Beauty and the Bassist (The Extra Series Book 9)

by Megan Walker

  Nix wobbles a hand. “Mom like a seven. Dad, probably nine.”

  I take a deep breath. Right. They’re going to hate me. Why shouldn’t they? No parent is going to want their daughter dating me. And Allison’s pretty close to her family, close enough to value their opinions, so—

  “I think it’s the other way around,” Allison says. “Dad trusts me more than he trusts you, but since the cancer Mom is always acting like any little thing will break me.”

  Nix considers this. “That might be true.”

  “Oh, god,” I say, sinking into my seat next to Allison. This aria appears to be fairly lengthy, and I’m grateful for that. I’m not ready to get back up on stage.

  Though I realize now that I’m not sure where JT is. He seems to have disappeared, possibly stalking the women’s bathroom, and as guilty as this makes me feel, I’m glad. There’s only so much heckling I can handle while feeling like I’m already screwing up the only good thing I have in my life right now.

  Allison puts a hand on my arm. “You’re really worried about this, aren’t you?”

  I’m conscious that a couple of the girls are taking pictures of us, but I nod. “Yeah, I am.”

  She smiles like she finds this adorable, and I hope that means she’s not desperately regretting her decision to date me. “It’ll be okay. They’re going to be freaked out at first, but it doesn’t matter. They don’t get a say.”

  Maybe they should, I think.

  But I keep that to myself.

  I’m late to my four-fifteen makeout appointment because while I’m waiting for Allison to finish working out a swimsuit plan with Carmen, I get a phone call from Parker. I think about letting it go to voice mail, but I figure he’s seen the news online about me and Allison, and I’d like to get ahead of that before he settles on some ridiculous spin to exploit our relationship for my professional gain.

  “Park!” I say. “What’s up?”

  “Shane!” he says back with equal gusto. “What’s this I’m reading about you and Allison Mendez?”

  “I’m dating her. I’m hoping that’s what you read.”

  “It is. Hey, I’m calling because I got you two tickets to the benefit tomorrow night. You remember me telling you about it?”

  I do now. Vaguely. “Look, Parker, I don’t know if I’m ready for—”

  “It’s benefiting Syrian refugees,” Parker says, “and half the music industry is going to be there. I’ve met Allison, and she’s exactly the kind of girl you want on your arm at a thing like this. I’m going to send those tickets over, okay? Tell me you’ll be there.”

  I grit my teeth, wanting to tell him to stop being an asshole and trying to turn my relationship into a career opportunity. But the idea of going to something like that with Allison, dressing up and dancing with her . . . it sounds normal. Nice, even.

  “I’ll think about it,” I tell him.

  “Shane,” he says. “You’re going to get through this. You just have to put one foot in front of the other and walk into the gala tomorrow and remember who you are.”

  “Okay, I will.”

  “You should tell him,” JT says after I hang up. I turn around to find him leaning against the front doors of the building. Now that I think about it, JT was always leaning somewhere. He used to knock things over all the time—pencil jars and soda cans and, half the time, our instruments.

  “Tell him what?” I say.

  “That you’re not coming back.”

  I shuffle my feet. “Maybe I am.”

  “No,” JT says. “You’re not. Besides, Parker was always kind of a dick. Even if you stay in music, you’re not going to stay with him.”

  “I’m not going to tell him that. He’s the last person who cares what’s going on with me.”

  “That’s not true,” JT says. “Parker doesn’t care about you.”

  I glare at JT, even though I know he’s right. “Whatever,” I say, and I stalk off to find Allison.

  JT doesn’t follow.

  Eleven

  Allison

  Carmen waltzes out in a new purple swimsuit with large, asymmetrical cutouts in the side. She does a little turn, and I give her a pointed look. She rolls her eyes and poses in a way so I can confirm that all her crotch is indeed adequately covered and we can keep this pageant family-friendly.

  She’s unhappy about this, but I can’t imagine she’s surprised. After all, this isn’t her first pageant. This being a regional pageant, all the girls had to win in both their hometown and county to be here. And there’s no way Miss Sweet Orange let her flash her vag.

  “That’s perfect,” I say. “Thank you.” I should be thanking her pageant coach, who ran out this afternoon to find a handful of swimsuits, all of which Carmen has systematically rejected for one reason or another.

  “I still like my first one better,” she says.

  “Awesome. Keep it for Drake’s next pool party. But you can’t wear it here.” I’m snappish and sounding frustrated—which I am—but not because I’m in a bad mood. I’m actually in a very, very good mood.

  Shane’s my boyfriend.

  I’m his girlfriend.

  These words, surreal though they may be, keep circling through my head, and I’m so giddy with them it’s hard not to bounce on my feet. I feel like some high school girl who just got asked out by the star quarterback or something—actually, I feel way better than that, because I did get asked out by the star quarterback in high school, and I wasn’t nearly this excited. Or stunned. Or nervous.

  If we don’t finish this swimsuit situation right now, I’m going to be late for my make-out session with said new boyfriend.

  And he of all people knows how much I hate to be late.

  “I just don’t know if this color washes me out, you know?” Carmen asks, striking another pose in front of the mirror. “Maybe I should try the red one aga—”

  “Well, I don’t like him hovering around the dressing room door!” a contestant named Wendy says loudly, cutting Carmen off. “It’s pervy.”

  Both Carmen and I—and about a dozen other girls—turn to see Wendy chewing out a red-faced Collette.

  I sigh. I already can tell what this is about, and I don’t like it, either.

  “He’s not trying to look at any of you guys,” Collette says, fidgeting as she stands there in her own swimsuit, a one piece with cute little bows on the straps. “I promise. He just likes to stay close to me, and he knows he’s not allowed in the dressing room.”

  There’s some muttering from the other girls. None of them like Collette’s boyfriend, Thomas, and I agree with them. He’s clearly crazy jealous and possessive and a total dick, and I come close to telling her my feelings on this about ten times a day. But I haven’t seen anything to indicate she’s unhappy or actively being hurt, and while I try to make sure the pageant girls know they can come to me for advice or help, I’m well aware there’s a fine line between being a mentor and being an overbearing mother who thinks it’s any of my business who they date.

  This pageant, however, is my business.

  I walk over to Collette, and gently pull her closer to the door and away from Wendy, who, point made, stalks off to go change.

  “Look, Collette,” I say. “I know we agreed to let Thomas be here with you during rehearsals”—technically I didn’t, but Carlyle did, and it’s not like we’ve ever been particularly rigid about forbidding the occasional friend or family member from watching—“but he can’t do things that make the other girls uncomfortable. Okay?” I make sure my voice is loud enough for this next part so that he can hear it through the door, if he is indeed standing there. “If he keeps making the other girls uncomfortable—like by hanging around just outside of the dressing room—then we’ll have him escorted out, and he won’t be able to come back for the pageant. Got it?”

  Collett
e looks down at the floor, and I feel bad. She’s a sweet girl, and I like her. And she did stop giving tarot readings like I asked, even though I’ve since heard some of the other girls begging her to. “Sorry,” she says.

  “It’s okay.” I give her a quick hug. “Not your fault. You know that protecting all you girls is my top priority, yeah?”

  Technically, protecting the girls isn’t in my job description so much as making sure they know when and where and in what order to exit the stage. But it sure as hell is part of my personal job description. And I hope she knows what I’m really trying to tell her here.

  Collette smiles. “I know. By the way, I just saw your boyfriend on the phone. His aura was very orange.”

  Huh. I have no idea what that’s supposed to mean, but she says it in a kind of suggestive way and seems pleased with the information.

  I look up at the clock. 4:19. Shit.

  And also, FINALLY. My heart starts pounding harder.

  “Well, I guess I’d better go check that out for myself,” I say, in my own suggestive tone—they all know now anyway—and Collette laughs.

  “Allison,” Carmen whines as I open the door.

  But I’m off the clock now, and I’m all kinds of wound up at the thought of whatever an orange aura might indicate. Not to mention the thought of just getting to be with Shane—my boyfriend—again, just the two of us.

  “Just pick one, Carmen,” I call without looking back and hurry out of the dressing room.

  I don’t see Thomas standing anywhere nearby, so hopefully he got my message. Because I definitely don’t want to have to deal with him right now.

  The dressing room is only a minute’s walk from the green room where I’m supposed to meet Shane, but even though I start out practically jogging, my feet slow as my excitement gets taken over by the nerves.

  He’s going to see my scar. My lack. I know I’m going to show him. I want to show him, which is in and of itself a kind of miracle.

  But I’m terrified. Not because he’s Shane Beckstrom, hot rock star.

  It’s because he’s Shane Beckstrom, the guy who took me to a carnival and makes me laugh with stories about his hometown The guy who reads poetry but doesn’t tell anyone. Who’s smart and talented and stubborn as hell. The guy who’s willing to tell me things that I know he tries to keep hidden from everyone else. Who tells me he’s scared about what he feels for me. Who’s worried what my parents will think of him.

  The guy who’s so much more than he lets people know, who’s so much more than even he knows.

  I’m terrified because, somehow, in such a short time, he’s become the guy who makes me feel things I’ve never felt before—not for guys I’ve known much longer, or guys who seemed perfect for me on paper.

  I close my eyes, standing outside the green room door, my pulse racing. I remember sitting with him in this room in the dark, and how he said then that he didn’t have a problem with commitment, with the right girl.

  I want so much to be that right girl. He must think I am, at least. I’d assumed he’d only want to date casually, but, like so many other assumptions I had of him, I was wrong. I could tell that the minute I suggested we just see where this goes.

  He wants more, and so do I.

  But I’m still scared of seeing the look on his face, regretting that decision.

  I let out a shaky breath and remind myself that, fear aside, I’m about to go make out—and quite possibly much more—with my boyfriend, something I’ve been fantasizing about all day.

  Even if some parts of me are afraid, there are other parts of me that are way more than ready. And those parts are not inclined to stand out in this hallway anymore.

  I open the door and walk in, and there’s Shane, sitting on the couch with his eyes closed and his brow furrowed. His sunglasses next to him on the armrest.

  I worry that he’s got a headache from the lights, but his eyes open, and he sees me. The furrow in his brow disappears.

  He looks a little nervous, too. “Hey,” he says, the corner of his lip turning up. His eyes flick over to the clock on the wall. “You’re late.”

  “I guess we’re even, then,” I say, a smile playing at my own lips. Just seeing him, I can feel my body longing to be closer, to feel his mouth on mine.

  There’s a hungry look in his blue eyes that says he feels the same way.

  I can’t take it anymore; I lock the door behind me and stride across the room. He stands to meet me, and then I’m in his arms and we’re kissing, desperately, and his hands are on my back and in my hair, and mine are on him, and the nerves melt away in how incredibly good this all feels, how strangely right.

  I want more.

  I push him down so that he’s sitting the couch, and I’m straddling his lap with my knees to either side of him. The frantic desperation of our initial kisses slows a bit, and now our mouths are moving together softly, slowly. For all that my body yearns for more, it’s also sublimely happy just like this, just drawing out this delicious tension, enjoying every second of being with him. His hands move up my legs, his fingers teasing just up under the hem of my skirt, and fire burns along my skin. He moves his hands to my sides again, slowly moving up, and—

  And I flinch. I don’t mean to, but I do, and there’s this flicker of fear that he’s going to pull away.

  But he doesn’t. His hands reverse directions, smoothing my skirt down over my hips. His lips kissing mine softly, his tongue tracing along mine. I relax back into him, running my hands over the hard muscles of his chest that I can feel through his cotton shirt, shivering as his lips trail slowly down my neck.

  And then he’s kissing the hollow of my collarbone, and his fingers lightly graze the neckline of my dress, and god, I want him to unzip me and pull it down, I want him to see, but I feel myself tense again anyway.

  This time he does pull back, though he keeps his forehead pressed to mine.

  “May I?” he asks, and while I assume asking if it’s okay to take a girl’s top off during an intense makeout session isn’t something he normally does—or maybe ever does—I can also tell that he’s okay if I say no. That he doesn’t want to push me further than I’m ready to go.

  But I want to go further and not because it’s been so long since I have.

  I nod, my heart racing.

  It races even more as he leans forward again, as he kisses my neck and tugs my earlobe between his teeth, and I gasp with the thrill that sends through me. I can feel his fingers grasping the pull to my zipper and trailing it down my back; I feel the top of my dress roll down. Feel the heat of his fingers as he reaches around to unhook my bra.

  I pull my bra forward, and it falls off onto his chest, the prosthetic falling with it.

  Everything seems to go still, as I see his gaze drop to my bare chest. My breath, my heart—everything.

  He stares, his lips slightly parted, but I can’t read anything from his expression. His fingers slide up my stomach, then trace along the raised skin of my mastectomy scar.

  My throat feels so dry suddenly it hurts. I lay my forehead on his shoulder, because I’m so afraid to see the moment that expression becomes something I can read.

  “I know it’s not attractive,” I say, trying to keep my voice from shaking. “I get if you can’t be sexually attracted to me because of it.”

  He wouldn’t have known whether he could be or not when he said he wanted to be with me. He couldn’t have. And it’s not fair to hold him to that, if he can’t—

  “I mean, I don’t have an amputee fetish, if that’s what you’re asking,” he says. “But I am definitely sexually attracted to you.” He shifts his hips as he says this, so I can feel how hard he is.

  God, do I feel it.

  He still wants me.

  My body aches with need, and a whimper escapes my lips. We rub together, and fire races over me.
He bends forward and begins to kiss the scar, and I can feel the stubble on his cheek against my intact breast, his lips and tongue moving along the skin where my left breast once was.

  And it feels so, so good. So good to be wanted by him, sexually, yes, but this feels like even more than that. I can feel tears start to burn behind my eyes, and I bend to kiss his neck, to be the one getting to taste his skin. He whispers my name, sending chills down my body.

  He pulls back, looking into my face, our eyes locking.

  “You’re beautiful, Ally,” he says, his eyes trailing down to take in the part of my body I was most afraid of being exposed, and then back up. “So beautiful.”

  I can’t help it—as much as I love hearing those words from him, there’s still this fist that squeezes around my heart, and I close my eyes. “Not as beautiful as I was when I was whole,” I say, barely above a whisper.

  I hate that, deep down, I think that. But if I’m showing my scars, I might as well show the inner ones, too.

  “It doesn’t matter,” he says. “Really, it doesn’t.”

  I want to believe him. And yes, I can feel that he still wants me. But compared to the bodies of other girls, compared to the body I used to have, that yeah, he never saw, but can surely imagine . . .

  “How can it not?” I ask.

  He doesn’t answer immediately. He blinks and pulls in a breath, like he himself is surprised.

  “Because I’m falling for you,” he says.

  My breath catches. My head spins, thrilled and disbelieving.

  He closes the gap between us, kissing me again. Gently at first and then faster, harder. I feel my body clamp around his, wanting him tighter against me, even closer as I’m swept over by that same feeling I’ve had with every kiss we’ve shared—this desperate longing for more, but also this feeling that somehow, inexplicably, it is already more, him and me.

  I can hardly breathe, but I feel like I’m floating, like I don’t need air or anything besides to be in his arms. His hands travel up and down my chest, on both sides, and I suddenly can’t stand not having his skin against mine. I lift his shirt up over his head, and I press my chest to his as we devour each other. There is no velvet in the world that feels better against my fingertips than his hair, no satin or silk that feels more right against my skin than his.