SULTRY OBLIVION

  A Bad Boy Rockstar Romance

  ALEXA PADGETT

  Sidecar Press, Inc.

  Contents

  Sultry Oblivion

  1. Nash

  2. Aya

  3. Nash

  4. Aya

  5. Nash

  6. Aya

  7. Nash

  8. Aya

  9. Aya

  10. Nash

  11. Nash

  12. Aya

  13. Nash

  14. Nash

  15. Aya

  16. Nash

  17. Nash

  18. Nash

  19. Aya

  20. Nash

  21. Aya

  22. Nash

  23. Aya

  24. Nash

  25. Nash

  26. Nash

  27. Aya

  28. Nash

  29. Nash

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by ALEXA PADGETT

  Sultry Oblivion

  Part 3 of the Oblivion Series

  Book 6 in An Austin After Dark Book Series

  By Alexa Padgett

  Sultry Oblivion

  The boy she fell for was her superstar. Now, he's a rock legend.

  Their love becomes a media circus.

  Aya and Nash are amazing together, but the rest of the world isn't so happy with their relationship. The paparazzi hound them. Bloggers and fans tear the couple down. Even Nash's bandmates are sharpening their claws.

  Every stolen moment together is a fight. Against jealousy. Against Aya's fear of the limelight. Against the world. Worse, her history with his fame threatens Nash's hard-won and tentative grasp on trust.

  Their passion burns brighter than the strongest flame, but can it survive its time in the public eye?

  Copyright © 2021 by Alexa Padgett

  * * *

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  * * *

  This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, things, living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.

  * * *

  Editor: Jessica Royer Ocken

  Proofreading by: Charity Chimni

  Cover by: Chris Philpot

  For Charity once more. Because you deserve a happy ending.

  1

  Nash

  “I’m exhausted,” Aya said, rising to her feet. “I’ll head to a hotel and—”

  “No, don’t.” Letting her out of my sight meant losing her. I clung to her hand. “Stay.”

  She blinked at me.

  “In the house, Ay. I have four bedrooms. Or you can have my room, and I’ll go to one of the others…”

  She shook her head. “No way am I staying in your room.”

  I frowned. “What’s wrong with my room? You’ve never even seen it.”

  She fidgeted and turned away, her cheeks flaming. “This was a mistake.”

  Anger washed over me. “What are you talking about? You’d throw what we could have away because of—”

  She whirled to face me, her eyes wide, wild, and wet. My anger dissipated as I realized just how close she was to losing control. Whatever went through her mind when I mentioned my room hit her hard.

  “I’ve had sex with one man in my life,” she snapped. “So you’ll have to forgive my disinterest in being one of your...thousands.” The last word dripped venom.

  “What about Alistair?” Vicious jealousy clawed at me. Before I registered the action, my fist plowed through the painting and wall next to me. Probably a good thing I split the canvas first because the drywall still cut into my skin.

  I heard Aya’s strangled gasp. But I stood with my back to her, chest heaving. I was losing her. “I’ve never had a woman in my bed. Here or anywhere else.”

  “N-never?”

  I yanked my hand from the wall, gritting my teeth against the throbbing in my knuckles. “Never. If it couldn’t be you…”

  I dropped my gaze to my feet. Bits of plaster dotted my feet. I frowned. I’d thought I’d bared my soul to her already. I knew other men had held her, kissed and caressed her.

  Fuck. I hated them. My hands clenched, but the ache radiating up my arm kept me from punching the wall again.

  “But our last time together…” She trailed off. “That was years ago.”

  “And as much as I hate that memory, I love it, too. Because I was with you.”

  I worried, belatedly, that I’d broken my hand. I ran my other hand down my face as I forced my feet to shuffle around. I faced her. “I freaked out after you told me you loved me,” I said. “Each time, I had these panic attacks even as I waited, desperate to hear you say it.”

  She kept her gaze trained on me. I moved toward the kitchen. Regardless of the extent of my hand’s injury, ice would help. I tugged a dishcloth from the drawer and threw it over my shoulder as I continued to the huge, glass-fronted freezer unit. I opened the door with my good hand and pulled out a bag of peas. After some finagling, I managed to wrap the peas in the towel and set it over my swollen hand.

  “Will you come in here? Sit at the table? I’ll get you some tea.”

  “I’ll get the tea,” she said, voice soft. “Ice, too, if you’ll let me.”

  She looked haggard, as if this night had gone on for years. Mascara streaked her cheeks, and her hair was a mess from my fingers.

  “I’ve got frozen veggies. They’ll work fine.”

  I moved around the space, giving her ample room as I collected mugs and the tin of British teas I’d bought—in case Aya ever visited.

  I couldn’t even muster a smile when I realized my dream had come true.

  “Nash, how could you not have… I saw you with that woman in your band.” Aya’s entire body tensed, and I wasn’t sure if she was rejecting my statement as a lie or working to reorient her belief about me.

  I pulled out a chair and leaned my head back against it as I sat. “You know what it was like with my parents. They weaponized sex. And my d—Brad liked to give those big, elaborate speeches about how much he loved my mother, how she was the shining light of his life…”

  I rolled my head in time to see her nod. Talking about my mom led to a sick oozing in my gut. Now wasn’t the time, not for that story.

  Aya remained intent, focused on me.

  “Even Cam had told me about his first wife, how she screwed around on him—can you imagine? So sex—if it couldn’t be with you—just wasn’t something I wanted. Plus I spent a lot of years too out of it to feel anything.”

  Aya nibbled on her lip, her beautiful violet eyes darkening. She heard me, but I wondered if I could make her understand.

  “I wasn’t in a place to offer myself to anyone else. I didn’t want to, because that had always turned out badly for me. I loved Lev. He died. I loved my mother; she left.” I closed my eyes as memories of our last conversation assaulted me. She’d been tearful and contrite, but I’d refused to budge.

  “She…she died, and…” I bit off the final words: it was my fault. I refocused on what Aya needed to know.

  “I loved Brad, and he turned on me.” I sighed. “And I loved you so much I couldn’t see straight. I hated being away from you, but there was this pattern, and I was sure you’d leave.”

  “If you let yourself love me,” Aya concluded.

  “Right.” I nodded. “And I know it’s stupid, completely illogical.”

  Her shoulders rounded forward, and she bowed her head. “But it made sense to you then, based on what you knew.” She looked up at me. “And then I did leave.”

  “Yeah.”

  We were silent. After a long moment, during which my heart tried to thrash out of my chest, she came around the table, steps hesitant. Her dress was rumpled from where she’d taken to bunching the hem in her hands, and the mascara had dried in black streaks down her cheeks. Her eyes were bloodshot.

  She was a hot fucking mess, and I wanted more of her. I wanted all of her against me, surrounding me, holding me together. I’d proven I could get clean, move past my demons, but that didn’t mean I didn’t want to crawl into her arms once more. I’d felt safe with Aya, and I craved that feeling again—more so now with my world so topsy-turvy. I just needed to share my life with her this time, not encompass her completely.

  “How’s your hand?” she asked. She reached out, fingers tentative, not quite touching my abraded skin.

  “Hurts. Good thing I’m not touring for another month.”

  She raised her gaze to mine. Aya had always been my calm. She’d radiated this peace I needed to center myself. I’d thought about how I’d placed her smack-dab in the center of my world and concluded that Aya knew who she was, what she wanted. Except now, she was fragile, unsure. That had been too much to ask her to bear when I wasn’t strong enough to support my part.

  This Aya wasn’t the quietly confident young woman I’d once known. My stomach cramped as I thought of her words from earlier. I’d had public adulation for years; Aya had received public humiliation. That had affected her deeply, especially coming so soon after losing her mother, the only other person she’d
loved.

  “How come you didn’t screw Alistair?”

  Fuck. Why had I said that? And why now?

  “Because he wasn’t you,” she said. Her eyes begged me to understand.

  And I did, completely. On this subject, it seemed we felt the same. I thought about the girl in San Francisco, the one I’d nearly puked on.

  I nodded. “Like I said, enough of the pills dulled the cravings of my body, too.”

  She didn’t blink, seeming mesmerized by me.

  The tea kettle whistled. Aya busied herself with pouring the water into the pot. I had the whole setup, the same one she’d used in the photo of the drawing room when she and Lord Dickhead were photographed as the next Harry and Meghan.

  “I didn’t tell you that to upset you,” I said. “I told you because I’m still processing what being an addict meant—means to me. I used to keep the sexual cravings at bay. I used to keep from feeling the pain of you leaving, of my mother’s and Brad’s rejection. I had lots of reasons, and all of them together made me a druggie.” I shook my head. “I was a fucking mess. I let myself become that mess because I didn’t know how to handle all the bad shit that happened.”

  Her look held a helpless frustration I understood—I’d lived it for years.

  “Look, I know we need to discuss the years apart more, but can we table that for the moment?”

  Relief flooded her eyes, softening her features. “Of course.”

  My guts churned, because even so, I knew eventually I wasn’t going to like what she had to say. She poured me a cup of tea, then one for herself, and I was transported back to her mother’s kitchen—the faint scent of harissa or chicken fricassee. Those aromas wouldn’t have worked together elsewhere, but in the Didri household—a mix of North African and French—the scents blended, giving the place a homey feel. I’d loved it there.

  I stared down at the tea, watching steam curl upward. A faint hint of cinnamon teased my nostrils.

  “I’d give just about anything to go back,” I blurted. I raised my gaze, meeting Aya’s troubled one. “Anything but this moment, because even though you’re pissed off, hurt, and confused, and I’m scared out of my mind that I’ll lose you again, I need you to know I’m working hard to be strong enough to fight for us—like you deserve.”

  2

  Aya

  His words hit me square in the solar plexus, sending reverberations through my chest. I studied his face for the sincerity so evident in his voice. He seemed tired but also...not lighter; that was the wrong word. Maybe relieved. Like he’d been carrying a weight, and now he’d managed to share its burden.

  I wrapped my trembling fingers around my teacup—as if I hadn’t realized it was the same from that photo—the sneaky, caring heartbreaker.

  And that’s what our relationship boiled down to.

  I settled back in the chair, my fingers warmed by the delicate porcelain, and met his gaze. “I want to believe you. I do. I want to believe we can do this.”

  His long lashes fluttered down, hugging those chiseled cheekbones. I’d seen pictures of Lev, of course, but it was Nash who’d been blessed with the best of his parents’ features—and the worst of their demons. Well, actually, I didn’t know who Nash’s biological father was, so maybe he looked like that man.

  I sucked in a breath. “When I went to that party to tell you my mum was gone, I expected you to hold me. I really needed you to hold me…”

  This talk was so long overdue. I’d hoped to never have it, but by forcing down my emotions, I’d held myself back, rendering me unable to move forward with Alistair, with life.

  A rough sound came from Nash’s throat. I looked up, shocked by the tears rolling down his cheeks.

  I placed my hands on the table, palms slick, and shoved back.

  “I know you’re sorry, Nash. I understand now that you’d just been through your own nightmare, and that what happened wasn’t even your fault. But that night gutted me.”

  He made no move to wipe his face, and a tear dripped down his chin onto his shirt and the table.

  “That’s why I said what I did in the coffee shop,” I explained. “I wanted you to feel like I did. Hurt like me.”

  “I did. Hurt, I mean.”

  “And so did I,” I whispered. “Maybe more than before. I…I hated myself for what I did to you that day.”

  “Fuck, Aya. I don’t know what to say,” he rasped.

  I closed my eyes. They were scratchy, and they ached. “Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe we don’t know how to talk anymore.”

  He made a deep, pained sound, but I didn’t open my eyes. Exhaustion slammed into me—not just physical, but emotional. I’d used up all my reserves to get to this point. Now I wanted to sleep. I craved the oblivion, at least for a few hours. Until my heart didn’t hurt this much. There was so much work to do. The way forward seemed so difficult.

  “Maybe we shouldn’t try,” I said.

  “Is that what you want?” he whispered. He sounded tortured.

  I opened my eyes and met his turbulent gaze.

  “Really?” he murmured.

  “No.” The word exploded from me like a gunshot. “No, Nash. I want us to be us again, to find our way. It’s...it’s a lot to process. And then, on top of all that, I want you to...to fuck this sexual tension out of me so I can just go back to being numb. Blissed out...”

  I bit my lip, but then I started to giggle at how ridiculous I must sound. Nash smirked, and then he chortled, especially after I broke into a second fit of laughter.

  A moment later, we both guffawed. I laughed and laughed, my stomach aching. Finally, we settled back, the release of tension leaving me more relaxed, but also hollow.

  Nash leaned closer, careful not to touch me but close enough for me to see each eyelash, to study the variety of browns and golds in his irises.

  “Give me this chance; give me now. Let me hold you tonight, in my bed. Let me prove I’m ready to move forward with you. We need this time together.”

  I nodded. We did.

  “I wish…” I sipped the warm brew, knowing it wouldn’t soothe me enough.

  “What do you wish, Ay?”

  “I wish we’d been older, more mature, better at expressing ourselves. That I’d given you the opportunity to explain, that I hadn’t hurt you that day. So many things, really.”

  Nash nodded, his face settled in solemn lines. “That we’d had less dysfunctional childhoods. Less grief and loss and crazy backstabbing.” He grimaced, rearranging the bag of peas.

  “Need some pain meds?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t have any pills here because I won’t take anything. Ever.” His face twisted. “I’m like her—my mom. I have that predisposition toward addiction. For me, the best option is to avoid temptation.”

  “And that’s worked?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “Better than anything else. But it’s only been a few months.”

  “Do you miss it? The high, I mean.” I probably shouldn’t have asked. No, I knew I shouldn’t have.

  He licked his lower lip. “I miss the numbness. It’s easier to go through life not caring than feeling the way I do for and about you. I missed you, Ay.” His throat worked, his eyes those toss’d seas Shakespeare wrote about. “I’ve missed you every day. At first, I was just angry, but then, it settled, and my longing was so, so huge it ripped into my guts.”

  “I don’t want to hurt you,” I breathed. “I mean, I did, but that just made me feel worse. I understand now that we’ve both made mistakes.” I clasped my hand tighter around my teacup in an effort not to reach for him. If I did, I’d kiss him. Kissing Nash felt…like home.