“No, no. Don’t be sorry. You should never be sorry for being naked. I mean, look at you. You’re like girl crack,” I blurt out. Wait, what? Oh no. I literally gasp when the words I just said filter through the air, reach my ears, and sift into my brain. With a groan, I cover my face.
His sexy smirk doesn’t help at all, for the record. “You’re not so bad yourself,” he says, startling me.
Just when I think things can’t get any worse, I realize my chest is also perfectly water-logged in the most imperfect places as a result of dragging his wet ass from the pool to this room. Yep, white. Not the color to wear when you don’t need the world seeing your black lace bra. And see it he does. With parts of his body I can now see outlined through the little scrap of fabric he still has on. This is bad. So, so bad.
Because what I should do is leave. What I should do is not notice how incredible that tattoo over his heart looks in its full glory. How well it integrates with the simple lines of script on his ribs. I definitely shouldn’t pay attention to the grooved lines of muscle that flex and pose in mouthwatering perfection more dangerous than I even imagined. Not that I imagined it—often and at the worst times. And I absolutely cannot step forward when his hungry eyes track my body in the same way. I shouldn’t be aware of my wet shirt that can’t possibly stay on in this condition, or my tight black jeans that are suddenly so very uncomfortable.
I shouldn’t do any of those things, so after I do them all, I freeze inches away, trembling and silent as I wait to see what he does with my rebellion.
Green eyes search my face and ask questions I’m pretty sure I answered when I stripped to my underwear and approached him. And yet, they still ask while his chest rises and falls in rapid breaths I hadn’t noticed until I was so close. The image over his heart dances with each inhale, and of course I shouldn’t touch it, but I do, so now what? Now I have to trace the design I’ve wondered about for so long.
“It’s a sun,” he says, his voice hoarse. From the coughing probably. Choking on water and air and moments that absolutely should not be happening.
And yes, a sun. Now, I see it. His nipple, already hard from the chill, grazes my hand as I press my palm over his chest. He sucks in a breath when I skim down his abs and curve right to trace the script. “And these?”
“Lyrics.”
“Is all of this for Katrina?”
“Yes.”
“Do you still love her?”
“Always.”
I trace the words, each letter, slowly and meticulously because I need time. I can’t do this, right? We can’t. I’m not going to be the girl that jumps from one frontman to the next. Hell no, I will not because I hate that girl. Hate her and the way she let some man make her weak and gave him the power to break her.
“We can’t do this, Mason,” I say quietly, still tracing my fingers over his marked skin I want to taste.
Dream of the time, her kisses were soft on your cheek
D… r... e... a... m...
“I know.”
So why can’t I stop touching him?
O… f… t… h… e…
Why does he keep letting me?
“It’s not right. For so many reasons.”
“I know.”
I’ve taken another step toward him. We’re practically aligned now, close enough that I feel his heat, close enough that my own is blazing an inferno through me. Does he see the flames reflected in my face, how they keep pushing through my pores to sear his skin? They want to claim him, mark him as mine.
His lips are right there. His body hard and ready and maybe slightly eager. I think about Monica, the photographer, and every person who’s ever looked at this man and wanted to be where I’m standing. I wonder why I get to be the one standing here.
The photographer. I think about Mason stripped and posed and shivering against a white wall.
“What do you want, Mason?” I look up into his face and trace his jaw when I see it clench. “Does anyone ever ask you that?”
He blinks down at me, my question skimming across his face like a vaporous cloud of ghosts. My breath catches in my throat at the pain in his expression, the deep wounds he releases for the briefest of seconds. I don’t know why I start to cry. I don’t know how that one moment had the power to transform the electricity of sex into something deeper and far more dangerous. And that’s when I should’ve run. I shouldn’t have pulled him into my arms and let my inferno warm his icy, cracked soul. But I did, and just when I thought there was nothing more painful than sharing that silence, his stripped, broken voice shatters it:
“I want the sun to rise in the west.”
CHAPTER 17
There are moments in life we’ll call Lifemarks. They’re like landmarks but for time instead of space. Tonight was one of those for Mason and me. We were sitting on a bench, overlooking the park when he started in again with his list of all the things he’s not. All the things he can’t do and will never be. I don’t know if it was pregnancy hormones or what, but this time I got so mad at him. I’m so damn frustrated that he refuses to see how amazing he is and lets these stupid doubts hold him back. So after listening to excuse after excuse, I finally told him to shut the hell up. He was so surprised, he actually did. Then I snapped a picture of the sun and held it out to him.
“Is this a sunrise or a sunset?” I asked.
“Sunset.”
“Says who?”
He looked at me like I was crazy. “Says everyone. We’re facing west. The sun sets in the west.”
“Forget what everyone says. What do you say? If you just saw this photo, would it be a sunrise or a sunset?”
He studied the picture again, so long this time that I watched his mind get lost in that place he goes where the art lives. After what seemed like hours, he finally came back to me with the smile I love so much. You know, the one that makes you believe we’ll be okay no matter what happens after this moment.
“I guess it could be either,” he said. “It would depend on your perspective.”
“Exactly. So, if you want the sun to rise in the west, Mason, you fucking make it rise.”
MASON
“Wait, what’s that in your hair?” I ask, squinting into my phone screen.
“Jalen made it for me! Do you like it, Daddy?” Brooklyn shakes her head to properly display the knot of decaying weeds someone fastened to her head.
I force away the cringe and nod dutifully. “It’s gorgeous, bug. Just… make sure Grandma gives you a bath tonight, okay? Actually, is Grandma around?” I should probably deliver this message directly.
“No. She’s making carousel for dinner.”
“Carousel?”
“Yeah! With the noodles and fishy chicken I don’t like. Ew. But she says I have to eat at least twelve bites to get ice cream.”
Casserole. Got it. “Twelve bites sounds fair.”
“When are you coming home, Daddy? I want to show you my crown. Maybe you can wear it.”
Huh, so the cluster of yard crap is a crown now, fantastic. “I can’t wait. Look, I will be home as soon as I can. I have to work in New York today, but we’re flying back tomorrow. I’m hoping I might even be home in time to read a book before bed. Sound good?”
Brooklyn nods, smashing her face into the screen. “Mmmkay, daaa-yy. Myyy muuuv muuuu.”
I laugh and blow a kiss back. “Love you too, bug.”
A knock taps out at my hotel room door, and I slide off the bed. “I have to go now, but I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”
“Are you with Ms. Lie-berry?” she asks. Now all I see is a disturbing closeup of an eyeball. Is she trying to get as close as possible to see through the phone? God, I love this kid. Also, Lie-berry is her word for library. Ms. Library. Heh.
“Ms. Liberty? Yes, that’s probably her at the door. We have to go to a special meeting for our record label.”
“What kind of meeting?”
“Well, like a party, really.” I check through the peephole
and pull open the door when I see her.
“A party? Ooh! Will they have ice cream?”
“Hmm… probably not.”
“Maybe Oreos, though. My friend says that Oreos aren’t cookies, but they are.”
“Yeah, your friend is wrong.”
“Oh my gosh, is that Brooklyn?” Liberty whispers, and yanks the phone from my hand when I nod.
“Hey, sweetie! How are you?”
“Ms. Lie-berry! See my crown?!“
Liberty stalks off with my phone and my daughter, leaving me to finish getting ready. Not that I have much left to do. It’s really just this stupid bowtie that’s kicking my ass. “Black Tie Affair?” So why can’t I wear a freaking normal tie? Also… holy shit.
I freeze in the corridor when I catch a full view of Liberty. No idea how I missed it when she entered, because that dress is fucking criminal. Long and tight, the mixed-media slice of fabric must have been welded to her body. How the hell will she get it off? And yes, my brain is now devoting every neuron in its arsenal to solving that dilemma for her. Shit, this isn’t good. This is so, so not good.
I tear my eyes away, which does nothing to erase the image from my now dedicated consciousness. No, that organ is singularly focused on one thing: Liberty not in that dress. I have to look again, though, and when I do, she’s hung up with Brooklyn and coming toward me with my phone.
“Damn, West. You clean up nice,” she says, eyeing me openly. I swallow and try not to focus on the dip of her breasts, or the smooth skin showing through strategically placed cutouts in the sequins and leather. Sequins and leather. In one dress. On that woman. As if tonight wasn’t going to be brutal enough.
“You need help with that?” she asks, tugging the crinkled ribbon around my neck.
I clear my throat, hoping it’ll work on my head too. Nope.
“Um… yeah. I mean…” I blink into her gorgeous eyes. I never noticed how dark and perfectly almond-shaped they were before. Long, thick lashes turn up to me, accented by thin lines of eyeliner and expertly shaded natural-looking colors. I don’t know a ton about makeup, but I know there are different levels of applications. Whatever “goddess level” is, Liberty hit that tonight. Whether this is a normal red carpet look for her, or a special gift for her ex who will undoubtedly be in attendance, I have no idea. All I know is—How the hell is she getting that dress off?
“You okay?” she asks. “You’re being weird.”
“Am I? Sorry. Just…” I turn away to face the floor-length mirror hanging on the closet door. I still don’t know how to tie a bowtie, but pretending to try beats ogling my bandmate.
“You nervous?” she asks, softening.
“Yeah. A little.”
“You’ll do great. Just forget the crowd and pretend we’re back in L.A. at our rehearsal.”
She thinks I’m nervous about our performance tonight? Okay, sure. I can work with that.
“Yeah, I know. It’s just, this is our first public performance as a band. And it doesn’t really get any more high-pressure than doing it in front of the label bigwigs and the dude you replaced.”
Shit. Shouldn’t have said that last part, even if it’s true. Liberty only flinches for a second before turning me to face her. She sets to work on my bowtie, and I concentrate on keeping my brain and dick under control. Apparently, I’m not capable of doing both at once, so this should be an interesting night.
“Sorry,” I sigh out. “I shouldn’t have said it like that. I’m sure it’ll be hard for you to see Chris. Have you talked to him since… you know.”
“No. And it won’t be hard.”
“Really.” Forgive me for being a tad skeptical.
She shrugs and jerks my head down with a particularly rough pull on the bowtie. “Not at all. In fact, I’m glad we’re both performing tonight so everyone can see what a fraud he is. For real, have you heard his new single? Oh yeah, that’s right. He has a new single. Can you believe that? He must have recorded it while we were still together.” The bitterness in her voice is a good sign. I’m rooting for Badass No-Nonsense Liberty tonight for this reunion. It’s also why I plan to kill it for her when we play our song. Let the world know Burn Card is better off without the dude who’s going to be singing about birdhouses or some shit like that.
“You mean, the birdhouse song?”
Liberty snorts a laugh and pulls the final loop through my bowtie. “What the hell is that anyway? ‘I’ll fly to you, my home in the top of the leaves. Soar with me, baby. Soar, through endless trees.”
I choke out a laugh as well. Can’t help it. And the way she adds that whiny hint to the vocal is dead-on. “Guess it’s pretty obvious who did the songwriting for Burn Card.”
“Right? What’s he even thinking? How did White Flame greenlight that shit?”
I shrug as she spins me back to the mirror.
“What do you think?” she asks, looping her arm through mine.
“Perfect,” I say. Oh wait, she meant my bowtie.
F.Y.I. there’s nothing sexier than watching Badass No-Nonsense Liberty Blake own a room of powerful industry kingpins. Who’s the girl who got betrayed and had her heart ripped out? You’d have no idea if you were the plus-one for one of tonight’s prestigious guests. Aaron’s been watching his sister like a hawk as well, but even he starts to relax by the time dinner is served. She’s so convincing, I half expect her to journey over to Chris’ table to wish him and his fifteen-year-old girlfriend well. Okay, so I’m sure that chick is legal, but come on. They’re not even trying to pretend he wasn’t dating Liberty a month ago. If she’s not going to be pissed on her behalf, I will. He knew Liberty was going to be here. Dude’s a dick.
“Do you think she’s taking him to prom?” Mitch mutters, casting a cold look at Chris while our dinner plates are cleared. Liberty is off schmoozing a table of corporate suits, and I cut my gaze from her enthusiastic laugh to the ex-everything three tables away. I don’t think she’s even acknowledged his presence yet tonight, while Mitch glares at his former bandmate with unbridled resentment. Surprised, I study Tivo and Aaron as well. All three hold somber expressions sorely out-of-place at what’s supposed to be a celebration of White Flame’s top artists. Obviously, they’re not as interested as Liberty in projecting an F-U attitude about the whole thing.
Me?
“We should do ‘No Friend of Mine’ tonight.”
Three sets of eyes shoot over to me in shock. “We’re doing ‘Seaside Serenade,’ right?” Tivo asks. “That’s what we rehearsed.”
I fix my stare on Chris and his girlfriend. “Right. But now I think we should do ‘No Friend of Mine’ instead.”
“Why?” Mitch asks. “That was pretty much Chris’ favorite song.”
“Exactly,” I say, focusing back on them. I lift a brow, and Aaron catches on first.
“Oh my god. You mean we should do the new version,” he says.
I nod, a smile slipping out.
“The label will freak. We haven’t even told them we want to re-release it,” Mitch says, grinning as well.
I shrug. “Well, now they’ll know.”
“Will Liberty go for it?” Mitch asks, casting a glance at our fearless leader. And damn does she look fearless right now. “I mean that’s a pretty blatant fuck-you to Chris.”
“She doesn’t have to know. Just announce it as part of your intro,” Aaron says to me, rubbing his hands with glee.
Mitch still seems skeptical, and I’m with him on that. I love the idea of an F-U for Chris, but a surprise F-U? That could go horribly wrong. I think back to a certain audition where a certain keyboard player went storming off the stage.
I’m about to voice my concern when the MC calls us to attention.
“Good evening, everyone! We hope you enjoyed your dinner. We’d like to continue our program tonight with a few special performances while you enjoy your dessert.”
Delighted applause. Delighted applause.
“First up, please welcome
to the stage one of our newest White Flame artists: Chris Lundstedt!”
Applause, applause. One lone whistle from a sixteen—fine, eighteen—year old girl.
Chris spreads his cocky grin all over the room as he acknowledges the audience and takes the stage. My attention immediately shifts to Liberty who has stiffened and started back to our table. The only sign that her guard has slipped is the extra radiance of her smile. I’ve witnessed the real ones, and this ain’t it.
She slides into her chair beside me, and I lean toward her.
“He’s already number one on the ornithology charts,” I whisper in her ear. She snorts a laugh and turns her head until her lips are dangerously close to mine. I suck in a breath and force a quick smile before settling back in my seat. My body is fully aware of the fact that her gaze stays on my mouth for several more seconds.
Chris loops his guitar on and nods back to his band. A few seconds later, the saccharine ode to bird-enthusiasts everywhere drifts over the room in a clear reminder that fame and talent don’t always go hand in hand. If there was any doubt who’s responsible for Chris Lundstedt’s success, there’s none now. She’s sitting beside me with a wicked smirk on her face. I give Chris two mediocre singles and one flopped album of a solo career before he’s either fronting another low-level band or hopping the reality-show circuit.
By the time he draws his weird song to an overworked end, I’ve made up my mind. This room needs to see how it’s supposed to be done.
As the tepid applause (and one whistle) rings out, Chris waves and flaunts like he just rocked a stadium full of screaming fans. Aaron has his hand over his mouth, covering obvious amusement, and even Tivo is cracking a rare smile. Mitch just looks annoyed that he even has to sit through this circus.
Aaron locks his gaze on mine and lifts his hand so I can see his lips.
“It’s on,” he mouths, gaze boring into me. I nod back.
So on.
I check on Liberty again, and my amusement falters. Her shoulders sag more than they did before. Her smile isn’t nearly what it should be for someone who doesn’t give a shit. Is she really missing that clown? Can’t be.
Rising West: A Turner Artist Rocker Novel (The Turner Artist Rocker Series Book 1) Page 14
