Anyone But You

by Jerica MacMillan

  I plaster a smile on my face and nod. “How’d you learn all this?”

  She laughs, a light tinkling sound. “Practice. Years and years of practice. I grew up learning to be a socialite, with my sole goal in life to be some high-powered man’s arm candy.” She shrugs one shoulder. “I guess in a way that’s still true, but I also manage Cataclysm’s charitable foundation, so I do more than hang around and dote on Marcus, though from the articles about me in most places, you’d think I’m an empty-headed bimbo only with him for his money.”

  Her gaze is sharp when she turns it on me. “The truth doesn’t matter as much as what gets eyeballs on the story. Don’t let whatever ridiculous thing they decide is your story get under your skin. We all know it’s false. Okay?”

  I swallow hard again. “Okay. Thanks for the pep talk.”

  She gives me one last squeeze before dropping her arm. “Show time. Keep that smile in place.”

  And then she floats away from me, her arm slipping through Marcus’s as they exchange a glance so full of love that I feel like an intruder watching. Except there are hundreds of people surrounding us, and the intern is trying to shoo us down the line.

  Mason’s arm slips around my waist, and he leans in to give me a kiss on the cheek. I immediately feel better, more grounded, having him here with me. “You holding up alright?”

  I turn my smile on him, but for him it’s real, not the fake one Kendra encouraged me to keep on for the press. “Don’t worry about me. I’m here for you, remember?”

  This time he kisses me full on the mouth, and even though I should be worried about my lipstick, his kiss is just what I need in that moment. He keeps it brief and G rated, pulling back and looking at me like I’m the most wonderful thing he’s ever seen. I don’t think any guy has ever looked at me quite like that before. It’s … extraordinary. And I’m not sure what I’ve done to deserve it, but I hope I don’t ever stop.

  Soon, though, he concedes to the increasingly urgent hisses of the intern shepherding us down the red carpet. We stop and pose for a few more pictures, our plastic smiles fixed firmly in place. And then we’re inside where we can finally relax.

  The rest of the evening is alternately boring and thrilling. There are nonstop parties behind the scenes. We sit in the audience for several of the categories where the guys are expected. Marcus and Charlotte James present the award for one category, and the band performs with Beckett Stone around halfway through. But most of the time is spent at one party or another, mingling and chatting with other stars and industry bigwigs.

  It’s a long night, but even though I’m the PA, the guys have all told me I’m off the clock tonight. Kelsey handles all the PA duties for their performance, corralling everyone and getting them where they need to be. Plus I know Blaire is backstage cracking her proverbial whip, so I feel zero guilt when Kendra threads her arm through mine and tows me to our seats to watch the guys perform.

  This is my first opportunity to watch them from the audience. And while it’s not the shirt-losing number, they’re still a sight to behold. Marcus and Beckett own the stage, strutting around, singing their hearts out.

  But they’re just a distraction to me, because my eyes are all for Mason. More of his hair flops over his forehead, escaping the hold of the gel from running his hands through it off and on all night and the nonstop movement of playing the drums. He’s beauty in motion, arms flying, sticks hitting everywhere at just the right time, the living embodiment of the beat of their music.

  The asshole he was when I first joined the tour seems like a whole other person. It’s hard to reconcile that man with the one who looks at me like I’m the best thing in the world, who alternates between sweet talk and dirty talk in the bedroom, who makes me feel like the most beautiful, most important thing in his world.

  I guess they aren’t kidding when they say there’s a fine line between love and hate. We started on one side, and we’ve ended up on the other.

  No, we haven’t said those words. But it’s evident in every look, every touch, every night we spend wrapped in each other’s arms.

  Soon. Soon it’ll be time to give voice to those words. But that feels too heavy for what we’ve had so far, so I keep them inside, a delicious secret just for me. For now.

  When the song ends, Kendra and I stand along with the rest of the crowd, screaming and clapping and cheering for the guys. Then Kendra once again threads her arm through mine and tows me back out of the auditorium, back to the backstage area.

  She drops my arm as soon as she spots Marcus, practically launching herself at him for a deep, heavy kiss.

  Feeling unaccountably shy, I hang back, waiting for Mason to come to me. He does, prowling toward me, a sly smile on his face. He lazily hooks an arm around me and pulls me close. “What are you doing hanging out at the back of the group?”

  I shrug. “Just waiting. It’s weird, all this.”

  “You belong with me. And that’s all that matters.”

  My lips part and I breathe those words in, trapping them inside me next to my secret realization. “Okay,” I agree on a whisper. I’m not going to argue with that.

  He chuckles and kisses me, then pulls me after him to his dressing room. The guys all changed into their usual performance attire of faded jeans and T-shirts, and he needs to get back into his suit for the rest of the evening.

  “You gonna be able to keep your hands to yourself?” he asks, a teasing note to his voice as he closes the door behind us and takes off his shirt.

  I laugh. Actually I giggle. I can’t help it. Then I step forward and rub a hand up and down his chest. “Probably not. But there’s not enough room in here for the kind of sex we like to have.”

  He glances around the closet-sized room and shrugs. “I could make it work.” He trails a finger over my shoulder. “I could fuck you against that wall over there.”

  An involuntary shiver runs through me at his words. “But my dress.”

  He grunts. “Good point. Maybe next time?”

  The boyish hope in his words makes me chuckle. “Sure. Maybe next time.”

  He flashes a grin at me and makes quick work of changing into his clothes. I lean against the wall in question with my hands behind my back so I don’t give in to temptation and stop him from getting changed. This isn’t the time, and we’ll have to wait till we’re back at the hotel to do what we do best.

  “How much longer do we have to stay?” I ask as he settles his jacket on his shoulders.

  He looks at me, his eyebrows lifting and that wicked smile pulling at his lips. “Ready to go already?”

  “I’m always ready to spend time alone with you,” I answer honestly.

  He steps close and kisses me hard. “I’ll get us out of here as soon as I can,” he promises.

  Then he opens the door and sweeps me back into the party.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Mason

  The awards show last night went better than I could’ve hoped. More specifically, Viola did better at the awards show than I could’ve hoped.

  She didn’t shrink back from the press while we were on the red carpet. She walked through everything like a pro.

  And then when we ducked out early to get back to the hotel … fuck. That was some of the hottest sex I’ve ever had in my life.

  Today is officially a tour rest day, but only because tomorrow we’re all dispersing for our month long break. It should’ve been two months, but because of our extended time off for Danny’s paternity leave, we added extra shows to make up for the ones we had to cancel.

  Viola and I have spent the morning lazing in bed, making slow, sweet love and enjoying a ridiculous room service breakfast.

  She got dressed a little while ago to make a run to the store for Sam. I guess Maddie woke up puking this morning, so Viola’s getting medicine and crackers for the poor kid. I’ve been lounging in bed and watching TV, but I can’t find anything to hold my attention, and the reality is that I’m bored without
Viola. If she were here, we could find a movie to watch, we could talk, we could kiss, we could have sex. On my own … there’s not much to do.

  Restless, I get up and take a shower since I haven’t yet today and it’s something to do. Normally I’d wait for Viola and have some fun, but I’m too antsy to wait. Viola still hasn’t given me an answer about staying with me over the break. I’ve been chalking it up to her being busy and distracted, and I know when I brought it up before, she’d said she hadn’t even thought that far ahead.

  But now the break is here. Surely she can think ahead to tomorrow by now.

  I haven’t wanted to be pushy, so I’ve been biting my tongue. But I need an answer of some kind today. Yes. No. I need to visit my parents for a week first, and then I’m all yours. Something.

  When I get out of the shower, Viola’s voice reaches me through the closed bathroom door. She’s obviously on the phone, though I can’t tell with who yet. Smiling to myself, I hurry up and towel myself dry, ready to stroll into the bedroom naked and see how quickly I can make her get off the phone.

  When I hear her say, “I know, Mom,” I cringe a little. Partly because from her tone of voice, she’s not thrilled to be talking to her mother. And partly because I know her conversations with her parents can take a while and end with a grumpy, stressed-out Viola. Selfishly, I’m annoyed, because I was enjoying our lazy day of filling all our carnal desires—sex, sleep, and good food.

  Now I’ll have to spend time helping her work past whatever bullshit her mother’s feeding her before we can get back to that. And I don’t mind doing that for her, except that I hate that she lets her mother affect her so strongly. I’ve mentioned as casually as possible that she’d be happier if she put up a stronger boundary, but that conversation ended up worse than not saying anything. She took that as me telling her to cut off her parents like I did mine—though that’s not really the whole picture. My parents cut me off. Not the other way around. Sure, they’d welcome me back. But only if I came crawling on my knees, begging forgiveness and promising to accept their religion as the one true way to live. Even then, I’m sure I’d get punished in a thousand different ways for the rest of my life for daring to leave at all. My dad might paint himself like the father in the prodigal son parable, throwing his arms wide and welcoming his son home. But the reality behind closed doors would be far different.

  Viola’s situation doesn’t mirror mine at all. Her parents are overbearing, sure, especially her mom, but I don’t get the feeling that they’d disown their daughter for daring to tell them she’s happy.

  Taking my time now, I wrap the towel around my waist and run my hands through my hair to get it out of my face. I listen intently to her half of the conversation, trying to determine how much damage control I’ll need to do when she’s done.

  “Oh my god, Mom!” comes through loud and clear. “No! What is wrong with you? Yes, we are.” She lets out a frustrated growl that catches me by surprise. She’s usually the picture of calm, cool, and collected when she’s irritated, something that always made me want to see how far I could push her until that facade broke. But I’ve learned it’s a defense she’s built up over a lifetime of having to explain herself to her parents. If she couldn’t stay calm or give what they considered valid reasons for her actions or desires, she would get overruled.

  The fact that she’s getting pushed into making obvious sounds of frustration is concerning. I reach for the door handle, but stop when her voice lowers, though her tone is still biting and fierce. “No. I will not break up with him. Why would I do that? He’s … Will you stop interrupting me?” She falls silent, which makes me think that no, her mom won’t stop interrupting her.

  But what the fuck? Her mom wants her to break up with me? Why?

  “You don’t know anything about him. Or about us.” Silence. Bitter laughter that startles me. “No. Definitely not. I will not bring him by for dinner.”

  My hand clenches around the door handle. Is she embarrassed about me?

  But before I can give that any more thought, she continues. “No, Mother. No, I didn’t plan to.” Didn’t plan to what? Tell them about me? What happened to no dirty little secrets? “Yes, I’ve seen the emails. No, I’m not going to respond to any of them. You what?” That last question is louder. I hear her moving around the room, then I only hear her muffled voice, too quiet to make out words.

  When I open the door, she’s not in the bedroom, and the door between the bedroom and the living area of our suite is closed. Taking a breath, I decide to get dressed while she finishes her conversation.

  My stomach twists itself into a Gordian knot and my chest hurts as I grab a pair of track pants and a T-shirt from my suitcase.

  I wait until there’s silence for several minutes, fidgeting and tapping my fingers the whole time. I’m not naturally a patient person. But I won’t be able to keep myself from asking what they’re saying and generally being a pain in the ass while she’s on the phone, so staying out of her way until she’s off the phone is the better option.

  At last I decide it’s safe to leave the room. And when I open the door, I find her seated on the couch with her face in her hands.

  She looks up, her miserable gaze meeting mine. “Oh. I wasn’t sure you were actually here.”

  I can’t tell from her voice if she’s glad I’m here or if she wishes I weren’t. I stuff my hands in my pockets, uncomfortable and out of my depth. Sure, she’s been upset after talking to her parents before. And we’ve had our share of clashes too. But I’ve never seen her like this—pale and withdrawn and lifeless. Even when she gave me her cold mask when she first started, it was clear that she was simply reserving her warmth for someone else.

  But this? It’s like all the life has been drained out of her. My jaw clenches involuntarily. I want to tell her that she has the right to make her own decisions. To enforce clear boundaries, even with her parents. But the memory of the last time I tried that tack flashes through my mind, and I keep my mouth shut.

  After several more minutes tick past without a word passing between us, me staring at her, and her staring into the middle distance, I can’t take it anymore. “So that was your mom?” I ask gently.

  She lifts her head again, glancing at me and nodding. “How much did you hear?”

  I shrug. “Not very much. But enough to think maybe you didn’t want your parents to know about us. Is that why you were hesitant to go to the awards show with me last night? You didn’t want them to see pictures of us together? To know that you’re slumming it with me?” I force my voice to remain light as I ask the questions that are searing my chest like branding irons.

  Her mouth drops open. “Slumming it with you?”

  I shrug again, trying to keep that same forced lightness. “Sure. I’m the college dropout. A drummer in an indie rock band. Sure, we’re doing good now, but how long can any of that last, right? Especially to two college professors, I must seem like the worst kind of boyfriend for their precious daughter.”

  She recoils from the venom infecting my voice by the last sentence. I take a deep breath, trying to rein it in. I shouldn’t be lashing out at her. It’s not her fault her parents are the way that they are.

  But it is her fault that she lets them have as much influence over her as they do. They don’t want her here. She’s said as much multiple times. How much worse to have her romantically involved with a band member?

  “Do they slut-shame Blaire as much as the media does?” The question slips out before I can call it back, and I can tell from the blank look on her face that my barb has hit its mark. “They do, don’t they? You heard it for the last few years at every family dinner. No wonder she never wanted to go home to visit with that waiting for her.”

  She’s shaking her head. “No. She thought they didn’t want her, but it wasn’t true. My parents wanted to adopt her after her parents abandoned her. They’ve only ever wanted what was best for her.”

  “But their version of best, righ
t? Not what Blaire wants. And Blaire’s parents left her to go back to their lives as touring musicians, right? That’s the story I heard, anyway.” At her slow nod, I continue. “Right. So your parents don’t exactly have a rosy view of bands and tours and musicians, do they? Maybe they didn’t harass Blaire to quit and come home the way they do with you, but they never had the same hold on her either. They aren’t her real parents, no matter if they wanted to adopt her or not. She went her own way, made her own life, chose her own family. And now they see you following in her footsteps, in the footsteps of her parents, and they’re panicking. Aren’t they?”

  She doesn’t respond. But I know I’m right. She does too, even if she won’t cop to it right now.

  “Which makes me the bad guy, tangling you up even more in this world of glitz and glamour and sex and music. Pretty dresses. Awards shows. Nonstop sex. What else did they say about me? Did they warn you to be careful? What was their big worry? That I might get you pregnant? Give you a disease? Get you hooked on drugs? Make you fall in love with me and then cheat on you?”

  I wait, curious if she’ll answer. Curious what they actually said.

  Her lips part, and I think maybe she’ll say something, but she doesn’t. Instead she swallows hard and seems to be trying to pull herself together. Standing, she faces me, that cold, unfeeling mask back in place for the first time in ages, and I hate it. I hate it so fucking much I want to scream. I want to throw things. I want to punch a hole in the wall. Anything to break past that facade she uses to shut me out.

  She let me in, and now she’s shutting me out.

  Because I am a dirty little secret. I’m my parents’ secret shame. And I’m the weight dragging Viola down. Keeping her from whatever life her parents have mapped out for her.