by Kacey Shea
“Should someone check on him? He okay in there alone?” I glance at Austin and Sean.
Austin’s back to his gaming controller, eyes stuck on the television screen. “I’m not going in there. Iz with clothes on is ugly enough.”
He’s no help. I turn to Sean. “He always like this?”
“High as fuck?”
“No. Unable to live a day without something between his lips.”
Trent appears at the hall entrance, his long, wavy hair all ruffled and falling in his eyes as if he just walked off the set of a cologne advertisement. Fucking gorgeous without doing a damn thing. I look away.
“Right? You’d think he’d suck dick the way he’s always got something in his mouth.” Trent’s lips lift in a grin and he grabs a protein shake from the fridge, joining Sean at the table but rotating in his seat to meet my glare.
“Did you get a look at him?” I lift my eyebrow and flick my lip ring, “Dicks don’t make you feel that good.”
Trent’s smile pulls wider. “I feel as though I should take offense to that comment on behalf of cocks everywhere, but I think the lady is right. I’ve never fucked a girl who looked that happy afterward.”
Sean laughs and I can’t help but give in to a smile.
“Speak for yourself! I give it to the ladies so hard they slide off my dick high as fuck,” Austin boasts, his thumbs darting over the buttons and joystick.
I look between him and Sean, and then back to Trent. “Between all of you, Austin must have the smallest dick. He protests too much.” I roll my eyes for good measure.
There’s a brief moment of awkward silence and for a second I’m worried they won’t think it’s funny or okay for me to join in the smack talk. That is, until Sean slams his fist on the table and explodes into a fit of laughter. Trent’s eyes water, he’s laughing so hard. Austin just curses, his undivided attention back on the game.
“Oh, my God! I’m dying.” Sean holds his hand up for me to meet his high five and I stand up, joining them at the table to slap his palm. “This chick is badass.”
“That, I already knew.” Trent grins, his eyes all too knowing with his stare.
My stomach twists with an unfamiliar feeling and I decide to ask a few questions since we’ve got miles to burn. “So, you guys don’t partake? In the Iz entertainment?”
“No judgment on Iz, but I don’t like feeling fucked up. Not all the time like he is,” Sean says.
“I’ve got my looks to maintain,” Austin pipes in from behind.
“Of course. What with that being your largest asset.” Not looking back at him I roll my eyes and shake my head with a smile.
“And longest,” Austin mutters.
We try to contain our snickers.
“What about you, Trent?” I say. “What’s your drug of choice?” I don’t know what I expect, but part of me hopes he sticks to the light stuff. There’s something about him, a presence that captivates the second he walks into a room, and I can’t help but decide that’d be lost if he became addicted to drugs. My hope begins to fade when he doesn’t answer right away, his gaze trained on the table where he traces imaginary shapes with his long fingers, and for the first time since we met he looks almost . . . nervous.
Sean grins and responds for him. “Pussy.”
Trent’s gaze snaps to meet his friend.
“Pardon?” I ask with a little laugh.
Trent stares at Sean, a silent threat in his eyes, but for what I don’t know. “I prefer a more delicate sweetness between my lips,” he finally answers, then drops his gaze to mine, winks, and sticks out his tongue. He rolls it around before shutting his mouth with a pompous smile. “Plus, with this bad boy, it’s like I was made for it.”
It’s arrogant and he’s just playing around, but a rush of need pools between my thighs at the thought of his mouth there.
No. Just no. I shake my head and get up to retrieve my guitar and notebook. I need to write, force myself to focus on why I’m here, where I’m going. The banter around me fades and within a few minutes I’m fully down the rabbit hole, writing, the words coming like a freight train. I don’t think, just scribble them out as fast as they fly. Creativity sparks. Collides. And I’m left with the most troubling of arrangements.
Because every damn sentence reminds me of Trent’s outrageous tongue.
I slam the notebook shut. That was counterproductive. And this is going to be a long ride. Long. Damn it!
I did it again.
13
Trent
I really fucking hate chick singers.
I don’t generally advertise this opinion because it sounds sexist as hell, but that’s not the reason women who sing grate on my last fucking nerve. No, it’s more to do with the fact they’re usually divas, as if being so much more talented that the majority of the greater population gives them superiority. Which is totally bogus, given that a person’s voice is attributed to a God given talent, something determined by birth, and okay, some training. Mostly, you either got it or you don’t. It’s not something earned or worked for; that’s just the luck of the draw.
But Lexi, she’s not a diva. No, she’s more like one of the guys, willing to take our ridiculous antics and give back as good as anyone in our circle. That alone makes her likable, and intriguing, and if I’m being honest, the fact her father is a fucking rock legend fuels the interest. Which is probably why I find myself skulking around the empty stadium during her slated sound check once we arrive in Charlotte.
Shows are so crazy, and life is going full speed so I still haven’t heard her sing. Maybe that’s a shit move on my part. I mean, she is our opening act, but it’s not as if we got to choose her. The label wanted a woman, and she was our compromise. But curiosity has caught this cat’s attention. I’m like a lion on the hunt. I need to hear her.
Pushing against the metal door opens the gateway, and her voice is amplified through an otherwise empty auditorium. Strong. Sensual. Dark. Light. Ascending. It’s all the things. I need to be closer, to observe her while she belts out a song about giving up and getting out. Careful not to draw her attention, I skirt the crew backstage behind the curtains until I’m at the rows and rows of empty seats. I sink into one, in a dark corner, and shivers—full on goosebumps—attack my flesh. I’m mesmerized.
“You took
What wasn’t yours
I’ll leave
Behind a dozen doors
Just to run
Run, run, runaway
You won’t see me
No, not another day”
The house band’s guitars wail and drums clash and Lexi drops her chin, dancing to the beat and strumming her Gibson. She’s so fucking gorgeous, but that’s not surprising. No, it’s more in how she owns every part of that stage. Right now, I’m not tempted in the slightest to watch the other musicians or check my phone. I’m captivated by the hard as nails pixie goddess front and center.
The music drops and she lifts her chin, her lips moving close but not at all touching the mic’s corded surface as she sings again.
“No you won’t see me
Not today”
The musicians stop. Lexi pops out of character and I stand from my seat clapping and screaming out my applause. “Bravo! Fucking A! Bravo!”
Her gaze narrows as she spies me in my row and the relaxed shape of her mouth pinches with disapproval. She lifts her chin to the sound crew and taps her earpiece. “A little more guitar, please?”
“You got it, Lex,” he shouts back. “You wanna run it once more?”
She considers his question with a side glance at me. “No. I’m good. Unless you need me to.”
“We’re golden. Rest up for tonight,” he replies and everyone onstage gets back to work. I jog up to the edge of the stage and climb up before she takes off.
Lexi shuts her guitar case and stands when I reach her. “I thought you hated listening to chicks sing?” She places both hands on her hip and lifts her brow.
“T
hat was before.” My lips twitch at the edges as I hold back my grin, “You made a liar out of me, Lexi Marx.”
She rolls her eyes but I can tell she wants to smile. “I’m sure you were a liar before.”
“Not true. But seriously, that was kickass. You are a badass. Not that you didn’t already know it. I’m glad you’re on this tour.” I don’t know why but my words feel insignificant, unworthy of the performance I witnessed.
She lifts her chin and finally grins, “You really mean that, don’t you?”
“Hell yeah, I do.” I shove my hands into my back pockets and rock on the soles of my boots.
“Thank you. That means a lot.” She releases a deep exhale and I’m proud of myself for not glancing at her chest.
Instead, I knock her with my shoulder. “Aw, you like me.”
“No.” Her mouth snaps shut.
I let a deep boisterous laugh escape me, which only causes her to narrow her gaze. “You do! You like me.”
She mashes her lips together and shakes her head. “I don’t hate you.”
“Same difference.”
“No, it’s really not.” There. She rolls her eyes again.
“I’ll take it. We should celebrate. You hungry?”
She looks around. Most of the roadies and staff are gone now, and she shrugs. “I could eat. Don’t you have sound check?”
“Not until four. Come on, let’s go grub. I spotted a dive just around the corner.”
I count it a success when she doesn’t argue and follows my lead.
The dive is actually charming inside, with its retro fifties décor and twenty-four-seven breakfast menu. The crowd is popping for a weekday lunch, and with its location in the heart of downtown I take that as a sign the food will be good.
A no-nonsense waitress leads us to an empty booth near the back.
“This okay?” Her tone dares us to suggest it’s not . . . and end up with spit in our meal.
“Perfect. Thanks.” Lexi slides into the seat across from me. The waitress points to where the menus are nestled between the table and a dish of creamer, sugar packs, and other condiments.
“What can I get you to drink?”
“I’ll have a glass of orange juice,” Lexi says and then glances at me. “And I don’t need to see the menu. I’m ready to order. If you are?”
“Yeah.” I’m surprised, since most people scan the menu before deciding on their meal.
“A stack of plain pancakes. Please,” she says.
“You want the half or the full?” our server asks without looking up from her notepad.
“Full, please.” Lexi smiles.
The waitress pauses to glance at Lexi and raise her brows. “Mmm’kay. And for you?” She nods my direction more than asks.
“Same. Except coffee for me.”
“’Kay.” She turns and leaves without a backward glance.
“I don’t know how you do that,” I say.
“What? I can eat a lot of food. Especially pancakes. Don’t judge me by my size.”
I grin. “Not that. I’m talking about ordering orange juice.”
“You don’t like OJ?” she asks as if I’m the crazy one.
“I do. But you have no idea the pulp situation. Does it have none, or extra? How can you order a glass without knowing the level of pulp?”
She laughs and at that moment our server comes back to set down our drinks. “Pancakes’ll be up shortly.”
“I take it you’re not a fan of pulp.” Lexi observes and takes a sip from her drink.
I eye her from over the brim of my mug. “That obvious?”
She laughs and sets down her glass. “You’ll be happy to know there’s a low pulp situation going on. We’re safe here.”
“Thank God!” I bug my eyes and delight in the way her lips lift in a comfortable smile. Not forced or guarded. I like this Lexi. “Hey, there’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you since we met.”
Her shoulders straighten just the slightest and I can’t help but kick myself for chasing away some of her ease. “You don’t have to answer, if you don’t want. Just call me curious.”
“Fine.” She rolls her eyes but her lips twitch up with the trace of a smile. “Shoot.”
“Why Marx?” The words leave my mouth and I instantly regret the question.
Her eyes drop and her jaw hardens with her frown. She studies the patterned Formica table and traces her fingertips along the silver plated fork and spoon atop her paper napkin. Fuck. She was just starting to open up. Talk to me. Now she’s like ice. I should apologize. Or make a joke. An inappropriate one about her luscious breasts. Yes, then she’ll get angry. Angry I can do.
“Don’t laugh,” she warns.
My gaze snaps up to watch her still playing with the silverware. “Okay.”
“Swear it.”
I reach my hand across the table and set my fingers next to the napkin. “Pinky promise.” I wiggle my finger and her lips soften as though she wants to smile. “I won’t tell a soul.”
Her pinky slides along mine, and the soft brush of her tiny finger against my much bigger one kicks up my pulse. Her hands are so delicate and skilled, and fuck if my dick isn’t already making my tight jeans irritably uncomfortable. She squeezes her finger and I barely lock mine with hers before she pulls her hands back into her lap.
“I was a child. I can’t be held responsible.” She glances around the room before her gaze settles back to me. “But I had a major crush on Richard Marx.”
“The singer?” I press my lips together because I’m certain there’s a smile stretching across my face.
Lexi’s glare confirms my suspicion. “Not a word. You promised.”
“I won’t. It’s cute. What were you, like five?”
“More like twelve.”
“But you’re only twenty-three, right? Wasn’t Marx big in the late eighties, early nineties?”
“Yeah, well, my mom loved his music so we listened to it a lot.”
“You’re telling me your stage name is a shout out to the guy who romanced millions of women with his piano and soft rock ballads, all from a little childhood crush?”
“Don’t judge, okay. I was a kid.” Even she can’t hold back a laugh.
“Not judging, just finding the connection rather shallow for a woman who does everything with great meaning.”
Her eyes narrow. “I’m not sure if you’re trying to compliment or insult me.”
I wink. “Compliment. Go with the positive.”
“You’re delusional.” She throws up her hands.
“Says the Marx diehard fan!”
“Look. It’s more than that,” she grumbles and when I tilt my head she shakes hers, her next words leaving her lips in a rush. “God, I can’t believe I’m telling you this . . . When I was a young girl I had this ridiculously famous rock star dad. One who was a horrible father. One who never remembered to call or visit, and who made my mom cry herself to sleep. One who made her waste her entire youth devoted to a man who didn’t give two shits about us.
When I listened to “Right Here Waiting,” I used to pretend that my dad wasn’t Richie Sands. That my mom had gotten it all wrong. I imagined my father was Richard Marx and he was singing that song to us—my mom and me. That he loved us.” She gave a short pause. “So as soon as I turned eighteen, I legally changed my last name to Marx.”
“Two big stacks.” Our server interrupts by setting down our plates with a clatter. “Refills?”
“Yes, please,” Lexi answers. However, I can’t seem to move my gaze from her eyes. The green shines a little too brightly under the florescent lights while she pours way too much syrup on her pancakes. She continues with her meal as if she hadn’t just shared something completely intimate and personal.
“Syrup?” Lexi holds the jug over my stack and I quickly grab it from her hands.
“I’ve got it, Sugar Tits! You’ll give me diabetes if I let you pour.”
“What? I like syrup with my
pancakes!”
“I can see that.” I grin and douse my stack with a conservative amount before cutting a few bites with the side of my fork. “So, when you’re not basking in pancake griddle heaven, what other food do you enjoy this much?”
“Chinese, Thai, Sushi. I love them all. But there’s nothing like a stack of pancakes.” Lexi shovels in another mouthful. A groan of pleasure escapes from where her lips lock around the fork. Fork me. What I wouldn’t give to be a piece of cutlery.
“And don’t think I didn’t notice the sugar tits comment, either. That nickname ends here.” She points the fork in my direction before taking another bite.
My lips pull up with a big ass grin. “I don’t know . . . ’Cause that I didn’t promise.” I pop in a mouthful of pancakes.
She shakes her head, rolls those eyes, and takes a sip of juice. “Hey, Trent.” She glances down at her plate, using her fork to push around the sopping mess she’s made of a perfectly delicious breakfast.
“Yeah?”
“I never said thank you.” She lifts her gaze and those eyes pierce me with their sincerity. “Thank you.”
I lick my lips and take a big gulp of coffee. “You’re welcome. For what exactly?”
She smiles and taps her fork against the plate. “Why did you bring me on your bus in Oklahoma?”
That night fills me with sadness and I rub my hands through my hair. “To keep you safe.”
“That’s it? No ulterior motives?”
“Lexi, that night, I . . . There was no way I was letting you sleep in Big Betty. Not after what happened. What could have happened. No. I just needed to keep you safe. The best way to do that was in our bus. Simple.”
She scoops up her drenched pancake and brings it to her lips. Oh, those damn lips. “Well, then, thank you,” she whispers before the food goes inside her mouth and she does the groan again.
It’s all I can do to not pounce over the table, claim those lips, and join her in the sound.
