Later, he rolls toward me, his expression thoughtful. "I wish I knew you when Gold Rush Standard was still unknown."
"Why? To find out if I'm only here now because of your fame?" I smile, but I actually don't know what my answer would be, which makes my stomach dip with shame.
"I love how expressive your face is," he says, quieting my thoughts. "When we were a smaller band, with smaller crowds, I could've picked you out from the stage and watched your face as I performed. Like I did when you were up there with me in Virginia. God. I almost took you right there."
"Well," I say, trailing a finger down his stomach, letting a pause fill the air with heat between us. "You can take me right here. Watch my face now."
It dawns on me, after, when I let myself fall over Luca, almost completely spent, that Vera had it backwards when she said Luca was the tinder to my match. He's the match—one quick strike is all it takes to have me exploding under his touch.
And for the rest of the night, I let him strike over, and over, and over.
CHAPTER FORTY
Charleston is next on the tour à la Luca. Another nine-hour trip. Not that I'm complaining; in fact, I could get very used to the luxury of tour bus life, but I wonder why Luca doesn't just fly. When I ask, he shrugs, says it's easier to haul everything. And adds, almost as an afterthought, that he hates flying.
"So you're a diva," I translate. "If you don't fly, nobody flies."
"It's just easier this way," is all he says. "Come on, let's watch a movie."
Watching a movie in the cinema room of a fancy tour bus is a lot like watching a movie in your mom's minivan. Except the screen is huge. And the seats are comfortable. And there's surround sound.
And you're sitting next to Luca James.
But, you know, the ground still moves beneath you. And you still have the option to wear a seat belt. So, there's that.
I settle in to watch an old black and white film—not my usual thing, but there's something romantic about watching it with Luca. Except he's fidgety, distracted, and halfway through, he jumps up. "Let's do something."
"Aren't we already?" I stare at him. "How come you're not exhausted? I'm beat and I've done nothing other than watch you perform."
"You've put on quite a few performances of your own," he says, drumming his hands against the sides of his legs, and then reaching out to me. "Come on, get up."
I laugh, standing. "What do you have in mind?"
"Wanna work out?"
"Uh… Working out is so not my thing. Plus, I didn't bring anything even remotely work out-y."
"What if we do it between the sheets?" He dances his eyebrows, silly and sweet. But I shake my head. My body needs a rest.
"A drink, then?" he asks.
"That," I say, "is something I could do."
We head up to the bar where I discover he has a very, very nice collection of whiskey. Which is how I end up hammered by the time we make it to Charleston. I dance. He watches. And I know we laugh, but I can't remember if it was together, or not… And…at some point there's a box with a big pink bow—inside I find some very, very lacy black lingerie. Luca jokes about how now I have something black and sexy to wear, and I think I blush remembering what I said about my underwear our first time together. Then he…says something along the lines of how 'bout a treat for a treat, but…that can't be right, can it? His exact words disappear as soon as they leave his mouth, and then he's pulling me into his chest—and pushing me down his body, where I discover he's very, very ready for some oral action. I struggle to unfasten his pants, but he takes them down for me. I slip him into my mouth and he holds the back of my head, and I don't remember much, but I do know he moans. A lot. So I must do something—or somethings—right.
And I might be hammered, but I'm not so hammered I don't want my turn, too. I lean against the bar and arch my back, letting him play, play, play. Slam, slam, slam. Into me.
I'm too drunk to make the concert. Somehow—maybe Luca drops me off, I already forget—I end up in his new hotel suite. All alone.
Well, not all alone. There is, I discover, a rather nice bar here, too.
"Hello, my friends," I slur, grabbing a bottle of liquor at random.
At some point, Luca comes back. He's sweaty and high from the show. He laughs when he sees me and I try to scowl, but I can't quite feel my face. He showers. I follow him in. But it's too slippery for me to do anything I'd planned and I can't even keep my stupid balance. He laughs again, helping me out of the wet clothes I forgot to take off before joining him, then he wraps me in a towel. "Maybe you should sleep it off."
"No." I shake my head, petulant. I don't fall down with the motion, so I think the shower actually helped. A little, anyway.
"You really feel like partying still?"
My thoughts slur together, but the truth is still easily discernible. I shake my head again, sighing. Even if I were sober, I'm not sure I have another hotel after-party in me. Definitely not after I've been drunk for hours.
"If you want—"
A pounding on the suite door interrupts him. He pushes me gently to the bed, saying he'll be right back. This irritates me, greatly, but I'm a little too drunk to do much about it.
But he doesn't come right back.
I stumble my way to the bedroom door to peek out. Polly's standing at the suite's entrance, her arms crossed, her expression distinctly unhappy.
"What do you mean you don't know where it is?" she demands.
"I told you before," Luca says. "I'm waiting to hear from Marx. I don't know where he—"
"Did she take it?" Polly points at me.
Damn. Busted eavesdropping. But I hold my chin high.
"Take what?" I ask, stumbling forward. My towel slips a bit, but I catch it in the nick of time.
Polly sneers and storms toward me. "You little—"
"She didn't take it," Luca says, catching her arm. "Chill, Polly. It's not like we can't get —"
"Yeah, chill, Polly," I finally find my voice.
"Excuse me?" She rips her arm from Luca's grasp, stepping toward me.
I don't flinch, even when she's right in my face.
"God, what is your problem?" It takes every inch of mental capacity to make sure my words don't come out slurred. But I'm sick of this. Sick of her treating me like such an asshole.
"You are," she snarls. "Girls like you."
"What does that even mean?"
"Groupies."
"For the last time—I am not a fucking groupie." I really, really wish I was wearing something other than a towel right now.
"Was he all excited for you? Like a kid with a new toy?" Her sneer deepens at whatever she sees on my face. Which is probably everything, as yeah, he kind of was. "I thought so. Enjoy it while it lasts."
"I will. Thanks." I shape my face into a sneer right back at her.
"Could you be any more see-through? You don't fool anybody." She's so hostile, so vicious. I actually do take a step back. I glance at Luca, but he's frozen in place.
"I'm not trying to fool anybody," I say. "It's not like you have anything to worry about. I'm not trying to marry him or anything."
She laughs an ugly little laugh. "You think I'm jealous? Oh, girl, you have so much to learn about life."
"Please. Enlighten me. What do I have to learn?"
She claws her hand out, gripping the front of my towel and yanking me toward her. "Give it back, you little slut."
"Polly." Finally, Luca acts. He shoves her away from me. "I told you, she has nothing to do with it. Get out." He points toward the door, pushing her again, toward it.
I stalk after her, not sure what I'm going to do, just knowing my blood is hot, boiling, and she doesn't get to just grab me like that. "What do you think I have?"
"Nothing." Luca cuts in front of me, putting his hands on my shoulders. He doesn't push me, though—lucky for his balls—just holds me in place. "Let me deal with this. Go to bed."
And then he follows Polly out the
door. And I stand there like an idiot, staring at the thing long after it's closed behind him.
Well then.
Guess it's back to the vodka for me. Because fuck sitting around waiting on Luca.
Seriously.
Fuck. That.
Give me pizza or give me death.
I'm well aware, even as drunk as I am, that texting Gage isn't the best idea. And the text I send is about as stupid as it can get. But I just need to…I don't know. Have some sort of contact with him. Plus, I'm hungry.
All I get is silence.
I give it one last try. Remind me who said that again?
And nothing.
Maybe he's asleep.
Maybe he hates me.
Definitely the latter, and it kills me.
I tell myself to put my phone down.
Instead, I call him.
"Cassidy?" he answers. And my heart straight-up seizes at the sound of his voice.
"Gage." Oh, God. What do I say now?
"Do you know what time it is?"
I glance at the clock on the nightstand. A quarter after one. "I'm a little drunk."
"Good for you." His tone is even.
I think, anyway.
It's hard to tell because I already can't remember how his words sounded when they came out. Stupid alcohol.
I twist the sheets around my fingers, sliding them up to my chin. It feels weird to wear the little lace nightie from Luca while I'm talking to Gage. But oh my God, talking to Gage. It's like a dream, a candy-coated, fluffy dream. "Why didn't you answer my texts?"
"I was sleeping. It's the middle of the night."
"Is Zoey there?" My blood heats when I imagine her beside him.
"You don't have the right to ask me that."
I sit straight up. Or I would, if I wasn't so tangled in these goddamn sheets. I yank against them—and fall off the stupid bed, landing with a thud right on my ass.
Fucker, that hurt.
Scrambling forward for my dropped phone, I lose balance again and land on the side of my face. Which hurts only slightly less than my ass. But at least my phone's in reach. I grab it, and demand an answer. "She is, isn't she?"
"And where is Luca, Cassidy?"
"Not here." But his point comes through. I left. I left and there was a good reason for it. I just can't remember what it was right now. "Gage, please. Just tell me."
"Why are you calling me?"
"I don't know." I miss you, I want to say, but the words stick in my throat. I pull myself up on the bed, dropping back down onto it. "I… I couldn't not call you."
He sighs. "She's not here."
Relief is a waterfall of warmth rushing across my skin, letting my heart slow from the panicked rhythm it's been drumming into my ribs. My eyes are suddenly heavy.
"Tomorrow I'll remember," I mumble.
"What?"
"The reason."
I think he asks what I'm talking about but before I can answer I'm asleep.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Don't call me again, is the text I find in my phone when I wake up in the morning, so close to the edge of the bed, I'm surprised I didn't fall off in my sleep.
Embarrassment and regret have me curling into a ball. Well, those, plus the hangover hammer swinging at my skull from the inside.
God. I am such an idiot. I can't believe I called Gage last night. Well, I mean, I can. But I shouldn't have.
Even now my fingers itch to respond to him. But he made himself clear… And I can't hold onto something—someone—I can't have. I wish I could remember our last conversation a little more clearly, but maybe it's best I don't. I have to let him move on. I have to move forward myself.
Which is why my answer is, "No," when Luca slinks out of the bathroom after his shower and asks if I'm mad at him.
"I'm sorry I got in so late."
"And for not sticking up for me to Polly?"
His face tightens with discomfort. "I told you it's complicated with her."
"So she can just get in my face for no reason and you'll stand there, letting her?"
"You are pissed."
"It doesn't matter." And it doesn't. Not much, anyway. Because this sort of drama doesn't even feel real.
"You sure?"
"What was Polly looking for last night anyway?" Besides a night with you. But there's no real jealousy in the unspoken thought. I'm the one he came back to. And even if he hadn't—I'm here for the fun. He can do whatever he wants. And other things I tell myself that aren't completely the truth.
"Um, nothing for her to have been that upset over," he says, turning into the closet and grabbing the small travel bag where he stores his toiletries. "A nice bottle of wine her father sent her."
"A nice bottle of wine? That's what she accused me of stealing?"
"She has a…rocky relationship with her dad. She flipped when she couldn't find it." He won't meet my eyes when he turns back toward me, feeling guilty, perhaps, at not sticking up for me.
"Listen, if you feel bad you can order me a huge, greasy breakfast." I need something in my stomach to soak up the rest of the alcohol sloshing around. "Did you find her wine?"
He turns back into the bathroom, and I hear him rummaging through his bag until he finds whatever he's looking for. "I had Marx find a bottle of the same stuff and hide it somewhere easy to find in her room."
"That was nice," I admit, grudgingly. "Though I bet she'll be pissed if the real bottle turns up."
"I'm sorry, Cassie." He stands in the doorway, staring out at me.
"Me, too." Mostly, I'm sorry I called Gage. But…I wonder if Luca would even care. Because I'm not sure I really care that he left me here by myself for so long.
Then again…his shirt is off. It's hard to think clearly.
I rise and cross to him, reaching out to tuck a finger through his towel.
"Oh?" he asks. "Feeling a little frisky?"
"Frisky? Who even says that?"
He moves his hips a little, sliding the towel lower, and I catch my breath. Which is a good thing because I'm in serious need of a toothbrush. And a shower.
He runs a finger under the strap of my camisole. "You're wearing my gift."
"Too bad you didn't take advantage of it last night." I move closer to him and watch the way his face tenses, like he's so sure he's about to peel this thing off of me. I grab the waist of his towel, pausing for effect—and rip it off. But before he can make any sort of move, I slide around him, giggling, and close the bathroom door in his face.
"Tease!" he calls through the door. Then, "But hurry, the bus is scheduled to leave in thirty."
When I step back out, there's a breakfast of epic proportions spread across the dining table. Pancakes. Eggs Benedict. Bagels and lox. My stomach roars at the sight of it all.
"You're the freaking best," I manage to say before basically devouring the entire world.
A blink later, we're back on the road and I'm lamenting over not getting to see Charleston. I throw myself on Luca's bed with an arm across my face, pouting.
"That's kind of how this whole thing goes," he admits. "Sometimes I make sure there's an extra night or two to go out exploring, but mostly this is how we live. Also, you know, it helps if you're not so smashed you can't do anything anyway."
"Ugh. Don't talk about drinking to me."
The bed dips when he joins me on it. "Still feeling the effects?"
"No, actually, that breakfast helped. But I don't want to jinx it." I'm exhausted though, and in desperate need of oblivion. So many things I don't want to think about. Instead, I open my eyes and fix Luca with the sultriest look I can manage. He smiles, message received.
"Hmmm. So can I do this?" He pulls off one of my sandals.
"Only if you do the other."
He does.
"Are you stopping there?" I lean up on my elbows, pouting harder.
"No, ma'am." He yanks at my skirt, tossing it on the floor. My top follows suit a moment later. I reach for his sh
irt, but he grabs my wrist, shaking his head. "Not yet."
"That hardly seems fair."
"Who said anything about being fair?" He slips the straps of my bra over my shoulders and reaches behind me, releasing it with a very skilled twist of his fingers. It joins the rest of my clothing on the floor. And then slowly, so slowly, he hooks his fingers through the hips of my panties and rolls them down my legs. Which I cross, immediately.
"So not fair." But my voice comes out breathy and he must know the way he's making me respond.
"Are you a good girl, Cassie?" he asks, sliding his body back up over me, his clothing rough against my skin. He dips his mouth to trail kisses across my cheek and along the edge of my jaw. "Or are you a bad girl?"
I…don't know what to make of his question. But there's a tug in my belly that makes me catch my breath. "Which would you prefer?"
"Bad, definitely." He's breathing in my ear. "Can you be bad for me?"
I still don't really know what he means, but my pulse is beginning to dance and my body is beginning to tremble and I want to be bad for him. "Tell me what to do."
"Anything you want." His words are whispers sliding silkily across my skin.
Oh. So the ball's in my court. Get creative. Got it.
But I freeze, unable to think of a single thing. He reads my hesitation and whispers, "Show me what you like. Teach me how you like to be touched."
I almost tell him he definitely doesn't need a lesson, but I bite my tongue. There is something so thrilling about the way he speaks to me. About the wetness of his lips as he waits for me to respond.
I slide away from him, without breaking eye contact, until my back hits the headboard. He starts to follow, but I place the ball of one foot against his chest, keeping him in place. Once he stills, I pull my knees up, blocking his view of anything below my waist.
Okay. I can do this.
"Do you…" Seriously. Go for it, Cassidy. Okay. Okay. Deep breath. "Do you like what you see?"
And I slide my feet apart, opening my knees, just enough.
A strangled sound escapes from his mouth. "You have no idea."
"And now?" I trail a finger lazily down my belly, loving the tension that tightens across his face with each passing second. Lower and lower I drag my finger until I'm there, touching myself, lightly at first and then, when his face falls slack with desire, with more pressure. With each caress, I imagine it's his tongue.
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