by K. K. Allen
But sightseeing is harmless.
Sort of.
Maybe I should have suggested the trip during the afternoon. That’s safer. Heaven knows I don’t fuck with the lights on. It’s more convenient that way since the women I screw throw themselves all over me the moment I step off the stage. I want the pussy, but I don’t care about the faces. They all blur together, anyway.
It’s not like I’m proud of it. Sex is an addiction—same as alcohol, drugs, gambling. I don’t do drugs and I don’t gamble often. I drink with the best of them, but that’s not my addiction.
Sex is what I want. What I crave. What I need. Especially with the rush of our music filling music halls worldwide, the blinding stage lights shining down, and the desperate screams from the charged up crowd. The heat of a woman wrapped around my cock is the only release that satisfies me.
Bare breasts in my mouth. Smooth skin beneath my fingertips. Making her moan as I fill her with my adrenaline. Pounding. Over and over until my name explodes from her lips like it’s the only word she’s ever known.
Fuck. Why am I thinking about sex? I’m giving myself a boner in a conference room that’s ninety percent dudes.
Because of her. She’s glaring at me from across the conference table, still flushed pink from our exchange. Good. Better to put her in her place now than once we’re on the road. We may have a luxury ride, but a bus is a bus, and buses are small as shit. No privacy. No room for misunderstandings.
I let the corner of my mouth curl slightly and raise my chin to her in acknowledgement. With a roll of her eyes, she redirects her focus toward my bandmate Derrick, who sits to her right. He introduces himself, offering his hand, and she smiles kindly. Interesting. It’s possible she doesn’t hate all musicians, but she’s clearly pegged me as her enemy. That’s fine.
Lyric seems like a tough chick. And when a woman like that gets burned, she loses trust and makes every guy that comes after suffer for it. It happened to my sister. She swore off musicians four years ago, just when I was first making my way up the charts. She got wrapped up in my crowd, loved the rush, but got burned fast by the first asshole that showed her what this life is all about. She’s happier now with her real estate agent husband. Settled. How the hell did we turn out so different?
It’s probably a good thing Lyric made herself clear. Sooner or later, I would've come on to her. Riddled heart aside, she’s hot. I’m especially enamored with those pouty lips of hers… I’d let her wrap those lips around my cock. And with a fiery personality like that, I’m certain she'd know how to handle every inch. Not to mention, we’ll be sharing the same tour bus for over three months—more if I keep her on for the next tour. That’s nine months of staying away.
Jesus. The more I think about not getting inside Lyric, the harder it is to concentrate on what Andrew, our tour manager, is saying. I shift and try to change my focus to whatever he’s going on about.
Doug, the tour director who also happens to be Andrew’s boss, will be managing things from the office, so it will just be Miss Cassidy and her blaze of fire who accompanies us. I’d like to say with confidence that Lyric was the best fit for the job, but the tour company didn’t give me many options this time around, and I can’t help but question how she’ll handle this gig.
I don’t doubt her skills. I checked up on those, and the tour company had nothing but great things to say about her. She seems capable and strong, and it’s obvious she knows the business as well as the rest of us. Maybe even better. Fuck, Mitch Cassidy is one of my idols.
But none of that changes the fact that I’ve never worked with a chick road manager before. Hours are long. She’ll be surrounded by dudes, for the most part. There’s a lot of male ass to kiss. A lot of schmoozing. And she’ll have to deal with Crawley. I’m not sure if Crawley has a thing against female road managers in general or just Lyric, but he’s not a fan. Then again, Crawley has a stick up his ass about pretty much everything.
“We’ve got a local crew handling the San Diego show in a couple weeks,” says Andrew. “Lyric, feel free to roam like we already talked about. Follow Doug around. Get to know your merch crew. Hang backstage. Hell, just enjoy the show and have a good time. It will be a long three months before you get a real break.”
I can’t help but smirk in her direction. Honestly, I’m considering what my wager will be when the guys and I make bets at how long she’ll last on the tour. The road isn’t for everyone. It’s for practically no one, but the rush of the acoustics on stage is worth it for me.
“Where to for dinner, Wolf?” My bandmate Stryder approaches me after the meeting. Stryder’s a chill guy, the kind who just goes with the flow, looking for others to make the decisions because he’s happy if everyone else is happy.
When I found Stryder six years ago, he was playing backup for some local band in a hole-in-the-wall club. It wasn’t hard to spot his talent. Sure, his tangled blond mess of hair might hide the passion in his face when he riffs on stage, but the guy has got the versatility that I never knew I needed. Funny enough, he was the hardest one to convince to join the band. He was happy with his beach bum lifestyle, surfing his mornings and afternoons away, hitting the rock scene whenever his band would get a gig. But somehow, I convinced him to try something new.
“Prado,” I answer automatically. I’ve been thinking about dinner since we scarfed down fast food burgers and fries at lunch. Food excites me, and there’s nothing that pisses me off more than rushing through meals. Prado is the perfect venue for our night. Classy. Chill. Private.
I look over at Crawley and give him the eye. He’s been listening, and he’s already on it, dialing the restaurant to reserve a room.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Derrick and Hedge chatting up Lyric. They’ve got her cornered on the other side of the room, but I can hear everything. Hedge, being the boisterous one of the bunch, is practically begging Lyric to join us for dinner. She laughs at his persistence and turns her head down to her phone before tapping away.
When Lyric slips out the door moments later, Hedge sidles up to me with a grin wide on his face. “Our road manager is hot as fuuuuuck.” He groans and I clench my teeth in annoyance. If Hedge thinks he has a chance with Lyric, he’s out of his ever-loving mind.
I shake my head and clamp a hand on his shoulder. “She shared a bed with Tony, dude. Leave her be. She’s here to work, not play.”
Hedge swivels his head and scans my expression dramatically. “What crawled up your dickhole? Lyric’s chill; you’ll see. She’s coming with us to dinner. Bringing a friend of hers.” He winks. “Maybe that one’s more your type. I call dibs on Lyric.”
My chest heats. The last thing this tour needs is drama between our road manager and my bass player. “No way, Hedge. You know the rules.”
He throws his head back and laughs. “There are rules now?”
“You know what this tour means for us. We can’t afford the drama. You fuck with Lyric and we lose a road manager, then we get screwed halfway through this tour. Don’t even think about it.”
Hedge huffs and walks away, his iconic golden brown hair bouncing with him—a thick, curly mess that billows three inches from his head.
He may fuck around a lot, but he’s a good guy, and he cares about the band as much as any of us. But I’m not stupid. If Lyric gives him an opening, he’ll take it. I’ll just have to make sure that never happens.
We ride downstairs and exit the building where our black van with tinted windows waits for us beside a gold sedan. I assume that’s Lyric’s ride since she’s already standing there with a cute blonde in a short skirt and a Wolf tee. I smirk. Hedge must be psychic. Maybe I will hit on Lyric’s friend. It’s usually a good sign when they’re wearing my face between their tits.
The band shuffles into the van while Lyric and her friend climb into the Jag. Nice ride. I don’t remember the last guy rolling around in an eighty-thousand-dollar ride.
Prado is in Balboa Park, within the walls of the his
toric House of Hospitality—a beautiful, white, castle-like structure with a private room reserved just for us. Good thing, because tonight is for the crew and close friends only.
We’re let off at another curb but I let the guys go on ahead of me while I scroll through my phone. I’m in no hurry, and I’ve got a call to make.
Rex, my bodyguard—or shadow, as the band and crew call him—sticks with me. He knows how to be present without drawing attention to either of us. Even with his massive build, and mocha skin, he’s a gentle giant of a man who only unsheathes his intimidation when necessary. He’s also gotten good at reading me. Right now, he assumes I want my privacy and steps out of the vehicle without being asked.
I quickly dial my sister. Lacey lives just an hour from here and I vaguely remember a text from her asking to see me when I got back to town.
“Hey Bay,” she answers with a smile in her voice. Bay, short for Beowulf.
“Sis,” I say affectionately. “I’m in SD. Do I get to see you?”
“Hell yeah. Just tell me where and when. Bryan is at a conference this week, so I’m free whenever. Please tell me your hotel has a badass pool.”
I chuckle. I always did call my sister a fish. “Still with the swimming, huh?”
“A girl’s gotta show off her bikini body while she still has it,” she says seriously.
I roll my eyes, not wanting to picture my sister in a bikini, or any of the douchebags who I might have to kill when they hit on her. “Okay, pool day it is. I’ll call you this week. I’ll just be practicing and chilling for the next couple weeks.”
“Wow, really? You should stop by the house. You can check out the nursery. Bryan’s been painting, and he won’t let me anywhere near it. Something about the fumes or some shit. But pool day first. I just bought…”
I listen to my sister talk a mile a minute about bikinis and pregnancy, and by the time we hang up I’m ready for a shot or five. Rex and I make our way through the courtyard and into the private room we reserved just in time for the first cheers of the night.
The room perfectly fits the twenty of us. A long, mahogany dining table stretches across the center of the floor, but everyone is still standing and chatting around the room’s periphery. Glass ornamented chandeliers hang from the ceiling, and rock music plays lightly in the background.
A round of shots filled with light brown liquid gets passed around the room. Top shelf shit. It’s the only way to party. I toss mine back, welcoming the burn of Johnnie Walker Blue that coats my throat, and am handed another one immediately. My crew knows what I like.
Everyone important seems to be here. My band, some of our crew who happen to be local, and a few close friends from the San Diego music scene. When we blew up four years ago, we tried to keep in touch with everyone. But it seemed the more our music got out there, the less we could trust anyone. Our circle is tight and small, but that’s necessary.
I’m the first to sit, choosing a spot on the opposite side of the room, giving me a view of the waterfall in the courtyard and all our guests, including Lyric and her friend. They’re outnumbered by a lot. Not my favorite ratio of women to men, if I’m being honest. But this isn’t the type of dinner event I want to invite randoms to. Sometimes I just want the intimacy of the familiar, a relief from the constant chaos that surrounds us.
I’m salivating over the menu before I even open it. Not that I need to look. We always order the full menu of appetizers and then plates of entrees to share. But it’s so hard to concentrate on food when I find my thoughts competing with Lyric’s infectious laugh.
Allowing myself to steal a glance, I see the girls standing with my drummer, Derrick, near the door. Lyric’s eyes seem lighter, her posture relaxed. And for a moment, I wonder if I misjudged her. Everything in her demeanor is playful now, her smile a rare kind of beautiful, the complete opposite of how she acted back in that conference room.
She must sense me staring because her eyes dart to mine faster than I’m able to look away. And now I’m frozen. Her paralyzing green eyes hold mine like she’s assessing me with a clearer mind than before. Or maybe that’s my wishful thinking.
It’s too bad she didn’t want that sightseeing trip. I wouldn’t mind spending a day gazing into those hot-as-fuck eyes while I showed her how many ways I could make her come.
A hand smacks my back, and I know from the force of it who it belongs to. “Jesus, Lorraine. You need to stop with the weight training. You could arm wrestle Rex by now.”
“Ha!” she says, sliding into the seat beside me and setting down her beer. “You know I’d beat his ass.”
I huff out a laugh. “You know he’d use it as the perfect excuse to toss you over his shoulder just to stare at your ass.”
She giggles and I smile. Lorraine is as tomboy as they get, but every now and then a dainty girl pops out, and it throws me for a loop. She’s got a thing for ripped, baggy denim and male-dominated sports. She watches porn as much as the rest of us and always keeps her dirty blonde hair in a tight ponytail high on her head. But when it comes to me needing advice on women, which doesn’t happen often, she’s the one I go to.
She may belong to the lickity split club, but she’s no stranger to feelings and shit. It’s because of her I’m careful who I fuck. I’ve learned to stay away from the women who carry around all that emotional baggage. And if I ever need a second assessment of any situation, she’s always got my back.
“We both know someone else in this room wins the ass contest.” She nods across the room, but I ignore the bait.
Lyric does have a fine ass, but I’ve checked it out plenty already. “Sorry, Lor. She’s more likely to suck my dick than pleasure your pussy, and she’s pretty fucking set on me being the Antichrist.”
Lorraine is mid-sip, and she laughs so hard that beer dribbles from the corner of her mouth.
“Wolf, get your ass over here!” Derrick calls.
Our chat is interrupted as I’m called over to the circle he’s formed with Lyric and her friend. I wink at Lorraine, set down my menu, and walk around the table so I’m standing directly in front of Lyric while Derrick introduces me to her friend. Terese, he calls her. I shake her hand and compliment her shirt. It’s far nicer than complimenting her rack, which is frankly my favorite part. She giggles, as I knew she would. I grin.
It might be my imagination, but when I look back at Lyric, I swear her eyes darken a little. My lips curl slightly, satisfied, and I allow my attention to wander to the long-stemmed waitress carrying a tray of shots nearby. I hand one to Lyric and then take one for myself, eyeing her with a new challenge. She and I are going to have to get along at some point. Might as well start now.
“To a kick-ass tour and the hotties we’ve yet to bone!” screams Hedge from the other side of the room. “Sorry ladies.” He grins at Lyric and Terese, without sounding apologetic at all. He’s holding his drink in the air, waiting for the rest of us to join in.
“Hey,” I say to Lyric, and she turns her attention back to me. “To a kick-ass tour.”
A hint of a smile appears on her face. “To a kick-ass tour.”
Once we’ve downed our second shot, I take Lyric’s glass and hand it back to the waitress.
“Another one!” Hedge screams from the other side of the room. His drunk ass is already on top of the table, so I motion for Rex to pull him down before he fucks up our dinner by getting everyone kicked out. Rex will handle it. He always does.
Hedge is probably the rowdiest of us all and a ladies’ man for certain. He’s worse than I am, but he’s also a kickass bass player, so he can do what he wants—unless it interferes with food.
“I don’t know about you all, but I need to get some grub in me before I pass out,” I say.
“Good idea,” Lyric responds.
If I could put a leash on my eyes to tug them away from Lyric every time they betray me, I would. She doesn’t notice me staring at her. If she knew I was unintentionally memorizing every hard and soft line of
her features—the soft ones are my favorite—she probably wouldn’t be running her eyes up my body.
A rush fills me as she drinks me in. I stifle a laugh and turn away from her probe, deciding not to call her out. I’ll just bank that one in the back of my mind for later.
The boisterous chatter continues through appetizers and dinner and into dessert. As hard as I fight it, my focus keeps shifting to Lyric. Her quiet laugh that lights up her face. Her fearless love for every bite that touches her lips. And how attentive she is with anyone and everyone she’s speaking to.
Since when do I pay more attention to someone’s behavior than to their body?
I look over and notice Derrick and Terese deep in conversation. The boy is obviously interested, which is nice to see. Out of all of us, I’d say he’s the tamest. He’s always had his shit together, been kind of the dad of the group. If anyone can reign me in, besides Rex, it’s Derrick and his words of wisdom. The boy knows how to give it to me straight when necessary, and it’s appreciated. It’s probably why he’s become my closest friend over the years.
By the time we’re ready to leave, we’ve finished most of the food and all of the overpriced wine, and we’re all feeling pretty drunk. The boys want to take the van to the nearest club, but I surprise everyone—myself included—by refusing to join them. I’m going to save the partying for tour. No need to get into any trouble before we even leave town.
Terese hugs Lyric goodbye and takes my spot in the van, curling up next to Derrick in the front bench seat. When they drive off, I’m not oblivious to Lyric standing beside me now. We’re the only two left, apart from Rex, who hovers nearby, and Lyric’s driver who is opening the back door of the Jag.
There’s a warm breeze in the air. It feels good, especially after being stuffed among the other sausages and roasting in our private dining room. But the warmer temperature mixed with the wind causes Lyric to wrap her arms around herself before she nods in my direction.
“You need a lift somewhere, rock star?”
I refused the van ride to the hotel because I just need to breathe for a minute. In fact, I intend on taking the next two weeks to do exactly that. No band, no chicks, no booze. Just … breathing.
