I cuddle up to him and he pulls me close.
We stand there until Muse and Cope are finished, joining us in front of the glass, all six of our reflections visible against the squeaky clean surface. I like that, seeing them standing beside me like that.
My boys. My rockstars. My lovers.
“Is it okay if I lie down for a little bit?” I ask.
“Of course it is,” Cope says, responding for the entire band.
I turn around and crawl onto the mattress, curling up on my side and breathing in the familiar scent of rosewater perfume. I practically soaked my bed with it back in the day. Closing my eyes, I just lay there and take in the fact that this is a forever sort of goodbye, a farewell to a different life. And then I just make myself realize how damn lucky I am that I ended up on that fucking bus with those fucking guys.
Bodies crowd in around mine, warm ones, bodies that smell like pomegranates, like laundry soap, maybe even a little bit like sex, sweat from the show. Hard, muscular arms curl around me, tuck me close, breaking the violent cycle of my grieving thoughts and lulling me to sleep.
I wake up before anybody else, blinking at the gentle grey-blue morning light, stretching my arms above my head and then rolling onto my back to stare up at the ceiling. There are arms and legs all over me, but I don't mind. Despite the fact that six people just fell asleep on a queen size mattress on the floor of an empty room, I'm comfortable. Shit, I slept like a baby.
I sit up suddenly and realize that my damn glasses are missing, patting around with my hands until I find a bit of plastic underneath the thick sleeve of Ransom's hoodie. I clean the lenses off as best I can with the soft inner fabric of my sleeveless hoodie, and then slip them back on my face.
The sun is just barely peeking its face up over the roofs of the houses on the opposite side of the street, teasing the little room with early morning color. Even though this is a sad moment for Lilith, even though it kills me to see her in so much pain, I feel a sense of peace wash over me. This is how things needed to happen, the only way for her to make a clean break from her grief and start the slow process of healing, a process I never managed to actually stumble into.
I glance over at the mural on the wall next to the window, the painting so delicately and finely detailed that it pops off the wall like a photograph. Lilith's mother was really goddamn talented. I mean, to make a plain tree so intriguing that it draws the eye, that's skill.
I'm staring at it, listening to the sound of the others breathing around me when I see them.
The hummingbirds.
My mouth sets in a thin line and my heart starts to pound.
Hummingbirds outside my bedroom window …
A mattress.
The sound of breathing.
Holy shit. Shit. Shit, shit, shit.
Before I realize what I'm doing, I'm standing up and sprinting from that room as fast as my legs can carry me, stumbling at the top of the stairs, coming precariously close to toppling over them. I fall down the first few, find my feet, and then pound down the rest, skidding across the wood floors and out the front door.
Just like Lilith, I make it about halfway across the yard and then stop, bending over at the waist, breathing so hard that I get dizzy. I put my head between my knees and squeeze my eyes shut tight.
Hideous memories assault me as I stand in Lil's front yard, my body quivering uncontrollably, just like Ransom's.
Hummingbirds, flitting back and forth in front of the glass, pausing to drink from the fake red flowers adorning the feeder. Watching them. Wishing I could hear the cute sounds they make at each other. But the sound of the mattress is too loud, the heavy breathing …
I stumble over to the base of the tree and throw up, shoving my arm across my mouth and desperately struggling to control my breathing before I pass out.
No. No. No. I don't want any of that. I don't want to remember that. What little boy wants to remember that? I can't. I won't.
I shove my shirt up, press my fingers tight to the fresh tattoo on my hip and rub it until it burns, until the physical pain reminds me that I'm here, that I'm safe, that I met a girl and started to fall in love with her, that I get to play a concert in Canada tomorrow, and then one in Ireland. In England. Scotland. France.
I am not that little boy anymore.
I lower myself to my knees and throw up again.
“Derek.”
It's Lilith's voice, that soothing feminine throaty sound. Her hand touches my back, and I jump, startling her.
“Oh my god, are you okay?” she asks, panic lacing her voice when she sees all the puke on her lawn. Fuck. I did not want her to see me like this. “What happened? Are you not feeling well?”
“I …” I start to speak, but the words get caught in my throat, my breath too panicky, too rapid to speak.
Lilith kneels down next to me and wraps her arms around me, pulling my head to her breasts, pressing my face to the soft, sweet smelling warmth of her skin. I close my eyes and wrap my own arms around her slender waist, squeezing her tight, listening to the sound of her heart fluttering and beating in fear for me.
“It's okay, Muse,” she says, stroking her fingertips across the shaved darkness of my hair on either side of my mussed up mohawk. “It's okay. I've got you.”
“I'm sorry,” I whisper, my voice fucked-up, throat aching from the acidity of my puke. I definitely don't feel like a glamorous rock star right now. I just … hell, I don't know what I feel like. And this is why I block everything out, why I refuse to acknowledge my own pain. It's so much easier to let myself be empathetic, let everyone else's emotions sweep over me, take control of my heart. If I do that, I don't have to feel this gut-wrenching, god-awful nightmare wash over me. “I'm sorry, Lilith. You're going through a lot right now; you don't need this shit.”
“Muse,” she says, her voice scolding. “Don't. You always put yourself in the background. And while I think it's cute and admirable as hell, it's not necessary one hundred percent of the time. I thought you just warned me about holding back and hiding my emotions.”
“You're right,” I whisper, leaning back, sitting up so I can look her in the face. “I did. Because I didn't want you to end up like me, with this festering wound inside of you.”
I look down at my knees. I have to tell her, I know that. Everybody else has spilled their guts to this girl, bared their souls, invited her to bury the bodies of their demons.
“I've been running from this my entire life. Usually I can push it down, pack it away. But lately … fuck.” I run a hand over my face and glance away, toward the open front door. A gentle breeze teases the green grass underneath us, making it ripple like the surface of a pond. “I guess I can't run from it forever.”
“You don't have to tell me if—”
“Yes, I do,” I say, lifting my face to stare into hers. She's so beautiful, so fucking beautiful. It's no surprise to me that she's managed to hook us all. I wish I could kiss her right now, but … you know. “Lilith,” I start, forcing my hands to sit still in my lap. I make myself look at her, right at her, straight into eyes already shimmering with unshed tears. I swallow hard, try out a dozen different ways to say it. “More than once … when I was a kid …” I stutter, breathing hard again, my eyes wide and my mouth dry. “Lilith, I was raped.”
The day is warm, sunny, cheerful. But I can't enjoy it, not even as I take a walk through my old neighborhood with my boys, Muse's hand clutched tight inside of mine. I can't let go of it, not even with sweat slicking our palms, my nails digging into his skin. He doesn't try to pull away either, squeezing my fist back, the only physical sign of the confession he gave me this morning.
Lilith, I was raped.
Little Muse, little Derek … my little Derek. He didn't give me any other details, but I heard the hints. More than once. A kid.
I almost threw up, too. Fucking hell.
Emancipated at fifteen … considering suicide.
I just can't. I can't. I fucki
ng can't.
I sweep the palm of my right hand over my hair, charm bracelet jingling with the motion.
And now I've got to go release my parents' ashes to the wind.
“You were brave this morning,” I whisper, so only Muse can hear me. I think the other guys already know about his past because they didn't say anything when they found us holding each other on the front lawn like that. And they didn't look surprised either.
“Maybe,” Muse says, looking at the sidewalk through the thick lenses of his glasses. He looks the same as he always does, tattooed, pierced, sexy as hell. When he looks up at me, he even smiles. It's that same goddamn look. I get what I want. Look at me, I'm cheeky. I'm playful. Fuck him. Why does he do that? But I know why. A past like his, it can't be erased. It literally changes the shape of who you are, forces you to adapt in ways you never thought you could. You have to, if you want to go on living. “I think you're brave, coming back here like this.”
I snort.
“Not really,” I say and he squeezes my hand even harder.
“Really,” he tells me, the look on his face, the sound of his voice brooking no arguments.
We keep walking, the other boys talking amongst themselves, trying to keep the mood up. They stop only when we reach the cemetery gates.
“Right this way, guys,” I say, opening the waist-high gate and stepping inside, feeling a little silly in the tight black dress now that I'm here, barefoot in the grass of a graveyard. Then again, what would feel right here? Some big baggy frock? What would that change? Nothing. Whatever feelings I'm looking for right now—peace, acceptance, love—those things have to come from within.
I follow a curving dirt path through the cemetery, enjoying the warmth of the naked earth beneath my feet. Not wearing shoes, now that was a good choice.
But shit … I can't stop thinking about Derek. He must see something of my worry for him on my face because he lets out a deep sigh.
“Don't worry about me, Lil. I didn't tell you that to upset you. It happened. I've been free for a long time now. I just …” Muses pauses abruptly, bringing the entire group to a halt. “Wanted to tell the woman I'm falling in love with my truth. So now you know. If I decide I need to talk more about it, I'll tell you. Until then, please don't let it taint what we just found together.” He looks up at me as I get stupidly teary again. I can't help it. I fucking ache for him. “Lil, you make my lonely traveler not so fucking lonely anymore.”
My breathing hitches, my hand tingling where it's wrapped around his.
I let go but only so I can put my arms around his neck and squeeze him tight. Muse hugs me back, so fiercely that my feet rise up off the ground, the softness of my body pressed firmly against the muscular planes of his. More tears slide down my face, hitting the red sleeveless hoodie draped over his shoulders.
“You're so poetic,” I whisper against his ear, “are you sure you're only twenty-one?”
He laughs, the sound untainted by his confession, that crack on his face already pulled back together, hiding the rest of his truth. But this kind of pain, I can't and won't force it. Just like I thought before, I have to wait for him to come to me. With Pax, with Michael, Ran, Cope, I can pry and dig and peel apart their layers.
Muse has to give me his.
I decide to give him mine first, as a gesture of good will.
The woman I'm falling in love with …
I press my lips even tighter to his ear, making him shiver.
“Love has no prerequisite,” I quote after Ransom. “I love you, Muse.”
He sets me carefully back on my feet and looks down at me, one hand cupping my face, his breathing rapid-fire and erratic, but in a good way this time. He seems surprised, but how could I not love someone willing to split themselves in half just to tell me about their past?
I bite my lip and turn away, but Muse grabs my arm and tugs me back, pulling me close and crushing my mouth with his. As usual, he planned for everything, so he had clean clothes, a toothbrush, toothpaste, and mouthwash handy this morning. Figures.
I kiss his mint flavored mouth, letting his tongue sweep mine, his hands curl around my waist.
After a few minutes, Michael clears his throat and we pause, sharing another look before I pull away again and turn around, walking backward so I can stare at all five boys.
“It's just past these trees,” I tell them, “the Goode family burial plot.”
The closer I get, the better I start to feel. I know it doesn't make any sense, but it's true. Each step helps me to breathe a little easier, helps my shoulders relax, dries the tears on my face.
Birds chirp from the branches of the trees, and the wind rustles and teases wildflowers and freshly mowed grass. Here and there brightly colored bouquets adorn grey headstones, white obelisks, angels watching over the discarded shells of their charges.
I know this isn't a magic cure-all, like, I spread these ashes and everything is just perfect. My dad will still be dead, and it will still be day fifteen without him, and I'll still miss him like fucking crazy.
But it's a good first step.
I know without a doubt that I can at least say goodbye to this place, move on from here, from Arizona, from Susan, from Kevin. Those things, I can definitely leave behind with a sense of peace and not worry about them again.
“Here it is,” I say, pausing our group in front of a small square building with weathered stone sides, a tall rounded door made of some sort of rusting metal, and a series of tiny windows that look in on a central platform. A vase with faux flowers sits permanently in residence on top of it, and on the wall in the back, small stone squares are cordoned off, the names of distant relatives—and Yasmine—chiseled in big block letters.
I stare at the squat stone building for a moment, Ransom's flirty violet scent swirling with a gentle breeze and wrapping around me.
Walking around the building, I find the patch of undisturbed grass where all the bodies are buried. There's a small metal fence connected to the back of the mausoleum that borders the plot. This is where I sit down, taking the bag with both urns in it out of the pink purse.
“Please sit down,” I say, looking up at them, all dressed up and beautiful still, even after the car ride and our rough night on the bare mattress.
“You sure you want us here for this?” Michael asks, looking slightly uncomfortable, like he thinks he's overstepping his boundaries or something. I reach up and grab his hand, tugging on it until he sits his tattooed rockstar ass down on the grass next to me.
Copeland takes my other side, then Paxton, Muse, Ransom, ending the circle with Michael and me.
“Thank you for bringing me here,” I tell them again. I can't say it enough. Kevin would never have gone out of his way to do half the things these boys have done for me. And I'm not just talking about the money they spent on my new clothes or my tablet or the airfare for the world tour portion of this trip. There's that, obviously, but it's so much more than that.
What I'm really talking about are the hugs, the honesty, the tears both given and received, the sex, the acceptance, the lack of judgment, the music, the hot cups of tea, the protectiveness, the inclusivity. The love. I feel a lot of love from these guys—a lot of it.
“You don't have to keep thanking us for that, love,” Paxton says, one knee cocked up, looking like a blonde god in his tight t-shirt and jeans. He taps his fingers against his leg and meets my eyes across the circle.
“Maybe not, but I want to,” I say, staring at the spilled urns inside the bag.
I lay it flat on the ground in front of me, near the center of the circle, and then I take the multitool from my purse and use it to carefully crush the urns into shards, shaking the bag and mixing everything up into a gray-white-blue-green amalgamation.
A butterfly lands on my bare shoulder and I pause, glancing over at it, its blue and black wings stilling. A breeze blows and then it takes off again, flapping toward the fluffy white clouds dotting the sky.
; That's either another message from fate … or a really weird coincidence.
I suppose I don't much mind either way.
I unzip the bag and stare inside for a long, long time. The more I look at the stuff in the bag, the more convinced I am that this … it's not Mom and Dad, is it? No. They're gone and these ashes are just that, ashes. A few tears plop inside the plastic, sliding down the sides and collecting debris. I let them fall for a second and then pull the sides of the bag as hard as I can, splitting it in half.
Ashes and bits of ceramic fall to the grass.
The wind starts right in on the ash portion of it, picking bits of it up and taking it away the same way it did the butterfly. I watch it go, liquid dripping down my cheeks, and then I turn my gaze back to my boys, licking the salty taste from my lower lip.
“Do you want to say a prayer or something?” Michael asks softly, but I just shake my head.
The sound of the breeze in trees, the chatter of birds, the distant hum of insects. That's prayer enough for me; human words can't compete with nature's song.
Closing my eyes, I reach down and take the hand of the man on either side of me.
Moments pass, sunshine warming my skin.
I let as many tears fall as my heart wants, tilting my head back slightly and embracing the moment. When they finally stop, when I crack my eyes and drop my chin, I see Paxton with two lines of wetness of his face.
With a tentative finger, he reaches up and touches his cheek.
“Holy shit,” he whispers, and I smile.
See, I told you he wasn't an asshole.
Emotionally exhausted.
That's me, Lilith Tempest Goode, the girlfriend of Beauty in Lies, lover of five gorgeous men. Adult orphan. Artist. Groupie.
And currently, I'm curled up in the backseat of a rental van with two of my boyfriends. My head rests in Muse's lap, his legs stretched out along the seat, Paxton curled up in what would be an adorable fetal position if he wasn't covered in tattoos and smirking in his sleep.
Roadie (Rock-Hard Beautiful Book 2) Page 24
