by Lux, Vivian
It came to me all at once: my heroine, in an uncharacteristic fit of bravery, drew up her horse outside the gate where the intruder was last spotted. She called out, her voice rolling across the moor, but the only reply was her own echo calling back to her. The wind lifted a strand of jet-black tresses that she then tucked impatiently under her riding cap.
My fingers clacked away. Occasionally I took a break to bite the edges of my fingernails down to the nub, but otherwise all was quiet and focused. I could tell I was getting into the scene, because my heart was beating faster, my breath coming shorter. I was living in my heroine's head.
Right up until I realized what needed to come next.
The sex scene.
Those always brought me up short. Sex scenes are hard to write when you have limited experience to draw from.
Luckily for me, my limited experience was pretty incredible. Right up until the moment it broke my heart.
I leaned back from my laptop and cracked my knuckles. Geraldine Hunter, disgraced heiress to the Hunter fortune, just entered the vast, crumbling manse belonging to reclusive aristocrat Tristan Bard. Her heart beat rapidly in her tightly laced stays as she watched the devastatingly handsome Tristan descend the staircase, his eyes raking over her body…
Yeah, this was going to be good.
But I needed a little more caffeine before I could continue.
I stood up from my laptop and blinked at my room around me. The sun was setting below the building behind mine and the light could no longer make it into my solitary window. In my writing flurry, I’d forgotten to turn the lights on.
I wandered about the tiny space, still deep in thought, and turned on the lamp as I acted out the scene I was about to write. The way his Tristan's hands gripped the back of Geraldine's head, forcing her to tilt upward as his lips devoured hers. The way his "manhood" was so hard and unyielding that she could feel it even through the voluminous mass of petticoats that formed a barrier between them.
It was always easy for me to come up with the prelude. Passionate yearning, the tingling sensations that ripple up spines… yeah, I was a master of sexual tension.
But once my heroes got their cocks out, my scenes were always the same. They followed the script… the only one I knew.
I sat back down to start typing, slowly at first, then gathering speed. And as I wrote, I started blushing.
And squirming.
And hating myself.
And hating Jaxson Blue.
Tristan—no, Jaxson, it's always fucking Jaxson. I'll just find and replace the name afterward—leaned back in the bed, cradling his head in one hand while the other held a cigarette, the smoke curling lazily to the ceiling. "Was that your first time?" he asked me… Geraldine, whoever.
"No." I blushed. Then I told the truth. "Yes."
Jaxson's eyes tightened a little as he took a drag. "Well, you're ruined now, Lil Bit."
"Why do you say that?"
"Because you're never going to have a guy as good as me."
I giggled. "You are so fucking cocky." I was so infatuated back then that it hurt to remember.
The words started to come. Thick and fast, my fingers moving feverishly to capture every little detail that I could recall. But I embellished, of course. Tristan was Jaxson, of course, but Jax done right. Jax, the nice version, the one who gave me the happily ever after I never got in real life.
The fantasy carried me, like it always does, right to the end. The sun was peeking around the edge of my building again as I looked up from my screen, eyes raw and aching.
5:14 in the morning, New York time, and I finished the latest Liliana Grace masterpiece. I typed my favorite words—THE END—and stood up, still punch drunk from my own self-inflicted book hangover.
The buzz of my phone vibrating against the desk nearly gave me a damn heart attack.
When I saw the number, I rolled my eyes. My father had no concept of normal, human bedtimes, a trait I’d apparently picked up from him. "Hi Daddy," I croaked into the phone, my voice hoarse from disuse.
There was a crashing clatter in the background, the whoops and hollers of a party still raging on the West Coast. It was a noise that was familiar down to my bones—the sounds of the after-party. But this one seemed more raucous than normal.
"Lil Bit!" My father was shouting over the noise, sounding more than a bit drunk. "Baby girl, she said yes! Annie said yes!"
I was too damn spent to understand what the hell he was talking about. "Annie said what, Dad?" I shouted back.
"She's gonna make an honest man outta me!"
There was a roar of laughter and the sound of muffled applause. My father yelled something I couldn't hear that was met with shouts of approval. But I was still standing stock still, trying to process what he was saying.
"You and Annie? Getting married?"
There was a scrabble for the phone, and then Annie's smoky-rich voice suddenly filled my ears. "Liliana, he finally did it, the rat bastard. Tryna tie me down, after all these years.”
I smiled weakly, pulse hammering, because I knew what she was going to ask me next.
She inhaled—maybe a cigarette, probably a joint—and dropped the bomb right in my lap. "Can you make it out here for the wedding?"
My hands were shaking and I had the urge to run away, though I wouldn't get far in this shoebox I called my home. "You and Daddy are having a wedding?"
"Oh, we're too damn old to have a big thing," Annie said. "Just a few friends and relatives. And our kids."
A million thoughts vied for space in my brain—the thought of Annie and my Dad finally tying the knot after an on-again, off-again relationship that spanned my entire time on this earth—the thought of seeing them all again; Bash, Diggs, Crusty Pete, Greg Fingers…
But the thought that took up the most space was I'm going to see Jax again.
And right after it, the horrified realization that Jaxson Blue, third generation rock royalty—the cocky asshole who took my virginity and then broke my heart in the most public way possible—was going to be my stepbrother.
Chapter Four
Jax
"Thanks for today, Bev." I gobbled the last dredges of my soggy sandwich.
"I'll call in the morning with your itinerary," she replied, flipping through her phone. "Busy day."
"When is it not?" I grumbled. The label had me running all over the place for these appearances when the songs I was supposed to be promoting weren't even half finished yet. It was annoying as fuck. I slunk out the back entrance of the building, unwilling to risk running into anyone who might want something from me.
And ended up running into someone who wanted something very specific.
"Mr. Blue, I'm sorry to bother you, but I felt like things were a little… unfinished up there."
The little blogger was lying in wait in the alleyway behind the building. Canny little thing. She sashayed her way up to me and slid those horrid glasses off of her face.
Well, fuck it. "I'm staying at the Plaza," I told her gruffly.
Her eyes shone, but to her credit, she didn't say another word—just raced back to her car and peeled out with a squeal that would have been comical if I was capable of laughing anymore.
So there was tonight. A bottle, a blogger, and some pleasant distraction. Life could be worse, I reminded myself.
She was waiting for me in the lobby, and was on her knees the second we got into the private elevator.
"I'm just such a fan of yours," she cooed, stroking the length of my cock and licking her lips. "I've wanted to meet you for so long…"
"Slow down, honey," I gritted. She was tugging so hard it felt like she wanted to wrench the whole thing off of me.
"Ooh, sorry. Let me kiss it better."
The doors dinged open and I came face to face with my mother.
Annie looked from me to the girl on my cock, and then back to me, her eyebrow cocked in that stupid, signature snarl she always pulled. "Get up, honey," she finally drawled.
&nb
sp; The blogger squeaked and jumped back from my cock like it was on fire. "Miss Blue! Oh my God, I am so sorry, but I am your biggest fan. I have all of your albums, even the stuff that came out before I was born. You're a legend!"
"Thank you, honey," Annie flashed her the smile that graced a million magazine covers, then turned to me, her wayward son. "Jax, if you'd put your cock away for a minute, there's somethin' I want to tell you."
"You can call me!" the blogger bleated as I stepped out of the elevator into the penthouse. The doors shut before I replied, which was fine.
"What?" I asked Annie, folding my arms.
She rolled her eyes at me. "You have a good night?"
"It was going to be," I retorted, "until my fucking mother crashed my room. What are you even doing here?"
"I paid for this. That means it's mine." Annie said it like it was obvious… and it fucking was. But not for much longer.
"What did you want to tell me?" For the first time, I took in the scene in front of me. The whole fucking entourage was here, all of the old farts that have been my mother's road team since before I even existed. Crusty Pete, Bash, Diggs, Gregory Fingers, the guys I used to call uncles and sometimes wanted to call Daddy.
Just then, Nails wandered up and slung his arm around Annie. "What the hell did you do to your hair, Jax?" he grunted by way of greeting.
I grinned back. "What the hell did you do to your face? That thing looks like you're hiding a bird's nest, or something."
Nails stroked his beard. "Nah, I cleaned it out this morning. Had the eggs for breakfast."
I laughed as he extended his hand. We clasped forearms for a moment before I realized something. "Hey, why are you being so nice? You're usually a complete asshole."
I expected Nails to grunt and swear at me, walking away in a surly mood like he always does. Annie's on-again, off-again boyfriend was a big, moody fucker who only seemed to like three things, none of which were me. Nails Nesbit like loud guitars, Kentucky bourbon, and my mother, possibly in that exact order.
"Let's have a drink," Annie interjected. "We've been waiting for you."
"Like hell you were," I muttered. By the way she was slurring, Annie was half in the bag already.
"It's a fucking celebration," Nails boomed, returning with three shot glasses. "Down the hatch." He slammed his own back before I even brought mine to my lips, then slung his arm around Annie, who giggled. She fucking giggled. My mother doesn't giggle. What the hell was going on?
"What are we celebrating?" I asked. My hackles were up. Annie invading my personal space like this, that was nothing new. But Annie bringing the whole crew over and then giggling? That was fucking weird.
The two old farts looked at each other with such goopy expressions on their faces that I nearly vomited the bourbon right back up again. "Your mother here has decided to stop stringing me along," Nails said gruffly, his tone a lot gentler than his words.
Annie playfully slapped him as the dread filled me. "Fuck off, Lyle," she cooed. Then she turned to me. "Nails asked me to marry him. I said yes."
Something exploded inside of my head, right above my left eyebrow. "You what?!"
"We're getting married, Jax."
"Why… the fuck… would you do that?" My mouth was hanging open like I was an idiot and I closed it tightly, right before I exploded again. "You're getting married?"
"It's about time, we figured," Nails said, like this wasn't the stupidest thing anyone had ever said. "I love your mama. You know, that Jax."
"Whatever." I was being an asshole, but I couldn't help it. "This is stupid. You're old. Who cares, at this point?"
"We do," Annie said, all casually. She planted a kiss on Nails that went on for so damn long I had to turn and walk away before I really did vomit on my shoes.
But another explosion in my brain stopped me in my tracks. "Wait," I said, turning on my heel. "Does Lily know?"
Nails pulled himself back from pawing my mother long enough to reply. "Yeah, we still gotta call her," he said, just as casually as Annie. Both of them were acting like this was just a totally normal thing, like it was no big fucking deal that they should get married after fighting, fucking, and fucking each other over for almost fifteen years.
And Lily.
Fuck.
Liliana. Nails' daughter. This whole sordid and sorry state of affairs would make my Lil Bit—my secret shame, my sorry obsession—my fucking sister.
Chapter Five
Liliana
One of the main reasons why I've never been able to hold down anything resembling a "real job," is my utter inability to arrive anywhere on time. Everyone knows you should be at least two hours early for any flight if you want to have a prayer of getting through security on time.
I arrived forty-five minutes early and was extremely impressed with myself. That is, until I saw the line snaking through security.
The crowd was packed tightly around me as we moved through the maze of crowd control barriers that I felt like a cow on the way to the slaughterhouse. "Moo," I muttered under my breath. The old lady in front of me with the tightly curled perm darted a startled look over her shoulder, and then shifted forward to give the crazy lady some space. I took a deep breath, feeling the claustrophobia dissipate a little with the extra space. Maybe I should always pretend to be a crazy person. Maybe it would keep people from crowding around me like this.
I don't like crowds, or audiences. Or really, people in general. My father, though—he lives for that sort of thing.
They say rock 'n roll dreams never die, and never was that more true than for my father. I knew he loved me, somehow, the way small children instinctually can tell these things, but he was never any good at showing it. I was an afterthought, not so much of a hindrance as something he never really considered in the first place. My only memories of him being at home with us were of him smoking out in the garage, a guitar on his lap, and a faraway expression on his face. "What are you doing out here? Go find your mama," he would always say, if he noticed me standing and staring at him at all.
After a sad and futile stint at being a normal, suburban father, Lyle Nesbit succumbed to his rock 'n roll dreams once more, leaving my mother to raise her three-year-old daughter by herself.
"I don't hate him, honey," she used to sigh when I'd ask her, but she never could quite muster up the conviction to make me believe her. My mother married Graham, my stepfather, when I was five, and she and I moved into his big corner house. On that day, I got a new dad and two new stepbrothers in one fell swoop. But if I thought that would mean someone would notice me, I was sorely mistaken. Graham's boys were utterly wild, perpetually in trouble, perpetually fighting whether in fun or in earnest, with Graham shouting from the sidelines ‘til his voice grew hoarse. I stayed in the background, honing my talent at being completely ignored by father figures.
Graham was useless, all prim and proper, so unlike my father that it was almost comical. He fancied himself a scholar and took great pride in the shelves of leather bound volumes I never once saw him open. He was more of background noise in my life than a father figure, but one thing I did have to give him credit for: my motto. He grimaced it at me once after I verbally dressed him down, halfway out the door on the way to a friend's party.
"Though she be but little, she is fierce."
Shakespeare. Midsummer's Night's Dream. Of course I recognized it. I devoured any book that I could get my hands on, transcribing the bits that spoke to me into reams of journals that I scribbled in night and day. It made me stop and consider Graham in a different light for one moment.
Then he went right back to being an ass hat and the moment was lost.
Still, little and fierce. That's what I was. How I defined myself even when fierceness seemed far out of reach. When the tears pricked shamefully at my eyes and I lashed out rather than see them fall, I was always reminding myself: fierce. It was the mantra I believed in even when I didn't believe in myself.
I had daydreamed m
y way right to the front of the line. "Shoes off," the bored TSA agent intoned mechanically. "Put your belongings in a bin and step over here."
Everyone hurried to obey, grabbing the gray bins and slinging them about like toddlers with stacking toys. I had to duck out of the way before I got taken out. "Hey, watch where you swing that thing!" I barked at the harried-looking businessman.
He looked out, and then down. "Oh, I'm so sorry, I didn't see you down there."
Then the bastard grinned at his own joke.
"I'm the perfect height for punching you in the nuts," I retorted loudly.
He opened his stupid mouth a few times, gawping like a fish. I seemed to have that effect on guys like him. The self-important ones who couldn't imagine that someone who looked like me, all small and elfin, could actually have a temper. Guys like him tended to be speechless when faced with ferocity. That was part of the reason why I was, as yet, still single.
Jaxson never condescended to me.
What the hell? Shut up.
Apparently my traitor brain, eager at the prospect of a reunion, was deciding to replay only the highlight reel of my former life. With a mental yank, I forced myself to relive the bad shit too.
Because there was a lot of bad shit. And as I settled into my seat on the plane, I knew that there was going to be no way I could stem the tide of memories.
Life in the corner house moved on with its predictable boringness. The only time I experienced anything approaching excitement was what my father decided to drop by. It was irregular and infrequent—two, maybe three times a year—but it gave me something to look forward to besides counting down the time until I could move out.
Seeing my dad was something that I always looked forward to… no matter how many times he disappointed me.
He'd eventually given up on being a rock star in his own right, and had started working as a roadie. He was perpetually broke, and perpetually on the verge of homelessness, but I had never seen him happier. He'd bring me souvenirs of life on the road and I'd sit on his lap, hoping like hell that this time he'd take me with him.
