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Censored Soul (Unquiet Mind #5)

Author/Writer of Book/Novel:

Anne Malcom

Language:
English
Book Information:

I give myself to strangers.
When I’m on stage, and when I’m off it.
Whether it’s throngs of screaming fans or just one man, it’s always outsiders. People who don’t know me. Not the real me.
It’s easier, because then it’s not so obvious that there is no real me. Just layers of lies.
Then I’m peeled back to the nerve. Showing the world my ugly. Everyone sees me for what I am.
Rightfully so, they hate me.
Almost as much as I hate myself.
I’m willing to hate myself for what I’ve done. To wither away into some washed up old rock star.
But he doesn’t let me.
I want to hate him.
He doesn’t let me do that either.

Books in Series:

Unquiet Mind Series by Anne Malcom

Books by Author:

Anne Malcom Books

One

I didn’t know his name.

The man who owned the tight ass that was being covered by tighter jeans he was pulling on commando.

I knew what he wanted the world to think. That he was tough, dominant, macho. Probably what most people did think about him, with his sculpted muscles, square jaw, overall gruff demeanor. But I knew he liked to be the one with his mouth pressed to my Egyptian cotton sheets.

I knew he gave great head.

Had even better coke.

But a name?

Nah.

It wasn’t uncommon for me not to know the names of the guys I’d just fucked. In fact, it was the norm, how I preferred it.

“Noah,” he said, turning as he covered his muscles with a tee that did nothing but cling to the defined skin.

I sighed.

He knew my name, of course.

They all did.

Not because I meant something to them, but because everyone knew my name. Everyone knew my face. It was impossible to have an anonymous one-night stand when you were in one of the most famous rock bands in the world. The most famous, if you listened to Sam.

Of course, I could make it anonymous with nondisclosure agreements that all my not so anonymous one-night stands signed before they made it into my bedroom. Not romantic. But then again, I wasn’t looking for romance.

I was looking for a fuck.

Pure and simple.

Except, not so pure.

Dirty. Disgusting. Filthy.

My father had plenty more words for my “affliction” that caused me to want to fuck men, but there wasn’t enough time for me to remember them all, as what’s-his-name was staring at me expectantly.

“Thanks,” I said, not bothering to get up and get dressed. I wasn’t going to see him to the door, or kiss him goodbye.

He knew the score. There were specific points on the contract he’d signed, including never coming back to my house or trying to call me, even talk to me if he encountered me again.

His brows furrowed and he dipped his sharp jaw downward, communicating that maybe he didn’t know the score.

“Can I…see you again?” he asked, his deep voice holding a hint of shyness that was not at all apparent when he was out in the world. Not the real world. Because that, out there, with all the cameras, fans, all the lies—that was not the real world.

But I was pretty sure that in here, with my thousand-dollar sheets that smelled of two different kinds of aftershave, sweat, and sex. Condom wrappers and a dusting of coke on the mirror beside me—this wasn’t exactly the real world either.

Nothing was real.

We were all just telling different kinds of lies.

For once, I told the truth.

“No,” I said, sitting up only so I could snatch the rolled-up hundred-dollar bill and take the last line.

I sat back, eyes on the ceiling, my body not feeling enough of the effects of some of the best coke money could buy. Probably because I had enough money to buy and do enough of it for it not to work anymore.

Or maybe it did, and I was just used to feeling fucked up.

That thought didn’t linger because it was too close to a truth I wasn’t ready to believe yet. I’d stick to lies for a little while longer.

“No?” the man in front of me repeated.

“No,” I agreed. “One-time thing. I thought I made that clear.”

I did. I always did. One and done. That was me. Relationships were for other people. People who weren’t fucked up. Like Lexie. Sam. Wyatt.

Certainly not me.

The rest of my bandmates were married, had fucking children. I’d be the perpetual bachelor. The uncle. The friend. I could play those roles, just as well as I could play the piano. Just as well as I played straight for my father so I could get a respite from the beatings. Until I was strong enough to beat him back.

“Yeah, you did,” the guy said. His eyes ran over me hungrily, either because I was a good lay, had a nice body, or because I was Noah from Unquiet Mind.

Most likely the latter.

“You change your mind, you got my number,” he said finally.

“Yeah,” I lied.

I’d never see this guy again. No matter how easy he was on the eyes or how good the sex was.

This was L.A. It was easy to find beautiful people who liked to fuck.

“I’ll see you,” he said.

“See you,” I lied again.

He turned and left, the door closing behind him.

I sank back into my bed, staring at the ceiling which was moving right now. The coke was good.

But not good enough.

Because I still slept.

And the nightmares still came.

I was awake when Wyatt strolled through my front door, Raven screaming in his arms.

If I wasn’t, Raven would’ve woken me up, even though my bedroom was a whole fucking wing away from the front door.

Took after her mother in that respect.


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