by Shey Stahl
“What?” I finally ask, Bella pushing me forward an inch and whispering for me to move.
Revel’s attention settles on my face, and I really want to sniff him. I don’t know why, but I want to smell his sweat. So gross, Tay. So gross!
“Every time you open your mouth to tell me off, all I can think about is shutting you up with my cock shoved down your throat.”
Speechless.
Again.
Who the hell is this guy?
THE FORBIDDEN FRUIT
REVEL
Believe it or not, I don’t spend a lot of time watching or listening to other bands anymore. Sure, I have a few artists and bands I admire. Prince, The Who, Led Zeppelin, Nirvana, Queen. . . to name a few off the list who’ve inspired me over the years and I grew up listening to, but it sure as shit isn’t anyone on this tour who inspires me. I don’t even like anyone on this tour, let alone be inspired by them.
It’s not like I give a shit what they sound like or what they have to say. I just want to finish out the next three months and pretend it never happened. I didn’t watch the four acts before Revved performed, and I hadn’t planned on watching her either but somehow, here I stand. I intended on walking away, because what the fuck do I care how her set goes? Something draws me in. I don’t know what it is about her. From the day I saw her innocent eyes and that shocking red hair six years ago, I’ve been drawn to her. I don’t even think she was sixteen back then, but anytime she’s around, my body’s aware. Maybe it’s the red hair. I find it fascinating that it’s naturally that color. It glows under the stage lights like rivers of reds, radiant with depths of rich candy apple red in each luscious strand.
Or maybe it’s the good girl vibe I want to dirty up. I wonder if her life is as perfect as it appears? She preaches about female rights, never reveals too much skin and probably baptizes babies herself every Sunday—she’s that goddamn pure. I’m not sure how old she is to be exact, but I think she’s barely twenty-one. I can’t even tell you what I was like at twenty-one, but it sure as hell wasn’t pure. Pretty sure I was drunk or high the entire time. Not all that different from today.
There’s nothing about her that would fall into my usual categories of fun or dangerous, so why am I standing here wondering if she hates me as much as she wants to believe?
Our time slots are short, thirty minutes to be exact, so it doesn’t leave a lot of time to cram in your hits and outdo the other performances the audience endures. And it pretty much fucking sucks following Revved in any lineup, but I’m curious how the princess of pop is going to handle those greedy motherfuckers wanting rock and roll, and here she is giving them bubblegum pop songs about PG love.
It’s during a quiet moment where it’s just Red onstage with a guitar and no dancers around her where she gives everyone a glimpse at the puppet behind the strings. “I wrote this song when I felt like everything else in my world had shattered, along with my heart,” she tells them, staring down at her hands, a welcomed distraction from the sparkling onesies and plumes of pink fire coming from the stage she had been doing most of her set. “It’s not easy to experience heartache and hide the truth from everyone else.”
Bathed in blue lights, she glances my way, studying me with unnerving intensity. I counter with a look a disinterest, my exterior giving nothing away as I recall our brief but poignant interactions over the years.
“Rev!” someone calls out from behind me. “You coming?”
Giving a conflicted tug to my hair, I ignore them.
She doesn’t break eye contact with me, the distance between us seeming light years away.
I find the most brilliant lyrics strung together come when an artist is at their most vulnerable. When you feel like you have nothing left but your thoughts, your words, the one thing people can’t take from you. There’s something about the desperate, needy plea in her eyes when she looks over at me. I can’t even say for sure it was a plea. It was more like her begging me to save her. This princess doesn’t need a prince. She needs a motherfucking monster.
My life is one never-ending performance, and there are in between moments, most of which I don’t remember. Though the tempo, the heavy drum beats and extravagant performance of the dancers don’t match the vulnerability of her lyrics, something tells me I’m going to remember the guise she holds in her eyes when she sings, “You’re talking crazy. Your lies tell me nothing, boy. It’s your eyes I look to for truth, and there’s no excuse for what you’ve done.”
I don’t know much about her and Breckin, nor do I give a goddamn. The idea of him touching her, send my blood boiling and my heart racing. It’s fucking stupid that I care.
I will say this. It’s not hard to see past the lies one tells themselves, and when you’re drunk the majority of the day, even you forget to hide them. She’d seen through mine. I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t hide it though. Whatever. Fuck it. Fuck her, too.
I listen to her lyrics. The ones meticulously knotted in a pop number to hide the true meaning behind them. I obsess over them actually.
You said it meant nothing
You must have been talking about my heart
It’s the only part of me still holding onto you
How’s it feel, being that high when you know you
destroyed everyone in your path to get there?
Anger embeds inside me, twisting and turning with each word carrying through the speaker beside me. I can’t even tell you why I’m angry. Just that I am. At everyone for everything I can’t explain. Maybe because being angry at her is easy. She’s his daughter after all, and he’s the one who ruined it, right?
What surprises me is Red’s next song choice. She’s dressed in a fitted black corset dress defining her magnificent curves, which stops just below the cheeks of her ass. With the image of her plastered on the large screen behind her, she smiles sinfully at the crowd, chewing on her bottom lip.
Is it hot in here?
Princess knows exactly how to get what she wants, doesn’t she?
“I’m going to change things up here tonight and give you a little something from one of my idols. Ya’ll all right with that?”
They scream in response, and then she proceeds to give quite possibly one of the best performances I’ve seen to Betty Davis’s “Nasty Girl,” leaving me smiling and completely fucking turned on. I know one thing; this pop princess just surprised the shit out of thousands of fans and me. Never would I have thought she could have pulled that song off, but she does, and she does it well.
At one point she uses a chair as a prop, and if she ever wanted a career as a stripper, I bet that door is wide open. Hell, I’d pay to see it.
What I don’t like are the guys center stage screaming at her to come closer as they drool over her and the fucking burlesque festival performance she’s puttin’ on. Fuck yeah, they want her to come closer. I bet you a million bucks every man in this goddamn place has a hard-on. Including me. You wanna know why? Because there’s no bigger turn on than a good girl acting bad.
Don’t believe me?
Why do so many men have fantasies about school girl outfits or the naughty teacher thing?
Exactly my fucking point. It’s hot, no matter how you look at it.
When Red’s coming off stage, the applause is nothing compared to what we’d received, but it’s certainly notable. She stops before me, sweat beading from her temples to her perfectly round tits I want my cock shoved between. I think about her round thick ass I want to sink my teeth into and dig my finger into her tight hole. The thought jolts my dick to life again, and I drag my eyes lower. Fuck yeah, I look. Heat licks my body and all I can think about is her, and it’s hard to breathe, my chest heaving in a gasp of air. What the fuck is that about? Attempting to control my reaction, I suck in a slow breath, ignoring the fact that all my blood is heading south. For a moment, I can’t think about anything else but wanting to fuck her. It’s something my throbbing dick would certainly be on board with, but then again, that a
sshole likes everyone.
The thumping in my chest kicks harder. Goddamn, this is irritating. Like a tickle in your throat you can’t clear. I’m tempted to count my fucking heartbeats. Did I take that South American shit again? Mother of fucks.
“Anything you want to say now?” she asks, eyeing me cautiously, still breathless from her performance.
“It’s cute?” I shove my hand through my hair again to keep from touching her.
“What is?” Red looks to her left, my eyes follow.
I hadn’t noticed her assistant until now. She could have been standing next to me the entire time. I give them both a pitying look. “Your perfect Disney life.”
Red brushes strands of hair stuck to her face out of the way. Her eyes flick to the one beside her, then back to me. “Are you serious? I don’t have a Disney life.” She takes the bottle of water her assistant hands her, unscrewing the cap as color rises in her cheeks from my intimidating existence. “And nothing about that performance was Disney.”
Her assistant flashes me an I-don’t-trust-you glare, and I give her the I-wouldn’t-trust-me-either smirk.
Tucking a cigarette between my lips, I light it up. Straightening my spine, I deliver the news. “I hate to break it to ya, honey, but there’s no fuckin’ happy ever after in this story. Santa Clause is a myth. There’s no Easter Bunny, Tooth Fairy was your mom and guess what, Jack and Jill were totally fucking all the way down the hill.”
Red clears her throat, wiping her face on a towel her assistant hands her. They’re both staring at me as if I’ve lost my mind. Welcome to the show. “You are such an asshole, Revel. I’d rather reach for the fairy tale than be drunk, alone, and bitter.”
Her eyes on mine say a lot. Perfect. Gorgeous. Damaged. Ruined. Have I mentioned forbidden yet? I should have because that’s exactly what she is to me. She’s like a delicious red apple I’m not supposed to touch but know the first bite might be worth it. You’ve heard the story of Adam and Eve and the forbidden fruit tree, right? We all have, I’m sure, but that shit was jammed down my throat as a kid, and I frequently heard the phrase, “One bad apple spoils the bunch.” I’m pretty sure Oma was referring to me, but whatever. I have a point to this. You’ve heard the story. It’s cliché, but it’s true. Fuck yeah, it’s true. Eve was told not to eat the fruit from the forbidden tree, but Satan convinced her it was good. And then she convinced Adam to do it. That spineless motherfucker did it without question.
You’re probably wondering what the point of that story was?
I’ll admit, I lost myself there for a moment, but my point is, there’s always someone that’s forbidden, and for me, it’s this girl. She’s red, delicious, and lethal.
Instinctively withholding my emotions, I shrug and angle my face toward hers. “I’m not bitter. I’m honest.”
“And you think I’m not?” Her innocent green eyes drop to her dress that looks like a bag of glitter exploded on her. All I see, all that consumes me, is her scarlet apple-red hair and the cold blue reflecting in mine. Together we’re a purple mist of insecurity.
I tilt my head and meet her gaze head-on, taking a drag from my cigarette, gauging her reaction. “No, I know you’re honest.” Smoke cascades from my nose like ribbons in the shadows on the stage. “You’re too fucking naïve not to be. In this industry, you adapt to darkness. You pretend it’s not there at all. The darkness is who I am. I was born into it.” Leaning in, I whisper, “Don’t bite the apple, Red.”
The meaning behind my words sinks in. She doesn’t say another word to me. Instead, she grabs the girl next to her and walks away, a dusting of glitter from her dress sparkling in the wake of her retreat. I want to laugh, but my eyes cling to her ass. I’d love to say I’m just messing around with her, trying to get a rise out of the innocently sheltered, but I’d be lying.
As I’m walking away, I hear her assistant whisper, “Revel Slade just watched your entire performance!”
With Cliff and two security guards on either side of me, I find my way back to the bus. I make my way to the back hoping there’s something there to ease the frustration inside me. Anything you can imagine is at your fingertips when you’re a rock star. Drugs, pussy, alcohol, all at the end of a simple nod.
What I’m not expecting is Breckin Thomas to be on my bus.
Cliff hands me a bottle and joint, then moves toward the front of the bus. Tucking the joint I was about to smoke between my lips, I stare down at Breckin, who’s sitting on the edge of the L-shaped couch, his feet on the table, making himself at home with his phone in hand. “Are you lost?”
“You’re playin’ with fire,” he warns with a knowing smile, looking up at me from his phone.
“Is this the part where I pretend to give a shit what you’re referring to?” I drop down onto the couch, unscrewing the cap from the bottle of vodka I plan on finishing tonight. Taking a long pull from it, I set it between my legs and light the blunt.
“You know what I’m talking about.” Sweeping his shaggy skater-boy blond hair from his eyes, he takes a sip from the bottle in his own hand and leans his head back against the couch like he’s fucking comfortable. “I’m talking about Taylan.”
The fact that he’s even mentioned her makes me want to smash his head through the wall. Believe it or not, it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve done that on this bus either. I raise an eyebrow and give nothing away to this teenage motherfucker invading my space.
“Is she your weapon to get back at her daddy for stealing your piece of ass?” Breckin tilts his head sideways.
“No,” I grit out, inhaling a hit. I want to strangle the words from his throat, but I want him off this bus more.
“She’s not exactly your type, so what gives?”
“That’s none of your business, kid.” The word slides between my teeth angrily. It’s not the entire truth, but I don’t need to explain myself.
His jaw clenches at the word, kid. I’m only a few years older than him, but still, I’ll use any advantage I can over this tool. “Couldn’t you find someone better to mess around with?”
I set the bottle down on the table and walk over to him. “Get the fuck off my bus.”
Breckin stands, smirking, his hands raised in defeat. “Easy there, Rev. I’m just looking out for my girl. You’re messing with her head, and while you think it’s fun to fuck with her, we both know she’s way out of your league.”
“Jesus.” I laugh sarcastically. “Why do you give a fuck? Word on the street is you fucked her over. I’m really fucking curious though.” I pause for a dramatic effect. His jaw clenches. “Did she let you stick it in her ass?”
That gets him. His posture turns rigid. “Leave her alone,” he growls, as if I should listen to him.
“I don’t think so.” I erase the space between us, standing toe to toe with him. My breath mingles with his, our noses nearly brushing, but the fire in my eyes is unmistakable. “Get off my fucking bus before I slit your throat with this bottle, kid.”
We hold each other’s gaze for a long beat before Breckin’s jaw ticks. “Maybe I’ll go see what Hensley’s up to.”
My stomach knots with anger, but not for the reasons you’d think. I couldn’t care less who fucks that bitch. “Go for it. She’s hogged out now. Can’t touch the sides or the bottom.”
Look at his face. Studying me with intensity, he has no idea what I’m referring to.
Commotion on the bus draws his attention, his stare flicking to the front as Cruz and Deacon pass Cliff, grabbing drinks from the bar. Laughter and teasing follow as they make their way to the back.
Breckin parts his lips to speak, but then shuts them for a moment longer. He shakes his head and gives me a hard look and whispers, “Just stay away from Taylan.” He shuffles toward the front. “You’re the last person she needs to be involved with.”
Cruz and Deacon stare him down. “You lost, Bieber? Does your mom know you’re out after curfew?”
Breckin smirks, shouldering his way betw
een them. “Just being friendly. You know, spreading those good vibes.” He continues toward the front of the bus with three heated stares burning holes in the back of his shirt. He’s so fucking out of place on this bus it’s ridiculous.
Making their way to the back, Cruz takes a seat beside me, shaking his head, as Deacon and Hardin follow. “Motherfucker.” Cruz takes out a dime bag from his pocket and spreads it on the table in front of us. Taking his credit card from his wallet, he cuts out three lines. “The only thing that asshole is spreading is gonorrhea. What the hell was he doing here and who the fuck let him on our bus?”
Deacon smirks, leaning in to do a line. When he’s finished, he smiles at me like I should understand. “Who do you think? Jory fucking Ash.”
Cruz leans forward, eyeing me suspiciously. “What’s with you and Princess Bubblegum? You never watch performances when we’re on tour.”
“Not a damn thing.” I do the second line on the table. Cruz does the third. Hardin doesn’t touch the shit. Sniffing, I lean back against the couch, downing another drink from the bottle. “Mind your own fucking business.”
“She’s Jory’s daughter, man, and off-limits,” Cruz adds, lifting a brow. He laughs and reaches for his drink. “Your rule, asshole.”
I know she’s off-limits, especially to me, but that part of my brain that doesn’t handle rules… it takes it as a challenge. I know how fucked up that is, believe me, I do. Countless beatings from Oma did nothing to quash the impulse to do the exact opposite of what most people would agree is the smart thing to do. Clearly, I was high when I set rules for myself, knowing that I’d be forced to break them.
The apple might be lethal, but I’m tempted to bite the forbidden.
DON’T BITE THE APPLE
TAYLAN
“Don’t bite the apple, Red.”
