Punishing Me (Shaft on Tour #6)
Page 8
Who the hell would wanna shoot 8-ball with a rope for the rest of your life?
No one fucking wants that!
“I’m glad you decided to stay here with us for the rest of this week, Ireland,” Henry says to her with a sincere smile. “The girls have your room ready and you can go on in and make yourself at home. Guys are jammin’ and the girls are in there gabbin’ about baby shit. If you need anything, anything at all, it’s Mack’s mission to take care of you.”
“Uh,” she and I both say in unison.
“Anything,” he repeats, patting my shoulder as he passes us. Winking at Ireland, he heads back towards the garage where Brannon sits in the pedal car Henry built for him for Christmas. “Ready, little man?” he asks, causing Brannon to bounce in the seat and grin from ear to ear.
“Funny how I don’t remember agreeing to shit,” Ireland says, glaring at me. Crossing her arms over her chest, the look in her eyes is frigid. “This borders on kidnapping.”
“Woman,” I fire back, rolling my eyes. “You’re not tied up or gagged, though I wouldn’t mind gagging your chatter hole just so you’d shut the fuck up. Wanna go to a hotel? Hit the bricks, fancy pants,” I smirk, leaning into her body. She tenses, going rigid as stone. I make her uncomfortable, and I like that. She is a pain in my ass. The last thing I want is for her to breathe easy while giving me shit. “I’ve got no problem packin’ a bag and holdin’ up in a hotel suite. In fact, let’s do it. I could use a few days with nothing to do but relax, eat, and drink beer while having total control over the remote.”
To my surprise, she doesn’t back up or turn away from me. Instead, Ireland takes a step closer to me, putting us toe to toe. The look in her eyes says she isn’t backing down an inch. The fire burning behind the deep blue irises is promising. Nothing about this look is something I would have seen from the seventeen-year-old, Ireland Tyler.
Her face scrunches up in repulsion. “A fate worse than death,” she mutters, rolling her eyes. “Hiding out for days, alone in a hotel suite with only you for company, sounds about as much fun as lubing up with rubbing alcohol and fucking myself in the ass with a razor blade dildo.”
“Careful, you’ll hurt my feelings,” I say with a wink. “Do you wanna make me cry? Because I will.”
Her brow arches, and she pats my arm. “Relationship goals.” Shoving by me, she pushes her hair over her shoulder. “Dump my stuff in whatever room is mine. I’ll deal with it later.” The long brown and purple strands swish back and forth with every step she takes toward the front porch. My eyes stay glued to her ass, tightly encased in dark wash jeans. The light bounce it has, and the sassy sway in her hips sucks me in.
Forcing myself to turn away toward the car, I realize two things. One, she’s stubborn as hell, but so am I. I may have bitten off more than I can chew this week, but I’ll be damned if I let anyone see that shit. Dominick Bradford rises to every challenge, even a smart ass with a chip on her shoulder and a mile-high grudge. Two, she didn’t break my dick because the sight of her ass, as she walks away from me, has him rising too.
Chapter Ten
Strut Your Butt
Ireland
It is loud and chaotic, but not in a bad way. I have to admit I have enjoyed every minute I have spent here, for the most part. Everything about the enormous mansion my bandmates call home is warm and inviting. It’s always full of laughter, a place you could never bored or lonely. Someone is always up to something. Shenanigans and pranks are a constant. It’s nothing like my house when I was growing up, that’s for sure.
It definitely beats an empty hotel room, but I’ll be damned if I tell Dominick that.
As if he needs another reason for his conceited ass head to swell any bigger than it already is…
Even though I could be mad at Dominick for the tactics he used to get me here, I haven’t had much time to dwell on it. Having been here two days now, I have spent most of my time writing lyrics or switching up some of the harmonies with Chase and the guys on some of their older songs. The second Jasmine comes in from school, she has to tell me, and everyone else, all about her day while double fisting cookies and downing tiny jugs of chocolate milk with some rabbit on it.
Just as I begin to feel cabin fever start to sneak up on me, and the urge to get out and go has my fingers itching to grab a set of keys and just drive, I am told to be ready to leave. Once I pinch myself to make sure I am not dreaming or hallucinating, I throw on my shoes, grab my stuff, and am out the door to the car so fast I guarantee I have set land and speed records.
Not that I had places I needed to be or pressing stuff to do, I didn’t. But, when you’re used to coming and going as you please, and you’re told to stay put, you suddenly have a mile long to do list that has you working a traffic pattern into the rug while you pace the room.
At this rate, by the time we leave on the bus, I’ll have worked my initials into the rug in front of my bed.
“Come on,” Dominick says, climbing out of the car. “Henry and Cam are right. The media heat on you must’ve died down. We haven’t been followed.”
I haven’t heard a word from my parents. Though, after the argument I had with my mother, and her cold dismissal, I can’t say I expected to. I ruined her chances at drawing worldwide attention to her cause, and that, in her mind, is an unforgivable betrayal. The media storm has calmed to a dull roar a lot quicker than any of us thought it would. Only a few pictures, repeat articles that grasp at straws remain on stalker media sites, and a few sleazy tabloids, that spout bullshit anyway, are all that really remain.
That’s how it works. One bad move can put you on everyone’s front page, but there’s always someone waiting in the wings to replace you with their own fuck up. My dinner fiasco was quickly replaced by a frontman rehab scandal.
His heroin induced meltdown at a brothel turned out to be my lucky break from the headline hounds.
“What are we doing here anyway?” I ask, stepping onto the curb in front of a shop called Retroradical.
“Camaron gives the orders,” Dominick shrugs, stepping onto the curb beside me. “All I do is carry them out. But,” he smirks, “I’ll bet it has something to do with shopping…”
“Hmm,” I say, rolling my eyes. “She couldn’t get you a new personality on Amazon, huh?”
“Smart ass woman,” he mutters under his breath. “You’re a bassist, not a comedian.”
The double doors fly open, out steps a man with brown hair that is all swept to the right side of his face. The pale pink v-neck shirt he has on is tucked into his perfectly fitted dark gray jeans. The black Fedora on his head perfectly matching the watch on his wrist and leather boots on his feet. “I’m Trey, I’ll bet every tube of Decay Revolution lip gloss in my bag that you’re Ireland,” he says, smiling at me. “Girl, I’m gonna turn that flunk rock princess look you’re workin’ with into something show stopping.”
“Wait, what” I ask, staring blankly at Trey. “Camaron sent us here for a makeover?”
“Uhh,” Trey says, before his eyes move to Dominick. “You? Yes. Him? Honey, I may be the gay goddess of all things glam and gorgeous,” he says, scrunching his nose at Dominick and shaking his head. “But, I do magic, not miracles.”
Dominick shakes his head, only looking mildly insulted, but says nothing. Trey hooks my arm with his and leads me through the door of the shop. Racks and shelves are all lined with clothes, shoes, and accessories. In the far corner, there is a gold chaise lounge alongside full-length mirrors and a brightly lit vanity lined with containers of makeup brushes. The entire place looks like old school Hollywood Glam. There’s even a strip of red carpet that runs the length of the store.
“I cannot tell you how happy I was to see Shaft in my appointment book today,” he says, scooping up things without even checking the sizes. “It’s times like those that’ll put an extra bit of butt in your strut, honey.”
“Do you do a lot of work for the band?” I ask, following him back toward the dressin
g rooms.
Yanking open a long black curtain, Trey hangs clothes on a hook, then places more on the red leather bench seat inside. His eyes meet mine, and he grins, arching a brow at me. “No. So far, it’s just been the girls,” rubbing his hands together, his grin turns into wicked smile. “If I ever get those delicious men in here, I’ll burn everything they own and not sell them one goddamn thing,” he winks, yanking the curtain closed.
Shifting the hangers, I look through the dresses, shirts, and pants hanging in front of me, trying to decide what I like and want to try first. “Rule one, don’t judge clothes on their hanger. Put it on, strut it out in front of the mirrors, then decide.”
“Why isn’t there a mirror in here?” I ask, glancing at the bare three walls of the dressing room.
“Because this isn’t a solo project,” Trey responds, yanking open the curtain. “The average woman can see a dress on a hanger, love it enough to max out her Visa, then dismisses it in the dressing room before it’s even all the way on her body.” Rolling his eyes, he smacks his lips. “All because of a single piece of reflective glass.”
“Okay…”
“It took more than one person to build the pyramids.,” he explains, adjusting his hat. “Takes nine, perfectly beautiful slices to make a large pizza, and took two people in a bed one night back in the seventies to create the delicious creature that is Matt Bomer, honey,” he says, fanning himself with one hand. “Trust me on this, nothing beautiful or fabulous is a solo job.”
Winking at me, Trey yanks the curtain closed again. Shoving off my clothes, I change into the first dress hanging on the hook. The black and red strapless, satin number clings to every inch of me until it fans out at my hips. The red skirt, covered in black skulls flares out, puffed out with layers of fluffy black tulle.
Opening the curtain, I am met instantly by Trey. “Put these on,” he says, placing a pair of black Christian Louboutin’s, covered in silver spikes, on the carpet in front of me.
“You’re the boss.”
Slipping my feet into the shoes, I make my way down the red carpet, heading for the lit up mirrors. “Move those hips, and ass, girl. “Yessssss!” Trey shouts, like he is head cheerleader at the Super Bowl. “Work that mirror like it’s gonna buy you dinner!” Trey shouts, making me jump.
My eyes snap straight ahead, taking in my reflection. With each step, my smile grows. The dress moves with me, the skirt swishing with each sway of my hips. “Wow,” I breathe, turning to take it in from every angle.
“And then some,” Trey says, dropping to his knees and fluffing out the bottom of the skirt. His eyes meet mine in the mirror. Springing to his feet again, he gathers my hair in his hands and holds it up off my neck. “Flawless. Oh girl, you’re a dime. A perfect ten.”
“You think so?” I ask, but whether Trey answers me or not, I couldn’t say.
My eyes wander down the mirror, landing on Dominick’s reflection. Leaning against the wall beside the gold chaise lounge, his eyes are locked on me. His chest rises and falls, calmly, but the look in his eyes is anything but. The hunger in his eyes as he watches me has butterflies flapping in my stomach. A feeling that I haven’t felt in a very long time.
Not since I was seventeen.
I am far from innocent, and it’s no secret that I have had my fair share of sexual exploits, but that’s where it always ended. Fuck, get off, part ways. The system is simple and yet it has been effective. No one has ever made me feel the way Dominick ever did. I made sure of that.
All these years, it has been easier to hate him. I balled up all the hurt and pain, locked it in a box, refusing to let it out. Sadly, it seems, being this close to him has made it harder to keep that box safely latched. If only getting him out was as easy as letting him in had been. I wish he was capable of feeling even a fraction of how much he hurt me, or could see any of the damage he had caused.
Instead, I’m sure he’d dismiss it now, just as he did then.
His mouth opens just enough for his tongue peek out and run across his lips. Lips that I know feel shockingly sweet and soft across my skin. I have dreamt of that mouth more times that I care to admit. Even now, I can’t escape the memories of how I felt the first time he kissed me.
However, nothing is sweet about the way he is currently staring down every inch of me like a ravenous predator.
Squaring my shoulders, I shake off the butterflies and memories. Smiling at Trey, I nod. “I guess this one is a yes.” Turning, I head back for the dressing room to change into another of the outfits he picked for me. Slipping out of the dress and placing it back on the hanger, I remind myself that Dominick Bradford doesn’t exist to me. Mack is just a man doing his job.
Nothing more.
Digging through the items hanging in front of me, I smile at the jet-black fabric on the hanger. Slippng it over my head, I pull it down my body. Closing my eyes, I take a breath to get myself together and step out.
A growl that I know has to have come from Dominick has my eyes flying open. I stumble in my heels, shuddering at the animalistic noise. Luckily, Trey is right there, grabbing my arm to steady me. My focus goes to the mirror, and I nearly stop breathing. The tight, black mini dress barely covers my ass and fits like a glove. An oval cut out on each hip shows off the music note tattoos I got on my eighteenth birthday.
“Not happening,” Dominick says, clearing his throat.
Meeting his eyes, I bat my lashes innocently. “You don’t like this one, huh?”
He shakes his head. Smoothing down the front of the dress, I turn to the side and stare into the mirror. “Hmm. Guess it’s a good thing I didn’t ask for your opinion. Isn’t it?” I ask, my fingers running along the cut out in the fabric, skimming over my ink. “This is a yes. Don’t wrap it up either, I’m wearing it out,” I tell Trey, but my eyes never leave Dominick’s in the mirror.
After nearly three hours, and varying degrees of annoyed and broody Dominick, all my other outfits are being packed up in gold tissue paper and red boxes. By the time Trey had paired up shoes and accessories to go with each outfit, I was feeling like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman.
Minus the whole being a hooker thing…
“It was so much fun working with you today, Ireland,” Trey says, hugging me at the door. “You come back again soon. Oh,” leaning in, he plants a kiss on each of my cheeks. “Tell those gorgeous bandmates of yours I’ll be waiting for them to come see me too. With open arms, open legs, and if need be, an open mouth,” he says, with a wink. “Mmm,” he purrs, fanning himself dramatically. “That Hunter, mmm, he makes me thirsty.”
In the car, tension hangs thick and heavy between Dominick and I. He says nothing to me, but I can tell by his jerky movements, and how tightly he squeezes the steering wheel with his left hand as he drives, that he is angry. His jaw ticks as he stares out the windshield, everything about his body language is closed off and unapproachable.
Crossing my leg over the other, I turn toward the window, figuring the scenery flying by is better than the broody ass man beside me. Though, every second I spent in front of the mirror he was watching me like a hawk. However, he didn’t say another word after the dress comment. Part of me wonders if he was afraid of what I would do, had he kept criticizing my clothing choices.
That doesn’t mean I couldn’t see what affected him…
And I was more than happy to let the asshole look his fill and eat his heart out.
Each time I caught him watching me, his breathing changed and everything about his body stance shifted. With every hard, uncomfortable swallow he made, my smile got bigger. My face damn near split in two when I caught him adjusting himself. Guess my knee shot to the cock, the other day, didn’t fully put him out of commission.
Dominick weaves the Mustang in and out of the early afternoon traffic. Slamming on the gas, he passes an eighteen wheeler before skirting around a Greyhound bus and a minivan. “What the hell is your problem?” I ask, tightening my seatbelt. “Slow down.”
“Dominick!” I shout, my voice sounding shaky. Turning in the seat as best I can to face him, I grip his arm, digging my fingers in his biceps. “Either slow the hell down, or let me out of the goddamn car!”
Ducking into a mutli-level parking garage, I can barely make out the concrete barriers and parked cars flying by in a whirl, as we climb to an empty level. Slamming on his brakes, Dominick shoves the shifter into park and flings open the door.
Before I can catch my breath, he’s around the front of the car, yanking open the passenger door, and is on me. Undoing the seatbelt, he pulls me from the car so fast my heels don’t even touch the ground. Kicking the door closed, he grips my forearms with both hands. Turning us, he pushes my back to the concrete beam.
“How long are you planning to keep punishing me, Ireland?” he growls, pinning me with his icy stare. “I’m all for jokes and shit, but that’s not the game you’re playin’. Is it?”
“Let go,” I ground out, trying to shift my body to get a knee shot to his balls. This time I’ll make sure the fuckers come flying out his nose.
“Oh no,” he says, stepping closer so that I am pinned tightly between him and the beam. Kicking my legs apart, he steps between them, taking away any chance I have to hit him where it hurts. “You won’t be pullin’ that shit again.”
“Get away from me!” I scream, fighting against his grip.
“Too late for that, now, isn’t it?” he replies, his face so close to mine that I feel the warmth of his breath. My breath hitches, lodging in my chest. Sliding his hand up my arm, and into my hair, a slow, knowing smile spreads across his face. Those goddamn dimples totally exposed, only making it harder to breathe, and impossible to think. The touch of his rough fingers over my skin sends a tingle down my spine. An electric current begins pulsing throughout my entire body, so intense it has my toes curling inside my shoes. “Don’t push me, little girl,” he growls, wrapping my hair around his fist and yanking the strands. “The fire you’re playing with here is only going to get you burned.”