrities I’ve seen in Southern Florida. I never cared. They’re just people and tend to look smaller and unimpressive in person than on screen. But not this guy. He’s larger than life.

“What-uh...what are you doing here?” I stammer.

Ignoring me, he reaches past my arm and pushes the door ajar, and the shock of his arms brushing mine strikes a cautionary alarm inside me.

“Excuse me?” I blurt out in defense. This may be his house, but this is my room for the night.

“Here to make sure you’ve been properly briefed,” he says, closing the door behind him. What the hell?

Caught off guard, I’m about to protest when he saunters off toward the mini kitchen, opening a cabinet.

“This isn’t okay,” I mutter while studying his broad-shouldered frame. The artful contour of his back muscles visible through his thin, fitted grey tee, his back forms a perfect taper, broad at the shoulders, narrow at the waist, and pointing to a perfectly sculpted ass, wrapped in black denim. Long legs lead down to black boots. My eyes jump upward at the clank of wine glasses. He pours a bottle of red wine as if he has every right to be here unannounced.

“I’m not supposed to have guests, Xavier.” Saying his name sounds surreal to my ears, and I clear my throat, mustering confidence.

He turns to face me, leaning against the cabinet and pinning me with defiant eyes. “Get this straight, Lyndi Margot,” he hums, jolting me. “For one. I hate rules. Two, the rules don’t apply to me. This is my house. I make them, break them, how I see fit.”

I close my gaping jaw. Wow. So fucking full of himself. “O-kay, then. Well, I signed a contract, and I’m supposed to go down and meet my friends, and this is my room, so—”

“You’ll have a drink with me first.”

I blink my eyes. “What did you mean by properly briefed? I’ve already signed the contract.”

He laughs, his tone condescending.

“I don’t give a shit about the bullshit contract.”

He brings me a wine glass before sitting by the unlit fireplace in one of two red upholstered chairs. I follow him. “Then, what were you referring to?”

“Please, sit,” he orders, and I try to decide how I feel about this. Is his barging in going to be a habit over the next few nights? I may have signed away certain rights, but I’m at least entitled to a private space behind closed doors. It dawns on me that Xavier might have a key to this room.

“I was planning to ignore you,” he says, flippantly. “Like I do most girls. Make you come to me instead. But…”

My brows furrow in confusion. “But, what?”

He swirls his glass, takes a drink, and then looks at me with this domineering expression that mixes me up inside. I both love and hate that he owns the space and acts like he owns me, too.

Maybe if he weren’t so beautiful, mysterious, talented, and fucking alluring, I wouldn’t feel so mixed up over his overbearing way. Yeah, I need to calm down. I’m better than this. I don’t need his bullshit.

“I’ve decided that would be too easy on you,” he finishes.

My brows pinch hard over his riddle. “What does that even mean?” Is the man playing games with me, or what?

He laughs. “You’re staying in one of the Princess Suites. Royal for the weekend, hm?”

“Yeah. And?”

“If you’re the Beauty, I must be the Beast.”

Now it’s my turn to laugh. “This isn’t exactly the castle at Disneyworld.”

He smiles crookedly. “No, indeed not. Soon you’ll fall under the dark spell. You know this place is evil, right? Not to mention crazy. A regular odditorium.”

“Strange way to talk about your home. Or do you have fun messing with the guests?”

He snickers, the hard rise of his cheekbones pointing to the wicked glint in his green eyes.

“Nah,” he shrugs. “This isn’t my home. This is the home of my ancestors and predecessors. I’m just passing through.”

“But you are the heir.”

The twinkle in his eyes darkens, and his mouth edges into a bitter sneer. “And you know all about me, don’t you? Like everyone else in this crumby city.”

My cheeks turn hot. “Not really. I only know a little. I mean...I know your music. Some of it.”

“You know enough about me, Lyndi. Just as I know enough about you. No, I don’t normally mess with the guests. But you, little Beauty, are not a mere guest.”

My eyebrows shoot up in disbelief. “I’m not?”

He raises his glass to his mouth, watching me. I distract myself by drinking the admittedly delicious red wine. A heavily awkward moment passes between us. What is this? My girls are waiting for me, and he still hasn’t explained what he is here for—time to ask the obvious questions.

“Then what am I to you, Xavier?”

He brings his big, long pale hand up to his squared chin, pinching it thinkingly.

“You, Lyndi Margot, are leverage.”

 

XAVIER

Too easy.

“What is that supposed to mean?” she asks, brow arching into a defensive line. But how tightly she folds her arms at her stomach seems overdone, as if she’s cold. 

“Do I give you the chills?” I smirk, hoping the answer is yes. I like the idea of mastery over this girl’s temperature. Making her hot or cold on command.

She puffs out air, rolling her eyes. “No,” she blushes, breaking eye contact. Her uneasy focus darts at the door, and she tightens her arms another notch, her shoulders narrowing. When our eyes meet again, her lips part.

I seem to have that effect on her. I estimate she’s dropped her pretty jaw about four times since I entered the room. 

I pause on her supple lips. Her tongue swipes between them, making them shiny and red before closing them. How I’d like to force those lips open with my tongue or penetrate them with my—

“Do you wear lipstick?” I ask, cutting off my thought before my cock has time to harden.

She closes her mouth, shaking her head. But her mouth can’t stay shut for long. That’s five. I find this to be a mildly entertaining curiosity.

“What is going on here, Xavier?” A tiny gasp escapes her lips, and she shudders after saying my name.

I smile at her. “I have something to show you, Lyndi.”

Her eyes widen, but what is going through her mind right now? I can’t hear her thoughts.

“Where?” she mutters, eyes darting to the door again.

“Not here,” I add, and she sighs. Is that relief? But she doesn’t yet know where I’m taking her.

I stand. “Bring your wine glass and follow me.”

My authoritative tone leaves no room for questioning, yet when I look back, she hesitates, her hazel eyes full of caution and curiosity like a cat to a strange dog.

“You have a lousy poker face,” I chuckle, reaching the door amidst a loud crack of thunder. The storm is picking up nicely outside.

“Where exactly am I following you to, Xavier?”

I pause in the doorway, my back to her. My name on her tongue has a particular resonance. Almost as if she’s been thinking about me. Or, perhaps she’s heard my voice in her head.

I glance back. “You know the cliche: for me to know, you to find out? That applies here.”

I wait for her to shut the door, wisps of long brown hair hitting her chest, and the full curve of her breasts tucked under a virginal-looking white lace tank. For a fleeting moment, I mentally undress her.

She’s no waif, curvy with supple meat on her bones in the right places and slightly tanned, sumptuous skin. Her smattering of random freckles is cute, and her naturally dark lips make me wonder about the hue of her nipples when aroused.

I raise an eyebrow. “Did you forget to lock it?”

“Oh...” she reaches into her pocket.

I hold up the key card, handing it to her.

“You’ll need that.”

“How’d you...?” she trails off.

She takes the card, and I grip her hand, my long, musician’s fingers clasped around her feminine softness. She tugs away, but I pull back, fully imprisoning her hand.

“A little bird in a cage,” I mutter, hinting at a smile while pinning her with eyes to match my words. I enjoy the sound of her hitched breath. It makes me want to close in on her and steal her breath away. She must sense the sudden change in me as she slowly steps back, her jaw slackening—that’s seven. My smirk deepens.

“Seven,” she mutters.

But I didn’t mean for her to hear that thought. I pause on her, surprised.

“What’s this? Little Lyndi, a psychic? Probably just beginner’s luck.”

The intensity in her expression tells me I’m onto something. This isn’t the first time she’s experienced this.

Her brows furrow into a troubled line. “What do you mean?”

“Now isn’t the time for a lesson. Come on,” I motion her to follow.

“You’re as strange as this place,” she says from behind, and I crack a grin.

She has no fucking idea how strange things are going to get. The thunder is louder this time, and Lyndi yelps from behind as the lights flicker out.

“Happens more often than you think…in these old mansions,” I say, lighting the way with my phone. I take her small, cold hand in mine--so stiff and resistant. “Ouch,” she whines, trying to pull away in the strange darkness where she’s likely to trip.

“Relax. Resisting is painful,” I say, and her hand finally softens in submission. She sighs, and I listen to her nervous heartbeat as I lead her through the darkness.

I want to read her mind, but her thoughts are too jumbled under my own to decipher. I’m conflicted, still deciding how much I want to subject her to my world while corrupting her.

When we reach the red-carpeted stairs, she tries to tug away, her hand nearly slipping from my grip. I stop, looking down at her.

“Problem?”

“I signed a contract, and—“

“And you’re not supposed to see the forbidden West Wing or explore the mansion?”

“Right,” she nods.

“My mansion, mind you. Those rules are in place to protect me and my family.”

“I still signed it.”

“I’m your guide, Lyndi. Stop worrying. ”

This time, when I take her hand in mine, I hold tighter, ensuring she doesn’t pull away until we reach the pitch-black landing leading to the private art room.

The lights flicker on like a big reveal. I couldn’t have timed it better myself.

“Oh…wow,” she gasps, looking across the room. I release her, and she moves forward willingly. She’s drawn to the darkest, most complicated painting, like a moth to a flame. I knew there was something odd about this girl.

She stops before the large piece at the center of the back wall, pulling her long hair to one side in front as she studies its writhing female form, giving way to darkness. Not a cold darkness but a sucking heat, a blue flame licking from the edges of a black hole. The impression is like that of an eclipse overtaking her.

“The death of the summer goddess,” I whisper, arriving at her side. She gasps ever so slightly.

“Didn’t mean to startle you,” I lie, enjoying the goosebumps on the back of her exposed neck. I want to open my jaws around its slender length and make the bumps harden with fright.

“Tell me what you think of it?” I say in my standard low, deep voice.

She clears her throat. “It’s medieval. Probably Renaissance. Tempera technique, exquisitely rendered. If it’s a fake…it’s a good one.”

Bored, I sigh. “No, not a fake. But I’m more interested in your thoughts on the subject matter than the finer details.”

She trails her gaze along the curvilinear lines of the nude shape, the still rounded post-pregnant belly, the full breasts tilting back as the woman arches toward her doom.

“Well, Lyndi?”

“As you said, mythological. Symbolic of the changing seasons. But...it’s weird to see death portrayed in such an erotic way. And…so beautifully.”

“Mm, but sex and blood, pleasure and pain, are just two sides of the same coin.”

“I don’t know about that,” she shrugs, but I’m already calling her bluff.

I lean back on the wall beside the painting. “Sex and death have always been linked in a multitude of ways. Any historical timeline can prove this if you’re looking for a connection.”

Her eyes narrow, but there’s a faint amusement in their hazel tone.

“Why would anyone be looking for that connection?”

I study her, saying nothing. I want to know what she’s thinking behind the words.

Her lips part—that’s eight.

She blinks at me before returning her attention to the piece. I watch her think, the changing expression in her eyes while she consciously ignores me. I gather what I can from her thoughts.

Often, people’s faces attempt to hide their true feelings, but she’s too captivated to care. Or maybe she’s always this honest, unable to mask herself. Either way, she’s fascinated, her pupils widening as delectable words evanesce in her mind. I capture them, rolling their meaning over my tongue.

Disturbed…dark…and…sexy…

…I…think I love it.

I repress a smile. I almost regret what I’ve brought her here for. Part of me wants to watch her think some more. She’s certainly more interesting than Vixxen. Which reminds me….

“Tell me about her,” I say, jarring Lyndi from her thoughts.

“Who?”

“You know who. She’s been accused of not writing her lyrics.”

“Um…that’s random.”

“Tell me,” I insist.

Her face flushes, and she shrugs, prepared to lie.

“I...don’t know why anyone would think that.”

“That’s easy. Anyone who has tried to collaborate with her has been, shall we say, underwhelmed. She’s a singer, not a composer. That's fine, but why lie about it? Plenty of good singers openly collaborate.”

She folds her arms in front of her, and I can tell she’s forcing herself to maintain uncomfortable eye contact.

“Maybe the author doesn’t want to be known, Xavier—why do you care?”

I smile, deciding to let her off the hook for the moment. But not entirely. I motion her over to the large, antique cherry cabinet in the back corner of the room.

I raise my hand, resting it along the smooth, rounded post of the door frame that extends to the leg. The doors have been removed, and glass shelves lined with relics have been placed inside.

“This is what I’ve brought you for.”

She steps closer, eyeing the identical rows of statues.

“Have you seen these?”

She nods. “Damon brings them in by the dozens—popular decor.”

“But have you seen what’s inside?”

“Nothing is inside.”

“Wrong.”

I pull one from the shelf and hand it to her. She takes the metal dragon into her palms, her hands dropping slightly.

“Always surprisingly heavy.”

“How about we unlock it?”

She shakes her head. “The keyholes are fake. Only the ancient original had a key.”

“Is that so? Turn it upside down.”

Bafflement crosses her face as I produce a tiny golden key. She turns the dragon on its head, thumbing the keyhole. I brush her finger aside, twist the lock, and carefully pull out the black tray with three glass samplers full of red liquid.

“I...can’t believe it. What is this?”

“Good question. I will tell you something that could get you killed. Don’t worry; it will be our little secret, Lyndi. Those are filled with CB or Chem Blood—dragon’s blood with chemical additives, to be exact. Ever had it before?”

Her eyes widen, stunned. “Never. You?”

My inner dragon turns its tail at the thought of it. “No need. And even if there were, I’ve another path to death’s doorway.”

“That bad? Katie wants to try it.”

“CB will make her feel superhuman.”

“She’d probably like that.”

“Who doesn’t? The effects don’t last more than a few hours, but there’s no going back once you know what you’re missing. That’s where the dark descent begins—with need.”

“Need,” she repeats, eyes alert. She licks her parted lips, backing away just as I get the urge to grab her by the throat and pull her close enough to taste her lips.

“Well, then,” she says. “Why do you have these?”

I half-laugh, matching her steps forward. “It’s a fucking tyrant. Demanding too much from its host.”

She continues to back away, and I continue to follow.

“What exactly...happens?” she shrugs.

I shake my head. “It takes possession, wrecking your organs when you try to leave. Getting revenge for your betrayal when you return. And when you finally lose the will to care, well...that’s when the big dark exit looms, taunting your escape.”

I watch her eyes as she processes the inevitable, her widening pupils like black cherries set in flecks of amber. So much hiding behind those cherries, her thoughts, fears, and desires. Speaking of need. I want to suck the fruit from her skull, exposing her every secret. Or...I could learn her another way, embark on some cherry spelunking in the dark hollow between her thighs.

She takes another step backward. “And your family—I mean, your family business,” she stutters, the blush on her cheeks spreading down her neck. She has no idea where this question leads.

“Layne Industries used to deal in pure blood,” I explain, continuing to match her steps. She stops when she reaches the doorway.

“So the rumors are true, then,” she hesitates before the dark hallway.

“Indeed. But this new shit is the grime of the music scene and a thorn in my side while my dear ol’ dad sits pretty on his dying throne. Call it self-masochism, but it makes no difference to me if my house burns down. I’m going to die young anyway. Early entry into the 27 Club. Might as well take out my enemies. Kill two birds with one fucking stone.”

“Why are you telling me all this?”

“Brings me to the topic of your daddy.”

I reach my hand to her silky hair. “Damon’s been a bad boy.”

“What?” Her face twists in comical confusion, and I repress a laugh and the faintest tinge of guilt I feel for what I’m about to do to her.

“You think he’s innocent in all this? You think he’s just into art?”

“Well, yes! What are you getting at, Xavier?”

I knock my head back with a laugh.

“Shit, your daddies so obsessed with dragons he even named his daughter after the lindworm. What, you didn’t know he was an addict? He’s a fucking supplier. The dealer’s daughter takes on a new meaning now, huh Lynds?”