Forbidden Intent

  Forbidden Intent

  Cadence Keys

  Copyright © 2022 by Cadence Keys

  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.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblances to actual people, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales are entirely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners and are used only for reference.

  Editors: Happily Editing Anns

  Cover Design: Kate Farlow, Y’all. That Graphic

  Created with Vellum

  To Rikki - Besties before testes, always.

  Bet you never thought you’d get a character in a book named after you LOL

  Contents

  Preface

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Cadence Keys

  Preface

  PLEASE NOTE:

  This book addresses recovery from rape and some scenes may be difficult for readers. Nothing happens on page, but it can still be intense. For a full list of content warnings, please visit the book page on my website.

  1

  My leg bounces in my chair while I sit listening to Trent record the same lyrics he’s been working on for the last three hours. My head rests in my hand as I lean my elbow on the arm of the chair and try not to fall asleep. We’ve been working our asses off on this new album, and the long hours and lack of sleep are finally catching up with me.

  Ned, our sound tech, stops recording and turns to Decker Cross—the biggest producer in Los Angeles and the man who’s about to make this album our best yet—and asks about making a minor adjustment. My eyelids feel like they weigh five tons while I listen to them drone on about tone inflections on certain words.

  When Robbie told us Decker had shown an interest in working with us, we all thought he was fucking with us. Decker only works with Grammy-award-winning and Billboard chart-topping artists. And while we hit one of those milestones, we have yet to get a Grammy.

  But that might all change with Decker in our corner.

  I thought we’d made it big before, but we’ve reached another level if we’re working with the elite of the LA music scene. It’s a humbling experience. If only I was getting better sleep and could actually keep my damn eyes open today, then it would be even better.

  Turning to Robbie, I whisper, “Dude, I gotta get some caffeine in me or I’m gonna fade fast.”

  He glances at Ned and Decker discussing the vocals. “There’s a coffee shop halfway down the block.” He hands me a ten-dollar bill and says, “Be back in twenty minutes, or I can’t guarantee that Decker won’t try to replace you.”

  I’m pretty sure he’s only half kidding.

  But my eyes feel like sandpaper, and if the weight of my eyelids gets any heavier I’m going to turn into one of those cartoon characters who prop their eyes open with toothpicks. We’re not even halfway through this session, so I snatch the ten from his hand and make my escape. The walk is fairly quick, and the fresh air helps wake me up a bit. But then the aroma of coffee beans hits my nose the second I walk in the door, and it’s like I can already feel the caffeine jolt. Whoever invented coffee is my god. It’s the life-sustaining force that keeps me going.

  Making my way to the counter, I stand behind a woman with wavy, light-brown hair, wearing a black tank top that downplays her breasts but teases a hint of cleavage and purple skinny jeans that mold to her pert ass. However, it’s not her outfit that initially catches my attention, but the half-sleeve tattoo covering her shoulder and upper arm. I can’t completely make out the image, but the giant moon with a face in front of navy blue clouds intrigues me. She places her order, and it’s her voice that hits me next. The melodic rhythm of the way she talks combined with the huskiness made popular by Old Hollywood actresses make me want to listen to her for hours.

  I’ve always had a weird thing about voices. Just add it to the long list of “weird” things I’m into. But weird is subjective. It’s all normal to me.

  She finishes placing her order, pays, and then walks over to the pickup counter. I covertly watch her walk away, but the idea of her catching me and thinking I’m a creep forces my gaze away from her and back to the barista at the register. I step forward and place my own order, reminding myself that I’m on a time crunch.

  She’s still waiting for her drink—or drinks as it appears—when I make my way over to the pickup counter to wait on my own drink. I’m grateful I’ve never liked drip coffee because it gives me more time to find an in with her.

  Unlike other people, she doesn’t stare at her phone to waste time while she waits. Instead, her hands are in her back pockets, her elbows bent, her body language open and relaxed. I’m intrigued, but I’ve learned from personal experience never to judge a book by its cover. Too many times, people see my long hair and laid-back personality and assume I am some stoner drummer.

  While I do occasionally smoke weed, that’s not my drug of choice. No, it’s always been the high I get from a sexual release that I’ve sought after.

  “A vanilla latte and cappuccino,” the barista calls out, and the brunette walks forward and grabs the two drinks.

  “Thanks so much,” she says in that sweet voice that makes my gut clench and my dick start to harden. Thank God for tight pants and a long shirt that hides any hint of what her voice is already doing to me. I can only imagine what she can do with that rockin’ body.

  She walks over to the condiment bar to add cream and sugar to one of her drinks, and I fight the urge to bounce on my feet to dispel the nervous energy suddenly coursing through me. I want an excuse to talk to her, but I can see my window of opportunity closing fast. I just need one chance.

  “A six shot Americano,” the barista calls out, and I pounce on the chance to grab my drink and make my way over to where the brunette is still fixing her coffee.

  I normally know what to say or what move to make when I’m about to flirt with a woman, but this one has me all kinds of twisted, and I can’t figure out why.

  “Excuse me,” I say as I step next to her and grab a sugar packet from the holder in front of her. I don’t usually put sugar in my drink, but I know this is my last chance to make something happen here, and adding sugar seems like the best way to extend my time at this counter and gives me an excuse to be in her space.

  “Oh sorry, I’m totally hogging the space,” she says as she moves a step away from me, making room for me to put my drink on the counter while I doctor it with cream and sugar. She places the lid back on her coffee, and I know I’m about to lose my chance.

  “I’m Miles,” I say, brushing my hair back and smiling at her with my most winning grin.

  Her hazel eyes sparkle with what looks like amusement, which is not the reaction I was expecting. “I know,” she says before walking away.

  She’s out the door before my brain catches up with her movements. She knew who I was? How is that possible? She didn’t steal glances at me—I would’ve known since I was stealing plenty of glances at her. She didn’t look at me with recognition or like she was a fan. What the hell just happened here?

  Thrown off and uncharacteristically disappointed, I put the lid back on my coffee and power walk back to the studio since I’m dangerously close to hitting that twenty-minute mark. I make my way to our recording booth, still processing my interaction with coffee girl and why I was so thrown off my game.

  When I step into the studio, I freeze, my eyes not convinced what I’m seeing isn’t a figment of my imagination. But no, coffee girl is standing next to Decker, the second coffee she got at the shop now in his hand.

  “Miles, glad you could make it back in time. If I’d known where you were off to, I could’ve told you to save yourself some time. Tamsin was picking up my usual for me.”

  “Tamsin?” I ask, my eyes bouncing back and forth between him and the woman who has captured my attention since the moment I saw her.

  “My daughter,” Decker says, taking a sip of his coffee and turning back to the board.

  His…what now?

  Fuck me.

  2

  No one can play the drums like Miles Tallon. I watch, mesmeri
zed at the way his muscles flex under chiseled arms, the veins popping in his forearms in that sexy way they do when men are working hard. Only Miles’s hard work is beating the drums into the most beautiful submission—creating a rhythm I feel deep in my core in a way I never have before. His passion for his music is breathtaking, his control mesmerizing, and his focus inspiring.

  But the feelings he stirs in me with one look of his rich chocolate-brown eyes are terrifying. No man has ever made me feel this way—not with simply a look, and most certainly never with a touch.

  I sip my vanilla latte as I watch his corded muscles bunch underneath his tan skin, the dark hair along his arms a contrast to the glisten of sweat from the exertion of hitting every beat perfectly in sync with the rest of his band, Rapturous Intent. The tingles building in my body are a foreign sensation. Hell, I couldn’t even stir up anything close the few times I attempted to use my own hand—or the vibrator that my best friend, Rikki, gave me for my eighteenth birthday a month ago.

  My dad mumbles something before making an adjustment to the board, but the reminder that he’s right next to me pulls me out of my reverie. My cheeks heat and the pleasant, confusing, and yet terrifying tingles disappear almost as quickly as they came.

  Nothing like having your dad sitting right next to you to make you feel incredibly awkward about finally feeling turned on for the first time in three years.

  I take a larger gulp of my coffee this time before locking eyes on Miles again, only to find his penetrating stare directed my way, his body still busy rocking the rhythm that drives the song his band is playing. My heart stops momentarily before beating so wildly I’m sure a herd of horses must be galloping inside my chest, or maybe elephants. Are they called a herd? Who knows. All I know is I can’t break the connection.

  I don’t want to.

  Connection isn’t an easy thing for me, but even less so with men. But Miles Tallon makes me feel, and I’m torn between running far away from these feelings and running straight toward them to see if they can finally free me from my past. The past that makes me feel older than my eighteen years.

  My phone buzzes in my pocket, the vibration startling me and causing me to avert my gaze from Miles. Sliding the phone out of my pocket, I see Rikki’s name emblazoned on the screen.

  Rikki: How’s the internship going?

  Me: So far, I’m the coffee runner.

  Rikki: Thrilling. I thought having connections with THE Decker Cross meant you’d actually be doing more than being a go-fer.

  Me: I need to earn my place. I don’t mind. This is still one hell of an experience. The connections and networking will work wonders toward my career and hopefully impress my professor.

  Rikki: No offense, but your prof is a dick. I doubt he’ll be impressed by anything because he thinks you’re some spoiled Hollywood princess with a silver spoon in her mouth. He has no intention of getting to really know you or what you’re capable of all on your own. Don’t judge your success based on what that douche-canoe thinks. You’re going to rock that industry.

  I smile at my best friend’s words, knowing she’s probably right about my professor and appreciating that she always has my back. We’ve been best friends since we met on the first day of kindergarten. She sat next to me and asked if I wanted to share her crayons, and we’ve been inseparable ever since. There are days I’m convinced I never would’ve made it this far if it weren’t for her. She’s given me her strength during some of the darkest times in my life.

  When my mom died when I was seven.

  When my first period started and my dad had no idea what to do, so she got her mom to teach me everything.

  When she found me on the floor, broken in so many ways, during that one night sophomore year that we’ve never talked about since.

  She’s my ride or die.

  Rikki: So I love you and all, but how hot is Trent Bridger in real life? How about Tristan? Hell, tell me about them all.

  She’s also an insane Rapturous Intent fan and dying to know any inside scoops on the band. I smirk at my phone, my thumbs poised to respond when my dad clears his throat and I glance up to see him watching me, one corner of his mouth tipped up in an amused smirk and one brow quirked.

  “Am I boring you, Tam Tam?”

  Rolling my eyes, I respond, “Dad, you promised you wouldn’t call me that during my internship. I’m an adult now and this is a serious opportunity for me.”

  His gaze softens. “I know it is. Sorry, but you’ll always be my baby.” He reaches out and squeezes my hand, a moment passing between us before he clears his throat again and gets down to business. “Okay, so what questions do you have?”

  Prepared, I pull out my notebook with questions I’ve jotted down over the past few weeks for this moment. Despite being the daughter of LA’s most prolific and famous producer, I’ve only recently taken an interest in what he actually does. I never cared to know all the ins and outs, especially once I started high school and was lost in my own world. It was only when I decided I wanted to pursue a career as a music publicist that I decided to take a stronger interest in my dad’s job in order to gain a better understanding of the industry as a whole. No one knows the music industry better than Decker Cross—and no one has more connections. While I don’t necessarily want my dad to make those connections for me, I know full well the impact and connections I could make on my own just by working for him for a short time. I also know he can give me some inside information that’ll better prepare me for success.

  “How long does it take to record an album typically?”

  He leans back in his chair, putting his hands on the armrest. “Well, it varies. For these guys, it’ll likely take a couple of months to get everything exactly how we want it. They’ve already written most of their songs, but Trent and Tristan want to do a few more to fit the vibe of the rest of them. Then we have to record it and meet that sound.”

  “You have some ideas about that?” I swivel around in my chair to where Robbie Nolan, the band’s manager and friend, sits on the couch, his phone in one hand and a Coke in the other. He waits eagerly for my dad’s response to his question.

  “I do,” my dad responds. “Trent and I have been talking about it. I know he wants Tristan’s input as well since Tristan wrote more of the songs on this upcoming album.”

  “What about Kasen and Miles?” His name sits heavy on my tongue, and my heart beats a little faster just saying it out loud, but I try to ignore it. “Do they get a say too?”

  “Oh, definitely. This process takes everyone’s opinion into consideration, but if you watch their dynamic, Miles and Kasen tend to defer to Trent and Tristan.” My dad glances back to Robbie. “Am I wrong?”

  “No,” Robbie says, a slight furrow to his brow as he stares in the booth at the band still playing the song. The look of concern is such a contrast to the happy look he’s worn every other time I’ve seen him.

  “Is that a problem?” I ask, not sure where his concern is coming from.

  He shakes his head, and the expression clears from his face almost instantly, replaced by a wide smile. “Not at all,” he says, but there’s still a tension in his eyes that belies his statement.

  I glance back at the band playing seamlessly through their song like a well-oiled machine. With a quick perusal, there are no red flags, but on closer inspection, I can see slight tension in the glances coming from Trent, Tristan, and Miles all toward Kasen as he plays bass, his head down and his body swaying to the rhythm while he plays. My gaze stays focused on him, wondering what I’m missing. My dad fiddles with something on the board—something I should probably ask him about since I have no idea what he’s doing—but I’m too intrigued by the dynamics of the band and trying to figure out what’s going on.