Rock & Release

by Riley Edgewood

  "Nope." Polly snaps the word out like a popped bubble of gum, bringing my attention back to her. "But what Luca says goes. He makes way too much money from that whole no-drug sponsorship for lil old me to mess it up with a backstage beer."

  "How come you can drink at the bar before the concert?"

  "It's in public, so nobody can speculate that maybe we're doing more than drinking. It's different behind closed doors."

  It makes sense, in a somewhat paranoid sort of way. And it tells me Luca's campaign is really important to him—which chips away at another little piece of the shield I'm trying so hard to keep up against him.

  Polly opens the door to reveal the refrigerator filled to the brim with glass soda bottles. The inside of the door is lined with fancy sparkling waters. I pull out a water. "Think you have enough soda?"

  "It's part of my contract." She grabs a bottle for herself.

  "You could give a drink to an entire row of your audience." Maybe two. "Seems a little extreme."

  "Honey, I could make a venue fill this entire room with soda bottles if I wanted. Trust me. This is not extreme."

  "But…soda?" I study her. Hair still wet from a shower. Lip piercing, glinting under the light of the room. Hard look in her eyes. "Soda seems a little tame for you."

  She snorts. "It's less about the soda and more about the glass bottles. They remind me of growing up. Lazy summer days, sitting on our old wooden front porch with my grandfather when I was younger."

  "That's sweet." And sounds strange coming from her. What an odd, contradictory girl.

  "Whatever. It helps put me in the mood to perform."

  When she closes the door, I point to a huge bouquet of flowers on the table. "You request those, too?"

  She pops the cap off her soda with a bottle opener and shakes her head. "Steve, if you can believe it. He's got a soft spot for pretty things."

  "What else do you require with your contract?" These things seem so…small.

  "Not much." She drops into a chair at the table. "I like a little F. Charles to relax to. But that's about as high maintenance as I get."

  "You chose the music?" I pull out a chair to join her, but hesitate. I want to like this girl. I do. Partially because of the fact that, you know, she's Polly Arcadia, badass rock star. But also because she was nice the first time I served her whiskey. And she ordered whiskey, which gives her points. Plus, she likes Franklin Charles.

  But then she says, "Anyway. As I'm sure you'll see when he takes you back there to do the thing you came here to do, Luca always gets the nicest dressing room."

  "To do the thing I came here to do?" What a bitch. Instead of joining her, I shove the chair back under the table. "I didn't come here to do anything other than hang out after the show."

  She glances up at me, a cool expression across her face. "Oh. Smart. You're holding out for a hotel invitation."

  "Excuse me?"

  "You'll definitely get the full experience that way. Party it up, rock style. I get it, honey. Just don't be scared if he asks someone else to join the two of you." A smarmy double eyebrow raise and then she lowers her voice into a faux-whisper. "He's into that. You'll get brownie points if you are, too."

  I look out across the room, sure we've been overheard, but nobody's watching us. The only person focused on me right now is Polly, and I refuse to give her the satisfaction of the embarrassed response she's expecting. So I shrug. "Sounds fun."

  Her eyes widen a fraction in the most satisfactory way. I cock my head like it's no big deal—except on the inside my stomach is in knots. Hotel invite? Threesomes?

  Not my thing.

  Oh, God.

  So not my thing.

  "Anyway," I say, coolly. "Thanks for the soda. And the heads-up."

  "Anytime." Amusement dances across her features, softening them a bit. She's reevaluating whatever it is she thinks about me. But I no longer care about whether or not she likes me—or whether I like her, either. I'm a little too freaked out for that. I can't stop thinking about Luca wanting to have a threesome. How would that even work?

  And then it hits me.

  I shouldn't be freaked out at all.

  It's not like I'm going to Luca's hotel room. He's never mentioned it—and even if he did, I wouldn't go.

  I wouldn't.

  In fact, I'm actually going to leave right now. I'm going home to Gage.

  Right now.

  On the couches at the other side of the room, Luca, Vera, Norris and Teagan are all still talking. I don't want to interrupt.

  Well. Let's be honest. I'm too chicken to interrupt.

  So instead I walk away from Polly, without sparing her even another glance. And I walk right out the door.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  I make it five steps down the hall—back toward the bouncers and the rope and the hallway filled with fans, before Luca calls after me. "Cassie—hold up."

  I hesitate, but take another few steps away from him. If I stay…if I stay I might make a huge mistake.

  "Hey—stop." He catches up to me, grabbing my arm to pull me around to face him. "Where are you going?"

  "Home." I can't meet his eyes.

  He mutters, "Shit," a split second before the hallway behind us erupts in screams. Luca's name is screeched so loudly I feel like my ears are going to bleed.

  "Come on." Luca's mouth moves from inches away from my face, but his words are muted against the raucous wailing behind us. He tugs me with him—past the room we've just come from until we get to a door with his name next to it on the wall. He flings the door open and drags both of us inside, letting it slam shut behind him.

  I shake my head and rub my ears to clear some of the deafening echoes still rattling around in them. Luca's standing a little too close for comfort; I can feel the weight of his presence him against my back, though we aren't touching, so I step forward into the room.

  It's smaller than the band's. The walls are a deep maroon color—and a faint hint of a fresh paint scent lingers in the air. I wonder if he put in the request for the color, which would be a weird demand—but far from the strangest I've ever heard. Cushiony-looking couches fill the space, with two matching armchairs and a few scattered stools and a sleek brown coffee table between them all. Two huge, flat-screen TVs hang in the back corners of the room, and there's a row of long vertical mirrors on the wall between them—each glass panel is lined with vanity bulbs and rests just above a thin black dressing table.

  The room is nice, but…not that much nicer than the band's. I'm thinking Polly has a bit of a warped impression of Luca. I wonder why.

  "Jesus," I say when my ears finally stop feeling like they're full of cotton. The door behind us blocks some of the noise, but not all of it. "How do you deal with that?"

  "That's nothing, believe me… I actually kind of love it," he admits. Then, when I turn to look at him, he frowns at me and steps closer. "Where were you going?"

  Don't stare at his frown. Don't think about his lips. "I didn't want to interrupt you and Vera."

  "We were just talking…" The corners of his mouth tilt up. "Are you jealous?"

  "No!" I wish he'd move back an inch or two. I'm finding it very, very difficult to think.

  "I thought you wanted me to talk to her."

  "I did. I do. Wait—did you leave her sitting there by herself? You have to go back."

  "No." He stares at my face, the pressure of his gaze making my cheeks tingle. "I've wanted to get you in here all night."

  I take a step away from him. "Listen. I didn't come here for whatever you take girls back here for."

  "What?" Confusion wrinkles his brow. "What are you talking about?"

  I want to tell him what Polly said—but I just shake my head. "I just thought it'd be cool to hang out for a little bit after the show."

  "Exactly. And?" The wrinkle deepens as he studies me and then reverses as his eyes widen in comprehension. "Oh, Cassie, come on. Have a little faith. I want to hang out. Talk."
<
br />   "You told me you were hitting on me." I freeze mid-breath when his warm, vanilla cinnamon scent hits me. He smells delicious. I find myself, again, wanting to lick him.

  "I was. I am." He runs a hand through his hair, mussing up the carefully gelled coif. "But I'm not an asshole. I can see the panic across your face. If you're not into it, let's just chill."

  "I'm not saying I'm not into it." Oh, God. What am I saying?

  "I can see that, too." He's so smug.

  "That's not what I meant to say." In an attempt to regain some balance, I turn away from him and point toward the mirrors along the back wall. "Is this where you do your pretty, pretty makeup?"

  "Maybe." His smile comes through the tone of his voice. His hand wraps around my hip and I straight-up jolt further into the room and that smile becomes a laugh behind me. "Are you okay?"

  "Yeah." I stroll as casually as I can through the middle of the room, weaving through the couches and stools and square silver side tables. I can feel his gaze against my back. My breath hitches, but I swallow it down and just keep taking in the surroundings.

  "So what sort of things do you have on your list of demands for venues?" I still can't make myself turn back toward him. I point, instead, to a small refrigerator against the wall. "What would I find if I opened that?"

  "Nothing too crazy." His voice drapes silkily across the back of my neck. "Tea. Honey. Hummus and vegetables… Throat drops."

  "Throat drops?"

  "Gotta keep the vocal chords oiled," he explains.

  Makes sense.

  "It pains me to say this, but I've got a sore throat," comes out of my mouth in the lamest dad joke voice ever.

  My body completely freezes where I stand. Oh God. My dad never even told dad jokes—I don't know where it came from. I want to crawl into a deep, deep, embarrassment-hiding hole.

  And Luca? From behind me, he starts to laugh. Chuckling at first, but like an avalanche it picks up speed and size.

  It takes me about a year to turn around and face him, and when I do I mean to keep my cool, to raise an eyebrow in a mock glare, but instead I start to laugh, too. Because he's just completely lost it. Like he hasn't laughed this hard in ages.

  "It wasn't that funny," I say, unable to keep from wearing what I know is a ridiculous grin.

  "No, it wasn't," he says, wiping a hand across his face. "But your voice, going all husky and deep—was that…was that a dad joke? Your dad impression?"

  "Not my dad, in particular." The heat I feel in my cheeks spreads down my neck. At least he got the dad thing.

  "You're so freaking…cute." He laughs a little more, giving the smallest shake of his head, like maybe he doesn't use the word cute all that often. I'm not sure what to make of it.

  "Yep, that's me," I say, drolly. "The cutest." I don't think I've been called cute in…well, ever. At five and a half feet, I'm a little too tall to qualify. With too many curves. "Glad to provide so much entertainment."

  If I'd ever imagined having a conversation with Luca James—which, honestly, I hadn't until meeting him—I could've played out a million different scenarios and never come up with this one.

  Of course, in my head, I wouldn't have been as clumsy around him as I've been, either.

  "I'm not usually so…" My words drift off when I notice something else. Behind the chairs to my left is a long white table draped in a sheet. "Is that a massage table?"

  His expression goes adorably sheepish. "Yeah."

  "Wow. You require a masseuse? Is that something that goes in your contract?"

  "My manager arranges perks like that."

  "I'm sure they're very hard to accept."

  He shrugs. "Other musicians relax—or get hyped—with drugs before shows. A massage seems kind of tame, if you ask me."

  "Your anti-drug campaign is pretty great," I admit. "I bet your rock star appeal keeps a lot of teens off drugs."

  "Interesting." He studies me, his head tilting a bit to the side.

  "What?" I hate the way his stare makes my neck tingle with the heat of a flush.

  "I think this is the first time you've noted anything about me without some sort of condescension."

  "I have a lot of respect for what you're doing," I say, simply. "It means a lot to me, and I'm sure it does to a ton of other people."

  "That's the goal." He glances away for a moment, and his cheeks tinge with the faintest whiff of pink. What I've said matters to him. Which makes it matter even more to me.

  "What made you…I mean, I feel like drugs are part of the whole rock star territory. What made you take on the cause?" I ask.

  "The money," he says, with a disarming grin.

  I roll my eyes. "Yeah, right. You don't have to tell me."

  "I will…" He smiles, but for the first time it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "I don't talk about it with a lot of people, but I had a girlfriend—years ago, when Gold Rush was just breaking out—and she…had a problem. A big one. It didn't end well." He pulls out his phone, turning it over in his hands, like he can't keep them still.

  "I'm so sorry." I can't read his expression now, but I know it all the same. He doesn't want to talk about it. He doesn't want to remember. For a moment I feel closer to him than I've felt to anyone in a long time.

  A pause yawns between us. It's not uncomfortable; time's shifting a few things around in the way we regard each other and needs a second to do so.

  Then Luca tosses his phone onto a couch and his features rearrange into something much more playful, more mischievous.

  He gestures toward the massage table. "You know, I've picked up a few tricks of the trade."

  He takes a slow, calculating step toward me.

  Another step.

  And another.

  Move back. I should move back.

  But I don't.

  "I'd be happy to practice them on you." He reaches toward me, scrunching his fingers in and out.

  "No. I'm good, thanks." The words leave my mouth so fast they almost blur together.

  "Hmmm. I like this, by the way. Very pretty." He tugs at the skirt of my dress.

  "Thanks," I murmur, trying oh so very hard not to give away the fact that beneath the fabric my knees are trembling.

  He releases my skirt and I release the breath I'd been holding. "You sure about that massage?"

  "I thought you said you could see my panic."

  "It's not there anymore."

  No, he's right, it isn't. Instead the nerves along my skin are pricking me with the most delicious nips of anticipation. It's all I can do not to wring my hands together to temper it.

  It's all I can do not to jump him.

  He slides closer.

  I swallow and stand my ground.

  What am I doing?

  "I want to feel your skin." His words are soft, his tone sensual. He doesn't move, just watches my face. "Can I touch you?"

  "Uh…" I should say no, that I don't want him to touch me. Except…I want him to touch me so bad it almost hurts. Breath makes a tunnel out of my mouth, whooshing out from my lungs. "Uh…"

  He reaches halfway out, his fingers extended toward the side of my leg where my hand is resting. My palm tingles with the need to take his hand. He leans a little closer and his next words are low and husky. "Say yes."

  His mouth is mere inches from mine. I try so hard not to look at it. Not to lick my lips. I fail. "Yes."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  The instant I tell Luca he can touch me, my blood catches fire in anticipation. For a moment, he makes me wait. Nothing changes in his face. Nothing changes in his stance.

  But then his fingers slide over my skin in the lightest of touches.

  He traces a lazy circle along the top of my wrist.

  The trembling in my knees travels to other areas of my body. My arms. My belly. Places a little lower…

  He slides the pads of his fingers slowly along my skin, stopping just above my elbow, and wraps his hand around my arm to pull me closer.

>   "Luca." I tug half-heartedly against his grip, but he doesn't let me go.

  "Cassie."

  "Cassidy."

  "Whatever you say."

  "You smell like a cupcake." Teagan's earlier description flies out from between my lips and he laughs. But he doesn't let go of my arm; instead he slowly strokes his thumb along my skin.

  "Vera likes you." This is what I need to remember. Vera. Nothing can happen with Luca because Vera likes him.

  And because I like Gage. Gage. Who's probably wondering where I am.

  "Vera doesn't know me."

  "I don't know you."

  "But you're starting to."

  "I'm not." Stop staring at his lips.

  "Then try me. What do you want to know?"

  What your tongue would feel like against mine. "Nothing."

  "Liar." His gaze falls to my mouth for a moment, like he knows exactly what I'm thinking. "But I'll go first. Tell me something about you."

  I have to clear my throat before I speak. It's hard to concentrate when he's standing so close to me. When his fingers are running up and down my skin. "What do you want to know?"

  "Hmmm… Nothing boring. None of the standard bits. I want something exciting." His face scrunches in concentration while he thinks, and then his eyes are dancing when he speaks again. "Tell me a secret. Something nobody else knows."

  All I want right now is for you to kiss me. Except I'm pretty sure I'm not the only one who knows this particular secret. Instead, something unexpected comes through my lips. "I have no idea what I want to do with my life after college."

  I know what my parents think I want to do. What my classmates think I want to do. What Teagan thinks I want. What probably even Gage and Vera think, too. I'm a business major. My father works for Chambers & Britt, one of the most competitive companies in the world. I have an easy in—or at least I did before skipping out on my internship… But I don't want that anymore.

  Which would be easier if I had any clue what I actually do want.

  This secret—this admission—feels huge to let out. To myself, much less to Luca James. Who, by the way, doesn't look all that impressed. "That's your secret? I don't know what I want to do next month."