“Relax your throat, baby.” Fisting her hair tight, I thrust myself deep into her mouth.
“Goddamn,” I grind out as she deep throats me. My eyes roll back in fucking pleasure. In and out, she sucks and takes my cock to the back of her throat.
“Yeah, that’s it, Brat. Fuck my cock with your mouth.” I’m thick, so she’s only getting half of me. As she gags, saliva drips down her chin.
“I’m gonna come.” I stop thrusting, don’t move. My muscles tighten as I watch her take over. She sucks my cock like a fucking pro. The pleasure’s so intense that when her other hand massages my balls, I let go. Fucking spiral, unravel, as my cock pulses and jerks in her mouth, filling it faster than she can swallow, and I watch it all.
“Yeah, that’s it,” I growl as my cock keeps pulsing in her mouth. She slowly raises her head and licks her wet lips like she had just sucked on a cherry popsicle.
My thumb rubs her puffy wet lips and her chin. “I take it that’s not the first dick you’ve had in your mouth?” Now that I can see straight, the thought of Gia’s mouth on another guy’s cock is not making me happy.
She stands and shakes her head no. I should respect that at least she’s not lying. Instead, I have to fight not tossing her on the bed and handcuffing her, only letting her up if I deem it. What the fuck, Granger?
“What are you expecting to happen with us?” I snap as I step back and pull up my shorts, trying to erase the irrational jealousy that’s pounding through my head.
“Everything.”
My eyes shift to hers and I shake my head. She can’t be that naïve.
“I’m not what you need, Gia.” It comes out harsh. My self-destructive demons are ready to take over.
“Maybe. But I’m exactly what you need,” she states, her long, still-damp hair cascading over her shoulders. Her cheeks are flushed and her lips… her fucking lips that have wrapped themselves around numerous cocks…
“You’re gonna get hurt,” I say.
“I think you underestimate me.”
I cock my head as I tell her the truth. “I will hurt you, Gia. It’s what I do.” I move past her stunned face and walk to the door.
“I’m not leaving, Rhys,” she announces like a threat.
I hesitate, then open the door, saying over my shoulder, “You will.” I shut the door, knowing that it’s true. I’m not the kind of man who’s going to be in a relationship.
I’m bad.
The man who makes all the girls cry. Only this time if I’m not careful, I might start believing her.
And then… I’ll be the one who can’t survive.
RHYS
Past – Twenty-seven years old
Minneapolis, Minnesota
“Goddammit, BT. What the fuck is going on, man?” I pull off the piece-of-shit ear monitor that shot static into my ear, causing it to ring.
“Let me get the new ones,” BT yells from somewhere.
“Watch your back.” Two stagehands maneuver behind me, carrying one of our huge lights. The stage is a disaster. Equipment is scattered everywhere, and we’re in Minnesota where it’s a whopping seven degrees outside. Needless to say, I’m not happy.
The way this morning is starting off, I need a cigarette and maybe a bottle of Jack.
“Granger.” Jerry walks up with a microphone. “I know we’re waiting on the others, but if you don’t mind.”
Sighing, I rub the back of my neck. “I don’t mind.” I need to stop being an ass. It’s not my crew’s fault I haven’t slept for days. I’m haunted by a pair of long legs and green eyes.
That and my music. It’s loud, demanding to come out of me. I’ve given up worrying when I get like this. I just let the music tell me where I need to be, like a lover who can never hurt me.
“Testing…” I don’t even bother saying more and shove the microphone back at him.
“Fix it, Jerry. We sounded like shit in Texas too.”
He nods. “I’ll reprogram again,” he grumbles, talking to himself as he walks away.
Misty sashays past Jerry, shaking her head at the way he incessantly talks to himself. She steps up to me, saving me from all the dark shit I’ve been thinking about, most of it concerning the Brat. The way her lips felt taking my cock. Her tight, wet cunt that’s made for only me.
“I thought you might need this.” Her voice makes me focus on her as she hands me a large coffee. The smell of Irish whiskey filters out from the top of the plastic cup.
I grin. “Misty, you never disappoint.” She smiles back as she bites her bottom lip.
“Nope, I never do. You need me to refresh your memory?” Her aggressive behavior is usually fun. I’ve fucked her numerous times. She’s willing to do anything. Unfortunately, this morning it does nothing for me.
Wrapping my arm around her, I kiss the top of her blond hair, pretending I didn’t get her blatant invitation.
“BT, how much longer, man?” I bellow, causing her to look up at me in confusion. Not that I blame her. I want to tell her I’m fucked up and to not take it personally.
“Arena’s fault.” BT walks up looking like a mad scientist. “It’s a miracle we’re doing as good as we are. The Wild played the Kings last night.”
“Perfect, maybe I should hire their crew since they broke down an ice rink in a night, and my team can’t seem to finish our rig.” I remove my arm from Misty. BT laughs while he tries to wrestle open a box wrapped tight with clear tape.
“Jesus, Granger.” Nuke walks by carrying a bottle of Jäger and it’s not yet noon.
“Lighten up, Frances.” He steps up to his throne and removes his shirt. “Misty.” He motions for her to come to him.
“Nuke.” She almost skips over to him. He takes a swig and hands the bottle to her. I swear I can smell the dark spice of licorice from where I’m standing. Nuke’s getting worse by the day, but I have my own demons and shit to deal with.
“Where the fuck are Ammo and Cash?” I grit.
“No idea where Ammo is, but Cash’s fucking Amanda. I saw his white ass on the way in.” He says all this as he starts fondling Misty.
BT finally rips the box of IEMs open. “Here, brother, I’m sending that faulty box back. Fucking pisses me off,” he grumbles. His hair is down to his ass and held in place by wires and two sets of headphones around his neck.
BT’s been with the band for years, so bitching at him goes in one ear and out the other. He’s either become immune to one of us being an ass or he just doesn’t care.
“Let’s go red for you, Granger.” He grins, shoving the custom tiny ear monitor at me. I take off my electric guitar and hand it to Dallas, my personal tuner.
“I hope to hell this one works. My ear is still ringing.” I put the tiny monitor in. BT’s voice instantly becomes clear, along with Nuke’s conversation with Misty.
“This one works,” I say dryly, clicking it off.
BT gives me a distracted nod, glances down at the box, and walks over to Nuke.
One of our equipment trucks slid off the road last night. The teamster didn’t see the black ice, and Nuke’s drums were on it, so they brought in a new set.
“You want to give her a try?” BT hands him his sticks, moving Misty behind him. I’d laugh if all this wasn’t so pathetic. Our head roadie is having to force us to do our jobs.
“Misty?” Nuke twirls his sticks, bringing them down in one hard, quick show-off solo.
“Yeah, Nuke?” she yells around BT’s large frame and lets out a laugh.
“You. Me. Blowjob.” He finishes off with a dramatic solo. Misty claps and BT shakes his head and hands him his IEM, telling him to focus.
“Cash. Get your cock out of Angela,” I bellow.
“Christ, Granger, I’m here, you angry fuck.” Cash walks out from backstage, zipping up his jeans. I don’t even respond to him. He’s right; I’m angry. His attitude isn’t helping, or the fact that Ammo decided not to even show up.
“Dallas, call Ammo to see what the fuck i
s happening.” Dallas stops tuning and reaches for his phone.
“And you got a cigarette, brother?” Misty’s loud laughter makes me grit my teeth.
“Yeah.” Dallas hands me his pack of cigarettes. He’s old-school rock ‘n’ roll. Not that he’s old, but he’s got the eighties’ Tommy Lee-look going on.
“I also got some serious hash if you need to chill out.” He waggles his eyebrows, then talks into the phone. “Hey, man, just checking in. Everyone is waiting…”
Snorting, I light up and block out Dallas’s conversation with Ammo so I can drink my Irish coffee and smoke in peace.
I should leave. I’m getting mean, and that’s gonna end up with one of us having a black eye. I’ve basically done my sound check. If they don’t give a fuck, why stick around?
Cash stretches his arms out and swings them back and forth, jumping up and down like he thinks he’s the shit. I fight the eye roll. His ego is out of control.
Cash has nothing to be arrogant about anymore. He looks like he hasn’t slept in days, wears his hair in his eyes half the time, and has a wardrobe of stupid clothes.
Today he’s wearing a trendy red T-shirt held together by safety pins. I’d love to blame Cynthia for Cash’s clothes, but he probably picked that shirt out himself.
I met Cash back in high school. He went to Harvard-Westlake, one of the most expensive private schools in LA. How he started hanging out with all of us is anyone’s guess. I think it was David who found him. Anyway, his parents are big-time lawyers.
He had a BMW; I drove my mom’s old-ass Volvo that was held together by duct tape and prayers.
None of us cared that he was different. He could play the fucking bass like Flea from the Chili Peppers. Also, his parents were one-hundred percent believers in us. They bought all our earliest equipment. I think half our early gigs were favors to his dad.
He didn’t judge us. Even with half of us hanging out with bikers, it never fazed him. He was a cool kid who loved music and had big dreams.
That changed the moment we started to get popular. As soon as we made our first million, Cash started to distance himself. Suddenly, he was hanging out with other musicians, dating models, dressing like a douche.
“Okay, I’ll tell them.” Dallas’s voice brings me back to the loud stage.
“He said he’s almost here. Gia’s shooting him.” His voice cracks like a goddamn teenager mentioning Gia.
Which makes my head pound. He wants her, but I can’t even get pissed since she seems to have enchanted everyone. Well, besides Rafe.
In the last week and a half, she’s befriended my crew. Christ, I don’t even know all their names.
But she does.
Taking a drag of my cigarette, I exhale and grind out, “You finish up for me, man.” I jump off the stage and walk through the huge arena toward the doors, ignoring the numerous people calling my name.
“I need to take care of something,” I yell over my shoulder.
GIA
Past – Eighteen Years old
Minneapolis, Minnesota
“You sure you don’t want to come in?” Ammo inhales and hands me his joint. I wave it off as he exhales.
“Stop asking. The answer is still no.”
He grins and opens the door that leads to the arena. “Come on, bring that camera, catch the magic.” he winks.
“God, Ammo.” I laugh, shaking my head. “I’ll just wait out here or we can finish the shoot tomorrow.”
“Nah.” He rolls his neck. “I’m feeling good today.”
God, I wish he had said tomorrow, but whatever. Maybe I’ll try to take a quick nap. As usual, I’m tired. Partying all night and getting up two hours later to shoot the band is killing me.
Which sucks.
I’m young. I should be having the time of my life. I’m traveling with the Stuffed Muffins. Staying in luxury hotels, with chauffeurs, bodyguards, and people who will do anything just because.
And I’m not enjoying it. No matter what kind of happy face I try to put on, or how glamourous this world is, I came here to be with Rhys, not be uncomfortable, insecure, and exhausted.
Nothing has turned out like I planned. After that day when he came to my room, I’ve barely seen him. And if I do, he’s surrounded by groupies or Rafe. Not sure whom I hate more. That’s a lie—I hate the groupies. Rafe’s just an asshole, but at least he’s honest about it. The fucking groupies, on the other hand, are nothing but gold diggers trying to steal my man and my life.
Even Ammo is growing on me. He’s arrogant, but I like that. He’s also fun and extremely talented. God, if only I could turn off my feelings for Rhys and switch them to Ammo. So much easier, besides my brother killing him and all that.
I bite my bottom lip, my heart racing as I watch a couple of skanks throw me a dirty look, then laugh as they open the doors. I hear Nuke’s drum solo and a bunch of yelling.
Fucking groupies or “models.” I snort. That’s what they call themselves since they post themselves on Instagram. I roll my eyes and concentrate my thoughts on the shoot I had this morning with Ammo and my masterpiece.
Sex, Drugs, and Rock & Roll. That’s what I’m calling my book. Gone is the idea of selling it to Rolling Stone.
The photographs I’ve taken deserve to be in a book. My only problem is getting Rafe to agree. I might be forced to call in my brother on this one, but I’ll wait until I have it ready. I bite my bottom lip to stop smiling at the visual of Axel, Blade, and Ryder making Rafe an offer he can’t refuse.
It’s too fantastic really. I grab the elastic from my wrist and twist my hair back into a low bun. Sliding down the concrete wall, I sit on the floor and pull my coat tight around my neck. It’s not freezing in the concourse, but it’s not warm either.
Cynthia, the band’s personal stylist, dropped by my room last night with this fabulous black three-quarter-length Sherpa coat. I’m assuming it was from Nuke, since he was horrified when I pulled on my designer jacket before we landed in Minnesota. In my defense, I was born and raised in Southern California and have never experienced this kind of cold weather.
I should blow off Ammo, grab my bag, and go back to the hotel to sleep for a couple of hours before the concert tonight.
Or be brave and go inside to take pictures of the sound check. But the thought of seeing Rhys—and hearing him sing—makes my heart hurt.
Who am I kidding? I’ve parked myself outside the arena doors in hopes of seeing him.
Sighing, I let my head rest on the cool wall, my mind going a mile a minute. I’ve taken so many pictures that when I close my eyes, my brain still thinks I’m photographing. I’ve shot the crew, stadiums, fans.
Yesterday I got the band coming off their jet. It was like vintage rock ‘n’ roll. As if I stepped back into time and was photographing The Doors or The Beatles.
I captured everything that is purely the Stuffed Muffins: their charisma, the hysteria of the fans, and the wild energy that follows them with every step they take. It’s what I love about being a photographer. No one can lie to the camera—it sees all.
My leather bag vibrates and I ignore it. I can’t deal with whoever’s on the phone bringing me down.
Eventually, I’m going to have to talk to my mom, but not today. And it might not be her anyway. That call feels like a Julianna call, and that’s worse than my mom. I never should have told her the truth about what’s been happening, but I needed her help.
Unfortunately, she’s a literalist. I know this and still vomited out everything to her. But this morning I can’t deal with her lecturing me about Rhys, lying to my mother, and how all of this is going to bite me in the ass.
Yeah, I can do without her caring-yet-harsh dose of reality. Instead, I’ll people watch, hoping that will block out any negative thoughts.
The concourse is full-on happening. The smell of nacho cheese warming up makes my stomach rumble in protest since my main diet lately is Jägermeister, Jack Daniel’s, chips, and the chocolate I g
rab from the bar in my room.
I look over at the concession shop. Too bad it isn’t open yet. A pretzel sounds good right about now. I need to start eating better. Not that a pretzel is good for me, but at least it’s substance. I grab my bag and retrieve my cigarettes. It’s stopped vibrating, which tells me that call was definitely Julianna. Not only do I need to eat, but I’m also starting to worry that I might be a smoker. I knew I was in trouble when I bought a pack yesterday. Freakin’ expensive.
And that depresses me. How am I going to pay Julianna back? I hadn’t factored in Rhys’s whole situation as… the Rock God. I know she would never ask for it, but that is not how I work. If I borrow money, I pay it back.
And thank God I did. Besides the hotel and transportation, I’m on my own unless I hang out with Nuke or the band.
Which I’ve been doing and look at me. I’m sure smoking is not allowed, but I need one. Also, the Xcel Energy Center isn’t open yet, so maybe the no smoking rule isn’t in effect? Whatever, if security stops me, I’ll play dumb. I need something to settle me down right now.
I take a nice deep inhale, letting the nicotine calm my nerves as I try not to obsess about being a shell of my former self. I’ve allowed Rhys Granger to drag me down. Like an idiot, I can’t even be mad at him. I’m pissed at myself for not being able to kick this crazy addiction I have for him. It’s like we’re both waiting, for what I don’t know, but that’s what it feels like.
At least I have my photography. If anything, I realize that college is a huge waste of time and money. If you want to make it in this world, you have to go out and do it.
My photos are art, history, they speak for themselves, and no matter what happens, he can’t take that from me. No one can. I lean my head back and close my eyes, letting the slight heat from the cigarette warm my lips.
“Smoking? Nice.” My pulse leaps into my throat and my eyes dart open. I almost drop my cigarette.
“Damn it, Rhys.” I leap up only to grab ahold of him because my legs are slightly numb from the cold floor, and I guess I’m forgetting how to stand around him now.
Rise: A Second Chance Rockstar Romance (Rock God Book 1) Page 9
