Detour (An Off Track Records Novel)

by Kacey Shea

  “First the thing with Lexi, now you idiots. You do realize we leave in an hour.”

  “What thing with Lexi?” He’s got my full attention and I stalk over to where he’s back to staring at his phone. He ignores me and types frantically onto the screen. “Bedo.” I cover his hands so he’ll meet my gaze. “What’s with Lexi?” The question leaves my mouth in a growl.

  “One of our fucking roadies attacked her on their bus. Did you not just hear me?”

  I see red. I see fucking red and I don’t stick around to chit chat with Bedo. My vision is tunneled and I stomp out of the dressing room and toward the exit. Security catches up to me and I can hear them asking me to slow down, to wait for the rest of the band, to let them make sure my path is secure, but the words don’t process . . . Or rather, I don’t give a fuck. Lexi is hurt. That’s the only thought racing through my mind while I hurry to the buses.

  Guilt. I should have done something, been there, stopped this. My anger fuels every step. I should’ve made sure she was safe like I promised my mom only this morning, but I was too focused on my own shit. And now . . . I don’t even know what. If someone hurt her . . .

  My steps speed to a jog and soon I’m running—right out the door, through roadies and equipment, ignoring camera flashes and reporters and screams from fans. I race until I reach the bus. Her bus. I only stumble when I catch the flashes of red and blue from the parked police cars.

  Climbing the steps to Big Betty, I find the space inside all too quiet and empty. The interior of this bus doesn’t contain much in the way of luxury or even comfort. Instead, a small eating or work area is lined with simple chairs, and sleeping bunks occupy the majority of the space. Darren, one of our security and drivers, sits in one of the chairs and raises his gaze at my intrusion.

  “Where is she?” I demand through winded breath.

  “Lexi?”

  Who else? “Yeah, Lexi. Is she here? Is she okay?” My anger boils once again and I step over to where Darren sits.

  “Trent, you need to leave. Let the cops do their job.” He nods out the window like I haven’t noticed the obvious.

  “Where the fuck is she? Who was it? Who fucking hurt her? Where is he?” Panic grows with the thought that she’s gone. Hurt. By one of our employees, on this tour, and the responsibility settles heavy on my chest.

  Darren stands and grips my shoulder with slight shake of his head. “Trent.”

  I pull out of his hold. I don’t understand why, but I need to find her. I need to know she’s safe. “Where is she?”

  “I’m right here.” Her voice slices through my anger and my head turns toward the sound. She’s there, all stripped down and real, dressed in a pair of sweats, with no makeup and hair wet. Her green eyes are wide, uncertain, and when my gaze lands on the ice pack she holds against her arm I resolve that I will find whoever hurt her and beat the fucking shit out of that sorry excuse for a man.

  “Lexi.” I breathe out her name and walk to where she leans against the narrow bathroom door frame.

  “Is everything all right?” she asks, her brows knit with confusion. She takes a step back before I come too close.

  I halt. She doesn’t understand why I’m here. Because I’ve either been an insensitive prick or hitting on her at every chance. That changes now. “I don’t know. That’s what I came to find out. Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

  Her face flushes with what I assume is embarrassment and she drops her chin, arms wrapping around her own waist.

  I turn to Darren and he shrugs, offering a little insight. “The officers took their reports. They arrested Eric after he . . .” He shakes his head.

  Good. I hope Eric rots in jail. I’ll make a call to our lawyers tomorrow and get them to push for the harshest penalty.

  “Bedo said to keep this bus locked down until he comes back. So . . . I’m sorry, Trent. You should probably go.”

  “Me?” I sputter and then glance back to Lexi.

  She still won’t meet my gaze.

  “I’m not leaving. Not until I make this right.”

  Her chin snaps up and her eyes narrow. “What exactly are you gonna do, Trent?” Her anger drips from the accusation that I can’t do a damn thing. I’m too late. Her eyes are ablaze and the corners pinch with her glare.

  I might be too late, but something like this isn’t happening again. Not if I can help it. “You’re switching buses. Pack your shit,” I say.

  She steps back, her brows pull together, and she shakes her head. “What? No. I’m not leaving this tour because some asshat got a little handsy.”

  So damn stubborn. Lucky I am too. “You’re not leaving. You’ve been upgraded.”

  Her hands go to her hips and she lifts an eyebrow.

  “You’re on our bus now.”

  “Says who?”

  “Says, me. Now, pack your bag. Or don’t, and I’ll have someone do it for you. You’re sure as hell not staying here anymore.”

  “I don’t get a say? You dictate to me now? The rest of the band and crew on board with this?” Her sassy fire is back and bastard that I am, it excites me that she’s not cowering or scared, that she’s still Lexi. It’s the only evidence I have that Eric didn’t break her, not in an irreparable way.

  “I don’t care what they think. Now, you gonna pack or should Darren do it?”

  “I can pack my own damn bag,” she grinds out through clenched teeth.

  “Good. See you on board.” I smile and turn before she changes her mind, or takes a shot at my junk. She’s pissed. More than pissed. But I’ll take the anger. I’d rather her direct it at me; at least then I can be useful, help her get mad and over what this scumbag did to her.

  “Bring her over when she’s ready,” I order Darren on my way out. He nods.

  I know this is the right decision, and even if the guys don’t like it at first, they’ll come around. They’ll agree it’s the best way to keep her safe. Because though we might all party a little too hard and sleep with a lot of women, not one of us condones taking a woman’s choice away.

  I step outside the bus and glance up to take in the night sky, it’s expansiveness filled with tiny sparkling stars. Letting go of the guilt I hold inside, I release it into the universe on an exhale. I head back to my bus but Ace, one of the drivers for Big Betty, catches my gaze as he walks from where two police cars drive off.

  “Hey, Trent.” He offers me a handshake and I return it.

  “Were you here when that all went down with Lexi and Eric?”

  “Yeah.” He shakes his head. “Just in time, too. I just turned in my report. I found that fucker pinning her to the floor. He wasn’t gonna stop, man. If I hadn’t heard her scream . . . Man, I don’t think I would’ve gone in there. And no one would’ve stopped him . . .”

  “But you did, Ace. You did. That’s all that counts.” I blow out another forced breath as I take in the severity of his words, choosing my next ones carefully. “Thank you. I don’t know what I’d do if—”

  “I know, man. I know.” Ace nods back to Big Betty and I turn. “She’s leaving?”

  “No.” I shake my head. A little chuckle escapes my lips when I spy her slinging a bag over one shoulder with a guitar in the other hand while Darren follows behind with a larger bag. “She’s moving buses. It’s safer.”

  “Damn.” Ace shakes his head, returning my laugh. “I’m gonna miss that firecracker. You guys luck out with that move. She’s funny as hell once she lets her guard down. You just look out for her. Don’t let anyone mess with her.” His warning stirs every bit of protectiveness inside. I know without a doubt there’s nothing I wouldn’t do to keep her safe. It might be irrational since I hardly know her, but it’s something I don’t need to explain or evaluate. When it comes to Lexi Marx, I’m all in.

  Everything has been better since moving to the big bus and that surprises me. I guess I expected living with a bunch of dudes—fame induced, spoiled, overgrown boys—would be more taxing than it has been. Maybe
I’m turning into an overindulged rock star myself just by being in their presence, but I do love the fully stocked and functioning kitchen, the shower with hot water, and a bed nook with no worries about a drunk and horny old man trying to invade my personal space.

  Well . . . I don’t completely trust that one of these assholes isn’t gonna try something. It’s not that they haven’t been totally respectful. They have. Not so much appropriate, because they’re not. In fact, every hour that passes they talk to me more and more like one of the guys, but that’s fine by me. Deep down, my gut knows these men would never hurt me. No, they’ll likely hurt someone who tries to hurt me, and I’m not used to that kind of protection or safety. Call it my inability to trust men in general. Or maybe just too many years on my own.

  But there is one thing . . .

  They’re fucking with me. I’m almost completely certain.

  It all started the day I changed buses.

  I don’t have an extensive collection of color in my clothing, but when it comes to undergarments I’m worse than a diva set loose with a Victoria’s Secret credit card. I like pretty lace and satin, colors and patterns. Not that anyone ever sees them because I haven’t met a boy I’d like to screw since my sophomore year of college, but that’s not the point. The panties, they’re for me, my expression of femininity. And I’m down ten of my favorite pairs.

  It’s possible I’ve misplaced them. But more likely Iz, Austin, Sean, or Trent have been pirating my belongings and taking home the treasure. Fuckers. I’m sure whoever is up to this prank is expecting me to go off on a rant, or ask for my underwear back, but that’s not going to happen. No, I’ll wait them out—catch them in the act—and then they’ll feel the wrath of a woman who’s been fucked with. And surely regret it.

  Only it’s getting expensive sneaking off to the mall at each stop to replenish my drawer, and we aren’t even a third of the way through this tour. Sure, I could buy some cheap economy pack of plain ones, but I don’t want to wear those. Or I could call them out. Try to end this now. Make livid accusations and veiled threats about panties, but that feels like giving up—or giving in to their expectations. And I don’t do that. I won’t be what others expect.

  After playing Chicago last night, the guys went out to hit the nightlife before we rolled out. But they lost Austin for a few hours and we left the stadium completely off schedule. I didn’t go out with the band. Secretly, I relished the extra time after the show to unwind in blissful solitude. But Bedo, he was livid, and I could hear every word from behind my sleeping curtain as he gave the boys a verbal thrashing when they returned, drunk off their asses, in an Uber sometime after four o’clock this morning.

  Now we’re somewhere between Illinois and North Carolina and the afternoon sun bleeds through the shades on this rather uneventful drive. I grab a cheese stick and a bottle of water from the fridge before settling into one of the open recliners.

  Austin’s playing a video game and I watch for a little while before I get bored. Sean’s engrossed in whatever he’s doing with his laptop, and quite frankly I have no desire to investigate what’s on the screen. Trent’s enjoying the privacy of his own room. Probably taking a nap, the lucky bastard.

  Iz stumbles from his bunk and growls a “good mornin’,” even though it’s closer to sundown. He pops open the fridge and rummages around until he produces a can of beer. With a flip of the tab he takes a pull, one that lasts longer than I can hold my breath, and sets it down with a loud belch. “’Scusa me.”

  “Iz, you’re such a caveman.” Sean shuts the laptop and leans back along the bench seat at the table.

  “Why? Cuz I don’t know how ta type on one’num fancy ’puters?”

  We all direct our attention to Iz as his face puzzles, brow knit, and begins to laugh in his deep throaty way.

  “One’num’num . . . Sheeet . . . I’m fucked up.”

  Sean tilts his head. “What did you smoke last night, Iz?”

  “Fuck, I dun’nut even know.” He opens and closes his mouth wide as if that will somehow help his words come out better.

  “Iz, that stuff’s gonna kill you,” I say, more than a little worried.

  He meets my stare with an unfocused gaze, but his speech is better when he finally talks. “Don’cha worry ’bout me. I’m just fine. Been doin’ worse for years.” He laughs again, this time louder, and saunters down the short hallway to the bathroom. Moments later the shower clicks on.

  “Should someone check on him? He okay in there alone?” I glance at Austin and Sean.

  Austin’s back to his gaming controller, eyes stuck on the television screen. “I’m not going in there. Iz with clothes on is ugly enough.”

  He’s no help. I turn to Sean. “He always like this?”

  “High as fuck?”

  “No. Unable to live a day without something between his lips.”

  Trent appears at the hall entrance, his long, wavy hair all ruffled and falling in his eyes as if he just walked off the set of a cologne advertisement. Fucking gorgeous without doing a damn thing. I look away.

  “Right? You’d think he’d suck dick the way he’s always got something in his mouth.” Trent’s lips lift in a grin and he grabs a protein shake from the fridge, joining Sean at the table but rotating in his seat to meet my glare.

  “Did you get a look at him?” I lift my eyebrow and flick my lip ring, “Dicks don’t make you feel that good.”

  Trent’s smile pulls wider. “I feel as though I should take offense to that comment on behalf of cocks everywhere, but I think the lady is right. I’ve never fucked a girl who looked that happy afterward.”

  Sean laughs and I can’t help but give in to a smile.

  “Speak for yourself! I give it to the ladies so hard they slide off my dick high as fuck,” Austin boasts, his thumbs darting over the buttons and joystick.

  I look between him and Sean, and then back to Trent. “Between all of you, Austin must have the smallest dick. He protests too much.” I roll my eyes for good measure.

  There’s a brief moment of awkward silence and for a second I’m worried they won’t think it’s funny or okay for me to join in the smack talk. That is, until Sean slams his fist on the table and explodes into a fit of laughter. Trent’s eyes water, he’s laughing so hard. Austin just curses, his undivided attention back on the game.

  “Oh, my God! I’m dying.” Sean holds his hand up for me to meet his high five and I stand up, joining them at the table to slap his palm. “This chick is badass.”

  “That, I already knew.” Trent grins, his eyes all too knowing with his stare.

  My stomach twists with an unfamiliar feeling and I decide to ask a few questions since we’ve got miles to burn. “So, you guys don’t partake? In the Iz entertainment?”

  “No judgment on Iz, but I don’t like feeling fucked up. Not all the time like he is,” Sean says.

  “I’ve got my looks to maintain,” Austin pipes in from behind.

  “Of course. What with that being your largest asset.” Not looking back at him I roll my eyes and shake my head with a smile.

  “And longest,” Austin mutters.

  We try to contain our snickers.

  “What about you, Trent?” I say. “What’s your drug of choice?” I don’t know what I expect, but part of me hopes he sticks to the light stuff. There’s something about him, a presence that captivates the second he walks into a room, and I can’t help but decide that’d be lost if he became addicted to drugs. My hope begins to fade when he doesn’t answer right away, his gaze trained on the table where he traces imaginary shapes with his long fingers, and for the first time since we met he looks almost . . . nervous.

  Sean grins and responds for him. “Pussy.”

  Trent’s gaze snaps to meet his friend.

  “Pardon?” I ask with a little laugh.

  Trent stares at Sean, a silent threat in his eyes, but for what I don’t know. “I prefer a more delicate sweetness between my lips,” he finally a
nswers, then drops his gaze to mine, winks, and sticks out his tongue. He rolls it around before shutting his mouth with a pompous smile. “Plus, with this bad boy, it’s like I was made for it.”

  It’s arrogant and he’s just playing around, but a rush of need pools between my thighs at the thought of his mouth there.

  No. Just no. I shake my head and get up to retrieve my guitar and notebook. I need to write, force myself to focus on why I’m here, where I’m going. The banter around me fades and within a few minutes I’m fully down the rabbit hole, writing, the words coming like a freight train. I don’t think, just scribble them out as fast as they fly. Creativity sparks. Collides. And I’m left with the most troubling of arrangements.

  Because every damn sentence reminds me of Trent’s outrageous tongue.

  I slam the notebook shut. That was counterproductive. And this is going to be a long ride. Long. Damn it!

  I did it again.

  I really fucking hate chick singers.

  I don’t generally advertise this opinion because it sounds sexist as hell, but that’s not the reason women who sing grate on my last fucking nerve. No, it’s more to do with the fact they’re usually divas, as if being so much more talented that the majority of the greater population gives them superiority. Which is totally bogus, given that a person’s voice is attributed to a God given talent, something determined by birth, and okay, some training. Mostly, you either got it or you don’t. It’s not something earned or worked for; that’s just the luck of the draw.

  But Lexi, she’s not a diva. No, she’s more like one of the guys, willing to take our ridiculous antics and give back as good as anyone in our circle. That alone makes her likable, and intriguing, and if I’m being honest, the fact her father is a fucking rock legend fuels the interest. Which is probably why I find myself skulking around the empty stadium during her slated sound check once we arrive in Charlotte.