Reckless (Filthy Dirty Rock Stars)

Reckless Cali Mann, Mia Harlan Copyright Copyright © 2023 by Cali Mann & Mia Harlan This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Cover Art © 2022 Vanilla Lily Designs and Premades Editing: Proofreading by Jade All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 Contents 1. Chapter 1 2. Chapter 2 3. Chapter 3 4. Chapter 4 5. Chapter 5 6. Chapter 6 7. Chapter 7 8. Chapter 8 9. Chapter 9 10. Chapter 10 11. Chapter 11 12. Chapter 12 13. Chapter 13 14. Chapter 14 15. Chapter 15 16. Epilogue Filthy Dirty Rock Stars About Cali Mann Also by Cali Mann About Mia Harlan Also By Mia Harlan Chapter 1 Elle “I wish rock music didn’t exist,” I complain as I wobble along the dock. At least I’m wearing my bedazzled sneakers instead of high heels. The gentle swaying of the boats makes my stomach revolt and the salty air seems to magnify my dizziness. I never drink, unless I’m forced to attend a mandatory work event at a banquet hall packed with a thousand rowdy computer programmers and an obnoxiously loud live rock band. I look at my phone. It’s conked out and no use to me in my escape. I’ll ask someone to call me a cab. Like whoever owns the yacht bobbing at the end of the dock. It’s the only one that’s lit up, and I stumble onto the deck. It’s huge and pristine, made of gleaming white wood and decorated with elegant furniture. There’s a burly guy asleep in a folding chair; his snores are louder than the beautiful mechanical keyboard used for a grand total of two weeks. It kept waking my neighbors whenever I’d work late, and they started pounding their ceiling with a broom. Stumbling below deck, I call out, “Hello? Anyone here?” A giggle slips past my lips. If I hadn’t been drinking, I’d never do this. The floor sways beneath my feet, making me want to hurl. I open a door, but it only leads to a closet—a cool, dark closet. I think I’ll just sit here, on this tile floor. Just for a minute, until I feel better. When I wake up, I reach for my phone, then remember it’s dead. I stumble up but crash into a mop bucket, and then into the door. Where am I? Then I remember . . . the drinks, the yacht—oh shit! It takes me forever to get up the stairs, and I let out a pained groan when I step out into the bright sunlight. “Who the fuck are you?” a deep voice startles me. I jump. Then I groan and clutch my head, willing it to stop pounding. There are four incredibly hot men lounging on the super expensive furniture on deck, beer bottles in hand. “I am never drinking again,” I tell them as the sun beats down on me. “Not what I asked,” says the man who’d demanded who I was. I don’t usually notice a guy’s looks straight off, but he’s so good looking, he makes my mouth water. His muscular frame is tanned, tattooed, and all he’s wearing are swim shorts. His blond hair curls ridiculously along his neck, and I wonder what it would be like to bury my hands in it. Would it be soft? Then I realize I’ve been gaping. “I’m Elle.” I try to smile, which is the polite thing to do when introducing yourself, but it comes out like more of a grimace. My hangover apparently doesn’t care how my hormones feel. “Lucas.” He grins, gesturing at his companions. “And this is Aster, Phoenix, and Zion.” He gestures at each man in turn. “But you already knew that.” I shake my head, which makes it pound mercilessly. I’d definitely remember if I’d met them before. They’re too hot to forget. “Shit, another groupie,” Aster says, taking a swig of his beer. He’s as handsome as Lucas, with striking red hair tied back in a ponytail. His booted feet are stretched out in front of him, like he’s not aware that it’s a gazillion degrees out here in Miami, and a leather jacket is tossed next to him on the lounge. “Is Phoenix actually your real name?” I ask the third man, who’s identical to Aster, except for his shortly cropped hair and smirk. “Trying to convince us you’re not a groupie?” he chuckles, not answering my question. Zion grunts. Not quite sure what to make of that, but his dark eyes bore into me, like he thinks I’m a groupie, too. Groupie . . . I silently mull over the word. “Please tell me you aren’t rock stars,” I mutter under my breath. There are plenty of other musicians who have groupies. Maybe they play classical music. Zion grunts again. The other three men fix their gazes on me, and Aster narrows his eyes in obvious annoyance. “I’m really not a groupie,” I tell them. “I just came here to use a phone. Mine’s out of battery.” After a full day of being glued to it so no one would approach me with dreaded small talk . . . a fact I decide not to mention to the guys. Aster raises an eyebrow. “On our yacht . . .” “Likely story.” Phoenix grins at his twin, then turns to me. “This isn’t the first time a crazed fan has thrown herself at us.” I cross my arms in front of my chest, already damp with sweat from the blazing hot sun. “Hey. I’m not throwing myself