I make it all the way to the bathroom before I slam the door, close it hard and slide to the floor, putting my fingers in my hair. And then I finally let out a scream I wasn't sure I was holding in until just now, until tonight.
Fuck that girl who thinks it's okay to cry like that? Out in the open where everyone can see?
There is no way in hell I'm letting her stay on my bloody bus.
I let myself get pretty drunk backstage, enjoying the easy camaraderie of the roadies and the staff, the way they accept me into their group, laughing and sharing cigarettes—which I don't take—telling stories about the road, about the bands, anecdotes about their own lives.
Truly, I'm curious to see what the members of Beauty in Lies are doing, but they have their VIP get-together, and I can just vaguely see them snapping photos with fans and signing things from my position in the sky bar, up high on the balcony overlooking the venue. Most of the fans have cleared out already, but there are enough people here that for a while, I don't feel so lonely.
When Pax and Ransom started singing Harper B., I almost lost it, but I feel okay now. I Googled Paxton's sister and found some vague news articles about a drunken car accident, but the details are few and far between. Somebody really didn't want the press digging too deeply into this. I wonder about it, wonder if that explains the pain and darkness and cruelty in Paxton's gaze, in his touch. It would make a certain awful sort of sense.
After the roadies disappear, I follow the curving gold carpet downstairs, my fingers brushing the wall as I try not to fall over in my tall red heels. I didn't really want to wear them again, but the rest of my clothes are musty and damp and dirty from being strewn across oil soaked pavement. This dress is all I have, and I couldn't really wear any of my other shoes without looking ridiculous.
When I get back downstairs, I find Octavia in the lobby, directing roadies to clear out the merch tables—covered in t-shirts, shrink-wrapped vinyl records, CDs, hoodies, pins, stickers. She sees me coming into the lobby and pretends to smile at me.
“Did you enjoy the show, Lilith?” she asks, tucking her iPad up against her black t-shirt.
“It was incredible,” I say, and I mean that. I've only been to a handful of concerts in my life, but the depth of emotion in Pax's voice when he was singing about his sister … I don't think I'll ever hear another sound as hauntingly beautiful as that in my entire life. “I've never—” I start, and Octavia holds up a hand, glancing away and listening to someone talk to her in the headset. She reaches up and presses a button on the side of her earpiece.
“Absolutely, thank you so much.” She glances back at me and smiles again. “Lilith, I was wondering if you wouldn't mind stopping by my trailer tonight. Mr. Muser discussed having you stay on the tour and although I'm firmly against it, it's not my choice to make. What I would like, however, is for you to sign an NDA—you know what that is, don't you?—so if you could make the time, I'd appreciate it.”
She smiles again, her sweet midwestern farming face turning into a straight mean girl's expression for a minute. When she turns, her ponytail whips me across the face and I stare in shock at her back as she bounces away.
What a fucking bitch.
I take a deep breath and close my eyes. She's not worth it. I learned a big lesson when Kevin paraded one of his girlfriends in front of me after we'd broken up and I was moving my stuff out of our apartment. All of that seething rage and anger inside, if you unleash it, it creates an unpredictable, uncontrollable storm, one that doesn't judge what or who it destroys. Sometimes, even if you're the one that let it all out, it can destroy you, too.
I head back towards the buses, showing my badge to every member of security staff along the way and pause hesitantly at the bottom of the steps. Derek invited me to stay here, but it still feels strange, absurdly surreal. Two weeks ago, I was wiping tables down at a shitty diner and dreading calling my dad back, terrified that when he said we should talk, that he had bad news to share. Then he suggested I come and stay with him and the whirlwind of packing and sorting things out started. I sold what little furniture I had, gave my poor cat away to a girl from the diner, gave notice at my job, at my apartment.
And then, on the day I was supposed to drive to New York, he died on me. My dad left me alone to figure out how to breathe without him. Deep inside, I feel that gaping chasm of loneliness and pain, like a pit that I'm standing over, about to topple in and drown in the dark, sticky depths of heartache.
No fucking way.
I shove red hair over one shoulder and move up the steps, finding Copeland sitting on the couch and reading a book. He looks to be near the end and he's bent over the pages like he's on a roller coaster.
“No fucking way!” he says as he snaps the cover closed and tosses the book aside. “No fucking way did it end like that.”
I smile as I move into the living room and his turquoise eyes snap up to me. He looks a little chagrined at being caught talking to a book, but he smiles at me anyway.
“Did you like the show?” he asks, and I try not to think of Octavia's saccharine sweet smile when she asked me that same question.
“It was incredible,” I tell him, moving around the end of the couch and sitting on the furthest cushion from him. “I love that, like rat-a-tat-tat thing that you do.” I imitate the furious flurry of Cope's arms as he pounded away at his drums, sitting above his friends on a raised platform.
“Rat-a-tat-tat,” he says with a curved smile that sets my heart aflutter. “I like it. Very descriptive.” He affects a half bow from a sitting position and sits up straight to look at me, eyes warm and vibrant and brimming with intelligence.
I didn't get to see much of him—or any of them, really—today. After Muse invited me to stay on the bus, and Pax came out for coffee, the other boys got in a fight with Michael and I excused myself to the Bat Cave for a while. I went through the boxes that Muse collected and sorted things out, got together a bag of laundry and put it up front with the boys'. Ransom told me someone would come and take it and bring it back tomorrow. Then I looked up my father's obituary online and cried some more; Ransom ended up coming in and sitting quietly next to me, rubbing my back. He even stayed and watched several episodes of Grace and Frankie with me before it was time to prep for the concert.
“I don't know if you can tell, but I'm not very knowledgeable when it comes to music. The peak of my music career was during my fourth grade concert. I was playing a pink plastic recorder in the third row.”
Cope laughs again, sitting back and draping himself in the corner of the couch, looking sexy as hell in a sweaty black tank and a pair of charcoal grey skinny jeans. It's clear he came right back here after the VIP meet and greet and flopped right down to finish his book.
“I'm sure you were brilliant,” he says, his voice warm and companionable, totally dangerous. When Cope talks, it's like a siren's song. It's not the actual pitch and tone of his voice that makes him so scary, but the way he talks, holds his face, smiles. He acts like that boyfriend I've always wanted but never had. Sweet, thoughtful, but also dangerously sexy, good in bed, skilled with his hands and … other things. “I bet the line for admission was,” he lifts his hand and flicks it through the air in an arc, “out the door and down the block.”
“Made you guys look like small potatoes,” I say, raising my brows and thinking about the massive line camped outside the venue. It was there by the time I was finished with my conversation with Muse; I could see it from the window inside the Bat Cave. Guess Beauty in Lies has some pretty dedicated fans. “But anyway, you were great. Seriously.”
“Thanks,” he says, blinking slowly, his eyes so riveting I can hardly look away. They're like turquoise stones, fixed in a classically handsome face, very boy next door but edged up with the auburn faux hawk, the eyeliner, the cluster of necklaces around his throat. All of them are on black silk cords, different shapes of pewter charms scattered at the base of his throat. He's got a pair of black sweatbands on, too,
and I just barely see star and heart tattoos sneaking out from underneath in vibrant swooshes of neon color, their individual shapes made up with musical notes. “We try to put on a good show, especially now that we're getting more popular. It's important to keep it all low-key, rock 'n' roll, you know?”
“I wanted to … talk to you each individually,” I start, rubbing my hands over my bare knees and I'm hoping I'm not ruining the moment by bringing this up. I look into Copeland's face, but he's still smiling at me, touching his fingers to a stack of books sitting on the back of the couch. He taps his fingertips against them in a steady beat, like he's playing his drums still.
“About?” he asks as he stands up and grabs a beer from the fridge, lifting one up to me. “Want one?”
“Sure,” I say, accepting it from his hand and trying not to make contact with his fingers. It happens anyway and like I expected, I get a little jolt, a thrill. What is it with these boys? Is it just because they're rockstars? Because they're attractive? Because I'm so sad inside? I have no idea.
Cope sits back down, still smiling, but not like Muse. Muse just smiles with his whole face, like he knows who he is and has already accepted it. Cope … looks like he's smiling the way the person he wants to be would smile, like he wishes he could be something more but isn't sure how to get there.
“Is this about the sex?” he asks and I feel a slight flush color my cheeks.
“I just wanted to explain—”
“No explanation necessary,” he says as I try not to think about the things I said to him, to a complete freaking stranger. “I want to come.” Wow. Just wow. “I enjoyed myself, didn't you?”
“Well, yeah, I …”
“Then no harm done,” he says, sipping his beer, his arm muscles rippling with the simple movement. “If you liked it, then what does it matter?”
“I've never fucked four guys in one night before,” I blurt and his brows go up. “Have you ever fucked four girls in one night?”
“Oh, hell no,” he says with a laugh, putting one hand behind his head. “I don't think I could get it up fast enough to satisfy four girls in one night. You ladies are lucky; you can go as many times as you want.” I put a hand to my mouth to stifle a chuckle as he sets his beer aside and leans forward to look at me. “Besides, I'm more of a one girl a night kind of a guy anyway.”
“I've only ever slept with two guys before,” I say and then flush a little brighter when I realize how that sounds. “Not … you know, at the same time. Or even in the same year.”
“Wow,” Copeland says with a whistle, sitting back and looking at me with interest. “So, in one night, you tripled your number? That's pretty impressive.”
I smile tightly and feel my cheeks dimple.
“Yeah, I suppose.” I glance down at my thighs and push the stretchy black fabric down. It refuses to budge, but at least I tried. I look back up at Copeland. “I never intended to sleep with anyone, let alone the whole band. I was just … really, really sad. The sex helped a lot. It made me forget.”
“You won't find anyone judging you here,” he says and I breathe out a small sigh of relief. It is still a little weird to sit and have a casual conversation with Cope though, not knowing a damn thing about him except for the way his cock felt between my thighs, the way he kissed me, the way his arms felt wrapped around my naked body. And then I fell asleep crying on his chest. Jesus. “And if you ever need another hug, I've got extras.”
“Are you hitting me on? Or just being nice?” I ask, smiling and finishing off my beer. I get up on my knees on the couch as his smile twists up in the corner, the slightest hint of a smirk hovering there.
“Maybe a little bit of both?” he offers and without letting myself think too hard about it, I lean forward and let him wrap his arms around me, pulling me in against his chest.
All the breath rushes out of me in an instant as Cope squeezes me tight in his strong arms.
“You weren't kidding; you really are good at these.”
“I've had to hug a lot of people through a lot of things,” he says, and there's this melancholy sadness to his voice that's so at odds with his boy next door attitude that I lean back to stare into his eyes, my palms flat against my chest, my feet lifted and crossed at the ankles.
We look at each other for a long moment and the mood shifts, from this casual friend vibe to something else.
I let my eyes flutter closed and lean in, feeling Cope's mouth press up against mine, cutting the distance between us. He's a damn good kisser, like he's taken a master class on it. He keeps his arms wrapped tightly around me, making me feel safe, wanted. I know how dangerous it is to give into a guy like this—especially for a second time—but I can't seem to help myself.
Copeland likes to feel needed.
That's what it is, that's the feeling I'm recognizing in the delicate but insistent brush of his tongue, in the careful but confident touch of his hands. The advice, the hugs, the sex, it's all the same for him, dispensing something that's wanted, needed—and relishing it.
It's a little disappointing, knowing that this giddy feeling of being wanted by a boy is something else entirely, but I decide I'll just relish the relishing and enjoy myself. These two weeks that Muse has given me, these are mine, and Cope's touch, it does exactly what he wants it to do: it makes me feel better.
He slides his hands to my waist, holding me with his long fingers, tasting like cherry cola and smelling like fresh sweat and laundry soap. The mix of those three things makes me feel light-headed, makes my heart pitter-patter in a way it hasn't done since high school.
“I must be good at these,” he murmurs against my mouth, “if this is what I get in return.”
“Oh, this?” I joke softly, touching the pendants on his chest with my fingers, “this isn't for the hug; this is for the forty bucks you gave me at the gas station.”
Cope laughs as I pull away, sliding down his body and going for the button on his charcoal skinny jeans. They're actually not denim like I thought at first, but something else. Twill, maybe? Anyway, they're soft beneath my fingertips as I open the button and tug the zipper down, suddenly reminded of Ransom and all his scars.
I push the thought away and focus on the man that's in front of me instead, freeing his cock from his pants and glancing up to catch his lids drooping and his breath sighing out with pleasure as I take him in my hand.
I'm aware even as I do this that it's not just Cope that has ulterior motives; I do, too.
My lips touch the side of his cock, hot and velvety in my palm, completely foreign in shape and size and texture. Now that I've seen four other guys to compare him against, Kevin was not very impressive in width, length, or appearance. God. How could I have wasted five years with that idiot?
Pushing those thoughts aside, I adjust myself to get more comfortable, putting one knee on the floor and leaving the other on the couch. I'm aware that my short as fuck dress just got even shorter and that the black thong I had to wear underneath it—my choices of underwear in those boxes were ridiculously limited—is exposing my bare ass to anyone that walks in that door.
But somehow, that thought's kind of exciting, too.
I curl my fingers around Cope's shaft and gently push his cock between my lips as he lets his head fall back and kneads my scalp with his fingers. I'm not very experienced at giving blow jobs, so I improvise, trying to take my cues from the way Cope moans, breathes, from the way he shifts around on the couch.
I'm so focused on trying to get this right that I don't hear the door to the bus open, don't hear the footsteps coming up behind me until I feel a pair of hands on my bare hips.
“Hey there, sweetheart,” a soft syrupy voice says from behind me. Ransom. “What are you up to in here, baby doll?” His voice is thick with desire and his fingers burn hot trails against my skin as he touches me with a needy tentativeness that's clearly asking for an answer.
Without saying a word, I reach a hand back and pull my dress up a few more inche
s, exposing more of my ass to the warm air in the bus. My sex is completely liquid now, throbbing and hot, ready to be filled.
Cope's eyes open halfway and take in Ransom standing behind me, but he doesn't say anything, resting his right hand in my hair and arcing his hips towards my face, pushing his cock into my mouth. Now that Ransom's here, watching, I should probably feel more self-conscious. Instead, it turns me on to know that he's watching and I drop my inhibitions, slicking my tongue down the side of Cope's shaft, all the way to his balls. I tease the seam of his flesh down the center and then gently suck some of that soft skin into my mouth.
Ransom kneels behind me, bringing his flirty scent with him. He, too, smells like sweat from the show, but in a good way, like he's just come off of a really good workout. I can feel him moving behind me and my heart goes crazy, beating so fast I get that light-headed feeling again.
Um, is this really happening right now?
I've never had a threesome, never even really thought about having a threesome, let alone one with two guys I just met.
Fuck. Is this wrong?
I decide that I don't really care if it is, groaning against Cope's shaft as Ransom puts his hands on my hips and adjusts my position to give himself a better angle. When I feel the head of his cock pushing into me, I gasp and slick my fist up Copeland's shaft, hoping I'm not squeezing too hard. He groans and thrusts against my hand as I arch my back and feel one of Ransom's hands on my left shoulder. The other he puts on the hip that's propped against the side of the couch.
He starts to thrust and the air's knocked right out of me, the leather sofa refusing to give, making the sensation of his body inside of mine just that much sharper, deeper, harder. I take the sudden surge of pleasure out on Cope's cock, sucking it into my mouth, throwing all caution to the wind and swirling my tongue around the head, teasing each vein with wet kisses from my panting lips.
Groupie (Rock-Hard Beautiful Book 1) Page 14
