Beauty and the Bassist (The Extra Series Book 9)

by Megan Walker

Allison looks uncomfortable with that. “I just think I would be really hurt if someone did that to me. Especially if they’d just slept with me.”

  “Okay, but really. This was not all romance and candles. After the disaster at the hot springs, we went back to her house, and . . .”

  She smiles. “Right. I got it. You can spare me the details.”

  “But we get interrupted by this bat that flew in her window. And she’s like, ‘Shane! Get it out! Get it out!’ And I’m like, ‘Believe me. It’s out.’”

  Allison laughs, and I’m glad to have changed the tone of the conversation.

  “Then her whole extended family appears in the doorway and her dad has a baseball bat, and I’m standing there wearing nothing but a condom—”

  “Oh my god,” Allison says. “You’re lucky there’s not video of that.”

  “And her dad, who is not my biggest fan, is like ‘Shane! Put your damn pants on and help me catch this bat.’”

  “I imagine this wasn’t the first time he caught you with her.”

  “Far from it. I don’t think he ever expected that to happen again after all those years. But after that, I went home. That’s the whole sordid encounter. It wasn’t anything special. We were over each other long before then.”

  “But even if it isn’t romantic, there’s a certain amount of trust that you have to have in a person to be with them like that. Letting them in. Being vulnerable.”

  Oh. It didn’t even occur to me that that’s what she’d have a problem with. “Yeah, I don’t think sex means the same thing to me as it does to you. And it definitely didn’t to Anna-Marie.”

  Allison shrugs, and I can tell she’s unsettled about it. I finish my sushi and ball the wrapper in my hands. “Does that bother you?”

  She shrugs again. “No. It just reveals a certain callousness toward sex, that’s all.”

  “Yeah, well. I told you I’m an asshole.”

  “Why do you do that?”

  I use the wrapper as an excuse to get up, and after I throw it away, I sit a little farther from her. “Do what?”

  “Keep telling me I shouldn’t want to be around you.”

  “Because it’s true. And you’re going to figure it out eventually. Sooner seems better than later.”

  “You did a shitty thing to Anna-Marie,” she says. “But I don’t think that’s all you are.”

  I sigh. She does seem to be under the impression that I have layers, but I was telling the truth when I said that I didn’t. “Let me spare you the mystery. It is.”

  She looks down at the dog, and I wish I’d brushed her off back in the green room. I wish we’d never come here, that I’d never told her all this shit. What was I thinking? Now she’s done with me, and I’m going to go back to being alone all the time, which is really just karma, after what a jerk I’ve been. To everyone. God, even Kevin doesn’t want to—

  “Well, you clearly have good taste in food,” she says, holding up the remains of her taquito. “So you have that going for you. Even if your affection for food trucks is questionable.”

  She reaches over and takes my hand, and I’m desperate not to let her go. Even if I know I’ll have to, I can’t do it yet. Not when she’s granting me this reprieve from the inevitable.

  “Want to make out in the photo booth?” I ask, and she laughs.

  “I thought you’d never ask.” And moments later we’re behind the velvet curtain, and Allison has crawled into my lap, and her mouth is pressed against mine, and all thoughts have left my head beyond the desperate need for her. Her hands are in my hair, and mine are around her waist, and we’re kissing like this is our last moment on earth. I wish that it was, because I just want to disappear inside her. I haven’t felt like this about anyone in years and years, probably ever, and I’m so scared about what’s going to happen when it ends.

  Allison shifts on my lap and it sets my body buzzing. I run my hands up her sides, enjoying the way she feels in my arms, delicious and right and like we fit together in this weird, unexpected way that scares the hell out of me.

  When my hands reach the bottom of her rib cage, Allison jerks back, pushing me away from her. I put my hands on her forearms as she leans back on the console of the photo booth.

  “Hey,” I say. “I’m sorry. Did I do something wrong?”

  She shakes her head. “No, it’s fine. It’s fine.”

  But it’s clearly not fine. I expect her to flee out of the photo booth, but she doesn’t. She stays there, sitting on my knees, breathing every bit as hard as I am.

  “I need to get home,” she says.

  The burning feeling is back behind my eyes. I knew this was coming. It’s not like I’m capable of anything else right now, but that doesn’t make it suck any less. “Yeah, okay. I get it.”

  She cringes. “I’m not sure that you do.”

  “Nah, whatever,” I say. “It’s cool. I’ll see you later.”

  She doesn’t move off my lap, and I’m wishing now that I had somewhere to escape. “This isn’t a brush off,” she says. “I’m just not ready to have sex with you.”

  My heart stops. “Yeah, no, I know that. I didn’t think that’s what was going to happen. You made it pretty clear that sex isn’t super casual for you, and—” And what? And I’m afraid to fall asleep because of the nightmares, and the last thing I want is for anyone else to see how truly messed up I am? “I know that wasn’t where this was going.”

  “Really?” she says, like she can’t imagine what else I would be here for, and that’s fair. That’s fine. That’s who I am, and it’s a good thing she’s finally realizing it. “I guess I just don’t want to get too worked up, you know? Kissing is fine, but I don’t want to do anything else.”

  I nod. I’m pretty sure we weren’t doing anything else, so she must mean that she doesn’t want to do anything at all. Which is better, really. No need for me to get all worked up, either. Not about a girl who’ll be gone and out of my life when the show is over, and maybe even before then. “Whatever. That’s fine.”

  “Shane,” she says. “I’m not brushing you off. Really.” She looks upset about something, and I’m starting to wonder if that reaction to me running my hands up her body is really about something else. Maybe she’s been through something traumatic.

  “You could tell me if you were.”

  “I know,” Allison says. “I would. But it’s getting late, and I’m just so behind with work, and the pageant is delaying me even more, and I really need to get home.”

  Right. Sure she does. That’s definitely what was on her mind a moment ago. “Can I walk you back?” I ask, and she nods.

  “Sure, that would be nice.”

  But it isn’t nice. It’s awkward, and our conversation is stilted, and all the easiness is gone between us. By the time I get into my car back at the auditorium and drive home, I’m wishing I’d never met Allison.

  I know this about people: sooner or later, they all leave. While I’m usually glad when it’s sooner rather than later, it seems that Allison is an exception to that, too.

  Eight

  Allison

  The whole drive home my thoughts are pinballing faster than I can keep up, ricocheting around my brain and setting off triumphant dings and warning buzzers, one after the other.

  Did I really just have a date with Shane Beckstrom, bad boy rock star and guy who I was ready to murder for being late to rehearsal yesterday? Did I just have that date at a carnival?

  I did, and it felt fun and free in a way I haven’t felt in a long, long time. Before the cancer, definitely. I glance over at the stuffed dog in the passenger seat next to me. It eyes me back impassively.

  Nix would be thrilled. She’s been trying to get me to start dating again for . . . well, a long, long time. Dating or, really, doing anything that isn’t work related.

  Y
ou need some fun in your life, Allison, she’s said on more than one occasion. I usually brush her off, telling her I can start having fun again when the costuming for this tour is done, or this pageant is over, or when my line is launched.

  I heard her voice in my head when I asked Shane out. Her voice in my head, and my hands in that incredible hair of his, both of which combined to make me dangerously impulsive.

  Impulsive isn’t something I’ve ever been accused of being. And no one in my family would ever imagine me enjoying a date at a carnival, or, dear god above, eating from a food truck. Let alone going on a date with Shane Beckstrom.

  But something about that date made me feel more myself than I have been in years. Maybe Nix was right, maybe I did need to get back into dating again. Maybe I needed to get back the flirtatious Allison who could see a guy she wanted, whether for a relationship or just a few fun nights, and go for it. Maybe I needed a hot guy to kiss me like that, like all he wanted in the world was me.

  But I think more of it had to do with Shane himself, and I don’t just mean because of how incredible that kiss was.

  Though, damn, that kiss . . . My body aches just thinking about it. The intense heat of his lips on mine, the static of the bounce house and the even more electric charge between us. And again in the photo booth, sitting on his lap, feeling him hard through his jeans, his hands moving up my body . . .

  My throat goes dry, thinking of how quickly I went from this rising fire to feeling like a pail of ice water had been dumped on me. Then my awkward attempts to smooth it over and the even more awkward walk back to my car.

  There’s that warning buzzer again.

  What was I thinking, doing all this?

  I was thinking that there’s something about Shane that keeps drawing me in. Something more than that hair and those blue eyes and that body. Something definitely more than his fame or playboy reputation—both of which, honestly, are drawbacks. There’s something about being near him that makes me feel like I see parts of him no one else does, parts even he can’t see.

  I cringe as I pull into the parking garage of my apartment and get out. God, I sound like the girl in one of those novels about broody vampire boys, convinced I’m somehow the exception, and I’m not going to be just another in the body count.

  I fumble with my purse and the stuffed dog and my keys as I unlock my front door.

  Is it ridiculous to think that I am the exception? Because the things he told me, the way he was so open . . .

  I walk in my apartment and see all my lights on and a shadow moving in my kitchen that’s way too big to be Lord Shelldon. My heart jumps in my throat, and I clutch the stuffed animal like the world’s most ineffective shield—and then my sister Nix pops her head out from the kitchen.

  “Hey!” she says, and I almost lob the dog at her.

  “Oh my god, you scared me to death. What are you—wait, it’s not Wednesday already, right?” Nix always comes to stay with me a few days before the pageant. She likes seeing the prep, and I like having someone on hand to vent to when things get really stressful. But she wasn’t coming until tomorrow, I thought. Did Shane make me lose track of the day of the week? What the hell kind of effect does he have on—

  “Nope, still Tuesday.” She leans against the wall, with a plate of what I think is my leftover Thai food, speaking around a mouthful of noodles. “I decided to come over a night early. Mom was driving me crazy.”

  That happens often enough. I love our mom, but she can be a bit smothering. Which isn’t a problem for me anymore but definitely is for Nix. My sister’s twenty-three, and an incredibly talented dancer with a specialty in ballroom, in which she competes internationally and very successfully. But ballroom competitions aren’t exactly moneymakers, and her dream is to open her own studio someday, so she’s living at home to save up money. I respect her dedication to her goals, but I’m also happy as hell it’s not me still living there.

  “I texted you a couple hours ago.” She raises an eyebrow. “Though maybe you didn’t see it because you were too busy . . . at the toy store?”

  I ease my grip on the ridiculously cute cactus dog and set it down on the love seat. “Something like that.” I start taking off my boots; my feet are seriously killing me after walking all over that carnival, though I didn’t notice it much until now.

  “Hey, if tonight doesn’t work for you, I can go,” she says, though she’s eyeing me suspiciously. Because, really, why wouldn’t tonight work? It’s not like I’m having a guy over, and she knows it.

  “No, that’s fine, I’m just—Today was strange.” It was also many other things, but I haven’t sorted them all out yet. “By the way, how did you know those leftovers were even still good? You know how truly terrible I am at remembering to clean out my fridge.”

  Nix shrugs. “It didn’t smell like it was going to kill me.” She takes another big bite and brings the plate over to the couch, flopping down onto it. She’s wearing a ratty old dance t-shirt and sweatpants, her dark hair up in a messy bun. She never hesitates to make herself at home here, which I often mock but actually adore. I’d always wanted a sister as a kid, but there’s a pretty big age difference between Nix and me—seven years—and as I got older I thought that maybe we’d never get to be close friends, that there would always be too big a gap there. But in the last few years, she’s become my best friend, closer to me than anyone.

  That doesn’t mean I’m eager to dissect this whole Shane thing with her, though. I’ve never really been an over-sharer when it comes to my dating life. But Nix is, and despite my reluctance to hear what a total idiot I’m being, the truth is, I could really use some perspective on this.

  And there’s no way I’m going to be able to hide it from her now. I can tell by the way she’s eyeing me. She already knows something’s up.

  I slump on the love seat across from her and put my aching feet up on the coffee table, on top of a pile of fabric scraps I should probably clean up at some point.

  “So, the stuffed animal you got there,” Nix says, right on cue. “I take it there’s a story behind this?”

  “You could say so.” I let out a breath. “I was on a date.”

  “You went on a date!”

  “That’s not the shocking part.”

  “Are you sure about that?” She gives me a teasing grin over the Pad Thai.

  I glare at her. “Do you want this story or not?”

  “I really do. Please continue.” She gestures with the fork like royalty granting me permission to speak.

  “I was on a date. At a carnival, actually.” I pause because Nix looks like she’s about to choke on her noodles. Which is probably an appropriate response. God, when did I stop being someone that anyone could imagine having fun? I’ve always been more on the serious side, sure, and spontaneity isn’t exactly my strong suit, but—

  “That’s awesome!” she finally says when she can speak again. “A guy took you to a carnival? And you agreed to go? I love him already.” She’s the one pausing now. “Unless he was a jerk or something, and I’m supposed to hate him. In which case, done.”

  I rub my forehead. Maybe talking about this is a bad idea.

  But I’m in too deep now.

  “It was Shane Beckstrom,” I blurt out.

  She sits up so quickly she almost drops her plate. Her dark eyes are comically wide. “Shane Beckstrom. Accidental Erotica Shane Beckstrom? You went on a date with him?”

  I’m guessing it’s that last part that’s causing the most shock. Nix is very aware that I know lots of famous people, particularly musicians, in my line of work. She is also very aware that I, as a general rule, don’t date them. And that was before I stopped dating at all.

  “I did.”

  “At a carnival.”

  “Yep.”

  “Oh my god, Allison. How in the world—you went out with Shane Becks
trom?” She leans forward and draws her long legs up under her, the food totally forgotten on my coffee table. “Isn’t he, like, a hermit since that accident? But he’s dating now?”

  “I don’t know. I mean, I guess he has at least now gone on a date—”

  She continues on before I’ve even finished. “Is he awesome? Is he a jerk? Do you like him?”

  I could give her one blunt answer of yes to all of these, but I think I’ll give her a heart attack if I don’t explain things a little more. And really, it’s a whole lot more complicated than one simple answer.

  “I definitely thought he was a jerk at first. He’s the emcee of the pageant, and we didn’t exactly hit it off right away. He was super late, for one—”

  “Oooh.” Nix knows my issues with punctuality.

  “—And he also had an attitude about it. To be fair, I was kind of stressed out and bitchy to him. But you know I always have issues with the guys they bring on to host these things. It’s always some douchy B-lister who’s only there to try to sleep with the contestants, you know? Or make asshole jokes about the swimsuit competition.”

  “Right.”

  “And above and beyond his general reputation in the press, I’d heard some stuff from Jenna about him a while ago that wasn’t great.”

  “Really? Like what?”

  “Well, you know how their first two albums are all about this girl he was super in love with, who cheated on him—”

  “Yeah, the soap opera actress, right? The one who was in that hot springs video.”

  It does not thrill me to remember that, along with the rest of the world, my little sister has seen Shane naked. “Right. Well, she’s Jenna’s good friend. And apparently all the stuff from the albums is bullshit. They’d slept together, yeah, but they hadn’t been together together in five years. He made up this whole story to capitalize on Anna-Marie’s fame and on the internet video that got leaked, and according to Jenna, it really hurt Anna-Marie.”

  Not professionally, I don’t think. But I could see how it would be painful, being used like that by someone you’d considered a friend, branded as this cheating bitch who broke his heart. She and Josh went public a few years back about how it was all a lie, and from what I can tell, some people believe them, and others believe Shane, but the press isn’t going to let a juicy story die—especially when more and more hit singles were being released.