“If it'll help, I have some limited edition Beauty in Lies vinyl back on the bus. We could sign one for you and start your collection all over again,” I say, hoping my joke's not so far off the mark that I scare the poor girl.
At least she's smiling when she glances back at me and holds up a book.
“I think I found one, Cope. Please tell me this is a five star.”
“That,” I say, pointing at the tattooed rockstars on the cover, “is one that I haven't read.”
“Oh! Like a needle in a haystack then?” she asks and I laugh, wishing I could spend all day smelling ink and paper and drinking overpriced coffee with this girl. I haven't had this much fun with a woman in a long time. And what I really like is that we started off our relationship with hard shit, with pain, with tears. Before anything happens—if anything happens—at least she has some idea of the awful shit I have to deal with.
I'll probably be taking care of my mom for the rest of her life—and she's only fifty. That, and I'll never have biological kids. Never. I realize that my mom and grandma are messed up because of genetics and the horrible trauma they both experienced in their life. Still, no kids for me.
I have a lot more I want to tell Lilith, but how do you segue into stories about your grandpa beating the shit out of you, coming into your house and fucking your messed up grandma when she's in the middle of a panic attack? You just don't tell people that shit without seeing the way they look at you get all twisted and distant.
And anyway, who wants to date someone that comes from that sort of fucked-up genetic pool? I feel like my blood is tainted and poisoned, but I try to make up for it. Because if there's one thing I know how to do, it's how to take care of people, of women, how to protect them from the world. That's what I've been doing my whole life, protecting my mom and grandma—or trying to anyway. I had to wait until I was thirteen before I could fight my grandpa back and win. He never did come back to the house after that.
“Like a needle in a haystack,” I agree with a smile, pushing past the pain, letting it settle into the background. I'm twenty-nine years old; I'm resigned to it at this point in my life. Lilith is young and all of her pain is fresh and dark and sad. All I want to do is take care of her, make her feel better, hold her close. “Pick as many as you want, and I'll get them for you. Maybe we could read together later?”
“There are paps outside,” Ransom says, curling around the end of the bookshelf like a shadow, his face twisted in a dark frown. He stares out at me and Lilith from inside his hoodie and sighs. “Fucking goddamn paps,” he whispers, voice low and thick with carefully leashed anger. Poor fucking Ransom. He used to be such a happy kid. I remember when I got assigned to be his mentor, back when I was a sophomore and he was a seventh grader. He was bouncy and fun and wild. Now … I wouldn't exactly use any of those terms to describe him. “The store manager asked them to leave, but they're hovering around out there still. They already drove Muse and Michael into hiding at the café next door.”
“Got it,” I say as Lilith puts another book on top of my own, a big, thick fantasy novel this time.
“I could use a distraction from another world,” she says, looking up at me with her long lashes and big green eyes. Before I can stop myself, I lean down and press a searing kiss to her mouth.
It's only meant to last an instant, but Lilith lets out this small sound of surprised pleasure and pushes into me, squeezing the small stack of books between us. She's wearing one of the outfits that Muse bought her—this tight pink t-shirt with a flock of black bats silhouetted across the front, a pair of low-slung jeans, and grey boots. Her body is so curvy and exaggerated in all the right places that even though the clothes are new, even though they fit, she just falls all the hell out of them.
I set the books in my hand aside and pull her fully into my arms, pressing her body against one of the towering black bookcases and trying not to fantasize about fucking her there. Wouldn't the paparazzi just love to film that?
Still, I can't seem to stop my hands from roaming over Lilith's body as she wraps her arms around my neck and leans into me. I'm taller by several inches, but it doesn't matter because the way we fit together feels destined, easy, almost perfect.
I know in my heart that meeting this girl was just a random coincidence and that in the end, it'll probably amount to nothing, but for now, it feels really, really fucking good.
“Goddamn it.” It's Ransom, his voice a low uneasy growl. “Fucking paparazzi,” he warns as I pull back from Lilith just in time to avoid getting a photo snapped of us in mid osculation. That is, in the act of tonguing the shit out of this strange girl that I really like for no apparent reason whatsoever. Because she cries a lot? Because she's sad? Because I want to save her, fix her, make her smile? I think I have a problem here.
“Is this your girlfriend, Mr. Park?” the guy asks, taking several more shots before one of our security guards appears from the self-help section to escort him back a few steps. I notice him zooming in on my crotch—and the hard bulge beneath the denim—and smile.
“Maybe,” I say as Lilith grabs the stack of books I abandoned and clutches them against her chest with a secretive sort of smile, “or maybe I just really like to read?”
This time, when I head over to the venue with the boys to watch the show, I decide to stay backstage. The last thing I need is a repeat of last night's fiasco—although I wouldn't mind another wild, flirtatious kiss with Michael …
No.
No, I would in fact mind that. He hasn't said anything else to me since last night, so as far as I know, everything is still okay with Vanessa. I'll keep my end of the bargain, too, and talk to her with him, tell her what happened. I meant it when I said I don't want to be the one responsible for them breaking up. That would put too much pressure on whatever this attraction is between us.
So I make myself watch the show from the safety of the curtain and enjoy getting a behind the scenes view that nobody else has, a little taste of the action from close up. Is it wrong that knowing what each guy in the band tastes like somehow makes the show that much more exciting?
Maybe I really am a fucking groupie?
I cheer and sing and clap with the rest of the venue, but when the boys finish up and file offstage, I'm waiting for them.
“You guys were fucking great tonight,” I tell Cope, kissing him first and then moving onto Muse, Ransom, and then Pax. He's the only one that's greedy about it, grabbing me and squeezing me tight against his sweaty front, his shirt unbuttoned and his tie already missing, chucked into the needy hands of the crowd.
“We bloody were, weren't we?” he asks, slinging an arm around my shoulder and leading the charge through the backstage area. With his other hand, he manages to slide a pack of smokes from his pocket, extract one and light up, all without letting go of my waist. Impressive. “Fucking brilliant.”
The boys and I head out the door and over to the bus, only to find a gaggle of well-dressed girls waiting outside. They glitter and sparkle in tall heels, tight dresses, their makeup flawless and their hair even better.
I feel instantly self-conscious, even though I know I shouldn't be. There's a reason that I'm here with these boys at this point in my life. There's something more between us than just sex—and that's pain. Maybe some of these girls have it, I don't know, but right now, the connection is between me and the guys. I know that at the very least, they'll ride this thing out with me. Whether they get tired of our arrangement or not, I can't see any of them—even Pax—letting me go before the end of the tour.
“What the fuck?” Pax asks, getting this seriously ticked off expression on his face. He manages to smooth it away before any of the women notices us. “Pardon me, ladies,” he says, not even bothering to stop. He just pushes his way forward, straight through them and toward the door. Most of them try to talk to him, some of them even touch him, but he ignores them, dragging me up the stairs and inside.
“I told Octavia no girls for a while,�
�� Muse says as the rest of the boys file in and he closes the door behind us. “I know she knew what I meant by that,” he adds with a sigh, pulling the curtains over the kitchen sink closed and running a hand along the buzzed hair on the right side of his head. “Either she forgot or …”
“She's too fucking obsessed with Pax to resist punishing Lilith,” Michael snarls. “Jesus. You want me to talk to her for you?”
“I want you to fire her,” Pax says as he lets go of my waist and grabs a beer from the fridge. “Would she let them in here if Vanessa were here? No, she damn well wouldn't. She never let groupies in when Chloe and Kortney were around either.”
There's this tenseness that springs to life at the mention of those two girls, but it fades quickly when I kick off my heels and sigh at the sheer pleasure of being flat-footed again.
“It's okay,” I tell them, loving this ridiculous amount of protectiveness that they're showing me. It's adorable and honestly, flattering as hell. Who wouldn't want five guys fawning over their emotional well-being like that? “I don't mind—as long as you don't bring any of them onto the bus.” I smile when I say that, but I'm dead serious. If they want to fuck other girls, they can do it elsewhere—and they can say goodbye to sleeping with me, even with a condom. I know it sounds selfish to impose that rule considering I'm fucking four of them at the same time, but that's just the way it is. That's how I want it right now.
Besides, I haven't left a single one of them wanting for sex since I got here. Apparently I have a healthy enough sex drive to keep them all happy.
“It's not okay with me,” Pax says as he stabs his cigarette out in an ashtray and turns his grey eyes in my direction. “Feels like a threat. Or at the very least, a serious sign of disrespect. Octavia's being a right git. Either that or she's gone completely mental.”
“You guys are going dancing, right?” Muse asks, looking between Cope and me with a slight smile.
I blink at him and suddenly feel a little guilty. Is that okay? Is it fair for Cope and me to head out on a private date while the others stay behind? I mean why shouldn't they bring one of those girls up on the bus to hang out with? It would be completely fair.
But I wouldn't like it. Not at all.
“Yeah,” I say as Cope pauses beside me and smiles. I flush a little because it's the same smile he gave me when we started reading the same book together this afternoon, after we got back from our breakfast/shopping outing. Three sentences in and the main character is already having gratuitous sex with some guy she just met and Cope is casting me these flirty glances across the couch. “If that's okay with you guys?”
“It's fine with me, baby girl,” Ransom whispers in that lusciously dark voice of his, pausing next to me to kiss me on the forehead. “I'll shower and watch a movie while I wait for you.” He breathes against my scalp, stirring my hair, making me shiver. “Have fun, okay?”
“You know what's not alright,” Pax continues, glancing at his phone and frowning. He's been doing that all day. Cope said something about his parents, but I wasn't sure how to broach the subject and ask—or even if I should broach the subject and ask. “Bringing groupies all the way back here when she knows damn well that we're not interested in them. I'm going to fucking talk to her—right now.”
Pax's words thrill me, even though I know I'm letting a lot—too much—of my current happiness ride on what these guys think and feel about me. But finding self-worth at this point seems impossible; I'm too buried in grief. Drowning in it. Together, these boys make up the tightly lashed logs of my life raft. Lose one and I might sink.
I really need to get my shit together, I think as I realize that for a week, I've done literally nothing but hang out with them. Tomorrow, I'll post an ad and try to sell the Matador—even though it was my mom's car when she was growing up. It's time to let it go and see if I can get some cash to start a fresh life. After all, these guys, these new clothes, this bus, it's all part of a fairytale. One day, the clock really will chime midnight and the whole thing will turn into a fucking pumpkin.
“Please don't fire her, Pax. Do you remember what our last manager was like?” Muse asks as he follows along behind his friend and tosses an apologetic smile over his shoulder. “I'm going with him,” he adds and then there's the sound of excited voices and the distinct scent of perfume before the door slams closed behind him.
“You guys go ahead,” Michael says, watching me with his beautiful eyes. “And have fun. Don't worry about any of this.”
I stare back at him, but I can't read the expression on his face. I wish I could decipher it somehow, get inside his head and see what he's thinking about when he looks at me. Hopefully nothing, right? I mean, one of the things I find attractive about him is that he's faithful to his girlfriend. But thoughts can't be helped, I guess, and maybe deep down I'm hoping that just one or two of the ones in his head are about me.
“I won't,” I promise as Cope holds out a hand and helps me step back into my heels. As soon as his fingers touch mine, I forget about Michael for a moment and meet those brightly colored blue-green eyes of his. Now that I've had a glimpse into his past, he makes more sense to me. That boy next door act isn't really an act at all; it's a backlash against the shitty men he's known in his life. It's a natural response for him to want to reach out to women, show some fucking kindness and respect.
It does make me wonder though if there's anything specifically about me that he likes or if it's all just a part of his routine.
Still, I wouldn't trade going dancing with him for anything in the world right now.
“Ready?” he asks, and I nod, following him outside and down the steps. The girls are still there, but they look slightly less than enthused at this point. One of them even glares at me as we move past.
“Bitch,” she whispers under her breath, but I ignore her. I don't want to compete with other women for a man's affection. Either he wants to give it to me or he doesn't. I refuse to let thoughts of Michael invade my brain and push that notion aside.
“Do you know where we're going tonight?” I ask Cope as he leads me out toward the edge of the lot and a pair of gates. This particular venue has a giant brick wall around the parking area, lending it an unusual amount of privacy for a place smack-dab near the city center.
“I have some ideas,” he says, his hair still styled up into a messy faux hawk, a slight tracing of eyeliner around his beautiful eyes. His white Beauty in Lies tank is stuck to his body with sweat, but I like it because it gives this feral edge to his kind face. He looks gorgeous but flawed right now, the boy next door in black sweatbands and ripped jeans, shiny red Docs and several spiked belts with a white and black bandana tied around one that he uses onstage to wipe sweat from his forehead.
It's sexy as hell.
“But,” Cope adds as he shows his badge to one of the security guards and they let us out of the gate, “I will take you wherever you want to go, Lily.” He pauses as a yellow cab pulls up and opens the door to let me in. “Is it okay if I call you Lily?”
“You can call me whatever I want,” I say as I slide in and he climbs in next to me.
A proper date. With a rockstar.
I pinch my arm as he shuts the door and gives the driver an address in the city.
Thankfully, my pinch hurts and I don't wake up.
I'm afraid that when I do, all of this fairy dust and dark magic will have tainted me, and the real world—the pumpkin and the wicked stepmother and the dead dad—all of it will come crashing down around me and there'll be no prince around to save me then.
Cope takes me out dancing, just like he promised.
And he doesn't just drag me to a bunch of crowded nightclubs. He seems to have done his research because the first place he picks is this adorable little brick building that serves drinks and bar food … and dance lessons.
While the night is still young, I learn to dance the Charleston with Copeland. Well, he learns to dance the Charleston, taking to it like a duck to water.
Me, I mostly just fumble around and try not to die laughing when the instructor corrects my form for the hundredth time.
“I told you I wasn't much of a dancer,” I tell him as he helps me out of the car and under a black umbrella when we get back to the venue. I've got a paper cup of coffee in my hands, a gentle buzz from all the alcohol I drank tonight, and a smile plastered across my face. After our dance lesson, we hit a few clubs, but since nobody dances the Charleston anymore, we went back to the first place and rocked out to music from the 1920s.
“You were great,” Cope says with a mysterious sort of smile hovering on his lips. “Even if you managed to somehow kick me in the balls while you were dancing.” I snort and almost spill coffee everywhere, rainwater spattering my feet and ankles, making me feel a little silly for wearing peep toes in the rain.
“My only regret is that I didn't have a flapper dress to wear,” I say as Copeland opens the door to the bus and shields me with the umbrella while I climb inside. I head up the steps and finish off the last of my coffee, setting the empty cup on the counter as I survey the sleeping boys in the living room.
Ran and Muse are asleep on opposite sides of the couch, both of them curled over the arm at their end, a muted movie playing on the flat-screen. I watch Ransom's face for any sign that he's having—or has already had—nightmares, but he looks peaceful enough right now. He did say that he didn't like to sleep alone; I guess with Derek a few feet away from him, he's not alone right now.
“Come on,” Cope says, taking my hand in his, curling his warm fingers through mine and sending that excited little thrill through me. We've spent all night touching, dancing, kissing each other and still, when his hand finds mine I'm nervous all over again. Butterflies tease the inside of my belly as he pulls me past the bathrooms—someone is in there showering—and down the hall.
When we pass Michael's bunk, I see his arm sticking out of the curtain, the soft easy cadence of his breathing letting me know that he's asleep, too.
Groupie (Rock-Hard Beautiful Book 1) Page 29
