Moxie (Rock-Hard Beautiful Book 3)

by C. M. Stunich

  And then he yanks me away to rejoin the ghost hunting group.

  Good thing it's too dark in those tunnels for him to see the single tear that slides down my cheek.

  Oh, and at the end of the tour, the guide tells us all as we exit the vaults that tiny red scratches sometimes appear on visitors that've been teased by spirits.

  The little pinkish cuts on my back from the stone scare three young teens to tears themselves.

  Guess I'm just paying it forward.

  Ice cream cake and The Adventures of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert.

  Those two things, that dessert and that movie, have defined my sister's birthday since before I can remember—before and after she died. Sitting in a posh restaurant in London, England doesn't change that, doesn't change the fact I want to give Yasmine a posthumous celebration like I always did with Dad.

  “Is there ice cream cake in York?” I ask, sitting across from Ran, Pax, and Cope at a restaurant near the British Museum. The boys told me to expect the world portion of the tour to flash by at a much quicker pace than the Stateside leg; they were right. It feels like we're sprinting from one fabulous city to another, places that I could spend weeks in and I get only hours. It's a cruel little taste of a world I never thought I'd get to see. Wish you could be here, Mom.

  “You're properly mental, you are,” Paxton says, shaking his head and leaning back in his chair, sunlight streaming across his blonde hair, turning it this burnished gold color that makes my heart flutter. “It's York, not some Podunk little craphole in the midwest. Of course there's ice cream cake, you nutter.”

  “Fucker,” I mumble, resisting the urge to flick some of my chicken souvlaki in his direction. We're at some tiny little Greek eatery—I've literally never eaten Greek food before this—sitting outside in the sunlit courtyard. For days, it's been pouring rain in London, but just after we landed, the weather cleared up and now, it's bright and cheerful and clear out.

  “Ice cream cake,” Copeland says, picking over the spicy lamb meatballs he ordered. He lifts his turquoise eyes to meet mine. “Is that your weakness? Mine's cream puffs. I'm starting to get withdrawals it's been so long since I had any.” He smiles when he says that, lighting up the cheerful afternoon even more. His face may as well be the blue sky or the sun it's so clear, open, free. Cope is in a good place today.

  “Actually,” I say as I take a deep breath, situated safely between Michael and Muse. Somehow sitting there with one of my guys on either side of me, across from me, it makes this all seem a little easier. And fuck, fuck, I was dreading this day. It's like having to mourn my entire family at the same time, remember those delineations in my timeline when we lost Mom, Yasmine … when I lost Dad. “The day after tomorrow is my sister's birthday. I mean, clearly she's been gone for a while, but my dad and I always celebrated her birthday anyway with ice cream cake and a movie marathon, or at the very least, her absolute favorites.”

  “Which are?” Muse asks, popping his elbow on the table and looking over at me with that searching gaze of his, the one that the others call overreaching but that I call inquisitive, caring, curious. He feels what others are feeling, this empathetic well inside of him that protects him from his own emotions. But shit, I think it's possible that by inviting me onto that bus, giving me that pep talk, he might've saved my life. Who knows where I'd be—physically, emotionally or otherwise—if he hadn't sent his lonely traveler chasing after mine.

  “The Adventures of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert,” I say with a smile when Michael puts a comforting hand on my thigh. Okay, so it travels up a bit farther than comfort, delving into slightly dangerous territory. Bad boy. “She also loved The Secret of Kells which is one of the reasons why I wanted to go to Trinity College so badly, to see the actual book. Oh, and Yas was a huge fan of Kiki's Delivery Service.”

  “Eclectic mix,” Muse says, sitting up and putting his palms flat on the wooden surface of the table. “A campy road trip movie, a cartoon about monks trying to survive Viking raids, and a Japanese anime about witches. I bet your sister was a ton of fucking fun.”

  “She was pretty awesome,” I say, trying not to think too hard about those handprints I left behind in the driveway. If I do, I might lose the tenuous new control I gained when we left Gloversville. I look back up at the guys. If I focus on being their queen, holding together my new court, then some of that emptiness fades away. Or hell, maybe it just gets filled in? “You guys would've liked her. Fuck, she'd have probably stolen a good two or three of you away.”

  “She could've tried, sweet thing,” Ransom whispers, making me smile.

  “So, another goddamn museum today?” Paxton says, breathing out a long sigh. “You sure you don't want to hit an even bigger tourist trap and go watch the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace? We can book a tour that includes afternoon fuckin' tea.”

  “You liked the ghost tour last night. Who's to say you won't enjoy this, too?” I ask and watch as his smile takes on a much darker tint.

  “You think we could get away with shagging in the Egyptian wing? Because that really would make this an experience to remember.”

  “I think it's Ransom's turn to entertain you publicly, if you know what I mean.”

  “Hey, doll face, I don't think we're there yet,” Ran says quietly, his full lips in a sly smile as he pushes his hood off and reveals that perfect face. I wish he'd do it more often, take his hood off. He seems to be getting better about it; it's a good sign. Slowly, slowly, slowly our little group is healing together, one scar, one wound, one bloody broken heart at a time.

  “Says who?” Pax drawls lazily, leaning back in his chair. I swear, every time he does that, I feel like he's going to topple backward and crack his head open. “We could get there, quite easily I think.”

  “You just want to fuck me before we see your parents so you can rub it in their faces,” Ransom says as the two of them exchange a long, lingering look over Copeland's lap.

  “Whoa, guys, I am seriously fucking moving if you keep tossing love gazes at each other.”

  “Love gazes?” Ransom asks, leaning away from the center of the table. “Nah, I don't think so—at least not on my part. But you know, I'm pretty sure Paxton's been in love with me for years.” He tries to make a joke of it, but coming out in those deep, low tones of his, it comes across more as a challenge.

  “Dear God, get a room,” Michael says, rolling his eyes and tugging his phone from his pocket. When he pulls it out, I see a few texts from Tim, asking how the tour's going, begging for a lunch date once we're back in Seattle. I watch as Mikey swipes his thumb across the screen and clears all the notifications; he doesn't bother to respond. “Are you guys ready to do this museum thing or what?”

  He rises to his feet and offers me a hand up as I finish the last bite of food on my plate and reach up to take it, my pale fingers curling around his.

  “Can I ask you a question?” I say as the loose white fabric of my dress curls around my legs in a rush of wind. It sweeps into the courtyard where we're sitting and stirs Michael's shoulder-length hair, blue-black and shimmering, dark as shadows. My own hair, as deeply hued as old blood, trails across my eyes before I pull it away with a pair of fingers.

  “Didn't you just ask one?” Michael shoots back, curling his arm around my waist and leading me outside, onto a sidewalk filled with people passing by, some with briefcases, others with glossy shopping bags. Michael holds his phone in one hand, using Google Maps to find the museum and the path we should take to get there. Of course, Paxton breezes right past us, turning us down a street so narrow that I'm afraid to see two cars drive down it at once. And nowhere does it say one-way. The cars that are parked here are halfway up on the curb.

  “Right this way, love,” he says, lighting up a cigarette and giving Michael a so sue me look as he adjusts his position to stay downwind.

  “What's your question?” Mikey asks, shoving his phone back in the pocket of his tight black jeans. It's like he's in
uniform today—black t-shirt with Beauty in Lies scrawled across it in purple, dark pants, motorcycle boots, and his usual black leather jacket hanging off his shoulders. It should look somber, all of that dark color, but it doesn't, not with the jewel tones of his tattoos showing at the neckline of his shirt.

  Subconsciously, I find myself reaching up to play with the pair of necklaces at my throat. I can't help it; when Mikey's around, they beg to be touched. An opal teardrop for my birthday; a rhodonite heart for love and healing. It's not just the necklaces though that make me smile, beg me to touch them, trace my fingers across skin-warmed stone, it's the way he gave them to me. It's the truth that I saw in his eyes when he told me he bought them for me without even knowing it. That's what I really like.

  “Why does the tour move so quickly?” I'm sure there's a legitimate reason behind it, but I have to ask. And I have to start keeping some sort of journal or log of all the things I want to do in each city but don't have time for. That way, if—no, no, no, when—I take another trip, I can start checking things off my list. “I mean, this pacing is brutal.”

  “Told you we usually end up sleeping every spare second away by the end of it,” Ransom inserts as he walks by and also decides to light up a cigarette. “I'm trying to quit,” he promises, holding it up for me to look at. “By the time we get home, I swear it, sweet girl.”

  “Saves the label money,” Michael explains, his violet eyes following the other guys' cigarettes. He actually manages to resist the urge, running his tongue across his lower lip and looking down at me. “They have to pay for the plane rental and the venue fees no matter what, but if they cut our time in each city short, it limits the cost of food, lodging, staff payroll, that kind of shit. Basically, we have to make money every night for the tour to be profitable enough to be worth the time.”

  “How did Paxton manage to swing three nights in York?” I ask as Copeland pauses at the door to a bookstore.

  “I'll catch up,” he says, disappearing into one of the old buildings lining the street. London looks pretty similar to Edinburgh, at least to my untrained eyes. The buildings push right up against the sidewalk, a good half of them made of brick, the other half smooth white stone.

  Muse slips in the store behind Cope, leaving me and Michael alone to chat while Ran and Pax try to finish their cigarettes. And then maybe have a talk and decide if they're going to actually go all the way and officially fuck each other. I think they should, but then again, apparently I'm a huge fan of anal sex. I'm not sure how much either of them is interested in actually having another dude back there.

  “Because there's not a damn person at the label that isn't afraid of the Blackwells. If they wanted to, they could crush the entire company to dust, just for fucking fun. Pax asks for three days to see his parents? They're gonna damn well give it to him.”

  “Do they always give Paxton special treatment?”

  Michael shakes his head, the thin ring of liner around his eyes making the unusual color pop. I swear, I still think he kicks Elizabeth Taylor's ass when it comes to the whole violet eyes deal. Honestly, his brother, Tim, too. They both inherited a uniquely gorgeous gaze.

  “Nah, just when it comes to his parents. Otherwise, they berate him and bitch him out like they do the rest of us.” When Michael and I get to the end of the narrow little street, we pause and he curses under his breath. “Fuck, I want a goddamn cigarette.”

  I laugh, leaning into his leather clad arm as we gaze at the iron fence across the street and the majesty of the building behind it.

  “This is the museum, right here?” I ask, feeling this nervous flutter inside of me. My world is opening up like an oyster, that tiny grain of sand that was my life getting covered by layer after layer of shimmering nacre, turning it into a pearl. Each new experience, each moment, fuck, each second with these guys sees to make it bigger, make it shine brighter.

  “You coming or not?” Pax yells from down the block. He chucks his cigarette into a nearby ashtray and then tucks his fingers in the pockets of his black slacks while he waits for us.

  “You know,” Michael says as we continue walking, “I haven't seen a single one of the movies you just brought up. Be honest: are they complete shit?”

  I grin at him—I seem to be finding myself grinning a lot more lately—and let him guide me across the street behind Pax and Ran, a sea of other museumgoers swelling and parting around us like the tide around a rock.

  “They're all … unique in their own way,” I say cautiously and this time it's Michael that laughs at me.

  “Unique. A euphemism for shit. I get it.”

  “No, no, they're all good—for the right crowd. I'm just not sure that you are going to like them.”

  “Whatever,” he says, adjusting his arm and putting it around my shoulders instead, leaning down to press a kiss against my forehead. “I'll watch them with you and pig out on ice cream cake anyway—even if I am bored shitless.”

  “I appreciate that,” I say, fighting back another stupid rush of tears. These are happy ones though, like the ones from last night when Paxton told me he loved me. I shiver and Michael mistakes it for me being cold, taking his jacket off and slipping it over the shift silhouette of my dress. The gesture's too cute for me to correct him, tell him that I'm loving the feel of the sun on my shoulders and legs, the shimmer of the light against his dark hair.

  And this is the man that told me he wasn't romantic?

  Romance really is in the little things. It's the way he smiles at me, the way he says he'll watch movies that I know he's going to hate, the way he takes my purse from me and slings it over his own shoulder—even though he's a fucking rockstar and he looks ridiculous with a black sequined purse dangling off his tattooed arm.

  “You know,” I continue as we head inside the museum—admission is fucking free, can you believe that?—and I have to bite my lip to hold back my excitement. Deep breath, Lilith, you're such a dork. “I miss my sister like crazy. If there was a way for me to speak to her again, I'd pay any price. I'd cut my own arm off to see her one last time.”

  Michael sighs dramatically and gives me a look like there's no way he's buying what I'm selling.

  “Point taken, Lil. But Timothy didn't die; he fucked my girlfriend. Worse, he'd been fucking my girlfriend for years, let me believe all along that it was my kid that died, instead of his. And honestly, that's just the tip of the iceberg. Yeah, he took care of me when I was a kid and I'm beyond fucking grateful for that, but he also kicked me out when I was eighteen—the day I turned eighteen when I was still in high school. He knew I had an addiction and he let me rot, even after I specifically asked for his help.”

  “Maybe he was just overwhelmed?” I say softly, people buzzing around us, their shoes loud against the white floors beneath our feet. Above us, a glass roof reveals the blue of the sky, dissected by little black triangles. In the center of the room is a round building within a building with beautiful arched windows lining the walls near the roof. A staircase curves around either side of it, banners hanging on the walls advertising the different galleries.

  I almost lose my shit when I see the word Egypt.

  I force myself to refocus on Michael's face. He's completely lost in his thoughts right now.

  “People make mistakes. I did, when I kissed you. Aren't you glad you gave me a second chance?” I ask with a small smile. He glances up at me with one dark brow cocked. “And just look at Pax and Ran. You told me in the jewelry store that the reason you loved Vanessa was that she had such a great capacity for forgiveness.”

  “Yeah, well, obviously that was bullshit. I was lying to myself; she was lying to me. It was just one big fucking mess. I don't want to step back into that web, Lil. I want to start this shit fresh with you. Isn't that what everyone else is doing? Trying to forget the past and moving forward?”

  “If that's what you thought you loved in Vanessa, wouldn't it feel good to see that in yourself? I think people sometimes forget that loving y
ourself is important, too. It's hard to truly love somebody else if you don't love who you are. How can you give them all of you if you're not even sure who you are inside?”

  “How can you give all of you to the five of us?” Michael asks, his mouth tight.

  I feel my heart sink and take a small step back, but I don't think he's trying to be mean. I think for him, it's a legitimate question. Michael … he was never really meant to share. His intensity is … well, fuck, it makes my heart feel full with just one look, one touch. It makes me wonder why I'd ever want any other guy. But then, I feel the same way when I'm alone with any of them.

  “How can a mother love her children equally if she has more than one? How can a child love two parents the same way? Four grandparents? A half-dozen friends? Her two-plus dogs? Her two-plus cats? All her siblings?”

  I realize after a moment that I'm blathering and pause to take a breath, running my fingers through my hair. The leather of Michael's jacket crinkles with the motion.

  I notice out of the corner of my eye that Cope and Muse are back, a glossy bag hanging from each of their hands.

  Focusing back on Michael, I want for a response, trying to calm my rapid breathing, the wild angry charge of my pulse. Wow. I had no idea I felt this strongly about these new relationships of mine. It wasn't like I went out and collected men for my harem; it just happened. In a different world, my five true loves would probably be spread across the earth, the distance between them as vast as the cities we've traveled to on this tour. I would've met one first and that would've been it; I'd have picked him.

  Instead, fate threw me on a bus with five perfect princes in one place, all of them lonely in some way, pained in some way, their darkness twin to my own. They love each other. It's obvious that it's been that way for a long time. Who was I to break up that perfect union?

  “This isn't a setup I ever thought I'd want,” I tell Michael, trying not to let fear race hot and sharp through me. I can't lose him. I just fucking can't. I already had to watch Cope panic, try to run. I won't let Michael do the same. “But now that it's here, it's exactly what I need.”