Jag Steele wore arrogance like it was his damn skin.
What an asshole. Just then, one side of his mouth flipped up, flashing his white teeth and revealing a dimple on one side. That smile was pretty much pure sex in and of itself, and it caused the entire room to scream again. Oh, I cannot take this absurdity.
The closer we got to him, the fucking hotter he looked, and it was pissing me off. I should have had the ability to maintain control over my own body better than that. My heart rate kept speeding up, my fingers kept tingling, and my breathing grew shallow just from looking at that self-absorbed bastard. And I’ll be damned if when he shook his hair out, making it all messy like he’d just rolled out of bed, if that action didn’t kind of make me squeeze my thighs together—just a little. These involuntary and most unwelcome physical reactions were in no way okay. I kept reminding myself that he was an ass, a whore, and an addict.
A troll.
A guy I needed nothing to do with.
I went to swipe my hair from in front of my face and caught sight of all the scars on my arm. Like I’d even have a chance anyway…But I didn’t like the fact that I was attracted to him. My body was a traitor.
Several minutes later, the line had been ushered along. I stood in front of Pax, realizing I should most likely say something to him.
“Uh,” I grappled for something to say to this guy I knew nothing about. “Hi…”
Pax grinned. “You want me to make this out to you?”
I shook my head. “Nope.”
He forced a smile, and I felt the sweat form under my thick hair.
I felt like an idiot.
Pax handed my ticket back to me, and I stepped in front of the bassist, Rush.
He held out his hand, waiting for me to hand him my ticket. His eyes flicked over me, and he bit down on his lip.
Here we go.
“Pretty lips,” he said, smirking.
I stared at him.
“Thanks.”
“I bet they would look really good—”
I shook my head, stopping the crude comment that I knew was coming. “Oh, no. I don’t do dick. Sorry.”
His eyes flickered and his lips curled up. That was the wrong lie to tell this guy. I guess implying you like going down on girls isn’t the brightest defense mechanism when you’re dealing with a perverted rocker.
“And,” I placed the ticket on the table, “my girlfriend doesn’t share. When I say we don’t do dick, I mean we don’t do dick. Period. The end. You haven’t got a chance to even watch.”
He chuckled. “Well-played…but I wouldn’t pull that line with Jag, sweetie. He’ll see it as a challenge.”
Next in line was Jag’s brother and the guitarist, Stone. He smiled. It seemed genuine. “Anything particular you want me to write?” he asked.
“No.”
Why did I find it so odd that they asked that? It seemed so forced, so unnatural, so thoughtless to ask someone what you wanted them to write.
While I stood in front of Stone Steele waiting for him to sign the back of my ticket I watched Layla freak out in front of Jag. She was near tears and almost hyperventilating. She kept fanning herself with her hands and when she went to hand him her ticket she was noticeably shaking. Then I heard her say it. “I want to make babies with you, or, well, not really babies, because I know you wouldn’t be cool with that or anything, but like, I would totally have sex with you, or whatever you wanted…” I blocked the rest of that jumbled, rambling speech of desperation out.
Shaking my head out of shame for her, I mumbled to myself, “So gross, Layla, so, so gross.”
Evidently I’d mumbled a little louder than I’d intended because Stone looked up from the table.
Laughing, he glanced down at Layla who was now stroking her hands through Jag’s hair. “What? That?” Stone asked, pointing at Layla, who was still twisting Jag’s hair around her fingers, smile plastered over her mouth.
She shook her head at something Jag said. I imagined it was most likely a comment about her sucking his dick.
“Oh,” Stone’s smile deepened, and he handed my ticket back to me. “That’s nothing. She’s tame. Girls usually throw themselves on him. Kiss him. Grab his dick. She’s fine.” He tapped his Sharpie on the edge of the table. “What’s your name?”
My eyes darted back to him. “Roxy.”
“Well, it’s very nice to meet you, Roxy. I hope you enjoy the show.” He offered another genuine, humble smile and leaned back in his chair.
I was shocked that he was somewhat approachable, that he was talking to people like they weren’t beneath him. In interviews he hadn’t seemed much better than his arrogant brother. And before I realized the words were coming from my mouth, I said, “Wow. You’re actually not a huge dick.”
His eyes widened and he shrugged. “Yeah. I try.”
Now I was embarrassed.
I walked toward Jag, that slight hitch in my chest becoming more prominent with each step I took. Stopping in front of him, I watched his eyes trail up the back of Layla’s legs and I couldn’t control my foot. It kept tapping nervously over the floor. I pushed my ticket to him, not saying a word. I swallowed and his eyes flew up to my chest, then my eyes, and I had to fight to keep my breath from flying out of my mouth. He was fucking sex in a physical form. Shit.
My knees felt weak and my entire body flushed with heat.
No control.
Just when I thought I was about to piss on myself from my nerves, he said something to me. It was like my brain couldn’t comprehend English at that point. My heart was fluttering, pounding, skipping—all that ridiculous crap your body does when you see something you want to screw, and my face was flushing.
He may be a narcissistic ass, but damn he is gorgeous up close. My erratic pulse drummed up into my throat. His eyes locked with mine, and a seductive grin etched its way over his face. “What’s got you so pissy, princess?” he asked as his smile spread wider.
My mouth was completely dry. I tried to find words, but couldn’t. He was flirting with me, just like he did every other girl. He expected a reaction. He expected my knees to buckle, my eyelashes to flutter, and for me to offer to suck him off under the table. I refused to jack-up his self-glorified pedestal any farther.
Rolling my eyes, I mumbled, “You don’t want to know.”
“Oh, but I do. You’re about to see a killer show. Shouldn’t be pissed about nothing.” Fiddling with his lip piercing, he flicked his tongue over his lips, his eyes still honed in on me.
Oh, he thinks that’s going to make me melt?
I said nothing, and then he winked at me.
“Trust me,” I said. “You don’t want to know.”
A deep laugh growled up his throat. “Something as pretty as you shouldn’t let anything ruin a good time with Jag Steele.”
He looked so sure of himself. This was in no way an attempt to be cordial, no, this was an attempt to add me to the list of girls he was going to fuck after the show.
He was one of those guys I despised. Unlike his brother, Jag was exactly how he appeared in interviews—actually, he was worse.
“Ugh!” I couldn’t stop my disgust from verbalizing.
I’d had enough of him.
I reached for my ticket, and he snatched it from the table. Waving it in front of his face, he taunted, “I refuse to give you this ticket back until you smile. Women aren’t allowed to have a bad time when I’m involved.” Then he grinded his teeth together, making it obvious, at least to me, that he was high on coke.
Done. That snapped me back into reality. The façade shattered into a million pieces and the spell of sex his face had cast on me lifted.
Crossing my arms, I allowed a slow smile to curl my lips. “You want to know why I’m pissed? Because it’s my freakin’ sister’s twenty-first birthday, and this is what she wanted for her birthday. To meet you! I’m only here because I’m the DD, and had to come along for the ride.”
My insides shook.
His eyes to grew wide and one side of his lip twitched a little.
I inhaled a large breathe, then said, “ I don’t really like your music, and could absolutely think of five-hundred better ways to be spending my Friday night than standing here in front of you listening to your narcissistic banter!”
I watched his expression fade from one of seduction to shock. He looked like he’d just been slapped in the face. I had just made a small crack tear through that showy rock star armor he wore.
That’s right, Jag Steele. You are a fucking troll, and I have to stay away from you. Take that, you arrogant asshole.
Before he had a chance to respond to my brashness, Layla came running up, screaming at me. “Roxy, what the hell are you doing?” She grabbed my arm, yanking me away from the table.
“Let go of me.” I rolled my arms and jerked my arm away from her.
Her eyes were wild with anger, and she growled at me before turning and flinging herself on the table in front of Jag.
I had to cover my face. I’d just laid into him, and now my sister was groveling at his feet. Everyone around was staring at us. Unbelievable.
If nothing else, I’d made an impression on Jag, one that would be hard for him to forget.
Chapter 6
Those fucking eyes of his. Damn. They were undeniably sexy. Just a glance from him was like foreplay. How in the hell had I gotten in this situation? It was like I was drugged because I couldn’t even recall how I’d ended up with him. But there I sat, on a bench in front of the Chinese Theatre, next to Jag Steele. My entire body was tense. I had no business with him. I knew he was no good for me. I was no good for him. We were both complete messes…And fuck those lips! Perfectly shaped, perfectly full, and all I wanted to do was kiss them.
Damn it, Roxy.
“What’s wrong, princess?” He smiled, and tucked a stray piece of hair behind my ear, which sent uncomfortably tingly shivers down my spine and between my thighs.
Seriously? He did nothing but piss me off at the meet and greet. Why am I with him? I’ve turned on myself, and why? All because during the concert he found me in the audience and dedicated their best song to me. That fucked with my head on so many levels.
I shook my head and swallowed, trying to pull some smart-ass comment together, but failed. As I turned to look at him, he grabbed me. Inching his face close to mine, he let out a hot breath over my lips, and then…
I woke up.
What the actual fuck?
I sat up in my bed, panting and wet between my legs. Was I seriously dreaming—having wet dreams about this narcissistic ass? Holy shit. I wiped my hands over my face, slung the covers off my body, and shuffled out into my living room.
Layla was passed out on my couch, halfway hanging off of it and snoring. I fiddled with the coffee maker and then went over to the side of the room to pick up last night’s discarded clothes.
The smell of coffee brewing woke Layla up. She sat up, groaning before rolling into the floor and stumbling into the kitchen. She slung the cabinet open and rummaged for something to eat. “I feel like death,” she groaned. “God, my head is pounding, and every time I burp I taste vodka.”
“Well, lush, maybe next time you should slow it down a notch,” I said as I counted the money I’d pulled out from my jeans.
“Whatever. You’ve got a stick up your ass.”
I frowned at her and rolled the cash back up. “You’re just pissed because you didn’t get a dick rammed up yours last night.”
She shut the cabinet and leaned over the counter, clutching her head in her hands and groaning. When she finally looked up her eyes accusingly narrowed on me. “Oh, my God. I just remembered you…you cussed Jag Steele out! You are such a dumb cunt!”
Shaking my head, I stood up and walked toward my bedroom. “I didn’t necessarily cuss him out. I just put him in his place.”
An angry laugh pressed through her mouth. “Yeah. Okay.”
She tapped her fingers over the laminate countertop and sighed. Not a sigh of whimsy, or one of contentment. That was a sigh of jealousy, of anger, of frustration. I think if she’d had more strength, it would have actually been a growl.
Whacking her palm over the counter, she shouted, “Then he dedicated a song to you. I can’t believe that. Unbelievable! You don’t even like him, you insult him, and he dedicates a song to you. He pointed at you, called you princess, and dedicated their number one song to you!”
“He was just being an asshole. Trying to embarrass me for embarrassing him.” I shrugged and walked into my room.
Layla tossed her hands up. “He dedicated a song to you. Who cares why? He looked you in the eyes and told you this song was for you. And did I mention he called you ‘princess?’ Do you know how many girls would have taken clitoral mutilation for that moment?”
“He’s just a guy, Layla.”
“Yeah.” Layla followed me, eyes wide and mouth still gaping open in shock at my lack of enthusiasm over the previous night’s events. “A famous rock star guy.”
A smirk fell over my lips. “Yeah. Like I said, just a guy.” I took my shirt off and yanked another from the wire hanger in my closet.
I thought about what she’d just said as I watched the hanger rocking back and forth on the rod. I would never admit it to anyone, but it had been pretty amazing, even if he was an asshole and an addict. Hard or not, having someone the caliber of Jag Steele call you out of thousands of screaming fans and dedicate a song to you—that was a little unbelievable.
“You know, you really have issues, Rox. You can’t just keep pushing everybody away from you—”
I cut her off. “Who? Jag Steele? Layla, really?”
What the hell was she talking about? It’s not like he confessed his undying love to me, he just thought he could get a blow job.
She shook her head and yanked my shirt from my hands. “Pay attention to me. No, not fucking Jag Steele. God. People, Roxy. Me. Anyone that tries to get in your personal space. Who the hell do you have?”
I stood there staring at her. She was right, but I didn’t care. I’d isolated myself on purpose. I shrugged and said, “I don’t need anybody.”
Layla fell silent, concern fogged her eyes, and she let out a heavy sigh. “I don’t know how you do it. You think keeping to yourself, not letting anyone in, you think that’s going to keep you from hurting? But all that’s going to do is make the pain more evident, Roxy. I mean, I don’t even really know you anymore.”
I knew she was concerned. I knew she loved me. But I couldn’t stand the thought of losing another damn thing in my life. I made horrible decisions and I would just rather be lonely and sad; pathetic and angry than vulnerable.
Layla tossed my shirt back at me. “You got to work?”
“Yeah.”
She started to turn, but stopped. “You know… Luke. That’s not how it’s supposed to be.”
My heart held back a few beats, and when it finally released the blood, an angry heat flooded my skin.
She was my little sister, but at times she was more mature than me. She knew what moments had ruined me, and she thought she could fix them, but she couldn’t. No one could.
I thought no one could fix me.
“I’m not fucking stupid, Layla. I know it’s not normal, but not a damn thing in our lives has been normal. I don’t know what we’ve done, but we must have been horrible people in a past life for the hell we’ve reaped in this one. Luke is another reason I say fuck off to everyone. You can’t trust anyone.”
“Roxy,” Layla stepped in my direction and I backed away from her. She stopped, her eyes falling to the floor. “I’m sorry. I just…I just want you to be happy.”
“I am fucking happy. Just shit full of happy.” I yanked my shirt over my head and went into the bathroom, slamming my door behind me. “Don’t you need to go or something? You’ve got friends that you’re supposed to be doing shit with, right? Go harass them. I’ve got to get ready for work.”
“Sor
ry,” she snapped. “I forget you’re a hard-up bitch. I’ll just leave you to your misery and self-pity,” she called through the door.
Seconds later, I heard my front door slam shut.
I let it all build up, finally giving into the tension in my chest by letting go of a loud scream.
Bracing myself against the sink, I stared at my reflection. I jerked my shirt up and rubbed my finger over the raised scar.
Who needs tattoos when you have eternal blemishes of what you’ve been through? My scars were my tattoos, my life’s story. Each one of the iridescent lines, circles, jagged cuts served as constant reminders of who I was, of what I’d come from, and what I’d never escape—of the reasons I refused to let anyone in.
Sometimes when I would let me emotions get the best of me, I’d have flashbacks. One doctor called it post-traumatic stress disorder, or something like that. I don’t know why they’d call it “post” because it still hurt; as far as I was concerned, it wasn’t over, it was still every bit as traumatic as when I lived it.
“Just get in the damn car, Roxy. Shit. I don’t need a mother. I’m perfectly fine to drive.” Luke stumbled off the curb and fell against his car.
I stopped, curling my arms around my frame to block out the chill of the breeze. I knew I shouldn’t get in the car with him, but I also knew I didn’t have a choice.
He used the hood to steady himself as he walked around to the driver’s side. When he reached the door he jerked it open and shouted at me. “Get in the fucking car!”
I slowly stepped off the curb and climbed into the car. Luke started the engine, and I could feel his eyes drilling into me.
We’d been dating for a year. He had been one of Sean’s friends, and after Sean’s death, I fell off the deep end. I had no desire to live. Life hated me; each breath I drew served as a form of punishment. A reminder that I had no one left who loved me, that I had no one to keep me safe.
One night I lost it and did something I had always sworn I would never do. I used. I’d never done anything besides smoke a joint, and that night I smoked heroin, with Luke.
Roxy (Pandemic Sorrow #3) Page 3
