Filthy Beautiful: A Players Rockstar Romance (Players #2)

by Diamond, Jaine

  “So… you’re trying to poison him.”

  “I know.” She sighed. “I’m not a very good cook.” Her shoulders dropped, and I kinda regretted being such a dick about it. “I know it smells a little weird—”

  “Courteney. Turn off the stove.” I was already on my phone, opening the food delivery app I had installed. “I’ll order takeout.”

  “Ugh.” She clicked off the element in defeat. “I’d tell you and your takeout to shove it, but I think you’re right. Something went wrong with this recipe.”

  “You think?” I scrolled through the restaurants in the app. “What do you feel like? You still want soup? Or Greek? Pizza?”

  “Cary likes that little gourmet pizza place, you know, over on Tenth?”

  I looked for it, but I couldn’t find it in my app. “I’ll head over and pick up.”

  “You don’t have to do that…” she said, but I was already on my way out the door.

  * * *

  We ended up having dinner in the living room, just the two of us. Me and Courteney, sitting on the floor, eating gourmet pizza at the coffee table. While we watched The Walking Dead on the big screen—her choice.

  Cary didn’t come out of the studio.

  We’d both messaged him. I’d called him, but he didn’t answer.

  Courteney didn’t say anything about it, but I knew it bothered her.

  Of course it bothered her.

  “Do you want another slice?” she asked me when I sat back and pushed away my plate. It was the first time either of us had spoken, pretty much since we’d sat down and she turned the TV on.

  “No. Thanks.”

  She’d finished eating and sat watching the show, though she didn’t really seem to be paying attention. “I really hope there is a zombpocalypse,” she said out of nowhere.

  “What?”

  “I just think we should all have to fight for our lives in the apocalyptic demise. I think that would be the best way to die. We’d all go together, fighting for a common cause.”

  I didn’t say anything. What was I supposed to say to that?

  “I think I’d be good at fighting zombies,” she added, almost to herself.

  “You would be,” I said. Somehow, if there were a zombie apocalypse, I could see her kicking ass. “You know…” I told her, “the album probably won’t be done soon.”

  “I know,” she said softly.

  “Even if he told you it would be.”

  She didn’t say anything to that.

  “With Cary… it’s not done until it’s done. Could be tomorrow. Could be another year.”

  “I know,” she repeated.

  “You can’t rush him. I mean, there’s nothing you can do to speed him up. To get him to share it with you—”

  She got up abruptly and started gathering our dishes. “Do you want a beer or anything?” she asked me.

  “No.” I got to my feet and picked up the pizza boxes. “He won’t play you the new music, Court.” I looked her in the eye until she finally met my gaze. “Not until he’s ready. And that’s got nothing to do with you.”

  “I know.”

  “It’s not personal,” I told her, just like I’d had to tell myself, so many times. “It’s not about you. It’s about him.”

  She nodded.

  Then she whispered, “Then why does it hurt so much?”

  I opened my mouth to answer that, even though I had no idea what the fuck I would say.

  Because he’s an asshole.

  Because he’s fucking selfish, and that’s not your fault.

  But she turned and left the room before I could say anything.

  It wasn’t the first time I’d silently cursed Cary Clarke.

  I turned off the TV; had a feeling Courteney wasn’t coming back. When I took the pizza boxes into the kitchen, she was already gone. She’d dumped our dishes into the sink and vanished, probably upstairs to her room.

  I put the dishes in the dishwasher, then stood there, staring down the hall that led to the studio door.

  Then I headed out to the poolhouse. I pulled out my phone and wrote Cary a text.

  Me: You know, you really hurt your sister today.

  Then my thumb hovered over the screen for a long time, while I just stared at those words.

  But I didn’t send them.

  I deleted them, because words like those could only do damage.

  * * *

  I’d almost fallen asleep when I heard a little tap at my door. Not the front door of the poolhouse. My bedroom door.

  I was sprawled on my stomach in bed, and rolled over in the near-dark. The bedroom door was open.

  Courteney stood there, with her hand on the doorframe.

  In a bikini.

  I blinked, willing my eyes to work in the dim light that filtered in through the blinds. The lanterns were on, out by the pool.

  “Courteney?” I said, sitting up. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” she said. “I’m just going for a midnight swim. I couldn’t sleep, so… Do you want to join me?”

  I stared at her for a moment as her words sank in. My gaze skimmed down, more than once. Her bikini was dark, maybe black, and skimpy.

  Shit.

  I flopped back and lay there, looking at the ceiling. I took a breath. I was actually worried, when she’d appeared out of the dark like that, that something was wrong. Wrong with Cary or something.

  More wrong than usual.

  “No,” I said, expecting her to leave.

  She didn’t. She just stood there in my doorway, looking at me.

  “I told you not to come in here.”

  She didn’t say anything.

  Then she came deeper into the room. She walked right over to the bed and climbed onto it. She crawled over me where I lay—and sat right down on my stomach, her knees on either side of my waist. Straddling me.

  I just lay there, staring up at her.

  “Something in my hair again?” I said dryly.

  She grabbed my hands, laced her fingers in mine, and lifted my hands over my head, where she pinned them into the pillows and leaned her weight into them.

  I just let her.

  My heart rammed, slow and hard, in my chest. My dick was swelling. I could smell her soft, girly smell, overwhelming me. The sheet was down around my waist, so I could feel the warm, soft skin of her thighs pressed against me.

  She stared down at me as I swallowed. “Do you want me to kiss you again?” she whispered.

  I pushed up, flipping her right over on her back, so I was on top of her. I pinned her hands over her head, like she did to me. “I told you to stay the fuck away from me.”

  “I don’t want to,” she said.

  “I’m not good for you.”

  “I don’t care.”

  We both just stared at each other for a long, aching minute. My heart was pounding now, hard and fast. She was barely breathing.

  Then I did it. I crossed the line.

  That sacred fucking line.

  Forget Cary’s request to stay away from her. Forget the fact that I knew I was bad for her. Forget everything.

  I tore open the door and trespassed right in… like she was mine for the taking.

  I leaned in and kissed her.

  No, I didn’t just kiss her. I pushed her mouth open with mine and slammed my tongue into her, grinding my whole body against her. She moaned. Her thighs were still spread around me, and I churned my hips, grinding my cock against her soft pussy.

  She gasped and squirmed beneath me as I ground myself against her clit.

  I was fucking merciless about it.

  She wanted me?

  Well, this was me.

  I fucking devoured her with my kisses as my hips slammed her down against the bed.

  And she ate it up.

  She was all over it. Rubbing herself against me. Kissing me back. She started gasping encouragements and moaning sexy shit every chance she got.

  I want you, Xander…r />
  Yeah… please…

  My cock strained against her and I ran a hand down between us, slipping my fingers into her bikini bottom. It was automatic, as my balls throbbed and everything in me zeroed in on her pussy. All I could think about was getting inside her…

  I want you to be my first…

  Fuck, yes.

  I drifted my fingertips over her bare clit, and she groaned. My dick spasmed. She moved her hips, rocking into my touch as I rubbed her.

  I want you to do with me what you do with those other girls…

  Wait.

  Fucking what?

  I stopped eating her face and dry humping her long enough to tear my mouth away and look her in the eye.

  Other girls…?

  Courteney panted beneath me, wriggling against me, hungry for more. Her lips were swollen, her hands clawing at my back.

  “Don’t go,” she panted.

  But I forced myself to fucking stop and take a breath. I withdrew my hand.

  What did she say?

  Was that really what she thought she wanted…?

  No. No, that wasn’t right.

  “You’re not like those other girls,” I told her, my voice gruff and tight as I pulled away.

  This is wrong.

  Just let her go.

  I let her go and got up, kinda stumbling as I found my feet. It took me a moment to find my clothes in the dark, and find my way to the door, to get my ass through it. But I did.

  She might’ve said something like, “Don’t go,” again, but I wasn’t really listening. I just left.

  I made myself walk away from her.

  Again.

  Chapter Twelve

  Courteney

  It had been almost twenty-four hours since I walked into the poolhouse and climbed into Xander’s bed and made out with him—and then he disappeared.

  I hadn’t seen him since.

  I’d gotten over being embarrassed about it, then being angry about it… and now I was officially starting to feel sorry for myself. Just lying on my bed on a Friday night, moping.

  I was pretty sure he hadn’t come back to the poolhouse since.

  Tonight, I knew he was at Brody Mason’s bachelor party. I only knew about the party from my girls, the Lil Brats. I’d talked to Angeline; she’d told me her sister, Elle, was at the bachelorette party. Dirty had come home on a tour break, and Brody, Dirty’s manager, was marrying Jessa Mayes, their songwriter.

  Romantic.

  Not that I was jealous or anything.

  Elle’s man, Seth, and all the guys had gone to Jesse Mayes’ place for the bachelor party.

  I knew Xander had to be there.

  He was probably screwing some stripper in the bathroom right now.

  He was avoiding me, for sure.

  Was I shocked about this? Yes, actually. I was totally fucking shocked.

  Because Xander Rush was a manslut—this fact was not in question; I had proof.

  And now, I knew he wanted me.

  I really wasn’t sure about that until I invaded the poolhouse and climbed into bed with him. I thought I’d felt something from him when I kissed him last weekend—when I told him I was a virgin. He’d kissed me back, for a few moments.

  But last night, he’d totally freaked out when I pinned him down. His eyes had glazed over the way a guy’s eyes only did when he got a hard-on. He’d flipped me on my back and I could feel his entire body react—he was burning up, sweating for me. I could see the heat on his face.

  He was practically panting as he kissed me, dry-humping me, and I’d felt his excitement.

  Against my leg… and my hip… and my clit.

  He’d ground his big, hard dick against me… and then he’d slipped his hand down and touched me like he wanted to make me come… And maybe I would have.

  If he didn’t stop.

  Why wouldn’t he screw me??

  I told him I wanted to. I was in his bed, practically begging for it with my words, my body. What more did a male slut need?

  Was it just because I was Cary’s little sister?

  Or was it because he now knew I was a virgin with no experience…?

  Was that a turn-off?

  How would I ever know, if he wouldn’t tell me?

  You’re not like those other girls.

  I thought guys were supposed to like the virgin thing. Shayla said so, anyway. She kept going on about it like whoever I bestowed my V-card on was gonna drop to his knees and kiss my feet.

  Apparently not so much.

  I couldn’t give this thing away. To a manslut, in his bed, while wearing a slutty bikini.

  I quit.

  Again.

  Maybe I’d just have to stay a virgin forever. Because clearly I was doing something seriously wrong.

  If I couldn’t get Xander Rush to fuck me… or even undress me…

  After going over it in my head all freaking day, I still didn’t know what it meant that he’d walked out on me like that, right in the middle of things getting so hot and heavy.

  Or what to make of what he’d said to me before he walked out.

  You’re not like those other girls.

  I’d gone so far as to Google it, see what the people of the world wide web had to say about it. Like, Hey Google, what does it mean when a guy won’t have sex with you?

  And the people of the world definitely had a lot to say. I’d spent two hours this afternoon scrolling through forums. And gotten every answer under the sun from the He’s just not that into you variety, to the He secretly worships you variety.

  Sitting here alone in my room on a Friday night, I wasn’t feeling so worshiped.

  Definitely leaning toward the He’s-not-into-you thing.

  The only hard evidence I had to refute that was his hard dick.

  But maybe that didn’t mean anything either?

  I was so damn confused. And unfortunately inexperienced in this area.

  I picked up my phone and sent a message to the LBS—Lil Brat Society support group. I used Snapchat, so at least the evidence of my humiliation would vanish after it was read.

  Me: Can a guy really get hard for you if he doesn’t like you?

  The responses to that one came in fast.

  Shayla: Yes! But he probably likes u

  Shayla: WHO GOT HARD FOR U??

  Shayla: XANDER???

  Yeah. She’d been on me about Xander—again—ever since she witnessed him dragging me out of the bar last weekend.

  I didn’t answer.

  Larissa: Hmmm. Is he cute?

  Angie: Maybe…?

  Then she messaged me privately, outside the group conversation.

  Angie: How close did your boobs get to his face this time? We are talking about X…?

  Me: Not close enough.

  Angie: Oh babe. Call me?

  Me: I’m going to bed. Call you tomorrow.

  I really didn’t have the will to get into this right now, with anyone.

  Though I did consider messaging Xander, for like the hundredth time today.

  Nope. Not doing that.

  I finally convinced myself to stop wandering out to the foyer and checking for his car in the driveway, around eleven. And just before I finally put on my jammies and really went to bed, I broke down and texted him.

  Me: Are you mad at me?

  I lay in bed awake, waiting for him to text me back, and after a while, he did.

  Xander: No.

  That was all.

  Just two little letters.

  At least I knew he was still alive. His phone still worked. His texting hand worked.

  And maybe he wasn’t fucking a stripper?

  Would he stop to text me back if he was in the middle of fucking a stripper?

  I really didn’t know.

  He still remembered I existed, though. At least, he did now that I’d reminded him.

  So that was something.

  Although… that definitely confirmed he was avoiding me. On purpose.
After making out with me.

  And that fucking crushed me.

  He’d seemed to have been avoiding me a lot since I’d moved into the house. But… this was different.

  I’d felt his desire for me last night.

  It was like a door had cracked open and given me a glimpse of something I never really thought I’d get to experience.

  And now… what?

  Like what if he moved out? I mean, he didn’t really live here. He could leave any time.

  What if he left and didn’t come back?

  There was nothing stopping him from getting on a plane and taking off again, just like he did for three days this week. I didn’t even know where he’d gone. He never told me. I just knew he’d been on a plane because I saw the luggage tag on his suitcase when he got back. I’d watched him from the window, unpacking it from his car.

  He’d just left, and then suddenly reappeared.

  And there was nothing I could do about it.

  I wasn’t a rock star. I was eighteen, and I had very little money of my own. What was I going to do? Ask my brother for money so I could chase Xander Rush around the globe?

  I was stuck right here, and if Xander took off, I was powerless to stop it.

  I felt powerless and alone.

  And so fucking lonely.

  I could remember nights at the dorm when I was away at school, alone, thinking about him. Wondering where in the world he was. If he ever thought about me.

  Xander and I had always lived in the same world, and yet… we totally didn’t. I had no power over him, no control over anything he did.

  No way to make him stay.

  And maybe that was what I’d always feared the most.

  * * *

  I was fourteen years old when my brother’s best friend died. And probably the worst part about it, for me—other than Gabe dying and my brother locking himself away from the world—was the fact that, because I was only fourteen, no one really talked to me about it.