Driving Me Crazy: A Rock Star Rom Com

by Lisa Suzanne

  And then a little thought pops into my head.

  What if I do write down the words, and if I set them to music using the guitar that basically sits in a corner of my bedroom collecting dust, and then I record it and release it on my own?

  I don’t have the voice or the look of someone like Dax, but I do have musical talent. I have experience with back-up vocals, though Adam is our lead on back-ups. I’ve even sang a song or two when Dax was losing his voice. We all pitch in where we’re needed, and I’ve always been the keyboardist who can step in wherever I need to. I’m versatile, and with the right management—not Kylie, who’s marrying Dax and who’s only interest is in seeing MFB succeed—but with someone who would look out for me...

  I wonder if I could do it on my own.

  I wonder if what Mark Ashton claimed to see in me when we Skyped could really work for a solo career.

  I wonder if that’s the missing piece. I wonder if that’s the ambition I’ve been searching for.

  I wonder if that’s the solution to the burnout.

  CHAPTER 20: AMBER

  The sign on the road directs us toward the Petrified Forest, but The Jerk keeps going.

  That’s what I’ve started calling him in my head. The Jerk.

  The Jerk I Have Feelings For is probably a more appropriate title, but he’s sure doing whatever he can to eradicate those feelings.

  He pulls off the highway about an hour later, and I assume it’s because he needs to pee again. He’s been chugging coffee like it’s his job, though I suppose he didn’t get much sleep last night...or this morning, as the case may be.

  We drive a few minutes through town when he stops in front of Joe’s Used Cars.

  For a flicker of a second, I’m terrified he’s here to buy me my own car so I can take the trip myself.

  But instead, he gets out of the car without turning it off, snaps a picture of a huge statue standing on the roof of the building, and gets back in the car.

  “What the hell was that?” I ask once he clicks his seatbelt back on.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Did you want to get out and take a picture, too?”

  “Of what? The guy on the roof?”

  He sighs with exasperation and rolls his eyes like I’m a true idiot. “It’s not just a guy on a roof, Amber. It’s the Muffler Man. This one’s called Dude Man and it’s a fiberglass sculpture.”

  “We have time to stop and see a fiberglass sculpture of a man in a cowboy hat standing on top of a used car lot but not for the Petrified Forest, an actual national park?” I ask.

  He shifts the car into drive. “I’ve been to the Petrified Forest, but I’ve never seen this Muffler Man.”

  I don’t even have words to respond to that. Is this really what he wanted out of this road trip?

  Because it seems to me like he’s wasting an awful lot of time and energy that could be put to better use.

  I separated my cookies into baggies with different designs before the trip, and I pull out one that’s particularly dirty as a way to get back at him.

  “Cookie?” I ask.

  He nods, and I flash it to the camera before I hand it over to him. I wrote in cursive letters nice cookie, wanna f*ck?

  I starred out a letter so the producers could still show the design on television. I pat myself on the back at the genius idea. I might as well get something out of this wasted time besides visiting Muffler Man sculptures and teepee hotels while I wish things could be different with my companion, so I’m happy to show off my work.

  He takes a healthy bite, ruining my design—but that’s what they’re made for. To be eaten.

  “It’s a little dry,” he says, little crumbs coming out of his mouth as he talks with his mouth full as if to prove his point.

  I fold my arms over my chest.

  Country music is one thing. McDonald’s, fine. It was actually delicious so long as I stay away from the items I’ve vomited more times than I can count. Purposely avoiding the places I want to tour is rude, but whatever.

  But to insult my cookies?

  Fuck. That. Noise.

  “Are you kidding me?” I hiss at him.

  He shakes his head and takes another bite. “Nope. Dry as shit.”

  I seethe with anger from the passenger seat as I fold my arms over my chest. “How would you know how dry shit is?” I ask, and he laughs.

  Fuck him. I take another cookie out and flash the design at the camera. This one is in the shape of a hammer and says get hammered and nail me.

  I take a healthy bite. “They are not dry,” I say as the buttery dough that took me months to perfect rolls around my mouth. They’re moist and perfect.

  “You’re certainly entitled to your opinion,” he says, but his condescending tone paired with the slight raise of his eyebrows clearly says that my opinion is wrong. “They’d be better with chocolate.”

  I press my lips together to keep myself from lashing out. Instead, I twist it around. “Everything’s better with chocolate, am I right?”

  He glances at me with a look of surprise that I’m holding back, and it’s my turn to smirk.

  The next two hours are relatively quiet, so I scroll my phone. When I’m lost in the scrolling and not paying attention, he smacks the back of my phone so it falls right out of my hands and hits me in the chest.

  I glare at him, and he just laughs and laughs as I silently seethe in anger.

  Eventually we find ourselves driving through Albuquerque, a little less than halfway to our destination tonight. I don’t bother to tell him that I’d love to see the BioPark or go to Old Town to shop because I know he won’t take me to those places.

  I also don’t mention there’s actually another Muffler Man here in Albuquerque. It’s located in what online reviewers have dubbed a sketchy part of town.

  Thankfully, he drives right through. But almost two hours later, he pulls off in Santa Rosa, New Mexico, and pulls into the lot of the Route 66 Auto Museum.

  “I’ll just hang in the car,” I say. It’s honestly not worth the price of admission for me to go into an auto museum. I have zero interest.

  “Come on,” he goads, and I finally exhale in frustration and get out of the car.

  I roll my eyes at him now that the cameras are off us, but the mic packs are still on. He just smiles a sugary, fake smile, and I half want to punch him and half want to kiss him.

  He walks up to the door and gives it a tug, but it’s locked. We both read the hours on the door...they closed sixteen minutes ago.

  He clicks off his mic pack and blows out a breath.

  I click mine off, too.

  We’re in a parking lot of some closed auto museum in the middle of New Mexico, and after nearly seven awkward hours together today with another two and a half still to go, it feels like we’re about to have it out.

  He stares me down for a beat. “The cookies...they really were dry.”

  “Oh, fuck you. They were not. The mics aren’t on anymore, so you don’t have to pretend.”

  He smirks, and it’s almost like he’s enjoying this, but the look fades quickly as my words sink in and we’re both reminded of the fact that we’re supposed to be pretending for the cameras following our every move in the car.

  And truthfully, cameras or not, he hasn’t been pretending all day. He really does hate me. The only one pretending here is me. I’m pretending like the things he’s doing don’t affect me when I’m starting to feel moments away from breaking.

  He glances back at the door with the hours on it. “I really wanted to go to this museum,” he says softly.

  “I’m sorry it’s closed.” I’m sorry I hurt you. I want to say the words because I feel like it’s what we’re really talking about, but I don’t because maybe he’s not speaking in codes like I am.

  “Are you hungry?” he asks, and I shrug.

  My Happy Meal wore off a while ago, but I’ve got plenty of road trip snacks in the car. A meal sounds great, but if he wants to drive through to Amarill
o, that’s okay too. It does, however, mark the first time today that he’s asked me anything about what I want. “Whatever you want is fine with me.”

  He looks thoughtful for a beat, and I can’t help but wonder what he’s thinking. Whatever you want. I’m curious to know exactly what it is he wants, but before I get the chance to ask, he nods once.

  “Let’s grab some food on our way,” he says. “And since we’re still on track for Amarillo, we can just stop at the hotel I booked for us. We can ask if they have a second room available when we check in.” I nod, and he starts back toward his truck.

  And then I can’t help it. “I’m sorry, Will. I wish things could be different.”

  He pauses mid-stride and turns back to me. He opens his mouth to say something, but then he closes it. His face says the words his mouth couldn’t form. Things could be different, but that’s not what you wanted.

  His gaze is full of hurt as his eyes squint at me, and my chest aches at what we could’ve had before I blew it all to hell.

  CHAPTER 21: WILL

  “Rascowicz checking in,” I say, sliding my license and credit card across the counter to the clerk.

  She looks at it and then back up at me. “Holy. Shit. You’re Rascal from MFB, aren’t you?” She’s squealing, and the people beside us turn to look.

  I smile at her even though I want to yell like a child to leave me the fuck alone. It’s been a long, draining day, and it’s not even over yet.

  And now this hotel chick recognizes me and I’m going to have to act like Amber and I are so in love because as much as I want to, I can’t trust fans. If I tell this girl I want two rooms, she seems like the type to post to social media immediately, and it doesn’t take much for rumors to swirl and stick. So that won’t work.

  We’re stuck in one room together.

  Which is fine. It’s a little before ten, and I’m fucking exhausted from driving all day. Some rock star lifestyle this is.

  We head to our room, Amber dragging her huge suitcase behind her and me with my bag slung over my shoulder. I think about grabbing her hand because I know that check-in chick is watching us, but I can’t force my fingers to curl around hers.

  I can’t touch her.

  When we get to our room, we find a couch that’s just a couch, not a pull-out bed, and a king-size bed. I pull my mic pack off and toss it on the dresser. I wait for her to click hers off, too, before I say, “I’ll take the couch.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she says.

  “Fine, you can have it. I’m not going to argue over it.”

  She laughs. “I’m not taking it either.”

  “You think I’m going to share a bed with you?”

  A tiny puff of breath leaves her, and she looks a little sad at my words. Too bad she’s sad. She brought it on her-damn-self.

  She pulls her shirt over her head and tosses it on the floor. My eyes immediately go to her tits.

  I may be mad, but I am still a man.

  My dick fights roughly and painfully for escape.

  God, I love her. I still love her. I still want her.

  I’ve always lived in the moment, and so I bury down that future-forward thinker in me who wants to warn me that this will only hurt me more in the long run. It’ll only hurt her, too, because I’ll be giving her the hope that this is more than just sex to me.

  It isn’t.

  It can’t be.

  I grind my teeth together as I attempt to do what’s right here. My jaw clenches and works back and forth as I think, but fuck thinking when all I can focus on is her soft skin under my fingertips and the way she moans when I enter her tight, hot, wet pussy.

  I quiet that future-forward voice. Fuck it. I want sex, and I want her, and that’s happening.

  I don’t take the time right now to think about what I’m doing—the fact that this is the sister of one of my best friends, that using her for sex is wrong even if she’s the one initiating it, that this could even affect my band. This is bigger than just the two of us, but none of that matters.

  She takes a step toward me, and my dick gets even harder. Something about a girl taking charge is so goddamn sexy, but when it’s someone you have feelings for, it’s even hotter.

  She takes another step and another, and then she’s close enough that I can reach out to touch her skin.

  I don’t.

  Not yet.

  She reaches behind her and unhooks her bra. She pulls it from her shoulders and lets it drop to the floor, and my jaw slackens a little.

  Her hands trail up her torso, and I watch as her fingers move to her tits. She takes her nipples between her fingers and squeezes until they’re tight little buds that would taste so fucking perfect beneath my tongue.

  I clear my throat. “If we’re gonna do this, I need you to know it’s doesn’t mean anything. We’re not okay. We’re not getting back together. I don’t forgive you. We’re simply fulfilling a need because we’re stuck with each other for however long this trip lasts.”

  She nods, her nipples still pinched between her fingers. She allows one of her hands to drag down her body, dipping down into her jeans. “I know, and I agree to those terms.” She shoves her hand down further, and her sentence is punctuated with a little moan.

  Jesus Christ she makes me horny. I’m about to come in my pants watching her touch herself.

  She knows exactly what she’s doing.

  I finally reach out and grab onto her arm, the one that’s halfway down her pants, and halt her progress. “Let me do that.”

  She unbuttons her jeans as she looks at me hungrily. I want to take her in my arms and kiss her the way I did before, but kissing seems too personal for what we’re about to do. To prove my point that this is just sex, I don’t bother with her mouth. Instead, I trail kisses from her neck down to her breast, which I suck into my mouth as I reach down into her panties to slide a finger inside her.

  Her hips buck immediately toward me, and I’m reminded of our night in Vegas, that night that was just the two of us drunk on liquor and unbridled passion and each other, a night that gave me so much hope for what we could have.

  “Fuck me, Will,” she moans softly, her eyes glazed with lust.

  “Take off your pants,” I say, and I grab a condom out of my duffel bag. I don’t get naked. I don’t even take my shirt off. Instead, I unzip my jeans, pull my dick out, and slide on the condom. “Turn around and lean over the bed.”

  She does exactly as I say, her ass perched up in the air, and I can’t help it. I slap it. Hard.

  Maybe a little too hard.

  I’m no expert when it comes to sex. The only S&M I know about is from the porn I’ve watched.

  “What the fuck, Will?” she yells at me, standing up and rubbing at the bare, milky white skin that now has a red, hand-shaped imprint.

  “What?” I ask innocently.

  She flings her hands up in the air in annoyance. “Don’t take your anger out on my ass. Screw me. Take it out there. That’s what this is about, isn’t it? Angry sex?”

  Her anger sends an aching throb right to my balls and a dagger to my chest as I suddenly wonder if this is even going to happen.

  But neither of us can stop now, and as she turns around and bends over again, she makes that pretty clear.

  Instead of shoving a finger into her, I kneel down and swipe my tongue through her folds. She pushes her ass back in surprise, smacking me in the face with her cheeks, and it sends me completely off balance as I tumble backward onto my own ass.

  I tend to get hurt a lot when we’re in the middle of sex. Maybe that should be a sign. She didn’t just hurt my heart when she dumped me. I keep getting physically hurt, too.

  But man, she’s got a magic pussy and I want her so damn bad.

  I don’t even think she noticed that she pushed me back. Instead, she sighs with impatience as she waits for me to give her more of the good stuff. I abandon the idea of giving her oral and instead I shove a finger into her, her pussy d
ripping wet with need and anticipation.

  I pull my finger out and spread the moisture along her clit, and then I palm my cock, stroke it a few times, line it up, and shove it into her.

  “Oh God,” she moans, her voice muffled by the blanket. She rolls her hips and I think I see stars for a second. My balls start to tighten up but fuck that, I’m not about to lose it when we just started. I pull out, and she grunts out her disappointment. Then I line back up and thrust in again.

  This time, I gather her hair in my fist and yank on it. Her head moves back and her chest juts out. I lean over her and grab one tit in my free hand, my other hand still pulling her hair back. Her moans tell me she likes it when I’m rough like this. Before I was all about being gentler as we made love...but this isn’t love. I shove my hips against her, slamming into her over and over again, and she cries out in some strangled, needy sound that’s pleasure lined with pain.

  My balls tighten up again, and this time I give into the buzz of impending release. I shove as deeply into her as I can, and I stay right there while my dick throbs, jets of come firing into the condom. I grab her tit again as my body starts to slow, and she reaches down to rub herself into her own oblivion.

  When she stops thrashing through her release, which, by the way, is so fucking hot I nearly find myself coming again, I slip out of her.

  I don’t say a word as I pad over to the bathroom to get rid of the condom. I give myself an extra few beats as I try to catch my breath.

  My chest aches with what we just did, and I feel a startling heat spring behind my eyes.

  What the actual fuck?

  I’ve had sex with a bunch of women, often mirroring what Amber and I just did. I’d be rough, and they’d know it didn’t mean anything, and that would be it. She’d leave in the morning or I’d leave after I tossed the condom and I’d never see her again.

  And that was never an issue for me.

  But this time...it’s an issue.