As drug payment, though, Crowell wouldn’t have reciprocated.
Releasing me, he tugs a hand through his hair and heaves in a breath. “We’re done as lovers, George.”
He’s a good guy. He doesn’t deserve a guilt trip from me. I nod. “Okay.”
My voice is level and steady, even as my despondency spreads through me like a choking vine. I so want to be like Mom, who doesn’t show any emotion but acceptance in public. On the rare occasions she cries or loses her temper, no one knows but me. Because I go to her closet and stand in her doorway until she waves me in.
“I’m sleepy,” I lie to Crowell. “So, um, see ya.” I don’t wait for him to answer. I shut the window and turn too fast. Dizziness slams into me all over again.
I’m glad it’s Saturday. I’ll be able to sleep all day before preparing for the…concert!
OMG, Crowell has the tickets. He was taking me. But, now…OMG…I’m going to miss seeing Sloane Mason onstage.
All because of some stupid, older girl.
I’m really feeling sick now. I’ve been in love with the front man and lead guitarist for Phoenix Rising since I was ten.
Memories of his taste and the way he tongued me and spoke to me, will sustain me through the dark days ahead. Still, I’m greedy. I want to see him in concert. Now…
With a frustrated growl, I yank the door open, my stomach dropping at the vast, white marble hallway, split quadruple to lead to all corners of my parents’ huge house. It’s silent and quiet and scary. I hate it and I don’t know why. I grew up here, but the air seems crushing and oppressive.
We all ignore each other. There’s not a lot of joy amongst us.
Patting my pockets for my tiny baggie and satisfied when I find it, I go forward. I’m doing a line as soon as I reach my room. It takes away the emptiness, the loneliness, and the fear.
In the double-story foyer where all the hallways meet up, I freeze. A man is walking down the curving staircase. He pauses when his gaze lands on me.
I can’t speak. I can’t think. I can hardly breathe. An inferno is building inside of me and my entire being trembles. I’m about to seriously fan girl.
Not two feet away from me, looking like the rock god he is, stands Sloane, like I’ve conjured him up or gave him a way to contact me. His shaggy dark hair is tousled, like he’s just gotten out of bed or a woman’s fingers has been riffling his silky strands. It was in similar disarray after he licked me last night thanks to my hands in his hair.
He wears a T-shirt I’ve coveted for a very long time. It’s his band’s Limited Edition shirt with a Phoenix rising from a flaming guitar. Supposedly, it’s been designed specifically for this tour. Supposedly, too, Sloane, himself, designed it to symbolize the latest—the last—chance his managers, band members, and record execs is affording him.
They’d be stupid not to. He’s the money maker.
Ink decorates both of his muscled arms. A red lead guitar with black frets cover his left arm while his right has a black one with white frets. Both travel from his wrists and disappear beneath his short sleeves. Though his back is covered, I know those guitars merge into a Phoenix rising from flames. One of my favorite photos of Sloane is a magazine cover where he’s stretching out his arms and offering the full effect of the entire tat.
That photo is framed in my sitting room and stuck in every scrapbook I’ve devoted to him. His body alone is a work of art, the sinews and muscles a sleek, ripped canvas that I want to spend hours exploring.
His abs outline the black material. Or, maybe, I’m just imagining I can count the ridges of his six pack. I’ve gotten my hands on as many of his photos as possible and studied each of them closely.
Even the European ones, where he’s naked. His was the first dick I ever saw. Three years ago when I still called dicks penises.
Imagining his nude body, I drink in the sight of him. His presence. His nearness. The leather bracelets on each wrist make an innocuous body part—wrists—smokin’ hot. My lids lower and I shift my weight at the bulge in his crotch. Desire zips through my body. My nipples tighten and between my legs heats and moistens. Instead of focusing on his reason for being in my parents’ house, I remember our encounter.
He shifts and my gaze flies to his. It burns with blue intensity. Golden hoop earrings skyrocket his masculinity in my estimation. His hair is black, but not as much as mine. The varying shades of black has never occurred to me until now. Reddish-brown highlights reflect in Sloane’s hair, whereas mine is solid black at all times.
“What are you doing here?” I squeak, having had no expectations or hopes of seeing him again. Anyway, it’s a logical question. As far as I’m aware, my family hates it when I play Phoenix Rising’s music with their hard guitar riffs and Sloane’s rasping voice, so there’s no one but me who’d welcome him here. “I-I mean is…when…” Rats. I don’t know what I’m trying to say. Was he here for a booty call with…who…? None of the staff sleep on the second floor.
And, Josh, is an undercover bad boy. Mostly, he’s just a snob. He’d see Sloane as beneath him, although we all—me, Josh, Crowell, and Sloane—grew up in wealth.
My head begins to pound and a small tremble assails me. I’m coming down, I know. I need to get to my room to do my other line before I fall completely. Sweat beads my skin and my heart hammers faster and faster.
I shake.
He narrows his eyes at me. They’re so blue. So pretty. “Fuck,” he gets out. “You’re high again, aren’t you?”
I manage a nod, wondering if Crowell only gave me blow.
“Your dad’s going to be down here soon,” Sloane says, close to my ear.
He’s moved off the stairs. When did he?
With shaking fingers, I retrieve my baggie out of my pocket. I have no place to lay the line, so I just dump it down my throat and swallow, dooming myself to a hyper mood for hours.
The plastic is yanked from my hands. “Stupid little bitch,” Sloane growls with disgust.
His words and tone sting. I blink at him. “I love you,” I blurt. “I’m your number one fan. I know everything about you.”
“That why you were concerned about me and the coke?” he sneers. “You know I’m an addict.”
“A recovered addict,” I counter.
Instead of appeasing, my words annoy him more. He opens his mouth. By the way his handsome face twists, I know he’s about to say something really nasty. I stiffen my spine, bracing myself.
“Georgie, lamb, what are you doing awake?” My father’s voice sounds stricken, but his interruption reins Sloane in, so I’m grateful. “It’s late. Past your bedtime.”
As if he knows my bedtime anymore. It surprises me he remembers my name. I’m wearing neither bed clothes nor a bum-around-the-house outfit. My street attire—dressy street fashion—is a dead giveaway. His pretense of involvement in my life makes me giggle like a hysterical hyena. “It’s not even one. I can’t sleep.”
A once over and a nod, accepting my story as easily as always, distracted as usual.
I point to the man of my dreams. “What’s Sloane doing here?”
“Business,” my father barks out.
Normally, I back off. But I’m pumped. The air is charged and my blood is thrumming. “What kind of business would you have with him, Dad? You’re like ninety.”
Sloane loses his tension for a moment and laughs. My father isn’t as amused.
I fling my hands out and twirl. “I’m just kidding, Daddy,” I drawl, my words whipping around me as fast as my body is spinning.
Hands grab me. Not my Dad, though. Sloane. His rough fingertips on my bare arms singes me. He’s so tall and ripped and handsome. I want to lick the shell of his ear, tongue his hoop earrings. Sloane’s dick was delicious yesterday and I’ll bet it’s the same at this moment. I want to taste his cock like Crowell taught me.
I gaze up at Sloane. My heart is beating fast for a different reason now. Him. His scent. Musk and mystery, sex and sin. My b
ody is so ready for him. I can’t wait to have sex. I’ll have a connection to someone. I’ll be loved.
My attraction to Sloane feels different and intimate. I’ve followed coverage of him for years. Sex with him would be more meaningful than only fulfilling something inside of me that I lack.
“Georgie, get upstairs, lamb. Sloane’s in town for two weeks. I brought him over to discuss guitar lessons for you. Be a good girl and go to your room, so I can iron out the rest of the details.”
Anger replaces Sloane’s initial shock and he glares over my head. “Says who?”
I tune out Sloane’s distaste and wrap my arms around him. Vaguely, I wonder why his shirt smells like my mother’s perfume. “Thank you,” I murmur, bouncing up and down, extra adrenaline rushing through my system at my father’s news. “I was so bummed I can’t see you onstage.” I stare into his eyes and see a brief glint of tenderness before it’s gone and his disgust returns.
I back toward the stairs and crash to my ass when the back of a step hits my ankle. Didn’t I fall and hurt something earlier?
I hoot with laughter, grabbing the bannister to haul myself up. I wave and stumble the rest of the way up the stairs.
Sloane
She’s high. Higher, after swallowing the powder.
A range of emotions punches me. Mostly, I’m pissed. Free of makeup, she looks too fucking young for anything. She damn sure doesn’t look fucking eighteen.
Parnell McCall rubs his forehead, watching in silence as his wayward daughter disappears. I might not know her name or her real age, but I know she’s his. They have the same black hair—or he had her black hair before gray seeped into it. At this moment, her eyes remind me of lilacs at twilight. They’re unique to her with neither her mother nor her father sharing the amazing color.
She’s fucking gorgeous. But then so’s her mother, the woman I just fucked within an inch of her life. She’s brilliant in bed. Reserved, though, and guarded, when she isn’t opening her cunt. I don’t give a damn. I like pussy. Dad passed this to me because he had to fly out of town on business. Parnell hadn’t wanted me with his wife. I’m twenty-five. Dick can go for hours.
Apparently, if he brings her treats, he gets his treats. Pretty fucked up and more than a little devious. All the asshole’s doing is covering the fact that my dad’s younger sister is a freak and Parnell’s mistress, who suggested Parnell bring other people into the bedroom to ease her into being accepted by Cassandra. Then, they won’t have to sneak around. Abby can fuck Parnell right in front of Cassandra and the woman won’t suspect anything.
My father specializes in fucked-up relationships. The total love he had for my mother is tainted. His father had two sets of children. I guess that’s a fucking family trait.
Parnell clears his throat. “Monday, Georgie will be in school.”
“Georgie?”
He nods toward the staircase. “My daughter.”
He might’ve said her name before. I can’t remember. I was just too struck by her. But, finally, I have her name.
She asked a logical and intelligent question. She wanted to know why was I in her house. She treated me like a regular Joe Schmoe whom she knew had no business being here.
I appreciate that, although I refuse to acknowledge her beauty any more than I have. And no fucking way will I even deliberate on her tiny dress, obscene in its lack of material. The black sequins and lace clung to her, more sexual than the two pieces she wore last night. My fucking T-shirt would cover more on her. I can’t believe her parents allow her to run around so scantily dressed. She’s a fucking jail sentence waiting to happen. Brains and dicks rarely agree on what’s right and what’s wrong.
She wears the fuck out of the dress and she’s gorgeous. That part is as wrong as it is right. I don’t only want to eat her pussy again, I want to fuck her and she wants to fuck me.
Wrong. That’s the only comment I’m able to make at the thought.
The most troubling knowledge I have of her focuses my brain. She’s lost and without an anchor. Parnell’s still talking. I have little regard for him. He’s a cheating asshole—not that I have room to talk, but, most of my affairs are out in the open. I fuck. I don’t stay.
My lifestyle keeps me on the road. Legions of girls want me, so pussy’s available to me worldwide. I’ve tried the girlfriend thing a few times and my dick always messes it up. The demons haunting me, the pain I’ve caused and experienced, assure me I’ll die alone.
Usually, a fucked-up scandal follows my breakups and the gossip rags hound the fuck out of me. I just can’t do relationships.
Kids? That’s another story. I want kids. My reason for my agreeability to payouts to keep the coffin shut on my skeletons is I never want a child of mine to know what I’m capable of.
What my father says I did.
The sudden silence snaps me out of my thoughts. Parnell’s watching me expectantly. “Yes or no?”
“Yes or no what?” I bite out, wondering if he even noticed how high his daughter was.
“A foursome. Monday. Me, you, Cass, and Abby.”
“Abby’s my aunt, dumb ass,” I growl.
Parnell tightens his mouth. “I don’t want you to fuck her. Keep Cass busy while I’m fucking her.”
I have some morals. “Pick another chick to fuck while I keep the Mrs. busy.” I shrug and bargain. “She has good pussy so I can fuck her again.”
Brushing off my words with a wave, the older man stuffs his hands in his pockets. “About Georgiana.”
My dick jumps at her name. Anger surges through me. I don’t get boners for little girls. She must be fourteen or fifteen, no matter what she told me. “Yes?”
“The guitar lessons I promised her.”
“You’re fucking serious?” The asshole can’t be. I have a fucking tour to do, practice sessions, press junkets. An album to record.
“Just one or two lessons,” Parnell cajoles. “A little something to let her know I love her.”
I lift a brow. “Try telling her. Better yet—show her.”
“She knows. Eight months ago, I bought her a sports car for her birthday. If I didn’t love her, I wouldn’t have spent so much money on her.”
“So the amount of money you spend on her equates to how much you love her?” That’s fucking sick. Fuck, it’s easier not to have love at all. Material possessions are no substitute for love. Of course, dickhead doesn’t realize that. He might be a bald-faced womanizer, but he spoils the shit out of his wife. I got sick of listening to all the shit he’d given her and intended to give her.
Guilty conscience. Guilty fuckhead.
Not a stretch he’d use the same tactics with his daughter.
“How old’s Georgiana?” I ask, curious. I wonder if her dipshit father is picking up on my change of voice when I ask about her.
“Sixteen.”
Nope. His nonchalant answer tells me if I’m around her I have to police my own dick. He bought her story about being in the house easily when she’s in street clothes, so why would I believe differently about his attitude toward her for anything else?
I scrub my hands over my eyes. “Tell you what? I’ll send a car for her and let her come hang out with me and the rest of the band—and legions of groupies—before and after my concert tonight. I’ll even choose a special spot where she can watch me from stage,” I add, the coupe-de-grace.
He looks skeptical. “I can buy her concert tickets and send her to my suite. Guitar lessons from you are better. She’ll think I’m cool.”
“Does she even want to play the guitar?”
Parnell shrugs. “Don’t know. She’s always listening to your hideous music. I’d think she’d want to learn just to emulate you.”
This shit pisses me the fuck off again. “Raise your fucking daughter yourself so she can emulate you. She doesn’t need to copy a drug-using, unsettled, rowdy, man whore, like me.” Fuck, I know what I am. The press knows that much. My friends and family knows it, all the better to h
old over my head. Even if I wanted to lie to myself, I couldn’t.
It’s always thrown in my face. Instead of crying over it, I own it.
“We’re raising her,” he protests.
“Are you? Then why the fuck was she so hopped up when she walked in here? And where the fuck was she coming from after midnight?”
Another infuriating shrug. “From somewhere in the house.” He sighs. “Georgie drinks a lot. I know it and so does her mother, but we drink, so we can’t very well tell her not to.”
Of all the bullshit. I’m not listening anymore. I stalk to the wooden and glass entry door. “See you Monday,” I toss over my shoulder and slam it behind me.
I halt. My rented Harley’s not parked where I left it on the circular, red-bricked driveway. Servants are nowhere to be seen. Fuck, if asshole’s letting his wife get her freak on with another man, he could have the courtesy to keep staff around to get their vehicles.
Fuck it. I’ll find the bike on my own. I’m in a state, anyway. I need to walk off my agitation. The whole Georgie encounter has upset me. She’s young and gorgeous and headed for catastrophe if someone doesn’t rein her in.
I tell myself she isn’t my problem. I have a fucking tour with my band and the album to complete...Begin. My first full day in Houston and I’ve already managed epic debauchery. The last thing I need is a link in any way to a fucking sixteen-year-old. What the fuck could I do from a jail cell? Not to mention I’ve just spent hours fucking her mother while her father watched.
Jesus Christ, what kind of family is this?
Nice, Sloane. I’m one to throw fucking stones about family.
A brick pathway eases my search, cutting through a swath of green grass. As I follow it, I come upon a small embankment that backs onto a ravine to my left. On my right, a high, stone wall hides the house to anyone on this side.
“Fuck.” It would’ve been wiser of me to find the road leading to the fucking garage, rather than subjecting myself to a McCall Mansion tour. Breaching a stand of trees, I ignore a double-seated swing and a hammock and continue on, tempted to retrace my steps and return to the house so Parnell or Cassandra can summon someone to bring me the goddamn bike.
Phoenix Rising Rock Band: The Series Page 4
