His hand slides around my back and drags my zipper down before he reaches up to my shoulders and pushes the wet soppy fabric of my dress to the floor. It falls easily off of my curvy body, the liquid heavy cotton hitting the floor with a splatter of warm water.
I'm standing there panting, wearing nothing but my pink Docs and my bra when Cope glances at Michael for a moment and then back to me, his expression impossible to read. What is happening right now? Is he changing his mind? Am I? Are we still together?
Copeland picks up me with his hands under my ass, the same way he just did in the bathroom, picking up right where we left off. But this time, instead of my back hitting the wall, I feel myself press against Michael's hard, warm body. He's so strong, so immovable, he may as well be a fucking wall.
Cope's warm wet hands slide along my thighs, gripping me under the knees, while Michael takes hold of my hips. I wrap my arms around the drummer's neck and lean into Beauty in Lies' lead guitarist, his warm lips on my neck, kissing and sucking at my wet skin, drawing gasps from my throat.
Pressed between the two men, I can feel two distinct heartbeats, one against my chest and one against my back. Cope's is frantic, like the flurried beating of his kit, and Michael's is low, strong, steady.
With one hand, Copeland reaches between us and guides his shaft to my opening, penetrating the slick, swollen heat of my sex. I'm so ready for him that he slides right in, no resistance, filling me up and capturing my lips at the same moment.
I'm too busy kissing him, tasting him, praying that what he was saying to me means he's changed his mind, that he really will give this a try, to notice Michael grabbing some lube from the bathroom cabinet—these boys have it stashed everywhere—and slicking up his shaft. He finds my ass as easily as Cope found the liquid heat of my cunt, pushing in slowly, carefully. I'm so warmed up from my make out session in the bathroom that all I feel is pleasure, this tight heavy fullness, like my body's stretched to its limit and enjoying every second of it.
My fingers dig into Cope's wet auburn hair, fisting tight, pulling his face to mine as I rock my hips, pleasuring the three of us with the rhythm of my body. I feel like one of the guys when they're onstage, confident, sure of myself. Michael and Copeland are mine to play, the notes escaping their throats a song of my own design.
I've never been confident when it comes to sex before. No, when Cope first asked me that awful question—is there something in particular that you like?—I had no idea how to answer him. Kevin didn't ask me questions like that. Hell, he didn't care enough about me to even think about questions like that. Sex with him was rough, clumsy, oftentimes boring.
A week with these guys though … it's been the perfect environment to explore my sexuality.
“Lilith,” Copeland whispers against my mouth, his eyes opening halfway, the lids heavy and drooping with desire. I feel weightless suspended between these two men, their strong arms sharing the weight of my burden like it's nothing at all. Together, they've got no problem keeping me afloat.
But I do like the strain of their arm muscles, feeling my way up Cope's wet biceps, to the definition in his deltoids, all those perfectly masculine muscles shaped from making art, and not from working out. It's unbelievably attractive to me, knowing that there are two talented artists inside of me.
“Is this good for you, Lil?” Michael asks, his lips against my ear, the sound of his voice so foreign and strange, so new. It's exciting, hearing him speak to me like that, talk to me while he's buried so intimately inside my body. I want him to keep talking to me, keep fucking me, until his voice and his body are as familiar to me as my own.
“This is wonderful,” I whisper, my gaze focused on Copeland as Michael's hands tighten on my hips and he pushes us all back into the wall. Cope leans into the grey painted surface as Michael's hips surge like pistons, taking over the song like he does during a guitar solo. Lead guitarist, huh. Used to being in charge.
My attention stays with Copeland, my pelvis pushing against his, grinding my clit to Michael's new rhythm. The lace of my pink bra scrapes against Cope's chest as my breathing picks up speed, the kisses on the back of my neck helping to send me over the edge and into a violent orgasm. I arch my neck back and gather Cope's head against me, my hair sliding against Michael's face as he groans into my ear, the sounds almost as wild and ragged now as they were yesterday, when he broke his yearlong celibacy against the kitchen counter.
The boys take a little longer to find their own conclusions to our shared pleasure, but the slip and slide of their bodies doesn't stop feeling good when the shock of my orgasm passes. No, it just keeps getting more intense, the slickness of my sex tender and aching, the two cocks working in unison to massage that fine veil of tissue between them. There are so many nerve endings there that my brain feels scrambled from the rush of sensations—Michael's hard hot body behind me, Cope's wet warm muscles in front of me, the bestial churn of their cocks moving in and out of me.
I swear, when I close my eyes, I see rainbows of vibrant color.
That's what an orgasm looks like to me: a fucking rainbow over grey clouds, wild and rebellious against a stormy sky.
Michael's the next person to find his archway of color, pressing harder against me and Cope, grinding us into the wall as he gasps sharply, biting down on my earlobe and making me whimper.
“Shit,” he murmurs, still holding me up but sliding out of me, giving my body over to Cope.
His mouth presses against my ear as I wedge the soles of my Docs up against the wall, using the immovable strength of Michael behind me as leverage as I curl my fingers around Cope's shoulders and start to ride him.
Those turquoise eyes watch me with a little shock, a little wonder, as I grind my pelvis against his, his muscular body trapped between my thighs, my ass held up by Michael's hands. He takes the majority of my weight as I fuck Copeland into the wall and make him come with a hard, violent shudder. It takes over his entire body, drops those heavy lids over his Caribbean blue eyes, and spills his seed inside of me.
I'm still panting, my legs shaky and weak as the boys set me down between them, my boots loud against the wood floors beneath my feet.
“The meet and greet,” Michael says and then lets out a string of almost unintelligible curse words as he sweeps some red hair over my shoulder, and I glance back, finally able to look at him, at dilated pupils over purple irises, parted lips, and a sweat streaked face. If he goes back to the VIP get-together looking like that, there won't be a person there who questions what he was up to back at the bus.
“You two should go,” I say, bending down to gather my wet dress up off the floor.
I look right at Cope as I rise to my feet, clutching the fabric against my chest.
I have no idea where we're at with this conversation, but … it can wait an hour or two.
“Lilith,” he says, but then he just stops and takes a deep breath, playing with the single ring in the center of his full bottom lip with his tongue. “You're right—we should go. Did you want to come with us?”
“I think I'm going to grab a cold shower,” I say with a crooked half-smile, the warm trickle of semen between my thighs making me bite my lip. “I'll see you when you get back.”
I push past him and into the bathroom, shutting the door and locking it behind me.
“So what are you planning on doing?” Michael asks, his hands in the pockets of his dark blue jeans as we move across the parking lot and toward the back door of the venue. My hair's still wet, but the warm hands of the breeze tease it as we walk, drying it into what I hope is a tousled rockstar sort of a look. I guess freshly fucked is a good style to wear?
But shit.
I am such a goddamn idiot.
“I don't know,” I say as I run my hand over my face and feel just god-awful sick inside. My whole life, I've taken care of women, not pulled them into hot steamy bathrooms and tried to fuck them after I just told them there was no future with me. Maybe my mom and grandma's s
hitty genes are finally driving me crazy? Or maybe it's those asshole genes I inherited from my grandpa and my dad?
“Jesus,” Michael curses, giving me a long, angry once-over. He takes in the new outfit I slipped on—my other was trapped in the locked bathroom with Lilith—and scowls at the dark bootcut jeans and flip-flops. “I mean, come on, Cope. You're better than this.”
“Am I?” I ask as we pause outside the door, roadies coming and going, moving around us like we're rocks in the middle of a raging river. Groups split around us carrying equipment, disappearing into the night with the scent of pot and beer clinging to their clothes. “Michael, for nine years—check it, nine years—I've avoided any real relationships.”
“Exactly my point,” he says, violet eyes accusatory as he pulls out a cigarette and lights up, his leather jacket slung over his shoulders, looking the part of the classic bad boy with his tattoos, long razored hair, and eyeliner. I know who I'm supposed to be—the nice one, the boy next door, the good guy—but all I feel like right now is the dick. “Nine years. That's a long time to punish yourself, Park.”
I breathe out, long and low, and run my fingers through my hair.
Man, I'm almost thirty years old. Thirty. I feel a million years older than any of the other guys, than Lilith. She's eight years younger than me. God, that's a lot, isn't it? Especially at this age.
“She doesn't need my baggage,” I say and Michael just throws his hands up like I'm crazy.
“Jesus, I can't believe I just fucked you,” he says, and then he's yanking the door to the venue open and heading inside, leaving me standing in the warm evening air by myself. Well, really, there's a whole crowd around me—our staff, venue staff, a few members of the other bands—but I feel completely alone.
The thing is, I don't have to be, do I?
I follow Michael inside, through the backstage area and over to a long hallway that leads to a small sit-down restaurant. It's been emptied for the event tonight, just the guys and a handful of VIP badge holders sitting around a table with Octavia hovering off to the side.
She doesn't even look at me when I walk in, even though in the past she would've ripped me a new one for being so late.
“Well, well, well,” Pax drawls, his hand curled over the top of a glass tumbler, swirling the amber liquid around inside it, “look who the cat dragged in. Where the fuck have you two been?”
Michael's just pulling out a chair, shrugging out of his leather jacket, as I take the spot next to him. He doesn't look at me, but Ran does, raising a dark eyebrow inside the shadow of his hoodie.
“Oh, Copeland,” a woman with strawberry blonde hair says, smiling at me from across the table. “I've been waiting to meet you. I have so many questions.”
I smile back at her, but that's just about all I've got at the moment. My mind is too preoccupied with Lilith to think about anything else, much less care what a reporter wants.
I wait for either Pax to fill in the silence (he usually does) or for the woman to introduce herself, too far away to reach out and shake her hand properly. I focus instead on some t-shirts and records that make their way over to me along with a silver and a black Sharpie. My hands are shaking slightly as I take hold of the pens and attempt to add my messy signature to my bandmates' swirls.
He knew she was the right girl for him. Knew it in his head, his gut, his soul. Knew it in the blood that his heart pumped, in the veins and arteries that decorated his wrists and his cock, in his pulse that thundered when he saw her, in his eyes that fell lidded and heavy at the sight of her naked body in his bed. He knew all of those things and yet … for whatever reason, he wouldn't let himself go to her.
I scrawl Copeland Park on the front of a pink, white, and black record with our newest album art on it. It's in the same style as the animated video that plays before our sets, with the convertible and the stick figures and the bloody knives raining from the sky.
You're thinking in book lingo again, I tell myself. But that's only because books speak the truth our mouths are too afraid to voice, our minds too cluttered to parse out.
“Can you make that one out to Gillie?” a girl two seats over says excitedly, her voice quivering with joy at just being in the same room as us. I wonder if she'd still feel that way if she knew how messed up we all are inside? Really, Lilith is the perfect girlfriend for each one of us. Hurting, but still holding onto that burning desire to live, to fight through, to grieve properly but move on. Why can't I take my goddamn cues from her and let nine years of pain just go? I've had more than enough chances to grieve Cara. I don't have to stop missing her, but why am I letting her loss mess up the first really good thing to happen to me since then? “G-I-L-L-I-E.”
“And you can make mine out to Bridget,” the blonde adds as I pass over the first record to Michael and glance up, meeting the penetrating intensity of his gaze. Fuck. That man knows how to throw a look that cuts deep. I sign the next record, pass it on, and turn my attention to an oversized white t-shirt with a yellow sticky note that says Gillie on it.
Duly noted.
“Bridget's a reporter from the Florida Times-Union,” Muse says from my right, sandwiched between me and the hyper-excited girl with pink glasses and a retainer. Her smile, when I glance in her direction, is … profuse. I make myself smile back and then look over at the blonde again.
“The Florida Times-Union, huh?” I ask as I write out the young girl's name and then pause, realizing I've actually just written Lilith instead.
Fuck.
“You know what?” Muse says, reaching over to grab the t-shirt and tugging it from my fingers. “This is one of our old designs. You want a few new shirts and a hoodie—my treat, of course.”
“Could I?” the girl asks, eyes glittering as she rises to her feet.
“Sure thing,” he says, giving my shoulder a squeeze as he turns away and gestures for her to come with him. He drapes the ruined tee over the back of my chair as he goes. “Follow me and you can pick out whatever swag you want.”
He guides her away, down the hall, as I move onto the other items in my stack.
“I was hoping I might be able to do a brief interview with you? I've already cleared it with my fellow VIP guests and your manager, so—”
“Oh, but she won't be our manager for long, will you, Octavia?” Pax smiles cruelly in Octavia's direction. Her face tightens, but she doesn't look directly at him. I want to feel sorry for her, but I just … don't. Not after what she did to Lilith.
Lilith.
What about what I just tried to do to Lilith?
“Interesting,” Bridget says, placing her smartphone down on the table, screen up, and looking around at us as she pushes a button. “By the way, is it okay if I record our conversation for the article?”
We all mumble some form of consent as the woman smiles with shiny nude painted lips.
“Okay, so the world is just dying to know about your romantic lives. You're all so close-lipped in your other interviews? Is there a reason for that?”
Pax smirks and downs the rest of his bourbon, but he doesn't respond. Usually, he's the one that talks us through these things. Ransom glances away and smokes his cigarette, his hand disappearing inside the shadows of his hood as he puts the cigarette to his lips. Michael yanks the last t-shirt from my hand, leaving a long black line trailing from the tip of my pen.
“Mr. Park?” Bridget asks, focusing her attention on me, smiling from ear to ear. Normally, I don't like reporters. For whatever reason, I like this one. She reminds me of my mom—when she's on one of her good days, obviously. On her bad days … there's nobody more cruel, more angry, more righteously pissed off at the world. She throws things at me, screams at me, threatens suicide. “Recently, a photo was published online of you in a bookstore with a redheaded young woman. May I ask if she's someone special to you?”
“You're asking if I have a girlfriend?” I say as I cap the pen in my hand and lean back, knocking the messed up t-shirt to the floor. I
lean down to pick it up, dragging it into my lap and rubbing my thumb over the name in black ink. My body's still wired up and hot from our threesome in the hallway, my cock half-hard again, my nipples pebbled beneath the pale pink t-shirt I've got on.
“We're all dying to know,” Bridget says, grinning excitedly when Michael finishes with her shirt and record, passing them to Pax to hand over to her. Three other girls sit next to the blonde reporter, but none of them speak. They're all young, pretty, probably looking to be groupies. I recognize the licking of lips, the tucking of shiny hair behind ears, the coquettish smiles.
But we already have a groupie.
A girlfriend.
“The woman asked you a fucking question,” Michael says, drawing both Ran's and Pax's gazes over to me. “Answer her for Christ's sake.”
He'd made so many mistakes in his past, mistakes that haunted him to this day. Why should he chance making her another one when walking away would solve the problem of having him in her life? But damn it, he didn't want to. With every part of himself he wanted to stay.
“I have a girlfriend,” I say, heart thundering as I stare at the t-shirt in my hand, my throat closing up, sweat slipping down my spine.
Fuck.
I look up at the reporter and see the surprise written all over her face. If she's such a big fan of the band, she must know all the trouble we've had with girlfriends in the past. The shit with Chloe, Kortney; she'll probably even know about Cara. Vanessa. I think the only person in the group who hasn't had a fucked-up relationship is Derek.
“You do?” she asks with another smile. “Can you tell me her name?”
“No,” I say, looking back at the six letters on the white fabric. “I won't tell you her name.”
“Won't? Interesting choice of words. Is there anything you will share about her?”
I look back at Michael, but his face is closed off and he still looks pissed.
“Would you like to take some pictures with us?” I ask instead, suddenly desperate to get back to Lilith. I can't leave this shit hanging, not even for a second. I'm supposed to take care of girls, not treat them like shit. It goes against everything that I am. And this girl, this time, she needs me for more than a single night. Even if it scares the crap out of me, I have to step up.
Roadie (Rock-Hard Beautiful Book 2) Page 6
