Total pages in book: 10
Estimated words: 9381 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 47(@200wpm)___ 38(@250wpm)___ 31(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 9381 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 47(@200wpm)___ 38(@250wpm)___ 31(@300wpm)
"You really think we'd ask you to quit? What the fuck, Pen?" Saint pulls me into a fierce hug. "We've just been waiting for you to tell this idiot you were leaving so he'd get his head out of his ass and make you stay. We knew he wasn't going to let you quit. If he did, we were firing him until he got his head out of his ass. It's about goddamn time the two of you figured your shit out because, gotta be honest, it's not a band if Dipshit and I are the only two left in the motherfucker."
"Uh, Dipshit objects to being called Dipshit, you dick," Jace mutters, flipping Saint off. "But he agrees with the rest of the shit you just said." He grins at me. "Glad you're staying, and we aren't firing Declan. I like you two way more than Saint anyway." He glances at Declan. "It's about goddamn time you figured it out."
"Yeah, yeah. Everyone knew but me. Stop hugging her," Declan complains, gently prying me out of Saint's arms. "Go hug your own woman. Leave mine alone."
Saint grins, slapping Declan on the back. "Welcome to the club, asshole."
Declan just smirks, tugging me back into his arms. I go willingly, smiling brightly.
"See?" he whispers, his lips against my ear. "You aren't going anywhere, Rebel. This right here is where you belong."
He's right. In his arms and in this band is where I belong. This is home, and they're my family. And for the first time in a long time—perhaps for the first time ever—everyone is happy.
It's been a long time coming.
Chapter Seven
Declan
"Are you ready for this, Rebel?" I ask, pulling Pen into my arms as we wait backstage before our interview. Our show is tonight, and I'm anxious as hell. I fucking hate interviews. I'm looking forward to this one, though. I have a few things to get off my chest.
"I guess so." She tips her head back, scrutinizing my expression. "Are you?"
"Always," I lie, pressing my lips to hers in a hard kiss.
She melts against me with a soft sigh, squeezing my fucking heart in a vise. Christ, I can't believe she's mine. I can't believe this is my life. It's been a full week since she told me she was leaving the band. Seven days since she turned my world upside down and then made it a million times better. She spends every night in my bed now.
I'm allowed to touch her when I want. Kiss her when I want. Hold her whenever the hell I feel like it. She's mine.
I'm on top of the fucking world.
A producer clears his throat behind me. "We're ready for the two of you."
I ignore him for a moment and finish kissing the lipstick from Pen's lips before reluctantly releasing her. She blinks up at me with glossy eyes, her lips kiss-swollen, and her cheeks flushed.
"You messed up my makeup," she mumbles without heat.
"You're fucking beautiful," I whisper back, pressing my forehead to hers.
Her blinding smile makes my cock throb as I slip my arm around her waist and turn to face the producer—a short, balding man who grins at us like we just dangled bags of money in front of him with that kiss. He has no idea.
"We're ready," I mutter as Pen fidgets beside me.
He helps mic me up and then turns to get Pen situated, but I quickly shuffle him aside. There's no way he's putting his hands on her when mine work just fine. She rolls her eyes at me but can't hide her smile. I've been doing the same damn thing for five years. I'm surprised it's taken her this long to figure out it wasn't just me being protective. It's me being a possessive asshole. No one touches her except me.
As soon as we're situated, he leads us out onto the stage. I blink against the harsh lights and then help get Pen situated in her seat before settling beside her. I don't miss the fact that he leans down to whisper something to the interviewer, who practically gives herself whiplash looking at the two of us.
I already know what the first questions will be. But they aren't going to be the surprise the producer seems to think they will be. If he wants a show, he'll get one. Just not the one he's expecting.
"We're back in five!" someone shouts off-stage.
"Behave," Pen mouths at me.
I wink at her.
The producer scurries away. The interviewer—a bottle blonde whose name I can't fucking remember—says a quick hello. And then the lights dim.
"We're back with Penelope Draco and Declan Riser of Vengeful Saints!" she says, beaming at the cameras off-stage. "And I just have to tell you both, getting tickets to your show is impossible! It was sold out as soon as they went on sale."