Phoenix Rising Rock Band: The Series

by Kathryn C. Kelly

  “I’d like Sloane to give her guitar lessons.”

  I despise the sound of that. “He’s a rock god. He doesn’t have time to give a little girl music lessons.” I sound just as I feel, jealous and insecure.

  “Sloane’s coming back Monday for another round of fucking while she’s at school.”

  I know and my pussy clenches in anticipation. Just as quickly, concern flares in me. My neck is already showing signs of age. Now, the bruises from Parnell’s roughness will draw his attention right where I don’t need him to be.

  “I’m going away on business in a few days. Georgie…while I’m gone…if he does guitar lessons with her, she’ll be sober. She’ll be home, too. She’d never pass up a chance to spend time with her idol.”

  “Parnell—“ My words abruptly halt. Sloane visiting for Georgie. I’ll have a lot of opportunities to fuck him to my heart’s content. I’ll get Crowell to distract Georgie before or after her lessons. I’ll—

  “He declined.”

  Another, more satisfying thought rears up. Georgiana doesn’t have to know anything about the lessons. I’ll whisper to Sloane Monday to accept Parnell’s offer, so we can spend the next two weeks fucking.

  Georgie

  I’m tired, achy, and trembly. Worse, I’m burning up. My throat is throbbing and my back is hurting to the rhythm of my pounding head. Sunlight gleams through my window and I lift my head from my Queen-Anne style vanity in my dressing room. I have a wicked crook in my neck.

  “Shit.” I stumble to my feet and frown at myself, glaring back at me from the mirrored wall across from me. I’m naked and my hair is in tangles. Bits and pieces of last night crawl through my sluggish head. Sucking Crowell’s dick. Seeing his entire body without hindrance. His mouth between my legs. The powder.

  The breakup.

  Tears rush to my eyes and I hang my head. Sloane Mason’s face pops into my mind’s eye and…I groan, sinking to the floor. I ran into him again and…and talked to him by the pool.

  Though my memories replay too vividly to have been a dream, I find no other explanation. When Crowell has laced my coke with other things, I’ve hallucinated once or twice. My delusions were really real. Like real, real, real.

  My door opens and I lift my head. A shocked gasp catches in my throat. “What are you doing here?”

  Sloane saunters further into my room and glowers down at me. He still wears that Limited Edition T-shirt and is in jeans again. Onstage, he wears leather. I’m disappointed that I’ve not seen him in those pants in person.

  That doesn’t stop me from seeing the bulge of his cock. Memories of his texture and taste assail me. If I didn’t feel so awful, I’d suck his dick again.

  That is why he’s returned. Right? I gave him what he wanted without questions and he’s spending time with me. That still doesn’t explain why he was at my parents’ house, though.

  His dark hair is messier than…whenever I saw him. The intensity in his eyes makes my breath hitch.

  “Why are you here?”

  A cough escapes me and it hurts my back. My lungs feel tight and restricted. It reminds me that I’m naked. I cover my breasts, my face flaming. I can no longer meet his eyes.

  He sighs and crouches in front of me. “I wanted to make sure you didn’t get your boyfriend to supply more drugs to you. I wanted to make sure you awakened after you swallowed pool water.”

  I forget my state of undress and blink at him. The sensation of floating returns to me. The freedom of flying through the air. Slamming into the water and having it rush against my head, overcoming me. I hit the water really hard. No wonder I’m sore.

  I frown at Sloane. “Did you tell on me?”

  He gives me a half-smile. “Who, in this house, cares enough about you, for me to have told?”

  “My dad.” I bite out the lie. At one time, he truly cared about what I did. So did my mom. Now, Dad’s distracted and, sometimes, nothing but resentment wafts from Mom. If only she knew how much I admire her and crave more time with her. My mom would be the person to mention this to. Maybe, I will. Maybe, that’ll be a turning point for us. “My mother cares about me, too.” I add this, needing to tell someone to make it true.

  A shrug meets my hostile comment. He doesn’t believe me. “Okay, George.”

  Agitated at the sound of his sexy voice using the name Crowell calls me, I hop to my feet. “Don’t call me George. My name’s Georgiana, or Georgie.”

  He shoots up, too, towering over me. Muscles stretch his t-shirt and knot his arms. Beautiful blue eyes search my face, and he runs his fingers through his dark hair. One swath escapes, falling onto his forehead. It adds to his yummy, bad-boy disarray. His jawline is strong and defined with stubble. When he ate me, he’d been smooth-shaven, so I wonder how the five o’clock shadow would feel against my thighs. Soft? Abrasive? Would I barely notice a difference? I adore his hooped earrings but I can’t remember how they felt when I was splayed open for his tongue’s enjoyment.

  As if he reads my dirty thoughts, his gaze falls to my lips and I lick them as if he’s pushed a button for me to do so.

  “Who let you in?” I glance behind me. The clock on the wall blares 2:13 in big, green letters. More than once when I’ve been high, I’ve sworn the neon green is some type of alien signal. “Never mind. I don’t think anyone’s here. I can get you out. Just tell me who let you in so I can ask them not to—"

  “Rat you out?”

  I giggle at the humor in his voice. I feel shy and awkward and…OMG, I’m still naked. My mind is unfocused. Usual after the kind of night I had. Minus the pool dive from my balcony, the rest is par for the course.

  “I climbed through the window I saw you clamber through.”

  I’m still high. Why else would Sloane Mason, the superstar rocker I’ve been in love with forever, be in my suite, telling me he scaled a freaking window?

  Planting my hands on my hips, I cock my head to the side, thinking of something to say and coming up short. He has girls throwing themselves at him and I don’t know how to compete with that.

  He kisses my forehead and frowns. “You’re hot. I think you have fever.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Get in the shower,” he orders me. “Clean yourself up. I have to get to the stadium for set up. I slept downstairs on your patio.”

  “The patio.”

  His lips tighten. “I didn’t trust you not to take another dive.”

  Headiness swamps me and my heart jumps at his words. “You could’ve slept in my room.”

  Desire darkens his eyes. “No, Georgie. I couldn’t. I’ve already crossed the line with you.”

  “I told you I was eighteen.”

  “It was my responsibility to ask for proof.”

  “Proof?” I jeer. “Hello? Fake ID.”

  “Jeessuuus Chriist.” As he draws the words out, he turns in a tight circle and rubs his jaw.

  I wheeze out, “You could’ve slept on my balcony.

  “Still too close to you. Climbing a fucking tree to get to you is enough of a deterrent.”

  “I-I hope you have fun on stage tonight,” I whisper when he falls silent.

  A smile curves his gorgeous lips. “Do you want to come?” he asks gravely, playing in my tangled hair. “I’ll have a car pick you up for six. You can be my backstage guest.”

  I can’t believe what I’m hearing, the words almost too good to ring true. As I cough, I pat my chest, taking a moment to catch my breath. “Really?”

  “Really.”

  Another bout of silence descends as we stare at each other. His hand roams along the indenture of my waist and my nipples harden. His touch is whispery. It feels as if he’s laid my nerve endings bare and is caressing them with all the sensation streaking through me. His hand hovers against my feminine mound. I want him there. Instead, he pulls back.

  Disappointment removes all the pleasure of his touch. He thumbs my lips. “I have to go, but I’ll see you later.”

  I d
on’t attempt to halt him. I just watch in awe as he goes to my dressing room window and climbs out.

  Chapter Four

  Sloane

  I’ve lost my fucking mind. Why the fuck I invited Georgiana McCall to be my special guest at my concert, I’ll never fucking know. She’s just so fucking magnetic…so fucking everything I shouldn’t be thinking of.

  I’ll do whatever I have to do to forget how her eyes call to me. I look into their amethyst depths and all I think of is protecting her. Yet, my dick is lurking and I don’t know if I can protect her from it. I pace in my dressing room, wondering when she’s arriving. If she’s done any drugs.

  She’s young, and she’s vulnerable, and she’s careening to her premature death. I want to help her, but I have no clue how to do it. Maybe, I can take her on tour with me, administer discipline. Hire tutors for her…Right, Sloane. Just hire a fucking nanny while you’re at it.

  Fuck.

  These continued thoughts compel me to keep the sex date I have with her mother, father, and whoever. As long as it isn’t my fucking aunt.

  A legion of women…Cassandra…groupies…whoever…are the antidote I need to Georgie.

  I throw open the door. Girls are already backstage and they call my name the moment I’m spotted. They bounce and jump and vie for my attention. Adam, my bassist, circulates. He keeps shit simple with his black jeans and white T-shirt. On and off, I see his blond head lift, but groupies swarm around him and swallow him up. A bigger man whore than me, he fucking loves it. I’m betting his cock will fall the fuck off sooner rather than later. No man on earth can fuck as much as he does and not lose his shit. He’s going to fuck it right off.

  Hasn’t happened yet, but it will. Once upon a time, I would’ve brought the guys in on a bet.

  The door across from me opens and Maitland, the drummer, strolls out. Motherfucker has a metabolism out of this world. It’s fucking freezing backstage and all he’s wearing is a pair of jeans and boots. That’s his preferred dress and his stage costume wherever in the world we happen to be. More girls scream and rush him. He gives them a shrewd look, then points to one.

  Pres, one of the bodyguards, shoulders his way through the women and takes the one Maitland chose, leading her to him. The moment she’s within his grasp, he bends and kisses her, backing her into his dressing room and slamming the door shut.

  Quint, the keyboardist, is MIA at the moment. He hasn’t made his appearance yet. He can be such a grumpy motherfucker, I’m glad he’s staying in his fucking dressing room.

  Fingers glide over my stomach and I remember I’m shirtless. Lips touch my skin and I shudder, my body responding but my head not in it. I wonder if I want a quick dick suck before I go on stage.

  No. A fucking blow job isn’t what I need.

  Frustrated, I yank away from their grasps, ignoring the sting of nails raking my skin to hold me back. I don’t care and break away, escaping to my dressing room. After shrugging into a leather vest, I wait, concerned by Georgie’s absence.

  The next few minutes slug by while the area is cleared and my time arrives to get on stage.

  I look around backstage one last time, wondering why Georgie decided against attending the concert. I feel what I haven’t in a long time.

  Disappointment, the last thing I should feel because of my self-confessed number one fan’s absence. It should be fucking elation. My band’s fractured. We hardly speak to one another outside of the studio or a concert.

  And…Georgie is jailbait.

  AND…

  I’ve fucked her mother.

  I don’t know which reason is worse to keep my distance from Georgie. Logic and morals tell me it’s her age.

  Morals and I aren’t well-acquainted. We really don’t have a good fucking relationship. Morals are for dickheads who want to fit in and who gives a fuck about the world’s opinions.

  This time, though, I fucking need to find scruples. If I don’t stay away from Georgiana McCall, I’m headed for disaster. My career will go up in fucking flames. She’s a fucking minor, not even reaching Barely Legal status.

  She’s still undeniable illegal.

  Cassandra on the other hand? She’s my type. Blonde with a gorgeous figure, an exquisite face, and a good height. At least five feet nine inches. That she’s almost twice my twenty-five doesn’t bother me. Age has never mattered to me…as long as a woman is over eighteen.

  While she and her husband are lost in their haze of threesomes, alcohol, business and society, their daughter is killing herself.

  She’s lost.

  I know. I was once lost, too.

  Fuck, I’m still a little lost. I’m just making a concerted effort to stay clean, out of trouble, away from the Paps, and forget…how alone I am. Lonely, despite having a following of millions.

  Real love, though, is fucking toxic. My parents were as much an example as they were an inspiration for the band’s biggest hit. I wrote the song ten years ago when Mom and Dad’s love story was tarnished but not fucking tainted.

  After selling my soul the first time, I pushed to have it recorded. Lost in drugs and grief, I didn’t give a fuck.

  Besides, I’m just a sadistic motherfucker like that.

  At the distasteful thoughts, I grimace. Guitar slung over my shoulder, I step inside the elevator. Before pressing the ‘up’ button, I make the sign of the cross and breathe in deep, my little pre-performance ritual to center myself.

  Up I go, rising from smoke and light, like the Phoenix we’re named after. Only, the mythical bird rose from the flames. I’ve been to hell and back and I’m still standing, even if I’m a little bent at the knees. I’d be a fool to thrust myself back into the fire.

  Smoke billows around me before clearing, leaving a lone spotlight haloing me. Adrenaline rushes to my head and flows outward into every part of my body. I grin. Screams—loud, wild, and piercing—compete with Maitland’s drumming.

  My fingers press through the appropriate chords on my lead guitar. I’m fluid now, pumping my hips, moving across the stage and reaching Adam. Back to back, we play while a controlled fire sparks on each side of the stage and color bursts throughout the arena. Red. Black. White. Blood, death, and purity. Shades of each of the band’s members.

  Shades of my heart and soul.

  Shadows from the lights and fire allow me to glimpse one or two faces in the coveted front row. A sea of people is out there, focused on us.

  The lights switch to red, white and blue, converging onto the huge screens into the Texas flag. The crowd roars. In any other state, the light show becomes the American flag, but, Texas is special, a being unto itself.

  I fucking despise Texas.

  We burst into a driving rhythm. One. Two. Three minutes pass and we’ve worked the crowd into a bigger uproar, even though the flames have flickered out, a twenty second display that we were forbidden to do. We’ll be slapped with fines.

  Girls scream, cry, call my name, Quint’s, Maitland’s, Adam’s.

  I soak up the energy radiating in the arena. Feed off of it. Lose myself in it. We’re not ten minutes in yet and we’ve frenzied our crowd. I fucking love it. Already, I’m imagining what my chosen groupies will do to me to show their thanks.

  Adam and I break away from each other and I move back to center stage. Immediately, the spotlight singles me out, so I signal the others. The tempo drops, still audible to keep the energy going, but faint enough for what’s next.

  “Hey! Out there! Houston, Texas! How the fuck are you doing tonight?” My voice booms out.

  Suddenly, it’s all good and I forget to care about anything except my music, my band, and my fans.

  Cassandra

  I shouldn’t be here, in Sloane Mason’s dressing room. I can list so many reasons why, but one or two top the list. I’ve ignored every one of them, risked having my face plastered in gossip magazines.

  I’m a world-renown supporter of the fine arts. The front man for Phoenix Rising is an international womanizer
. It won’t take much for the press to draw conclusions about my presence at the concert.

  Just beyond the door, the noise is deafening. The band left the stage ten minutes ago and Sloane has yet to enter. I’m anxious and impatient to see him, so I compare my closet to this borrowed space where he prepares himself before he walks out onstage and then comes in afterwards.

  One wall consists of an end-to-end vanity with an equally long mirror. The surrounding make-up lights casts a golden glow and blends in with the inlaid ceiling fixtures. A rolling rack holds a couple pairs of jeans and three or four T-shirts, disappointing me. I’d think a celebrity like Sloane Mason would demand an entire wardrobe to select from. There’s a director’s chair, several club chairs scattered throughout the room, and the sofa I’m sitting on. Another door leads to a small bathroom—I know because I checked.

  All-in-all, there’s nothing special here. I curl my lip in distaste. Once we begin our affair, I’ll see to it that he becomes more aware of his clothing choices, like Parnell always has been.

  The opening door cuts into my musings. Sloane saunters in, halting in his tracks when his blue gaze lands on me. His nostrils flare and my heart hammers. I attempt to grin at him until I see his exploratory gaze. He glances at the bathroom door. It’s gaping open, the interior dark.

  He’s searching for Georgie. I bristle, all my insecurities crashing back, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction of offering an explanation. If he wants to know about her, he’ll have to ask and, certainly, he wouldn’t do that. Any interest in my daughter will reflect badly on him.

  He brushes past me, grabs a towel from the sofa and swipes it over his face. “Where’s Georgiana?”

  I narrow my eyes at his unyielding audacity, but he doesn’t back down. He merely cocks a brow at me. “She’s sick,” I sneer at him, although it’s the truth.

  He’s silent, waiting for me to continue. I snap my mouth shut, pleased at his shrug.