“I'm on the pill,” she whispers, biting the black plug in my earlobe. I'm one part disappointed as fuck and two parts excited as hell. I got tested back in LA; during her stay in the hospital, so did she. We're clean. We're free to fuck like animals.
“Hell yeah,” I say as I tear her shirt off—never a difficult thing because you know, they're always all chopped up anyway.
Our mouths clash together like a splash of cymbals and our bodies connect like a brilliant riff, shredding up the inside of that little bunk like it's a palace made for two.
“Nice thong,” I smirk as I snap a thumb under the edge of Naomi's barely there panties. I'm trying my best not to stare at the bandage on her chest; babying this chick doesn't get me fucking nowhere, man.
“Nice dick,” Naomi whispers back as she reaches down and takes hold of my rigid cock, emphasizing my complete and total lack of underwear. It's like, why bother? My pants are so damn tight, I can barely fit anything else in there anyway.
She works the slick pre-ejac down my shaft with skilled fingers as I smirk at her in the dark, leaning in for another round of kissing that ends with me on top, her soft round body writhing beneath me. Foreplay is cool and all, but my lady just gave me carte blanche to bareback fuck her—and I'll be damned if I wait another second.
I reach down and spread those plush pink folds of hers, positioning my cock at the slick wetness between Naomi's legs, and then I'm in like fucking Flynn. Hot, guilt-free fucking warmth surrounds me as my rock goddess leans her head back into the pillows and moans with these throaty, ballad worthy sounds.
One hand slides up Naomi's naked body while the other supports my weight. I keep my body well away from hers—much as I'd like to slick us together skin to skin, I'm too pussyfooted about putting weight on her GSW. But damn, seeing the porcelain curves of her body, the Real Ugly tattoo on her belly, the silver skull piercing … almost as good. Almost.
My hand curves under Naomi's full breast, thumb tracing across the stiff peak of her nipple. She reacts to my touch like she's in heaven—or hell maybe—writhing, lifting her rib cage up off the black blankets beneath us. The sex is … well, fuck, but it makes us both forget for a little while that we're like rats trapped in a cage.
And I need to get us out, out, out. Both of us.
Something breaks in me and I grit my teeth, dropping down, propping myself up with my forearm, still avoiding that damn gunshot wound but needing to be closer to my one woman. She's right. So fucking right. I know that before this thing is over, somebody—whether it's Paulette or someone in Stephen's family or hell, even Brayden—is going to try to kill her.
“Fuck, Naomi,” I say as I drop my mouth to her neck, kiss away the little droplets of sweat from her jam session. They taste like salt and song, like music well played and riffs torn screaming, like passion and hate. “I love you, baby.”
“I love you, too,” she whispers as I bury my face in her hair and breathe her in, listening to the sounds her body makes beneath me, all those little cues that tell me to move faster or slower, deeper or gentler. She throws an arm above her head, the one with her new tattoo scrawled across the pale skin in black ink. I reach my own fingers up, caress the inked flesh lovingly as she turns her head into the pillows and bites down, coming hard around my cock, drenching me with wet heat.
I watch her face and body spasm beneath me, thrumming with ecstasy and abandon, dropping a thumb to trace across her lower lip. As Naomi gasps and pants, trying to recover her breath, I start to move again, more frantically, with more urgency.
I might be the God of Rock, but what's that worth if I can't protect my goddess?
I breathe out, drop my lips to hers and kiss her as I fuck away the worries for tonight, letting her second orgasm drag one out of me, spilling my seed inside of her and wishing that the first time we'd met, I'd fought like hell to keep her.
I lost Naomi once; I won't lose her again.
Nah, Turner motherfucking Campbell does not make the same mistake twice.
“I don't fuckin' know if I can do this,” I groan as I sink down into a squat and watch roadies setting up our fancy new set—complete with props, lights, confetti machines and all other sorts of rubbish that we didn't have on the last tour. They're movin' like rats up a drain pipe, whipped into shape by Paulette Washington's creepy clipboard wielding assistant with the never ending smile.
I bloody tell ya, that fuckin' slag never stops smiling.
I glance at her briefly and then pull my gaze away, haunted by this sickening sense of déjà vu. It's like America's ghost is watching over us on this new tour, determined to fuck it up just about as badly as she did the last one.
I clamp a hand over my mouth.
“I think I might puke,” I say as Ronnie squats down beside me, dressed up and looking damn good considering the circumstances. He had to leave Lydia behind, put dealing with Shannon's parents on the back burner, and all for what? Hard Rock Roots: The Tour.
Ten cities. Ten states.
A million fucking ways to die.
“You can do this,” he says, reaching out and curling his long fingers over mine where they're resting on the hot pink surface of my knee. I've got leggings on under a black jumper dress with Amatory Riot's teal logo splashed across the front. “I've heard you practice their songs a million times in the last few weeks. You don't think I missed you sneaking out at night to play the piano?”
I glance over at Ronnie, wondering if all that soul searching I did on the ivory keys was a mistake. Clearly, that's how Paulette got it in her crazy head to put me in Blair's place. If I hadn't let her know I had that skill, then maybe … But naw. I'd rather be here with my boyfriend/green card fairy anyway.
“Paulette is mad as a cut snake; I don't belong here,” I say as I turn my attention back to the stage, to the greenish glow casting a haze over all the props. Already, people are starting to file in and fill the lower portion of the theater. Up above, in the sky bar, drinks are flowing like water.
“Lola,” Ronnie says, squeezing harder, the purple heart tattoos on the back of his hand painted blue in the strange lighting. I stare into his warm brown eyes and let myself sink as deep as I can. “You belong onstage. You're a damn fine fucking musician. You didn't miss a single note last night when you jammed with Naomi.”
“Yeah, well, barring that, there's always the chance somebody'll murder me up there.”
Ronnie's face gets tight as he glances back at the stage. Behind us, cameras record our every move, mics strapped to our shirts record every sound. But I don't much give a fuck—unlike the cameras on our buses, these aren't on a live feed; the shots get edited before being posted online. Some poor underpaid techie will have to edit out my fears of murder.
Although I'm sure those pregnancy tests I bought will somehow end up on film. I made great goddamn sure that they were hidden in the bathroom next to the tampons, but I bet somebody'll find 'em anyway.
I stand up and Ronnie follows, but I still feel dizzy and disoriented, like this whole thing is just one big dream, surreal and colored in strange lights. I could wake up at any damn minute and find myself back in Queensland with my sister down the hall …
No.
I won't think about Poppet right now. If I do, then I really will upchuck all the hell over this damn stage. I take a step closer to Ronnie and let him wrap his arms around me, rest his chin on the top of my head with a sigh.
My first night performing with Amatory Riot and I can't even be happy about it. No. No fucking way. Not under these circumstances, not with their real keyboardist in a coma, lying half-dead in a hospital I myself just recently vacated.
Fuck a nun's dry cunt.
“You can do this,” Ronnie repeats as we stand there and watch the crowd swell to epic proportions, people jammed in the old theater like sardines, shoulder to shoulder, back to front, stretching far beyond my view from backstage. Already, it's hot as hell in here and the music blaring through the speakers is making my
teeth hurt. It's not that I don't want to perform; I do. Hell, I live to play, to wrap my fingers around a pair of drumsticks and hit my kit running, but … now I'm on keyboard. It's not that I don't know what I'm doing; I've just never played one live before.
I've also never been up the stick before, but I'm starting to suspect Ronnie's little stud seed mighta done the trick.
“Ready for the show tonight?” Brayden Ryker asks, popping up next to us like a ghost. To my credit, I don't actually jump out of my own skin.
“We gonna get shot at this time?” Ronnie asks with a sneer as he steps back from me and lights up a cigarette. The silver smoke teases my nostrils and my eyes get heavy as cravings race through me. But until I know for sure if Ronnie's going to be a dad to five fucking kids, I'm cutting all the good stuff—the coke, the vodka, even the ciggies.
“Now, why on earth would that happen?” Brayden asks, staring at us both with innocent green eyes, this big stupidly muscular bloke with two sleeves of floral tattoos. “The suspects in all the shootings have been apprehended.”
“Jesus Christ,” Ronnie snorts as the lie rolls right off Brayden's tongue like a goddamn turd. I tuck my hands into the giant pockets on my jumper and glare at him. He just smiles back at me, like he's really this trustworthy do-gooder. I don't buy it for a second.
“Fucking ranga,” I growl as Brayden moves away and disappears into the rest of the chaos backstage. Some brand-new band is opening for us tonight, but I can't remember their damn name. I watch as one of the roadies steps out to start tuning instruments.
“Almost time,” Naomi says, appearing next to me in a pair of black skinny jeans and this fancy teal bra with a bunch of little jangly bits on the front. That's it, no fucking shirt. Damn. She managed to out-slut me today. I must really be off my fuckin' game. “Almost time,” she whispers again, gritting her teeth as Turner swaggers up next to us and nods his chin all bro-like at Ronnie and me.
“'Sup?” he asks as he pauses and peeks out of the curtain with a tight almost-smile, nodding again like he's confirming the size of the crowd. Give ya one clue: gargantu-fucking-an. That's more than a shit ton and less than a gazilla-wad. You do the math.
“Just trying to decide how many people are going to die tonight,” I say as Naomi purses her lips and gives me a shared look of trauma. Since getting shot, we've started to become pretty goddamn good girlfriends. Our vagina camaraderie is now bordering on epic levels.
“Don't worry,” Naomi says with a deep breath and a self-assured smile, tucking a pair of dark shades onto her face, “I'm sure nobody will die tonight; they'll save that shit for the finale.”
The set-up for this tour is leagues beyond our last little jaunt across the country. To be honest, feels more like a damn circus act than a concert. There are flashing lights, colored strobes, a massive backdrop that quite frankly, makes me pretty fucking uncomfortable. On either side of me, stretching all the way up to the massive ceiling are massive pistols. Like, guns. Like, what the fuck? My girl got shot; my brother got shot; my other brother's girl got shot.
What kind of sick, sadistic, twisted, messed up fuck would put twenty foot pistols on either side of my throne?
But damn, one glance at Paulette Washington and I have my answer. Her grins are rictus and her face is all Beverly Hills fake as fuck. More than once since she made that announcement last month, I've strongly considered picking up a pistol of my own and putting one through her face.
I take a deep breath and spin my sticks as lights flicker and flash across the crowd. How can they even see us back here with silver strobes raping them in their goddamn eyes?
Still, the massive horde sneers from its dark platform below, clawing and screaming, absolutely feral with need. To be honest, I have no idea how this many people could afford to attend our show. I looked it up online: ticket prices started at a hundred and fifty bucks. Seriously? When Turner, Trey, Jesse, Travis, and I first started, our shows cost ten bucks. Ten. Less than a hardcover romance novel. And now? It's like it takes a sheikh's fortune to get in.
Laughter snakes through the mic, curling around the gathered crowd like a boa, scaled muscles coiled and tense. It's Turner, getting ready to strike.
“San Francisco,” he says with a long sigh, appearing out of stage left like a goddamn ghost, trailing across the darkened set—because that's what this is, a set—wrapped in shadows. The crowd goes absolutely fucking insane. And I mean, they went nuts when the four of us came out here, but this is … Jesus Christ.
Lights flicker on overhead, these crossing, spinning, twirling spotlights that highlight Turner, Jesse, Josh … Trey. I watch my friend from my platform between the two giant pistols, sitting up high enough that it feels like I'm a king presiding over his court. Since I'm essentially sober as fuck right now, I should be enjoying this moment, drinking it in with refreshed clarity and sharp senses.
Instead, I'm wondering if Trey's gonna be able to make it through the set, if somebody's going to die, if I'm going to head back to my bus to find yet another one of my children's mothers lying bloody on my bunk.
Let's just say this: if I had a ticket straight outta clusterfuck, I'd strap me and my buddies in and get the hell out of here. Even if it meant leaving all of this behind, giving up the fame and the money and the … well, you can never really give up the music. Rock 'n' roll is a blood disease; once it gets inside of you, it's best to lie back and let it have you. You'll never recover from that shit.
“Tonight's the first night of the Hard Rock Roots tour,” Turner starts, clearly warming up to something douche-y, but the crowd interrupts, throwing themselves forward in a wave that ripples against the fences in the front, against the bouncers in black Security jackets. Out as far as the eye can see, there are people brave enough to risk our bullshit, to stand in front of a band whose last gig ended up in guns, blood and death.
As if Paulette wasn't sadistic and fucked-up enough, red confetti explodes from the machines on either side of the stage and dances in curling ribbons down to the waiting hands of the crowd. That color … it's the perfect shade of fresh, red blood, staining my hands.
I close my eyes for a moment and seriously reconsider shooting her in the face.
“Thanks for coming out and, uh,” Turner chuckles again, rubbing his hand down his face, “hopefully none of you die here tonight.”
And then he lifts his hand up and my foot starts working the kick drum like it's possessed. Hell, I couldn't stop if I tried. We might be up on some bullshit stage with props and lights and confetti, and this might be a fuck of a lot less organic than our previous shows, but I follow that set list out to sea like a pirate captivated by gold.
“DO YOU SEE MY SCARS?” Turner screams into the mic, dragging a finger down his face as he crouches into the sound, letting it rip from his body like it's being torn out by force. I take a deep breath and start pounding out beats in 7/8 time signature while Trey's axe cuts in from my left and I feel this comfortable ease wash over me. Damn, but I almost forgot how good he was. Naomi's good, too, probably just as good—maybe better—but she's not Trey. Having him back with us like this is a goddamn blessing. “Do you care how fucking far I fell? Melting wax on the wings of Icarus, tumbling into the SEA!”
Sweat's pouring down my arms, dotting my tattoos, making them dance in the strange lights. It catches on the black sweatbands at my wrists as I tear into my snare drum, taking rim shots to accent the two and four counts, and ghost notes on all the other beats. I play my kick drum heel up, listening as it cries to be heard over the snare, fighting for supremacy as I rock with the rest of my band and try to just enjoy the damn moment.
Never know when it's going to be your last.
The crowd in front of me seems to move in slow motion as strobes break their faces into pieces and make them look even scarier than they already are; and they are fucking terrifying to me. So many people out there and yet it feels like we're all alone on this little island of hell, hiding in plain sight.
Deep breath, Ronnie.
At least for the time being, Asuka's voice is quiet inside my head, drowned by the voices of rock demons, silenced briefly by the rapid thumping of my heart for Lola Saints.
“Listen to me and take PRIDE in your privileged downfall; the bigger they are … THE HARDER THEY FUCKING FALL!”
Like that's not ominous as shit.
This is my first time ever going on concert with my brother. Weird, yeah, I know. What kind of idiot keeps stripping for a living when she could follow around her baby bro's rock band? Well, I'll tell you what: an idiot with a hell of a lot of hubris.
“Is this what you guys used to do after a show? Sit out here and smoke pot?”
Naomi chuckles as she passes the joint my way and I take it between two fingers, each nail painted a drastically different color. One's a hot pink and the other a hunter green. It's a little weird, like maybe something a serial killer would do, but whatever. I toss some cotton candy pink hair out of my face with one of my mass murderer painted hands and take a nice, long drag with the other.
“Bitch out from all the parties, turn down all the drugs and the groupies, and sneak out here to sit by the bay? Not a chance,” Dax says as he hops up next to me, sitting on the hood of one of Brayden's lackey's cars.
“Groupies? What fucking groupies?” Turner snorts as he smokes a cigarette, his hands still shaking from the adrenaline of the night, from the massive fucking crowd, and the killer music that reverberated all the way up through my heels and into my skull. I was in the VIP section, up in front of the metal fences, and … Jesus. I thought my eardrums might burst open and bleed red down the sides of my face, but I was excited for that moment to happen because I knew I'd never hear another sound as beautiful as Dax's drumming … or my baby bro's guitar. “You didn't have any fucking groupies, Little Drummer Boy.”
Get Hitched (Hard Rock Roots Book 9) Page 2
