If I thought my mouth was dry before, it’s now vying with the Atacama for its spot on the list of driest places on the planet.
Holy hell. If this is what I’m going to be dealing with on a regular basis …
I can see why Blaire slept with them.
The thing is, though, that I’m not like Blaire. In so many ways. She was always outgoing and exuberant, popular. I lost track of the number of boyfriends she had in high school.
I always looked up to her. Tried to follow along after her. But she was a grade ahead of me, and while she never deliberately excluded me, I always felt like an outsider with her friends. At home, she didn’t talk to me much, mostly keeping to herself, doing her homework and helping out with chores as much as possible. While she was always polite to me, it seemed like I tried harder at being friends with her than she did with me. In that way, she was a lot like my older brother Will. Neither of them seemed to have much time for me, but I always assumed that’s what it was like being the little sister. And even though Blaire isn’t technically my sister, I always thought of her as one.
I told my friends she was my sister. Still do, actually. It’s easier than explaining the details.
Only recently did I find out why she held herself apart from me. It wasn’t, as I’d grown up believing, that she thought I was annoying. No, actually, the opposite was true. She kept to herself thinking that I resented her being in our house, sharing my room. She thought she was a burden and an intruder. An outsider.
And all these years I thought she resented having to share a room with me, her annoying younger cousin.
Funny how both people can view the same situation so differently.
All that aside, I’m still much more reserved than my cousin. I didn’t have an endless string of boyfriends growing up. Nope. I had one in high school, my senior year. A few in college. And the last two years have been a wasteland of terrible attempts at online dating rife with dick pics, terrible come-ons, and guys who don’t match their profile pics at all.
So being faced with this smorgasbord of attractive masculine torsos … well, combined with Mason’s kiss a little while ago, my libido has certainly woken up from its enforced hibernation.
Unfortunately, it’s not likely to get satisfaction anytime soon. Because while Mason might be happy to oblige, I’m not okay with screwing a guy who got a blow job from another woman literally minutes before having his tongue down my throat.
And I’ve seen the way Blaire’s been dragged through the tabloids, both when she was working for Cataclysm and now that she’s with Beckett Stone.
I have no desire to follow in those footsteps. Blaire might be able to handle that kind of attention.
But I’ve always been the wallflower. I’m not built for the spotlight.
Chapter Three
Mason
We file off stage at the end of our show, and once again our prim little assistant with her shocking red lips—lips that I haven’t been able to get out of my head despite performing for the last two hours, lips that I shouldn’t care about with the cool disdain she gave me after pushing me away—stands at the entrance to the greenroom handing bottles of water to us.
“I’m sorry again about not having your dressing rooms adequately stocked tonight. I’m hoping you’ll forgive me since it’s my first day, and I’ve really never done anything like this before.” She lets out a nervous laugh. “I’ll be sure to have everything you need ready for you next time.”
Marcus jumps in with reassurances while I cross to the couch, scowling as I drain the bottle of water. That’s what I’ve been doing ever since she shoved me away from her. Scowling. One quick taste, one quick handful of ass, and that was the end of it. All my plans for the night, all the half formed ideas of things I wanted to do to that mouth, that body—poof. Gone.
And now I’m scowling. At her. Like it’s her fault that she’s not a groupie.
I mean, I guess it kinda is her fault. She’d have to decide to be one, after all.
But it’s my fault that I assumed she was. That I didn’t recognize her from the video conference where we interviewed her. Though, to be fair, I was hungover and paying almost no attention whatsoever to that video call. I didn’t care who we picked to replace Blaire.
The fact that we were replacing Blaire was fucking with my head.
Blaire’s irreplaceable as far as I’m concerned. So searching for her replacement is a fool’s errand.
Yeah, yeah, we need a PA. I know. And Blaire’s not coming back. Not when she’s a tour manager—and we all know she’s kicking ass at it, because that’s what Blaire does—and not when she’s in love with Beckett.
I just … I wanted her to choose me.
And it’s still a kick in the nuts that she didn’t.
So I’ve been finding solace where I can get it. Groupies. Booze. Weed. Though I can’t do that last one backstage. Marcus would have a shit fit. No smoke around his precious, precious vocal cords.
Since his voice is the money-maker, though, I suppose I can’t blame him. I only sing occasional backup vocals. I don’t need to sound particularly spectacular. I just need to be able to be on pitch while wailing on the drums.
But the pussy and booze should be available now. We’re rock stars. Where are the groupies?
Before I can stand and find the answer to my question, Aaron plops himself on the couch next to me. “Dude,” he says quietly. “I still can’t believe you tried to fuck the new assistant. And on her first day. Let her have some time to get settled, at least.”
“Shut up, Aaron.” I swig the last of my water.
He just chuckles. “Why are you whoring around so much, anyway? Even when we were all fucking groupies every night, you weren’t trying for two back to back before going on stage.”
My scowl is back, but this time it’s directed at Aaron. Irritated, I decide to needle him right back. “I dunno, man. I’d be happy to have the same kind of arrangement we used to. You think Sam’d be down for that?” It’s an asshole question, and I know it, but I’m feeling like an asshole right now. For one, I actually have no desire to share a woman with Aaron again. Not when I know I’d be number two. I wasn’t supposed to be number two with Blaire. We were supposed to be equals. But somehow I still came in second. Story of my life, I guess.
And I know that Aaron would never share his girlfriend, Sam, which is readily apparent by the angry glare he throws my way. “Fuck off, Mason.”
With a dark chuckle, I shake my head. “Aww, I get it. You already share her with the kid. I can see why you wouldn’t want to add another person to the mix. Makes sense.” He and Sam have a four-year-old daughter. “And anyway,” I continue, “I’m trying to fuck off. That’s the whole point here. I thought I had my post-show pussy locked down when that fine piece of ass walked in my dressing room. Only to find out that she’s our new assistant.”
Aaron holds a fist over his mouth, chuckling into his hand. “Oh, man. I was listening at your door, just waiting for her to slap you. I was disappointed that she didn’t. I can’t believe you didn’t recognize her.”
I spread my hands, eyes wide. “She looks nothing like the chick on the video chat.”
Spluttering some more, Aaron shakes his head like I’m ridiculous. “Whatever you say, man. Still. It seems like making our new assistant hate you on her first day isn’t a smart move. Might wanna rethink your strategy here.”
“What are you talking about? I’m a fantastic kisser. And me wanting to get with her is a compliment.”
Aaron reaches over and pats me on the shoulder. “Sure, if you wanna think that, I can’t stop you. But in my experience, women don’t enjoy being referred to as ‘post-show pussy’ or a ‘piece of ass.’”
He lifts his chin to indicate something, and I turn to see our new assistant—Violet? No, that’s not right. It was weirder than that. Whatever the fuck her name is, she’s standing less than five feet away, staring at me like she wishes she could shoot daggers out of
her eyes. “Uhh …” I start, but I have no idea what to say right now.
“Hey, Viola.” Aaron stands and greets her. “Did you need something?”
Viola. That’s her name. See? I knew it was weird. And why the hell is Aaron asking her if she needs something? Isn’t that her job? To find out if we need anything?
She gives him a relieved smile. “I was just checking on you guys. See if you need any more water. Or snacks. Or whatever.”
“I’m good,” he says. “I’ll just grab one of the waters from the tub here, then I’m heading back to my dressing room to freshen up before the meet and greets. Thanks, though.” He glances at me. “You good?”
“Actually—”
But she cuts me off with a sharp glare, her luscious red lips pulled into a tight pout. “I don’t supply post-show pussy,” she spits at me, venom lacing her words. “Or pieces of ass. As you can see, there’s plenty of water over there. Help yourself.” Then she spins on her heel and stalks off, leaving Aaron laughing his ass off, and me sitting on the couch like an idiot.
The next morning, I drag myself to Marcus’s room for our official band meeting before we head for the cars that will take us to the airport. A grim smile cracks my face when I think of the fact that Blaire gave up touring with us on a chartered plane to travel by bus. Bus tours suck ass. And now that we’ve graduated to using a plane, I have no desire at all to go back to that. Guess that’s what she gets for abandoning us.
Though, from all accounts, she’s happy.
I suppose I should be happy for her, instead of glorying in the idea of her slumming it on a tour bus. But I’m too hungover—okay, I might still be a little drunk—and pissy to give a damn.
With a courtesy knock on the cracked open door, I push my way inside, ready to get this farce over with. I don’t know why Marcus insists on these meetings all the damn time. It’s not like we don’t all know by now what to do and how to act. It’s too goddamn early to be fussing over schedules this early anyway. And Blaire …
Except no. Blaire’s not here to slap us all around and make sure we’re where we need to be.
It’s Violeta or whatever the hell her name is. The chick I thought was a contest winner, but—surprise!—she’s actually our new assistant, who let me grab her ass and suck on her tongue before shoving me away. And then berated me in the middle of the greenroom after the show.
Is this new chick going to be able to keep us all in line the way Blaire did?
Guess we’ll find out.
When I stagger into the room, everyone’s talking and Violeta is laughing, her head thrown back, the long sweet column of her throat exposed, those pouty lips parted. They’re not red today, though. Instead they’re light pink. She’s wearing leggings again, but these are red, and instead of the tight, scoop neck tank top, all I see is a long white sweater that covers her ass. Which is a shame. I enjoyed checking out that ass last night.
If I can’t have Blaire, and I get called out for screwing groupies, the least I can do is admire the ass of the only unattached female on this tour.
Except … shit. Maybe she’s not unattached.
Maybe that’s why she shoved me away so hard.
But if that’s the case, why kiss me back in the first place?
Because she definitely kissed me back.
All eyes swing my way, and the laughter dies on Violeta’s face. Her arms cross, closing her sweater around her like a shield as she surveys me cooly.
Well, fine. Fucking fine. That’s the way it’s going to be? I make an honest mistake, and now I’m a pariah?
Vindictive determination solidifies in my middle.
She might have a stellar ass and kiss like she needs me more than air, but with that look on her face, neither of us will ever experience that again.
She wants to play it this way? Like I’m the bad guy?
Then I’ll be the fucking bad guy.
Chapter Four
Viola
I’m laughing at Aaron’s story about his daughter and Danny’s son when everyone’s eyes shift. The room goes from relaxed and carefree to tense and stiff in the space of a heartbeat.
Or maybe that’s just me.
Because I turn to see what everyone’s looking at, and it’s Mason sauntering through the door, his eyes bloodshot, face scruffy, shoving his fingers through his dark hair, his eyes locked on me.
My laughter cuts off abruptly, and I pull my sweater closed, because the temperature of the room just plummeted from the baleful glare Mason’s throwing my way.
Irked by the fact that he’s glaring at me, I narrow my eyes and return his stare. What right does he have to be mad at me? What did I do to him? If anyone has a right to be mad out of the two of us, it’s me. I went to his dressing room to introduce myself and check if he needed anything before the show.
And he assaulted me.
Okay, okay, fine, that might be a little overdramatic. Because the memory of that kiss kept me up far later than it should have last night.
But that doesn’t change the fact that I wasn’t there for him to kiss. I was there to do my job.
And then the way he talked about me later …
I’d been almost ready to forgive him for the kissing incident, but just like that, all goodwill vanished. Poof. Gone, like it never existed.
But dammit. Why does he have to be so flipping hot? That glare, that scruff, the way his hair flops over his forehead even though he just shoved it back … he could be on the front cover of a magazine. Especially if he were shirtless, like he was last night …
Marcus clears his throat, and I rip my eyes away from Mason, my cheeks growing pink. Again. Dammit.
Dammit. Dammit. Dammit.
I don’t want to be affected by a—a—slut like him.
That’s not a word I like to use, because no one should be ashamed of their sexuality. But he’s clearly not ashamed, so I don’t feel so bad.
And just because he likes to get backstage blowjobs and then turn around and try to screw some other “piece of ass,” as he so indelicately put it, doesn’t mean I want to sleep with someone like that.
I mean …
No. I don’t. That would be a disaster.
And look at him. He’s still glaring at me, even as Marcus starts talking, passing around schedules. I take one on autopilot, barely listening until he says my name.
“Viola?”
“Hmm?” I give him a questioning look, and then realize he’s ceding the floor to me. Tracking through my memory, I realize he said something about me going over the schedule. “Oh! Right! Right. Sorry. Got lost in my thoughts there for a second. I’m not quite used to the late nights and early mornings yet.” Standing, I give a nervous laugh and tuck my hair behind my ear with my free hand. I keep my eyes trained on the paper. “Well, it’s all right here for you. Today’s a travel day. We’ll be loading up to go to the private airport in …” I glance at my watch, trying hard to keep my trembling under control, nerves and excitement zinging through me. I get to go to a private airport and board a private airplane. What a life.
“We know what time we’re leaving,” grumbles Mason. “We all have the fucking schedule.”
My cheeks heat again, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction of looking at him. “Right. Of course. Well then, I’m not sure what else you want me to say. I’ve ordered a new tablet, and I should have it tonight, so I’ll be able to access Blaire’s notes and files more easily from the shared folder she set up for me. If there are any changes to your preferences, please let me know. I’m here for whatever you need.”
Mason grumbles something that sounds suspiciously like, “Ha. I wish.”
Once again, I ignore him, looking at everyone except him and offering the best smile I can muster. “I really appreciate you giving me a chance. I know I’m new to this, but I’m smart and a quick learner, and I really believe that we’ll be running smoothly in no time.”
“You already passed the interview. You don’t need to
sell us on being our assistant,” Mason says, this time not even bothering to grumble.
Marcus clears his throat meaningfully and shoots a glare at Mason, who either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. He stops making comments, though, so I’ll take it.
Smiling at me, Marcus stands again. “The show last night went great. It was a fantastic way to kick off this stint. Let’s keep that same energy everywhere else. It’ll be harder as we go, since it’s longer and more heavily scheduled to make up for our extended time off so Danny and Ava could welcome their newest addition.” Marcus smiles at Danny, who ducks his head to hide his grin as Aaron nudges him.
I haven’t met Danny’s wife and new baby yet, since I arrived at the venue in LA last night with my packed suitcase and jumped right in. My mom and dad dropped me off, and even though they only live about two hours away from where this leg of the tour started off, they hugged me when I got out like I was going off to war instead of on tour with a rock band. The same band my sister-cousin worked for and traveled with for actual years. It’s not like these were random strangers I met online who wanted to chop me up and scatter the pieces of my dismembered corpse throughout Death Valley.
After telling my parents goodbye, reassuring them that I’d call when we arrived at our next stop, and that I’d stay in touch more than Blaire does, I squared my shoulders, gripped the handle of my suitcase, and walked confidently toward my destiny.
Until I entered the land of chaos. People in black scurrying here and there, cables, cables everywhere that I had to wrestle my suitcase over. It took me almost ten minutes to flag someone down to find out where I should go and what I should be doing. I wore all black like Blaire told me to, so I looked the part. But my preparedness stopped there.
The harried woman I managed to stop, pointed somewhere to my left and said, “Chad’s over there. Ask him.”
Anyone But You Page 2
