Beautiful Boxset: Beautiful Series, books 1-4

by Anderson, Lilliana

  I bite my lip to fight a smile. How did he know that’s the exact pastry I wanted? “You’re good at reading people, Marcus.”

  “Is that a compliment?”

  “It’s an observation.”

  He sits across from me. “Maybe I’m just good at reading you?”

  “Maybe.” I lift the danish and taste the delicate pastry, sweet and buttery on my tongue.

  “Does it bother you?”

  “What?”

  “That I know what you want more than you do?” He sits back in his chair, eyes gleaming as he watches me eat. It’s an odd thing to say, but he’s right. I’ve refused him in every way I can think of, but he doesn’t hear my words, he only reads my body language, and my body doesn’t believe my words either. Like my dog, my body’s loyalty is swayed whenever Marcus is around.

  I lick my lips and take a sip of coffee before I can answer. “I don’t know yet. But I do know that if you keep showing up here, you can’t keep driving that Porsche. It sticks out like a sore thumb.”

  He nods slightly. “I’ll get a new car.”

  “A normal person car. Not a luxury one.”

  “No problem.”

  “And when you show up here, you need to put your car in my garage.”

  He grins like he’s twelve. “I’ll happily put my car in your garage.”

  “I’m serious. I want you to park in there and enter the house through there too. You never know who’s watching. And if Sandra shows up and sees a car out front, she’s gonna ask questions, and I already feel bad enough as it is.”

  He leans his elbows on the table and picks up an apple danish, tearing off the corner before chewing it thoughtfully. “Why don’t you come to my place then?”

  “Because I’m more likely to get my photo taken walking into your place.”

  He narrows one eye. “This actor guy really did a number on you, huh?”

  “He messed up my life. And since you won’t listen to reason, I at least need you to respect my privacy.”

  “That’s fine. On one condition; tell me who he is?”

  “Why? What difference does it make?”

  “Because I wanna track the bastard down and beat the shit out of him.”

  I laugh. I can’t help it. Marcus would never get near Jon. They’re both famous, but they’re in different leagues. It’s like comparing the popularity of the Hemsworth brothers. Liam is a star in his own right, but Chris is the one with the power and sway.

  “You think I couldn’t take him?”

  “I’m sure you could, but you’d both be petrified of damaging your pretty faces,” I tease, tossing a piece of danish across the table. It lands in the floor.

  “I don’t give a fuck about my face. Theo’s punched me in it several times.”

  “Have you spoken to him?” I ask, eager to change the subject.

  He reaches across the table and takes the coffee, drinking before returning it to me. “I wasn’t planning to.”

  “You don’t miss him?” Perry saunters in and finds the bit danish I threw.

  “Sometimes. But I don’t even know what to say to him.”

  “Maybe you could just say, hey.” Finding nothing more on the floor, Perry jumps onto the couch and rests his head directly on the TV remote. MTV comes on. “He does that all the time,” I say. “I swear it’s on purpose.”

  “Smart dog. He likes the classic rock too, huh?”

  The screen fills with the hunched over figure of Jimmy Marx, probably the only Aussie music export in the last forty years whose international popularity rivals Marcus’s. His guitar riffs are legendary, his throaty lyrics known by young and old. He’s a national treasure. As far as I’m concerned, he’s a total arse hat. My hatred of famous people runs deep.

  “Oh god. Turn it off, Perry,” I say, even though Perry never listens to me.

  “You don’t like classic rock?” Marcus asks.

  “This is the intro to that stupid reality show he does, parading around how brain dead he’s become and how broken and dysfunctional his family is.”

  “Sounds like a hoot.”

  “Well, it’s not,” I say, getting up to turn it off myself. “Reality TV is the lowest form of entertainment. It’s embarrassing to watch them cling to the vestiges of their fame like people don’t think they’re a total joke.”

  “Didn’t he get this show after his daughter went crazy and posted all his sex tapes online?”

  “I wouldn’t know.” My ears burn as I shut off the screen and put the remote on the side table where Perry can’t get it.

  “Yeah, I’m sure that’s what put him in the limelight again. She drove a car through some movie star’s living room and nearly killed the guy. Then she set her sights on ruining her father.”

  “She must have had a very good reason.”

  He shrugs. “Infidelity if I remember correctly. But it all backfired, everyone’s more famous than ever and she’s gone to ground. Shame, she was a great musician.”

  “Did you ever meet her?”

  He shakes his head. “Saw her at a festival once, but I wasn’t in the big leagues until after she disappeared. She was this tiny little thing with bleached hair and black shit around her eyes. Kinda weird, but cool, you know? You should give her a listen. I reckon you’d like her stuff.”

  “I’ll do that,” I say as I run my hand over Perry’s head.

  “I actually got an invite to go on that show.”

  I snap my head up. “You’re not considering it? You can’t. No. I won’t let you.” I touch my forehead, my skin buzzing slightly with annoyance. Shit.

  “You won’t let me?” Marcus rises from his chair and stalks towards me. Oh fuck. This isn’t going to end well.

  “Well, I…I…I’d rather you didn’t,” I stammer, feeling oddly warm as he stops in front of me.

  “Why?” My mind gallops through the fog, desperately grabbing for a legitimate excuse to explain my outburst.

  “Because you’re better than those people,” I try, hating the way my voice tilts, making it sound like a question.

  One of his eyebrows lifts. “Then tell me you’re all in.”

  “What?”

  “Tell me you want me. Tell me you’re mine and mine alone, and I won’t do it.”

  “I…” I open my mouth, but I can’t say it. I want him, yes. But I can’t tell him I’m his. No matter what this is between us, he can never own me. He’s too temporary in nature and personality. “I’ll do you one better.”

  His eyes widen, interested as I pull open the drawer in my side table and take out a small black and green remote with a key attached to it.

  “What’s this?” he asks when I hand it to him.

  “The garage remote and the key to that door.” I point to the door that connects the garage to the house. “You can come and go as you please. Have me whenever you want.”

  He looks from the remote to me before he shoves it in his back pocket. “Deal,” he says, grabbing me by the back of my neck and crashing his mouth against mine.

  “This doesn’t mean I want you,” I say when he lets me up for air.

  He grins. “Yes it fucking does,” he says before having me exactly when and how he wants. And I love every second of it.

  Ten

  Marcus

  The last thing I wanted to do was leave Lisa’s. But all I had were the clothes on my back. I’d happily stay naked, but if I show up to the studio Monday morning in the same clothes Craig saw me in on Saturday, there’ll be questions. Then there’ll be prying and background checks, and I’ll be called into a marketing meeting to discuss if she’s good for my image. And since the one thing Lisa’s been adamant about since we met is not wanting to be involved with my work—she doesn’t mean it when she says she doesn’t want me—I want to respect those wishes and keep her the hell out of it. If I fuck up and Craig gets in her face, she really will mean it when she tells me to go away. And I don’t want that. I’m nowhere near done with her yet. So to p
rotect our private little bubble, I tore myself away with a plan to get my arse back to her, extra clothes and all, as soon as I’m finished in the studio Monday night. I’m literally counting seconds here.

  You know how it is when you find a great pair of jeans that are so comfortable you could live in them? That’s how it feels around her, how it feels when I’m with her. She fits me. And it’s not because the sex is out of this world, it’s because she seems to get me, and she’s not afraid to call me out, and she doesn’t try to fit some preconceived idea of what she thinks I want like every other girl I come across. She’s just her. Like it or lump it.

  I prefer to hump it, but that’s probably the worst thing to be thinking in this moment. I’ve stopped in to visit my parents on the way home, and my mother is ranting at me in Italian, crying because I’m home, crying because I didn’t visit sooner, crying because I haven’t given up my gripe with Theo yet. She curses my stubbornness and makes the sign of the cross about twenty times. I’m surprised she’s not dressed in mourning.

  “Mamma, English, per favore. My italiano non è buono. You’re speaking too fast, and I’m struggling to understand.”

  “Why won’t you call your brother, huh?” she cries. “I’m getting old. I want to see my boys together before I die.”

  “You’re fifty-seven.” I fight a smile. She does the dramatic Italian mother well. “And you’re fit as a fiddle.”

  “It’s the stress. It’s ageing me. I want to see my oldest boy married. I want my youngest boy to come home and find a nice girl—preferably Italian—to settle down with. I want grandchildren. I want family meals. I can’t live with this tension, Marcus.”

  “Listen to your mother, son,” my father intones.

  I lift my shoulders and sigh. “Fine. You win.”

  Mamma’s eyes go wide. “I do?” Then she grins before her expression falls and she frowns. “Wait. Which part?”

  “All of it.”

  “What?” She exchanges glances with my father and he just shrugs.

  I sit forward with a smile. “I can’t promise to stay in the country. But I’ll come back as much as I can. I’ll also find a nice girl to settle down with.” Once I convince her to quit freaking out about being seen with me. “Grandchildren will have to be up to her. Same as the family meals. And I’ll talk to Theo.”

  “You will?” She turns to my father and starts speaking excitedly in Italian. I catch the drift of what she’s saying. She’s telling Papa that nagging works. After twenty-six years she’s nagged me into submission.

  Papa rolls his eyes and mutters, “Dio ci aiuti tutti.” God help us all.

  I take that as my cue to leave and promise to come and see them soon.

  “Bring that girl of yours to dinner,” Mamma says, squeezing my cheeks like she would when I was a boy.

  “I didn’t say there was a girl, Mamma.”

  Her eyes shine as she beams. “You didn’t have to. It’s written in your eyes. My baby boy is in love.”

  Love?

  Fuck. How did that happen so fast?

  * * *

  Lisa

  A grin creeps over my face when I open the garage door after work and another car is in there. It’s a Toyota Corolla, one of the most common car models around. And it’s not even new. Wow. This boy’s serious.

  I’m half expecting him to be buck naked with a rose between his teeth when I walk in, but instead, I find Marcus sitting on the couch with his guitar. He’s hunched over with a pencil in hand, scribbling something in a book he has open on the coffee table.

  “This is nice to come home to,” I say, slipping out of my heels and walking over to him.

  “Careful. I might start thinking you want me here and lose interest in the chase.” He closes the book and sets his guitar to the side before holding his arm out for me, pulling me onto his lap to greet me with a hair pull and a passionate kiss.

  I slide my arm around the back of his neck and smile. “If that’s all I need to get rid of you, I’ll start worshiping at your feet.”

  “No.” Gripping me by the waist, he tips me until I fall back on the couch and he’s holding himself above me. “That’s my job.” He grinds his hips into me, his hand sliding down my thigh, igniting my senses until he sits back and takes my foot in his hands, pressing his thumbs into my arch. I moan.

  “Oh god, that feels good.”

  “Not god. Marcus.” He winks, and I giggle, letting the ache of the workday leave my body as he expertly massages my feet. As I relax against the couch, I let my arm drop to the side, knocking the coffee table. The book he was writing in flips, but I catch it before it falls to the floor.

  “Is this your lyric book?” I ask, setting it back on the table where it was.

  “Sure is,” he says, shifting to my other foot. “You’re not gonna try to read it?”

  I shake my head. “That would be like reading your diary, wouldn’t it?”

  He grins before he nods and picks up the well-worn journal. “When I was in Matiari, the bass player Lachlan never understood how sacred these things are. If you left yours lying around, he’d pick it up and leaf through it like it was a magazine. We were always clobbering him for it.” He licks his lips, releasing an amused burst of air at the memory as he opens the book and runs his fingers along the torn edges of missing pages. “I haven’t even opened this since I left them. I started writing on my phone instead. But half the songs I release aren’t even mine.” He meets my eyes. “They think my originals aren’t mainstream enough. So they make me rework them until they fit that four chord mould you dislike so much.”

  “How would your songs sound if you could choose yourself?” I ask, sliding my feet from his lap so I can sit up.

  “Less noisy.” He flashes a smile and a glance my way before dropping the book back on the coffee table with a sigh. “When I first went solo, the noise suited my anger level, and it worked while I was still angry. But I was in the recording studio today and I realised it’s not there anymore. I don’t have anything left to be angry about.”

  “Do you think you need the anger to perform?”

  He shakes his head. “No. But my manager would say I need it for my brand. Happiness doesn’t sell records.”

  Resting my arm on the back of the couch, I face my body towards him, tucking my legs beneath me. “Is that what you were working on when I got home? A happy song?” Do I make him happy?

  He drops his head to the side as he laughs a little, seeming much younger than the man he is. “Sort of.”

  “Can you play it for me?”

  “Asking me to sing for you again? Sure you’re not a closet fan?”

  “Busted.”

  He runs his teeth over his bottom lip and picks up his guitar. The strings squeak a little as he positions it on his lap then plucks out a tune, producing a melodious sound like it’s second nature.

  Memories of long ago fill my mind and I close my eyes as a swell of emotion builds in my chest. I’m reminded of a time of hope, of playfulness, of child-like wonder. But then I grew up… “That’s beautiful,” I whisper, needing to swallow.

  “I visited my parents last night,” he says, still playing his tune.

  “Yeah?” I open my eyes to watch his profile as he nods, face forward and thoughtful.

  “Mamma was crying about the rift between me and Theo.”

  “She wants you to make up?”

  He nods. “She had a whole list of things she wanted for me.”

  “Mums will do that.”

  “Well, I decided she was right. It’s time to grow up.”

  “Yeah?”

  He nods again. “That’s where this song came from.”

  His fingers dance with rapid ease and velvet comes out of his mouth as he sings the lyrics to accompany this beautiful melody.

  I took my time creating the distance

  that has grown between us

  I cut my ties and I realise

  I left scars with all my meanness.
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  I gave my mind to an endless sea

  That somehow wouldn’t let me in

  I lost my soul

  I lost my way

  In the ocean when I can’t swim.

  He hums before breaking into a strum for the chorus which is surprisingly upbeat and joyful.

  Keep your friends close,

  Keep your mind strong.

  Hmm.

  Keep your family close,

  Bring your girl along.

  Oh, yeah baby.

  Keep your friends close,

  Keep your mind strong.

  Oh, oh, oh.

  Tell them all you love them always,

  And sing your girl a song.

  He laughs through the last couple of words, and I’m surprised to see a blush on his cheeks. I also can’t stop smiling at the glimpse of a boy I’m seeing before me. He’s so cocksure of himself and manly, seeing this openly innocent side of him makes my heart happy.

  “It’s not finished,” he says, picking up his pencil to make a quick note in his book. “But I thought, since music was always our thing, it could be an olive branch of sorts.”

  “Or you could just call him.” I rest my head against the back of the couch, his song making me feel warm and cosy. “But that doesn’t seem your style.”

  Setting his guitar to the side, he rests his head next to mine. “You’re right. I’m a grand gesture kind of person.”

  “Marcus Bailey, a man who wears his heart on his sleeve.” I lift my hand and place it against his jaw, my thumb sweeping against his smooth lips. How does this happen? How does the one person I didn’t want in my life manage to slot themselves in so quickly and thoroughly? How am I supposed to give this up?

  He kisses the pad of my thumb then catches my hand, running his teeth over my wrist before pressing his lips against my palm.