Groupie (Rock-Hard Beautiful Book 1)

by C. M. Stunich

  “You two fucking deserve each other,” I snap, and then I spin on my heel and slam the door behind me.

  “Lilith.”

  The sound of Michael's voice behind me makes my skin ripple in a horribly pleasant sort of way. I don't want to want him right now, but I do anyway. I stand stone-still as I listen to his footsteps climb the metal steps of the bus, the door closing softly behind him.

  When I glance over my shoulder, I see him leaning against it.

  “You're an asshole,” I tell him, because it's the truth. I spent all day with the boys at the botanical gardens and all I could fucking think about was Michael and Vanessa, wondering if they were having sex, wondering if I should or shouldn't tell him what I saw.

  But in the end, I knew that if someone had seen Kevin with another girl—even just kissing her—I'd have wanted them to tell me. Even if Michael cheated on her in the past, it doesn't give Vanessa the right to cheat on him. And with his brother? That's a low blow for sure.

  “I know,” he whispers, and his voice is ragged and broken like maybe he's been crying.

  I turn fully around to watch him, still dressed in his purple button-up, the sleeves rolled to his elbows, all of the buttons undone by this point and flashing his black wifebeater. He tosses his leather jacket onto one of the swivel chairs and scrubs his hands down his face. Looking at him, I can't decide if he really did cry or if his emotions are just so heavy and morose that they're making his voice crack.

  “What you said to me …” I start, and then have to pause and close my eyes for a moment. “That was fucking awful, Michael.” If I hadn't been sitting in Ransom's lap when he said it, I might've cried, might've let that awful hurt into the fragile cracks of my psyche. But he was angry and he was sad and in the end, he didn't mean it. I know that. He owes me a goddamn apology though.

  Before I can say anything else, he's already giving it, glancing up at me with indigo eyes, his face tight with hurt and pain and betrayal.

  “I'm so sorry, Lil,” he says as he stands up straight and moves into the kitchen, pausing next to me as I peruse a recipe on my phone, trying to make a list of ingredients that I'll need for that horrible, disgusting pizza idea of mine. At this point, I'm so sick of Vanessa that I just want to make it in the hopes that it'll act as a repellant and keep her off this bus. “As soon as you said it, I knew it was true. Hell, I knew it was true from the moment we left that restaurant this morning. Vanessa didn't want to hang out with me; she wanted to fucking sightsee with Tim.”

  He pauses and lets out a long sigh, examining me in the new shirt-dress I sewed after breakfast, before we went to the gardens. It's pale pink, with crisscrossed black laces up either side, leaving two bare lines of body that I cover with a nude slip. In the right lights and at the right angles, it looks like I'm completely naked underneath.

  “Fuck,” Michael says as he studies my tall black heels with the pink bats on them. “You're all dressed up, aren't you?”

  “I want to see the show tonight,” I say because although I might not want to go every single night, nine times out of ten I'll be there, even if it's just for moral support. Although at this point every show's still exciting, new, different. I'm not saying it can't get old, just that it's not there yet. “But first I need to grab a few things from the store …”

  “I really am sorry,” Michael repeats, standing awkwardly by my side, watching me as I pretend to care about the recipe in my hand. “I should never have taken my anger out on you like that. I just … you came in here like a whirlwind, and I didn't know what to do. I'm attracted to you in a way I've never been attracted to anyone before. It fucking freaks me the hell out.”

  I almost smile at that, but I pretend to ignore him, scrolling with my thumb down the recipe website.

  “I accept your apology,” I tell him, glancing at the time and wondering why he's not scrambling to get ready for the show. The other boys left already, giving me just enough time to make a list, hit the grocery store that's two blocks down, and get back before their set. I just really want to cook dinner for everyone tonight, right here, on this bus.

  I'm so fucking glad that Michael's here, too.

  “But I'm still pissed off at you,” I say, finally looking up and meeting his violet gaze. “Go get ready for the show and we can talk some more after.”

  He stares at me for a moment, purses his lips and breathes out, long and low.

  “Can I give you something first?” he asks me. I nod tentatively, tucking my phone to my chest as he moves into the hallway and down to his bunk, emerging with the shiny black bag from the jeweler's.

  My heart starts to pound furiously in my chest.

  “I don't want a gift meant for another woman,” I whisper and Michael smiles tightly.

  “I know,” he says, pulling out a pair of velvet boxes and handing them to me. “I realized too late that I wasn't shopping for Vanessa; I was shopping for you.”

  I crack the lids and in one, find an opal teardrop necklace on a silver chain. In the other, the rhodonite heart necklace with the silver leaves.

  “Opal's my birthstone,” I whisper, tilting the box in different directions so I can admire the shine on the pearlescent white gem. “How did you know that?”

  “You said something about having a Halloween birthday to Muse that night, on our way into Chicago. I didn't even realize I'd picked your birthstone instead of Vanessa's until today.”

  “So why two necklaces?” I ask as I fight the urge to pull them both out and put them on. He has two boxes. So what? That doesn't really mean they were meant for me.

  “I was thinking one was for you, as another thank you for helping me out, and the other was for Vanessa. But … that heart? Made from the same gem your dad gave your mom? How the fuck was I supposed to give that to another woman? Lil, your birthstone, your fucking heart.”

  I set the boxes aside and run my tongue across my lower lip. I pick my phone back up off the counter as a distraction and find that it's dead. Whatever. I know what I need to buy at the store. I close my eyes and try to focus on that mental list instead of on Michael and his dumb apology and his stupid necklaces.

  “You've been an asshole since I got on this bus,” I whisper and he doesn't protest. When I open my eyes, he's still staring at me. His face is … cracked and broken, all of his most tender parts exposed. I want to ignore him, turn him away, but I can't. I just can't. “What would've been different about today if Vanessa hadn't been cheating on you?”

  “I wanted to break up with her,” he says, and the cadence of his voice, the softness of his tone leads me to believe him. It could all be bullshit, definitely, but … I don't think so. “For days. For months, actually. I knew our relationship was toxic, that I didn't love her anymore. But hell, I thought I owed her for the things I'd done. I was trying to be responsible for once in my life and make plans, think about a future, about marriage, kids. I felt like I owed all of that to Vanessa for the way I treated her, for the baby we lost … the baby that might not have been mine,” he adds with gritted teeth, glancing away toward the door.

  It opens up a second later and Octavia's standing there, panting heavily. Her eyes, when they meet mine, are furious, as if Michael being late is somehow my fucking fault.

  “Mr. Luxe,” she says, trying to pretend to be sweet, failing miserably. Her ponytail bounces as she comes up the steps in her usual black tee and jeans, glaring daggers at me. “We need you in the venue now.”

  “I'll be right there,” he growls back at her. Octavia looks for a moment like she might protest, but then she catches the feral glint in Michael's eye and clenches her jaw tight.

  “Fifteen minutes, please,” she barks and then retreats back the way she came, letting the door slam behind her.

  “Did you fuck Vanessa today?” I ask, almost too scared to hear the answer to that.

  “No.”

  Relief surges through me, but I refuse to show it.

  “What do you want from me?” I
ask Michael as he takes a step closer and hovers his fingertips down my arms, igniting that same fire I felt the night I kissed him.

  “I'm not sure,” he answers honestly, meeting my gaze when I look up at him, “but for now … I want to kiss you without restraint.”

  He puts his hands on my arms and I drop my phone to the floor, not giving a shit whether it cracks or breaks. I don't have anybody to call; everybody I want to talk to at this point in my life is right here. Since I gave him my promise before that I wouldn't kiss him, I wait for him to do it to me.

  Michael's fingers sear my aching flesh as he curls them around my biceps and pulls me a step closer, dropping his mouth to mine with this sharp, rough sound of relief. As soon as our lips touch, fire streaks through me like a shooting star, burning up the last of my inhibitions. Michael and I need to talk more and he needs to tell me what happened after I called him, but first … I need to make this right.

  I need to claim the last of my boys.

  My tongue slides between Michael's lips as I throw my arms around his neck. As soon as I do that, he lets go completely and kisses me hard and fast, making me bleed again, making me not give a crap that I am. The pain blends with the pleasure as he shoves me back into the cabinets and then lifts me up onto the counter with his fingers digging into my ass.

  He hasn't had sex in a year … and I can feel that, all of that pent-up want and desire, that basic need. I want to fulfill that here, now, have him desperate and wild inside of me.

  Michael shoves my dress up, pushing my panties aside as he undoes the button on his jeans with a rapid swiftness borne of desperation. As soon as his cock is free, he's shoving it into my slick wetness with this agonizing groan of pleasure and relief.

  I cling to him, my arms around his neck as he fucks me into the side of the counter with hard, violent thrusts, his need for sex as rapacious and angry as his initial rejection of me. I wrap my legs around him, pull him close, take him in and soothe away some of that pain. The sounds he makes as he drives into me are nothing short of animalistic, bestial and primal and satisfyingly awful. I feel bad for him, for what he went through today, but that wildcat part of me is triumphant.

  I got him.

  He's mine.

  And since Vanessa is a cheating bitch … I don't feel at all guilty about it.

  Michael's grunts get deeper, more languid, almost sleepy and then he's coming so hard that his whole body trembles, muscles quivering, fingers bruising my ass as he buries himself balls deep into me. His reaction is so violent and base that it triggers something in me, too, and I find my orgasm with him, wrapping around him, claiming him.

  First woman he's had in a year.

  And I like that. A lot.

  “Fucking fuck,” he says, still holding onto me, still trembling slightly. “Fucking fucker fuck.”

  “Eloquent,” I murmur as he breathes out a long sigh of relief against my neck, but I'm smiling as I say it. I got them; I did it; they're mine. Thank god I had that grown-up talk with the boys the other night, when we went out for steak. Michael is one of them, so Michael is in. I think they all figured this would happen eventually.

  “I don't want to do the fucking show,” he growls, nuzzling into my neck, making goose bumps spring up all across my skin. “I just want to stay here and fuck you instead. Do you know how damn good that felt?”

  “Because it's been a year?” I whisper and he laughs.

  “Because it's you,” he replies.

  I am seriously fucking glowing when I loop my VIP badge around my neck, tuck my ID and some cash behind it, and take off down the bus steps toward the gates of the venue. Muse and I walked down to this little grocery store earlier for snacks, and I forget to grab everything I needed for my recipe. At least now I know where to go and about how long it takes to get there.

  I flash my badge to the woman at the gate and she lets me through, out into the cool Atlanta night with Michael's leather jacket slung over my shoulders. I can still smell him on me, that pomegranate spice of his shampoo, the almost untraceable scent of sex. I rinsed off, but still, I can feel him inside of me, grunting and thrusting and filling me.

  I grin like an idiot, cutting off all thoughts of death and pain and loss. I just can't right now. This is my moment. Those boys … something about those goddamn boys … they called to me and I came. And here I am.

  One week left.

  It won't be enough, but at this point, I'll take what I can get.

  I hurry down the sidewalk in my heels, wishing I'd changed before I left, but too damn giddy to care much about some aching arches.

  When I come around the corner, my mouth drops open and I see the line for the concert stretching all the way down the block, a sea of glittering people in black band tees and tight jeans, leather vests and short skirts, spiked mohawks and outrageous piercings.

  I have to walk past them to get to the market, but I don't mind. It makes for interesting people watching and besides, the band they've all come to see, Beauty in Lies, they're mine. I try to stop the basic, primal wildcat type thoughts, but I can't help it. And why am I even here doing this if not to enjoy it? So I give in and march past the crowd with my head held high and a smile on my face. They don't have to know that I just fucked the lead guitarist, but I do, and it feels fucking great.

  Hell, maybe I am a groupie after all?

  I'm about halfway down the block when I hear a familiar voice call out my name.

  “Lilith?”

  I stop right in my tracks, going completely still, feeling this awful chill course over my body and down my spine.

  No. No, no, no. Not here, not tonight.

  “Kevin?” I ask, this little quaver in my voice as I turn around and spot my ex standing against a brick wall in Atlanta, Georgia of all places. What. The. Fuck. “What are …” I can't even make the words come out I'm so fucking shocked.

  “What are you doing here?” he asks, wide-eyed, looking at me like he's never seen me before in his life. I just stare back at him, at his bland, lifeless brown eyes and mop of equally lifeless hair. It's all slicked back with pomade, like he thinks he looks cool, very 1920s or something. He looks like a complete ass.

  “Me?” I ask him, standing there in Michael's jacket with my red hair hanging loose and blowing gently in the breeze, my body tingling with electricity, sweetly sore from Michael's cock, physically and emotionally satiated with the events of the day.

  I reach up, my mother's charm bracelet jingling, and touch the pair of necklaces at my throat. Yes, I'm a total sap and I put both on. I want to feel wanted right now, need it. Because if the boys want me, then I'm not alone. And you know what? I like them, too. I actually really fucking like them as people, all of them—even asshole Michael has a good heart.

  “I'm with the band,” I say, and the words feel so goddamn good as I drop my fingers to my VIP badge and caress it lovingly. Kevin stares at it like he's in complete shock—and hopefully jealous as fuck that I got to meet his favorite band when he's never even seen them live before. “What are you doing here?” I return.

  “With the band?” he asks, still staring at me like he's half-fascinated, half-terrified by what he sees. His eyes drop to my bat shoes, lift back up to my face. “How … but you don't even like their music.”

  “Kevin, what are you doing here?” I repeat, lifting a hand up to indicate the city. “You're supposed to be in Phoenix.”

  “Shouldn't you be in New York?” he asks, but I can't let myself go there, not right now. I have Michael and Paxton and Copeland and Muse and Ransom. I don't need to think beyond that at the moment. My grief has had plenty of airtime this week.

  “I have to go,” I say, feeling this sense of dread creep over me, like if I stand here for too long, Kevin might give me yet another disease to match the first. I turn and start walking, praying he doesn't follow.

  He does.

  He catches up to me and grabs onto my arm with rough fingers.

  I jerk away from
him, but all he does is lift his palms up in apology.

  “I'm sorry, Lilith,” he says, and he sounds genuine enough, but I don't trust him for shit. I never will, not ever again. Kevin scrubs a hand over his freshly shaved face, down the front of his black Beauty in Lies t-shirt. It's sort of ironic to see him wearing my boys on his chest like that. “Look, I really don't want to miss the show, but there's still a half hour until doors open. You want to grab a coffee real quick or something? I saw a place just down the street.”

  I'm already opening my mouth to say fuck no when he keeps talking.

  “I know you don't want to talk to me right now, but if we could just chat for a second … I'm really sorry about your dad.” I stare at him and I think about Michael and how the one thing—maybe the only thing—he said he loved about Vanessa was her power to forgive. And that, that is a mighty power. It is awesome in its fragility and its strength.

  I could posses it here, right now. I could forgive Kevin, let the nightmare of him go, and move on with my fucking life.

  So, even though deep, deep down I know what a monster he is, I suck in a deep breath and make myself smile.

  “Okay,” I say with a brisk nod, tucking some red hair behind my ear, “okay, one coffee.”

  “I can't believe we ran into each other here,” Kevin says as he orders us coffees—without even asking me if I want one or anything else for that matter—and smiles like he didn't give me syphilis as a parting gift. “So … I don't get it, you're with the band? You never even wanted to go to that concert in Phoenix and now you, what, work for them as a roadie or something?”

  “Something like that,” I say, leaning back in the seat and crossing my ankles, putting my hands together behind my head in my strength pose. I need to feel strong right now, desperately so. And besides, Kevin always hated it when I stood or sat like this, so it makes me want to do it more. “I'm traveling with them for the time being.”

  “You like a groupie or whatever?” he asks with a harsh laugh, pausing as the waitress sets two speckled mugs of cheap coffee in front of us. “Because, you know, you're not really dressed like a roadie.”