Punishing Me (Shaft on Tour #6)

by Cat Mason

  “I should’ve never let things go as far as they have, and you know it.” The bus comes to a stop on its reserved concrete turn around spot. Jazzie squeals the second the brakes let off and the door swings open. “He should have been told immediately when the Doc first mentioned there was an issue. Now, it’s way beyond a simple conversation.”

  “I refuse to ruin this week. With Jared quitting, and the media shit storm Ireland has dumped in their laps, Henry needs to relax,” she counters, as we make our way down the porch steps and into the yard. “I’ll tell him everything when the time is right.”

  “Sure thing,” I say with a grin, “but, you’re gonna owe me.”

  “What the hell are you waitin’ for, Jazz? The welcome party is supposed to rush the bus!” Hunter shouts, leaping off the steps and onto the concrete. “Get over here, Squirt, give me some love.”

  Hunter barely has time to drop his bag before the tiny diva launches herself into his arms and takes him straight to his ass. “Hey,” he breathes, wrapping her up tight and dropping a kiss to the top of her head. “I was wonderin’ where my welcome party was.”

  The kid goes into a recap of every single detail Hunter has missed in the two weeks it’s been since we flew out to Minneapolis for the weekend to see one of the few small venue acoustic sets the band did for the tour. Most of which I’m sure he has heard a hundred times during their Skype calls every day, but he hangs on to every word she says.

  Me not so much.

  My eyes are glued to the woman struggling with her bags. Neon green Beats on her ears and a fuck off and die attitude written all over her face; Ireland is far from the girl I was paired up with while serving out my court ordered community service. Although I haven’t had much interaction with her since she joined the band a few months back, it doesn’t take much to see that she’s no longer the sweet, shy girl I used to shed my virgin status.

  I was a shit. I can admit that, but what seventeen-year-old boy wasn’t? I was also honest. What the hell would she have had to gain by being with me? She had a perfect life where there was no place for some punk kid from the wrong side of the tracks. I was the perfect, dirty little secret for her taste of rebellion. I knew the score. We both gave to each other, we both took, in the end I walked away because I knew it was what needed to be done.

  “How’s it hangin’, fucker?” Hunter asks, slapping me on the back and taking my focus off Ireland. “Brought you a present.”

  “Thanks,” I reply, flipping him off. “Not sure you can top the golf ball size anal beads you sent last month, or the giant stuffed crab that ended up in my bed,” I huff, glaring at Jasmine when she giggles. Turning my gaze back to Hunter, I shake my head. “You bribed her to torture me with stuffed animals. That’s pretty shady.”

  Hunter shrugs, a proud smile spreading across his face. Handing her off to Chase, he nudges me in the ribs with his elbow. “A box of cookie batter dipped double stuffed Oreos will get me just about anything with that kid. Besides, she thought it was funny too. Said you screamed like a little girl,” Hunter laughs, reaching out to bump her fist.

  Nodding my head, I can’t argue with that. “At least she shared those with me,” I nod, my mouth damn near watering at the thought of those little pieces of cream filled heaven.

  What can I say? Sweet, creamy filling is one of my weaknesses…

  “Fuckin’ piece of shit, cocksucker, shit piss, and fuck it all to hell.”

  Ignoring Hunter, and his promises to have topped himself this time, I make my way over to the bus while everyone else starts heading for the house. Ireland is bent over at the waist, struggling to lift her suitcase, backpack, and guitar case. “Got your hands full, huh?” I ask, grabbing her arm.

  She stills, her entire small frame going rigid the second my skin makes contact with hers. Spinning around, she straightens to her full height. Even in heels, Ireland still barely comes to my shoulders, but the look on her face is much bigger than the five-foot-whatever she is. Her eyes meet mine, the deep blue hardening immediately.

  “No thanks, houseboy. I’ve got it,” she spits, dismissing me with a wave of her black painted fingernails.

  “I see that,” I toss out, sarcastically. “How about you put the claws away and I’ll help you out.”

  “Let’s get something straight here, Nicky,” she purrs. The use of my childhood nickname makes me grit my teeth. Damn her. She grins, knowing that she has gotten to me and that does nothing but push me more. “I wouldn’t ask for your help even if I were burning alive and your dick was a fire hose.”

  Yep, she absolutely hates me.

  “Whoa,” I chuckle. Holding up my hands, I take her in as she stands before me. The fire I see blazing behind those blues has me smiling. “Haven’t you grown into a hot, little handful,” I say, raking my eyes up and down her body, absorbing every curve.

  “Oh sweetie,” she purrs again, arching her eyebrow. “I’m plenty more than a handful. You could never handle me.”

  “Oh sweetie,” I mock her, “I have.”

  “Suuuuuure you did,” she chuckles, sarcastically. Amusement dances in her eyes and it pisses me off.

  “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” I growl. Tired of her games and snarky comments, I yank the bags from her grip, leaving her to carry her guitar case.

  “Nothing.” Adjusting her grip on her case, she makes her way over to the tiny blue car she parked here before leaving on the bus. “I don’t have time to stroke your ego like everyone else, Big Mack. I’ve got shit to do.”

  Hot on her heels, I follow her over and yank open the back door before tossing her shit inside. “You know what?” I ask, slamming the back driver’s side door and caging her in. Her eyes widen in shock, her hands fly up defensively, flattening against my chest. “I didn’t ask you to stroke shit, brat. I was attempting to be nice,” I force out through gritted teeth.

  “Who are you callin’ a brat, asshole?” she snaps, shoving at my chest.

  “What are you gonna do about it, brat?” I ask, grinning down at her. Stepping closer, I pin her tightly between me and the car.

  Ireland’s breath accelerates; the rise and fall of her chest as it presses against mine through her low cut tank top would have my full attention if my eyes weren’t already glued to her mouth. The dark red gloss on those plump lips makes me ache to feel them wrapped around my cock while she stares up at me from her knees.

  Leaning into her, I reach down and grab the driver’s door handle, yanking it open for her. My eyes close as I inhale her scent. The sweet smell of honeysuckle on her skin makes me want to see if she tastes as good as she smells.

  “Mack!” Henry yells, startling us both. I shift our bodies, causing Ireland to drop down into the seat.

  “Thank fuck,” she says, breathlessly. The engine roars to life and I barely move out of the way before she yanks the door closed and drives away.

  Yanking a hand through my hair, I try to push the thoughts of fucking Ireland’s mouth out of my head as I make my way into the house. The calm and quiet of the last few weeks is gone, replaced by the chaos of having everyone back home where they belong. It’s loud, it’s busy, but it’s home and I couldn’t imagine being anywhere else but consumed by the craziness that we all seem to create when everyone is under one roof.

  “Things been good here?” Henry asks, coming up behind me.

  Stilling immediately, I turn to face him. Though we butt heads, a lot, I have never been afraid of Henry’s reaction to how I conduct myself in a given situation. Until now. My actions, lately, won’t be earning anything other than the imprint of his size fifteen boot permanently stamped on my face.

  “Oh yeah,” I say, trying to read his expression. “Everything’s been great.”

  Slipping off his sunglasses, he slips them into the pocket of his black t-shirt. His face softens, the corners of his mouth quirk up in a smile. “Look, I know it’s no secret that I was uneasy about separating the group as a whole for tours. And, it’s
been no secret that Ireland sure as shit hasn’t made touring easy on us this time around.” Shaking his head, he blows out a breath. “I gotta admit I was sure I’d pull in the driveway and be met with a clusterfuck.”

  “Oh yeah?” I ask, laughing nervously. “What were you expecting, orgies during naptime and vodka spiked juice boxes?”

  Henry laughs, scrubbing a hand over his face. I know touring with the band is stressful, but in the time I have been with the band, I have never seen it wear on him this way. Protecting everyone, taking on the safety of others in the craziness of fans and media, is no small task. As much as I know I need to pull him aside and tell him everything, I can’t bring myself to do it. Rae’s right, Big Man needs time to unwind before he snaps like a rubber band.

  “Dude, is that so much to ask?” Hunter blurts, stepping into the doorway that leads into the den. Taking a long swallow from his beer bottle, he shakes his head. “I thought we were friends and here you are not planning orgies for naptimes. You’re a horrible friend. Now that I’m chained to monogamy’s perfectly waxed pussy, someone has to be making a dent in all the ass I’m not tappin’, or else it offsets the balance of nature. Henry, what is wrong with this fucker?” He laughs at his own words, shaking his head in amusement. “See what I did there?”

  “Yeah, yeah,” I roll my eyes. “I’m the fucker who can’t properly use his fucker because he’s babysittin’ the baby bakin’ babysitter and the rocker rugrats.”

  “Jesus, fuck,” Hunter curses, pushing off the doorjamb and heading for me. “What’s that?”

  “What?” I ask, taking a step back.

  “This!” he shouts, jabbing me in the chin. “What is this?”

  “It’s my face, asshole,” I fire back, ready to drop kick his balls up into his eardrums.

  “No,” he replies, holding up his fingers. “Is this glitter?” he asks in disbelief. “Is this pink glitter on your face?”

  “It’s purple!” Jazzie screams, her pink tutu swishing furiously as she stomps up the hallway. Bits, Hunter’s annoying fucking wiener dog, scrambles around her, headed straight into the den. Barking like the furious Rottweiler he thinks he is, he rounds the corner, nearly taking out a potted plant and a floor lamp without missing a beat. “Mack wears the blue feathers when we play dress-up and have our tea parties. He can’t wear the pink glitter!” She continues her tirade before slapping her palm against her forehead dramatically. “You’re gonna drive me to drink.”

  Ignoring the barking and shouting from the other room, Hunter and Henry eyes go straight to the pint sized diva tapping her cheetah print converse on the hard wood floor. Folding her arms over her chest, she glares at the three of us.

  “Drive you to drink?” Hunter asks, staring blankly at his daughter.

  Jazz shrugs. “That’s what Mack says to Rae every time…”

  “No, Bits!” Chase screams, interrupting Jazz, just as something, no doubt expensive and made of glass, crashes to the floor. “Dammit! Come here, you little shit.”

  Scrubbing a hand over his face, Henry sighs. “Guess the dog didn’t get the email on it being a calm and relaxing week, huh?”

  “Big Man, you know Bits can’t read,” Jazzie scolds, before she bolts into the next room to save the dog with Hunter hot on her heels for backup.

  “Welcome home, Big Man,” I say, patting him on the back before heading down the hallway to my room for the beers I have been saving in my mini fridge all week.

  Chapter Four

  Mmm Meaty

  Ireland

  “What an asshole!” I scream at the windshield, gripping the steering wheel so hard it makes my fingers throb. Slamming on the accelerator, I fly down the highway, needing as much distance as possible to get clarity.

  Dominick has always had a way with getting under my skin. I like to compare him to a rash one would get from a shady toilet seat. He leaves me irritated and desperate for a shower. Today, he pushed the invisible line that has been drawn between us since I joined the band.

  Over the last few months, he and I have had a great silent agreement. He stays out of my way and I pretend he doesn’t exist. It has worked rather well, if you ask me.

  That is, until today, when the asshole decided to do something ‘nice’ and help me carry my bags to my car.

  I have no desire to make nice with him. Call it impolite or bad manners, but I see no reason for me to be courteous to the bastard and pretend I have anything for him other than a very strong hatred and an intense desire to relocate his junk from between his legs to between his eyes.

  Since both heads have to share that tiny brain anyway, I’d simply be making it easier to relay messages between the two.

  By the time I get home, I have loosened my grip on the wheel and have allowed myself to calm down. Most importantly, I have stopped plotting Dominick’s slow and painful death at the hands of some sadistic, third world hitman and his rusty tool filled torture chamber.

  Leaving the heavy suitcase for tomorrow, I grab my bag and guitar case from the backseat. Making my way up the cobblestone walk, I stare up at the large, brick home I grew up in. It would be intimidating if I hadn’t lived here all my life.

  To me, though, it’s just a house…

  “I’m home,” I call out when the usual beeping of the security system doesn’t instantly greet me before letting the heavy front door close behind me. Dumping my bags by the door, I toss my keys onto the entryway table and scan the dark, eerily silent house for signs of life. “Hello? Mom? Dad? Serial killers waiting in the wings?” I ask, because you never know.

  I probably have better chances at the serial killers being here than my parents…

  Since no one is jumping out to welcome me home or hack me to pieces, I flip on the hall light. Kicking out of my shoes, I make my way to the kitchen. My eyes go straight to the dry erase board my parents use to plan every detail of their lives on. The words ‘dinner with investors’ is written in red beside today’s date.

  In fact, every date this week is packed full of lab and clinical trial schedules, all ending with the wining and dining of investors at five star restaurants. There is only one thing missing from the schedule. Me. “They forgot I was coming home,” I sigh, sagging onto the wooden barstool beside the island.

  Yeah, I’m disappointed, but can’t say I’m shocked. Yes, they are my parents, but they have always been too busy for me. Which is why my trips home have been few and far between the last few years. No real reason to come home to an empty house, is there? Hell, I wouldn’t be here longer than it took to shower and change if I wasn’t, at least, attempting to stay off the media radar to keep everyone off my back.

  As a kid, I learned to be independent and to fill the empty hours by reading, movies, and when I was old enough, volunteer work. I stayed as busy as possible, leaving very little time to dwell, as if that would have made a difference.

  My father always said the work they were doing would change the world someday. On the rare occasions I complained, I would be reminded how I had my health and anything my heart desired could be bought with the flash of a wad of cash or black plastic card. I often felt guilty for crying because I wanted parents who would tuck me in at night. The money and status meant nothing to me. I didn’t want to be ungrateful for the life I was given; though, a lot of the time, I was. I know there were people less fortunate than me, but I would have given anything to be a normal kid on the playground. Sadly, Stephanie and Brady Tyler never gave me the two things I really wanted: siblings to fill this big empty house, and the attention and time of my parents.

  Eventually, I learned to adapt. I went in search of the things I longed for and somewhat sated that need. My volunteer time at the community center, possibly the closest I came to having anything resembling a family. Every day, I’d look forward to those hours in which I could pretend I had a loud house full of brothers and sisters before going home to the silence of my reality.

  I was accepted and that was all I have ever wanted.<
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  Opening the fridge, I cringe at the labeled containers of pre-planned meals. Meatloaf Monday, Turkey Taco Tuesday, a tub of my father’s favorite turkey chili, and nothing that resembles anything vegan friendly. No vegetables in the crisper, not even an apple or banana in the fruit basket on the island.

  Digging through the freezer, I finally manage to find a bag of French fries. “At least I can count on Dad keeping one thing you can classify Vegan friendly around here.” Digging out a baking sheet from the bottom cabinet, beside the stove, I cover it with aluminum foil before arranging some of the fries on it. Grabbing the Rosemary and Thyme from the rack, I give them a little spice before putting them in the oven, since I am sure the grease in the fryer is tainted with the dead animals my dad has no problem eating.

  While I wait on my food, I grab a juice from my bag and my notepad to make a list of things to get from the store. No way I’ll survive eating nothing but French fries all week.

  Just as I think I’ve gotten everything written down that I’ll need, I hear the front door swing open. “Darling, did you forget to set the alarm before we left this morning?” my mother’s voice echoes from up the hall.

  “No,” my father replies, sounding certain. “Wait, I know I didn’t leave the lights on. Stephanie, this is just like that Supernatural show. We need to get to the kitchen for the salt. It could be a demon.”

  I can’t help laughing at the ridiculousness. Leave it to my dad’s head to go straight to demons inhabiting his house, instead of his offspring. “Or, it could be your daughter,” I deadpan, pushing to my feet and stepping into the hallway.

  Their eyes land on me, widening in surprise and realization. “Ireland,” my mother says, hanging her jacket on one of the hooks beside the door. “Demons,” she laughs, shaking her head at my father. Walking towards me, she wraps me up in her arms and sighs. “I wasn’t expecting you, Sweetheart. I wish you’d call and let us know when you plan to come home.”