Staged (Exodus End World Tour, #3)

by Cunning, Olivia

  The bus pulled to a stop, and all the men waited for the members of Baroquen to disembark before scrambling out after them. Everyone wanted to show them around and introduce them to people and be seen with them. It was kind of bizarre how well they were catered to. Was it because they would continue their tour opening for the top two headlining acts of the entire festival? Or was it because their boobs looked spectacular in their costumes?

  “Everyone is so nice,” Raven said, smiling happily and hugging Roux’s arm. “I never expected this warm welcome.” She might not play an instrument or join them onstage, but Raven was definitely part of the band.

  “It’s your costume design, I think,” Roux said with a laugh.

  “Happy to be of assistance,” she said, adjusting a red-ribbon stay at Roux’s back. “But I think it’s more than that. You’re something special.”

  Roux rolled her eyes. “And you’re too partial to judge.”

  “Partial, yes, but also a good judge of star presence. And you’ve got it.”

  Roux wasn’t so sure that she did, but her sisters—Raven and the ones back home included—were all superstars in her mind and heart. She supposed Raven felt the same way.

  A crowd of crew and musicians had congregated near the main stage. The excitement that had been surrounding Baroquen for the past hour shifted to the four men standing in the pit. Exodus End. Now there were the real superstars of this operation. Roux forced her face to remain impassive as her eyes sought and found the tall, lean—and inexplicably shirtless—form of the man she loved but had to pretend she barely knew. He stopped laughing at something some guy she didn’t recognize had said to take a swig from a half-empty bottle of bourbon. Was he drunk? She’d seen him less than two hours ago, and he’d been almost asleep. Now he was halfway through a bottle of Jack, walking around shirtless so anyone could see that gorgeous body she so coveted, and having a grand old time.

  Check yourself, Roux. He’s on tour and playing a part just like you are.

  She wasn’t a huge fan of him starring in this particular role, and that confused her. That guy over there who everyone was idolizing was Steve, a man who sent her silly little gifts and always knew exactly what to say in the messages that accompanied them. A man who promised to take his time satisfying her but who managed to send her flying almost instantly. A man who claimed he was her biggest fan and groupie after making a big scene about keyboardists sucking. A man she loved so much that the very idea of losing him gave her panic attacks. He lifted his gaze and met hers across the distance. For a moment that familiar look of love crossed his handsome features, but he blinked, and his expression was replaced by impassive disinterest. He was doing exactly what she wanted him to do, so why did his indifference cut so deep?

  A woman ran up to him—a member of the crew, according to her T-shirt—and began to gush. He smiled and talked to her as he signed a particularly sexy poster of himself. Roux’s hands clenched into little balls of fury as she watched.

  “Tone down the jealous vibes,” Iona said near her ear. “And stop staring at him. You’re being completely obvious right now.”

  With a frustrated sigh, Roux whirled to face the opposite direction and took several deep breaths. She would have to avoid him entirely in public because she sucked at acting like she didn’t care.

  “We have to go greet them now,” Iona said, taking her arm. “Steel yourself.”

  Roux took one more deep breath and squared her shoulders before forcing her feet to follow Iona and the rest of her band toward the pit. Don’t gush. Act friendly but impersonal. Smile. Not too much. Oh God, there are so many people watching. She should have practiced this interaction beforehand.

  “Hello,” Iona said to Max. “It’s nice to see you all again. We’ve been working hard to prepare for this tour. I know we won’t disappoint you.”

  “Well, if it isn’t the talentless bitches who got Zach’s band kicked off my tour,” Steve grumbled.

  Say what now?

  Twenty-Five

  Steve was careful to keep disdain in his expression even when shock registered on Roux’s face. He hoped she’d forgive him for being an ass toward her band in front of everyone. He hadn’t had time to explain to her yet that Tamara was sniffing around with an all-access press pass, which was going to make it incredibly hard to keep their relationship a secret. Best to let everyone think he hated them, he’d decided. He was rethinking that decision when Iona flinched and Roux stared at him wide-eyed, as if he’d physically assaulted her sisters. Perhaps calling them bitches had been a bit much.

  “Get over it, Steve,” Max said, He smiled at the members of Baroquen. “We’re happy you’re here and know your performances will be sensational.”

  Relief registered on every face—not just the ladies’—and Steve wanted to kick himself. He hadn’t realized how bad his words would sound until they’d crossed his lips, but it was too late to take them back now, so he took another swig of whiskey and growled, “Not as amazing as Twisted Element would have been.”

  “Forgive him,” Max said, sending him a warning with his eyes, even though that fake-ass smile he’d perfected was firmly in place. “He’s just a little bitter about the whole Twisted Element thing.”

  “A little?” Roux blurted.

  Steve lifted his brows, thinking how gorgeous she looked in her rock star getup, yet still preferring her without all the makeup and sexed-up clothing. “Got a problem with me, Red?”

  She crossed her arms over her chest. “You’re being a jerk.”

  “Just living up to my reputation.” He turned on his heel and stalked away.

  That had not gone as planned, but when he saw Tamara lurking around a collection of empty equipment cases, trying to be discreet about watching him, he knew he’d done the right thing. There was no way he’d get her off his ass. Best to make her think he was enemies with Roux, but damn, it sucked. He obviously didn’t want to hurt Roux, but he also liked her sisters and he was a huge fan of their music. He was glad Zach would be arriving soon. He needed someone to vent to, and while Roux was in costume and hanging with her band, it couldn’t be her. Maybe Logan could be convinced to leave Toni’s side for a few minutes. He could confide in him, unburden himself of the weight crushing his chest, but not if Toni was around. Though knowing Logan, he’d probably spilled Roux’s secret to her long ago. Steve took another swig of whiskey, wondering how the bottle was almost empty already. He hadn’t drunk nearly as much as usual over the past weeks and was starting to feel the liquor’s effects. Apparently it made him act dumb as fuck and screw up something phenomenal with a single sentence.

  “Fuck.” He should apologize. Not in front of everyone, but definitely in private.

  “This must really be eating you up inside.”

  He turned to find Tamara following him.

  “What?”

  “Is it because they’re women? Is that why you can’t stand the thought of them being better than Zach’s band?”

  “Their gender has nothing to do with this. I happen to think Twisted Element are a better fit for the tour, is all.”

  “You just can’t live without Zach, is all.” She smirked.

  Steve scowled, knowing she was the one who’d come up with that story about why Twisted Element had been replaced on the tour. Well, either her or her equally bitter sister, Bianca. “Why am I even talking to you? Get lost.”

  Tamara examined her nails. “You make this so easy.”

  “I make what so easy?”

  “Making you look bad.” Her eyes lifted, catching his gaze. “I don’t even have to dig.” She snatched the bottle out of his hand and took a drink. Then she tried to glare him down.

  “Whatever. I don’t care what you print about me.” He did want his bottle back, though.

  “But you do care what I print about the people you care about. Who was that pretty redhead who snuck out of your room a couple of hours ago?”

  Shit. Tamara had seen Roux leave his room.
Steve’s heart was thundering, but he pretended confusion. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  He reached for his bottle and jerked it out of her hand, very pointedly wiping her spit off the opening on his jeans before taking another drink.

  “Surely you weren’t so high and drunk that you don’t remember the last woman you slept with.”

  “She was just some stupid groupie.” More accurately, the love of his life who probably hated him now.

  “You don’t let groupies into your private hotel room. You’ve always fucked them in the dressing room or a supply closet. Maybe on the tour bus if they’re lucky.”

  She had him there, but he shook his head. “Things change.” He turned and started walking with no destination in mind. “Do not follow me,” he called over his shoulder. “If you want to talk to me, schedule an interview.” Which he would not so politely decline.

  “Good seeing you. I’ll tell Bianca you said hi.”

  “You do that,” he said and walked away.

  Would he ever be free of his ex-wife? Not with her annoying fucking sister on tour with them. Whose idea was it to give Tamara an all-access press pass? Oh yeah, that had been Sam’s brilliant idea. Some new publicity stunt of his. Butch had filled him in on the details soon after Roux had left his hotel room. Steve could not wait for the day when the band fired Sam. He hoped Max still wanted him to do the honors, because it would be a major highlight of Steve’s life.

  He wished they didn’t need Sam for the tour. It would be a logistical nightmare to dump him now, but Steve figured any complications would be well worth being rid of him. And Sam could take Tamara—and the rest of the paparazzi on his bankroll—with him.

  Deciding it was best to keep down appearances when he was in such an aggravated state, Steve went back to his hotel room. He sent Roux a text telling her that he was sorry for calling her and her sisters bitches in front of a crowd—that had been excessively asshole-ish even by his standards—and that she should be careful around Tamara. The reporter was already sniffing around like a bloodhound on a scent trail. He also told her that he still wanted her to stay the night with him, but would understand if she feared discovery and kept her distance.

  Her reply, which came almost half an hour later, made him smile. That’s who that was! I saw her in the hallway earlier and couldn’t place her. Fuck her. I’ll come see you as soon as I can get away. Sam’s making us attend a dinner to impress some music executives from London. You’re supposed to be here too, you know.

  Don’t care. I’m not fit for company.

  Except yours, he amended in a second message. Or he would be after he slept off a bit of the alcohol he’d consumed. Damn, his head was pounding, and the room was spinning. He doubted he could stand up at this point. Apparently taking a few weeks off drinking had lowered his tolerance of the stuff. He’d prefer to sleep his intoxication off with Roux in his arms, after he sweated some of the poison out during some hot and dirty sex. But he wasn’t even sure he could figure out where her vagina was located in this condition. Fuck, he was wasted. Couldn’t ever remember feeling so wasted.

  He received another message from her a few minutes later. He blinked at it, trying to decipher words that blurred together and made little sense to him. This dinner is actually pretty funny. Kyle is fucking with them all so hard. You would be amused.

  Kyle?

  Iona’s boyfriend Kyle Schultz. The sexy British entertainment scout from American Voice. Surely you’ve heard of him.

  Everyone had heard of him. He was notoriously tough on the show’s contestants. He made most of them cry. Especially the men.

  Iona is dating him? How had she even met him? Wasn’t he like twenty years older than she was?

  Yeah. I never mentioned that?

  Nope.

  Forbidden to. But if he’s here as her date, it’s sure to get out, am I right?

  Is that why Iona has been so insistent that our relationship stay a secret? Because hers is?

  That wasn’t really fair.

  IDK. TTYL.

  Due to his inebriated condition, he translated her abbreviations with some difficulty. I don’t know. Talk to you later.

  Well, that sent a clear message. She must be getting herself into trouble and could no longer talk to him. So now he waited. He’d never been the kind of guy who waited around for a woman to get her priorities straight. If the roles had been reversed and he knew she was waiting around to see him, he would have made his excuses and left the dinner at once. But they were not at the same point in their careers. She wasn’t in a position to blow shit off when she felt like it. Still . . . he would have done it for her.

  He stretched out across the bed, turned on the television, amused that even the commercials were British, and drifted off to sleep. Or more accurately, passed the fuck out.

  He had no idea what time it was when she showed up, but he couldn’t even open his eyelids when she began to remove his jeans. It was weird. He could feel her hand and mouth on his cock, but it was like it was happening to someone else.

  “R-r?” He tried to say her name, to open his eyes, to lift his head off the pillow, but he was too far gone. He couldn’t even keep his dick hard, but she was doing her damnedest to help him with that. He was scarcely aware of her bare breast in his hand, in his mouth. Why couldn’t he open his eyes? He’d gotten fucked up on some serious drugs before, but he never remembered feeling this wasted. What the fuck was wrong with him? When she kissed him, he tried to work his mouth to kiss her back, but it was useless. He was useless. And why was she so insistent on fucking him? Couldn’t she tell he wasn’t doing well here? He was starting to think he might need medical attention but felt so disconnected from his own body that he couldn’t ask for help.

  Completely numb, he felt consciousness slip away just as she straddled his hips.

  *~*~*

  Something warm and wet bathed his face, his neck.

  “Steve.” Roux’s voice. “Open your eyes, sweetheart. You’re scaring me. What did you take?”

  “Nothing,” he said. Maybe. He tried to say the word but wasn’t sure if he spoke it or just thought it.

  “How much did you drink?”

  “Not as much as usual.” Hey, his mouth was working again! And so were all the pain receptors in his head. Fucking hell, his brain was going to explode.

  “When I came in, I thought you were dead.” She dropped over his bare chest and hugged him tight. “I was so scared.”

  “That didn’t stop you from trying to jump my bones.” He laughed, but nausea suddenly gripped him. He groaned and reached for a pillow to block out the glaring light.

  “No idea what you’re talking about. That must have been some dream.”

  Not a very good one. He hadn’t been the least bit aroused. More like repulsed.

  “I feel like shit,” he said. “Maybe the booze over here is more potent or something.” But he’d never had that kind of reaction when he’d been in England before, and his brand of whiskey had been imported from the US.

  “It’s probably a good thing that you threw up.”

  He’d thrown up? He didn’t recall that. Yet now that his senses were coming back to him, he smelled the evidence.

  “Promise me you won’t drink that much again. It’s dangerous.”

  He never wanted to drink that much again—not if it made him feel that horrible in only a few hours—so he nodded his promise.

  “Let’s get you cleaned up,” she said. “Can you stand?”

  How utterly humiliating to have her discover him in such a state. Naked, unconscious, and covered in his own puke. Lovely. And on the same day he’d been such an ass to her band in front of all the musicians they’d want to respect them while they toured Europe. He was batting a big fat zero today.

  “Do you need a new car?” he asked. “What kind do you like? Expensive ones, I hope. Didn’t you mention a Ferrari the day I gave you my number? A red one. I definitely think it should be a
red one.”

  She lifted a puzzled eyebrow as she helped him haul his unsteady body off the bed. “Could you think of a more useless vehicle?”

  “Useless? You’d look hot in it. What kind of Ferrari do you want?”

  “You are not buying me a Ferrari.”

  “Something less flashy then. How about a Corvette?”

  “No. No car. At all.”

  “Please let me. I messed up. I messed up bad.”

  “Yes, you did.” She wrapped his arm around her shoulders and helped him hobble toward the bathroom. His legs were still a bit wobbly, and his head was still pounding, but he was upright. That was a marked improvement over ten minutes ago.

  “I need to make this up to you,” he said, “and show you how sorry I am.”

  “Not with a car.”

  “A yacht?”

  She chuckled. “The only way you can make this up to me is by taking better care of yourself so I don’t have to worry about you.”

  Strange request. He was sure most women would rather have the car.

  “I love you,” she said. “Your self-destructive behavior hurts me too.”

  Self-destructive behavior? Was that what she thought this was? “I didn’t aim to get that drunk.”

  She pursed her lips and made him sit on the toilet while she turned on the shower.

  He caught her arm. “Under no circumstances will you clean up that mess I made in the bed.”

  “It’s no big deal. I’d do it for anyone.”

  He knew she would have. He didn’t know what he’d done to deserve such a selfless woman in his life, but he was determined to keep her in it. Not by coercion or force or guilt or bribery, but by making her as happy with him as he was with her.

  “Call Butch and tell him you need a discreet cleanup in my room,” Steve said. “He’ll know what to do.”

  “Butch?”

  Steve smiled. “You didn’t think his only job was heading the security team, did you? He runs interference for us while we’re on tour.” And spent more than a fair share of time dealing with Steve’s mishaps. “Also, ask him for some painkillers. My head is fucking killing me.”