“Are you ready to go? We’re scheduled to leave for the airport in five minutes.”
“Yup,” he answers, his eyes finally returning to mine, his smirk pulling wider. “My suitcase is packed. I just have to put my shoes on.”
I give him a nod and step back. “Great. Meet you at the elevator.”
He nods and lets the door shut. I take a deep shuddering breath as I walk down the hall, thankful that silent Luke is standing guard and not anyone else. No matter what he notices as I come to stand next to him, he never says a word.
The next few weeks pass without any more Mason mishaps. That’s how I’ve labeled everything that’s happened between us in my head—the kiss, me seeing him naked, me walking in on him masturbating—mishaps, every last one.
He still won’t call me by name, which irks me far more than it should. Everyone else is friendly and warm, they call me Viola or just Vi, and I’ve mostly settled in as part of what Marcus calls the Cataclysm family.
Except for with Mason.
He’s no longer a thorn in my side—I don’t have to babysit him till all hours of the night, he’s ready and waiting when I collect him to go from one place to the next, and while I’ve seen women disappear into his dressing room a few times, they’re always gone by the time I collect him to go on stage or back to the hotel.
And between shows, he avoids me. If I’m talking with Kendra or Ava as we settle on the plane, he walks past and goes as far away from me as possible.
When we have band meetings, he positions himself on the opposite side of the room. If I’m in the middle, he’s in the back corner of the room lounging against the wall.
But for all his avoidance and our short and civil exchanges, he always watches me.
He doesn’t even bother to hide it.
When I look up and glance around the plane, his eyes capture my gaze and don’t let go.
When I stand to go over the schedule in the band meetings, he watches me intently—far more intently than he ever watches Marcus when he’s dispensing set lists and other pertinent details.
It’s … disconcerting.
And I don’t know what to do about it.
“Blaire! I haven’t heard from you in ages. How are you?”
My cousin’s low chuckle answers my enthusiastic greeting. “I’m good. Busy, but you know how it goes.”
“Holy shit. Yes. I had no idea. I mean, I know you’ve always said it wasn’t all fun and games and parties with rock stars, but … damn. The sheer exhaustion is … grueling.”
“Yeah, that part takes some getting used to. Are you handling it okay, though?” All the laughter is gone from her voice, replaced by genuine concern.
“I am.” Now, at least. “We’re all adapting. And Mason’s stopped partying every night, so that helps too.”
“That’s good,” she says slowly, “but why should that affect your exhaustion level? Have you been partying with him? But even if you were, you don’t have to every night or anything.”
“Ha. No. I wasn’t partying with him. Marcus was getting upset about Mason showing up in the tabloids all the time and sent Dave the security guard and me to babysit. Dave was in charge of collecting phones, and I was there to … I don’t know, exactly. Make sure he got back to the hotel, I guess.”
Blaire makes a thoughtful sound. “Is Mason doing okay?”
“I guess? I mean, he’s stopped partying nonstop and showing up hungover to sound checks and shows, which makes Marcus happy. And I’m getting more sleep, so that makes me happy. But Mason and I don’t really talk, much less have deep heart-to-hearts where we discuss his feelings.” I laugh at that, but the laughter dies an awkward death when Blaire doesn’t join in.
“He doesn’t talk to you? Like at all?”
“No? I mean, I tell him things, and he acknowledges me, and he asks for snacks or water or whatever if he needs it, but we don’t, like, chat.”
“What about the others?” She sounds troubled.
“Oh, they’re great,” I quickly reassure her. “Kendra is warm and bubbly and always available to talk to. Ava and Sam are busy with their kids, of course, but they’re friendly and welcoming too. Don’t worry, no one’s treating me poorly.” Anymore. Mason’s not being a dick anymore, and he apologized, so even though he’s not friendly, we’re fine. Everything’s fine.
“Are you sure you’re handling it all okay? I’d hate to think I dragged you away from your life and threw you into this with promises of glamour and travel and then you ended up hating it even more than the insurance agency.”
I can’t help laughing at that. “Come on, Blaire, really? You’re worried I’d prefer the job that was more boring than watching paint dry? Not hardly. I can deal with one moody guy trying to piss me off just for fun. I grew up with Will, remember?”
She laughs a little too, but it sounds forced. “Yeah. He was way worse to you than he ever was to me, though. And just because you survived your big brother, doesn’t mean you need to put up with Mason being a dick to you. What’s he doing, anyway?”
“Oh, nothing. Don’t worry about it. He apologized and isn’t being an asshole anymore.” I know she and Mason had some kind of relationship, even if she’s with someone else now, so I don’t really want to get into all the mishaps. Or the fact that he still won’t address me by name. Or the way my skin prickles with awareness when he stares at me.
“Do you want me to talk to him?” she asks. “I might be able to kick his ass for you over the phone.”
I force out another laugh. “Nah. I can handle him. It’s my job to kick his ass now, remember? You have other asses to kick.”
“Yeah,” she says on a sigh. “They’re all too scared of me now to step out of line. I miss ass-kicking on a regular basis.”
This time my laugh is genuine. “I’ll keep that in mind. If I need help with the ass-kicking, you’ll be my first call.”
“I look forward to it.”
We hang up soon after that, both of us needing to get back to our respective busy schedules. I have a short break for a nap right now—shorter since I spent part of it talking to Blaire—and then we have another show tonight. Tomorrow we’re flying to the West Coast, where we’ll crawl our way down from Seattle to San Diego. After that we’ll be in Canada for a few months.
But instead of resting, when I lie down, my brain swirls with the conversation with Blaire, the fact that she’s upset about Mason not being nice to me, the memory of every encounter with Mason, the way his eyes constantly seek me out. The way I seem to be attuned to his presence, vibrating with awareness whenever he’s nearby.
It’s distracting. And annoying. And … arousing.
Dammit.
Chapter Fifteen
Mason
I almost jerk in surprise when Viola settles on the couch next to me on the flight to Seattle. I saw her stand from her spot next to Samantha and Maddie, where I’d watched her play a game with the little girl on a tablet for the last half hour or so. But when she started walking this way, I assumed it was to use the bathroom at the rear of the plane.
Instead, she’s sitting next to me, one leg pulled up between us, her arm propped on the back of the couch and her pensive face resting on her fist.
At least she’s not wearing her temptress-red lipstick today. No, today it’s a shimmery pink gloss that’s almost as distracting for its sweet innocence.
I pull the headphones out of my ears, because she clearly wants to talk to me about something. I can’t fathom what, though, since we went over today’s travel schedule at yesterday’s pre-show band meeting, and we’ll meet again before the sound check tomorrow. Anything band-related should’ve been covered already.
“Is there something I can do for you?” I ask politely, not letting an ounce of suggestion into my tone. Because there are many things I want to do for her. But she made it abundantly clear on day one that she’s not interested in me doing anything like that for her. Even though she did kiss me back …
Not that it matters. She’s treated me like a stranger at the best of times, and an aggravation at the worst. And who can blame her? I went out of my way to make her life more difficult.
The fact that I’ve apologized and made an effort to be better over the last month doesn’t seem to have made any impact, though. She still treats me like someone she doesn’t want to get to know.
Except now she’s here. Staring at me. Sharing my couch.
“Is it Blaire?” she asks, apropos of nothing.
My eyebrows shoot up my forehead, then come together in confusion. “Is what Blaire?”
She looks at me like I’m pretending to be dumb. “Whatever caused this”— she swirls a finger in the air around me—“this slide into debauchery.”
I blink at her choice of words. “Slide into debauchery?”
“You know,” she insists. “The partying, the endless stream of women, the”—she motions with both hands this time in my general direction—“debauchery. Are you still hung up on Blaire? Were you in love with her?”
My breath leaves me in a whoosh, my face relaxing as I process the question. “No,” I say slowly. “No, I wasn’t in love with her. I …” Another whoosh of air as I force myself to admit the truth. “I thought I was. Maybe. That I wanted to be.” I lift one shoulder in a shrug. “It made a certain amount of sense. We already had history. But …” Another shrug as my heart squeezes at the memory of our last conversation. The conversation that ended whatever we were. “In the end, she didn’t really want me.” I wasn’t enough for her. That’s the truth, but I swallow down the bitter words.
That’s the real reason for my debauchery, as Viola put it. Trying to escape the fact that once again, I’m just not enough. For anyone.
Her dark brows pull the pale skin of her forehead into deep furrows, and her pink lips turn down in a thoughtful frown. “But why go off the deep end like that? Why all the partying? The women? The tabloid articles? Why do that over someone you didn’t even love?”
I suck in a breath, opening my mouth to answer her, but I don’t really have an answer. Not one I’m comfortable sharing. Why indeed? It’s not like it helped. No matter what I do, I can’t escape my own self, and that’s really who I was trying to hide from.
In the end, I shake my head with a self-deprecating smile. “It seemed like the thing to do at the time. A distraction. I’m a rock star, after all. And fame is fickle and fleeting. I might as well take advantage of the opportunity while I have it.”
That doesn’t seem to be the answer she was hoping for, because the frown hasn’t left her face. But before she can ask another probing question, I turn the tables on her. “Is that really why you came over here? To ask me if I’m still in love with someone else and trying to drown my sorrows in parties and women?”
She drops her gaze to her lap and shrugs. “Yeah. Mostly.”
“Why do you even care?” The question is out before I can think better of it. And it comes out snarly enough to make her head snap back up. I shouldn’t push her like this, because I know I’ll get some snappy retort about what an asshole I am. Or worse, that cool, unfeeling mask as she takes me apart. Or she could just get up and walk away, disgusted and angry, deciding I’m not worth the effort.
But she answers the question. “Because you don’t like me. And I’m trying to figure out why. I thought maybe it was because you’re still in love with Blaire, and since she’s my cousin …” She trails off, her hand flopping over in invitation for me to fill in the blanks.
“No,” I answer, my voice rough. “That’s not the reason.”
She flinches, then raises her eyes to mine again. “Why don’t you like me?”
“I …” I don’t have an answer to that. Not one I can say out loud to her face. I don’t actually dislike her. But I dislike her disdain, her coldness, and so I’ve tried to get her attention the only way I could think how. Which makes me immature on top of being an asshole.
So I clear my throat and ask her a question instead. “Why is it important to you that I like you?”
Her eyes meet mine, large and vulnerable, and her lush pink lips part, her tongue darting out to wet them enough to make me bite back a groan. “I want us to be friends,” she says after an eternity, the declaration soft and husky, little more than a whisper.
“Friends,” I repeat dumbly.
She nods, a tiny smile curving the corners of her mouth like she’s pleased I’m catching on. “Yes. Friends.” Her voice is firmer, and she waves a hand to encompass the rest of the plane. “I’m friends with everyone else, but with you …” Her hand drops back into her lap, and she shrugs. “Well, we don’t seem to be at war anymore. And while I definitely prefer our civil truce to constant needling, I would like it better if I didn’t feel the need to walk on eggshells around you. The constant travel is draining, and I would prefer to be able to just be myself all the time.”
She wants to be friends. She hasn’t been able to relax and be herself. Because of me. And she’s staring at me with hopeful eyes, and even though friends is the last thing I want to be with her—at least not just platonic friends—I find myself nodding. “Friends. Yeah. Of course.” My voice is a rasp, and I clear my throat again.
The hope on her face morphs into concern. “Are you alright? You keep clearing your throat, and you sound a little hoarse. Are you getting sick?” She pulls her phone out, unlocks it, and starts scrolling through something. “Blaire sent me her cold remedy. She said that if I make you drink it at the first sign of anything, it’ll head it off. I’ll find the flight attendant and see if they have all the ingredients.”
In a panic, I dive for her phone. “No, no. I’m fine. I’m not sick. I don’t need any of Blaire’s concoctions.” I don’t bother to hide my shudder at the memory of the taste of her favorite cold remedy. One of the perks of getting a new assistant was not having to choke down anymore of Blaire’s cures—hangover, colds, stomach aches, you name it, she had a vile concoction to force down our throats. And because Blaire ruled with an iron fist, no one could tell her no. Especially since they worked, no matter how disgusting they were.
Still, sometimes I’d rather just manage a sore throat and a sinus headache with cough drops and normal decongestants and cold medicine from a pharmacy.
I wrestle the phone from her hand and drop it on the couch behind her. “No cold remedies,” I repeat, becoming aware that in my haste to get her phone away from her, I’ve basically tackled her and am now pinning her to the couch with my body.
Her eyes are wide when she looks up at me, her lips parted. She pats my shoulders with her hands in a weird staccato motion, like she can’t decide if she’s trying to placate me or stop herself from shoving me away. “Alright. No remedies. I promise.”
She shifts under me, her hips pressing into my belly, her thighs straddling my torso, her hands resting lightly on my shoulders. I want to move with her, climb up her body to line up my hips with hers, her legs with my waist. I shouldn’t, though. I should sit up. Get off her. Move away. But I can’t. I’m frozen, arrested by the feel of her body under me, the way her pupils have grown larger, the soft weight of her hands.
I want her to move again. Press her hips up against me. Anything to show that she’s okay with this. Open to more.
But her eyes move all around, and she huffs out a painfully forced laugh. “Okay.” She pats my shoulders again. “I believe you. I won’t make Blaire’s cold remedy. You don’t have to take it. You can get off me now.”
Right. “Sorry,” I mutter, irritated with myself for once again believing she might want anything from me. Sitting up, I shove my hand through my hair, trying to contain my frustration. I guess she does want something from me. Friendship.
Though if she’s been paying attention at all, she should know that I’m a shitty friend at the best of times. And this is definitely not the best of times.
I watch her retrieve her phone out of the corner of my eye, run a hand through her mussed hair, and st
raighten her shirt. She lets out another forced chuckle. “Do you tackle all your friends when they ask if you have a cold?”
I force a smile. “Just the ones who threaten me with Blaire’s revolting remedies.”
Her return smile is genuine, her eyes lit up with amusement. “That sounds like some kind of horrible brand name.” She spreads her hands through the air like she’s envisioning some kind of sign. “Blaire’s Revolting Remedies,” she says in a goofy announcer voice. “Now on sale at discerning retailers everywhere.”
I can’t help chuckling. Is this what Viola being herself is like? Goofy jokes and silly voices? I could get used to this. “Do the world a favor and don’t pitch that idea to Blaire. Knowing her, she’d probably run with it, and then even more people would have to choke down whatever she puts in those.”
She gives me a disbelieving look. “Don’t be such a baby. It can’t be that bad. And if it helps, then suck it up and do what’s good for you.”
This time my chuckle comes out low and wicked. “You should’ve figured out by now that I don’t put much stock in doing what’s good for me. I’m more interested in things that are enjoyable.”
Her smile fades as she holds my gaze, replaced by something … but she breaks the spell of the moment and looks away, her eyes once again roaming the cabin. I follow her gaze, noticing that Kendra is watching us, a speculative look on her face. I meet her eyes, raising my eyebrows. She responds by raising her own, but doesn’t look away.
With a shake of my head, I end our staring contest. Whatever she saw or thought, it doesn’t really matter. Viola clearly sees me as nothing more than an obstacle to overcome. The only one in the way of her achieving general likability and ability to relax into her new job.
Anyone But You Page 8