by Kacey Shea
“I thought you didn’t work until this afternoon.” He pulls out two drumsticks and taps them in a steady beat along the practice pads that helps dampen the sound.
“I don’t, but I can find a coffee shop or somewhere to hang out until two.” He’s busy practicing and I shouldn’t bug him with this problem. It’s trivial compared to what he’s preparing. The iron isn’t quite cool but I carefully wrap up the cord while I calculate just how early I’ll need to leave on my own. Coy always drops me at work. The salon is in Beverly Hills, and far from the affordable apartments here near the airport. “Or I can take the bus. It’s fine.”
“Do you not want this for me?” He drops the sticks and stalks across the room.
I set down the iron and push it out of reach. My heart races with that look in his eyes, an incredible energy directed at me. Both fear and lust fight for dominance with his approach. I’ve witnessed first-hand what he’s capable of and with his brow pulled low in a scowl, his disapproval is clear. “You’re really gonna act like I don’t take care of you.”
Damn it, I always say the wrong things. He should be practicing, not dealing with my ride.
He towers over me with a glare. “After everything I’ve done, just because this is an inconvenience to your day!”
I jump at his shout but I’m caught with my back to the counter where his body cages me in. “I’m sorry. No! I didn’t mean that. Don’t worry about me. I can get to work on my own.” I drop my gaze and let loose a shaky breath.
“Hey.” His fingertips graze beneath my chin and he lifts until I meet his gaze. “I do worry. I don’t want you to do this on your own. You’re mine to take care of.” Pain. Anger. Maybe even a little sadness too stings with his words.
“Coy. Don’t get upset.” I reach my hand between us so it rests near his heart, but he pulls away.
“This is fucking bullshit. Stupid job isn’t worth shit.” He grabs his keys and sunglasses from the far corner of the counter. He turns back to me with a glare. “I’m auditioning for one of the hottest bands in the rock world but we’re fighting about how you’re gonna find a way to wash hair and sweep floors.”
“I like my job.” It’s mine. I almost let the words slip through, but don’t because I know how much that’ll only stress him out more. He has every right to be, too. I don’t have any skills. I’m not educated. It’s difficult for me to keep a job; hell, I don’t even know how to drive, but he’s never complained.
He points at me, his lips mashing together with his scowl. “I get this fucking gig and you’re quitting. Fuck, this is stressing me out!” He looks away.
“Hey, don’t worry. We’ll figure it out. Together.” I walk to him, hold his stare, and this time I brush my hands up the length of his arms until I can knead his shoulders and the stress coiled in his muscles there. “How about I come with you? I can wait outside. That way I can be there for you the second it’s over.”
“You don’t want to wait outside some studio in Burbank. It could be hours.” He sighs, but closes his eyes and lets loose a groan as I work my fingers closer to his neck.
“You’re important to me,” I whisper.
“You mean that?” His eyes snap open to meet my stare.
“Of course I do. I want the world for you. You deserve this. You’ve worked so hard.” The words are almost a plea. Not just for him, but the universe. After everything we’ve been through, we deserve a break.
His throat moves when he swallows. “I won’t let you down.”
“You never do.” Running my hands over his shoulders, I trace the inked skin that hides beneath the surface of his T-shirt. He’s beautiful. The kind of man women can’t help but admire when we walk down the street together, with no regard to the fact his hand holds mine. I understand it, too. It’s the same magnetism that pulled me in when we first met. “You’re so tight.” I stretch up on the tips of my toes to kiss along the soft skin at the base of his throat until I meet the scruff of his cheek. I relish in the momentary feeling of control that comes over me when goosebumps cover his flesh.
“I’m freaking out, babe.” He groans, his head falling to rest on my shoulder as my thumbs and forefingers slide back up to work the knots at the base of his neck. “What if I fuck this up?”
“You won’t. They’ll love you. You’ve got this.”
He groans again and this time it’s a sound that goes straight between my thighs. He’s wound so tightly today and I know it’s all the pressure. We barely make rent. He shoulders all the responsibility. This kind of opportunity changes all of this. My fingers dig into his flesh in firm circles, and every time he groans with pleasure my own body tightens with need.
“Keep that up and my dick’s gonna need those fingers next.”
“I can—” Trailing the palm of my hand between our bodies, I find my way to his strong chest, then lower over his abs until my fingers are at the buckle of his jeans.
“We don’t have time.” He groans but his hands don’t move to stop me. He likes it when I show him how much I want him. He needs this release. We really don’t have time, but it’ll only take a few minutes to get him off.
“There’s always time for this.” I kiss him and whisper into his ear before I drop to my knees. He leans back against the counter so my face lines up with the bulge pushing at the front of his jeans.
“You’re a dirty cunt for me, aren’t you? This what you want?” He holds my face in his hands.
I hate it when he calls me that, but it gets him off. Dirty talk and name calling turn him on so I nod and work open his pants so I can pull him out. Stroking his hardness in both hands, my eyes stay on his as I open wide.
He guides my mouth over him, his hands moving from my face to my hair to dictate the pace. His eyes stay on mine and his breath comes faster as I stroke him at the base while my lips wrap tightly around his erection.
“That’s right. Suck me. Fucking suck me off like the little whore you are. My little whore.” He takes total control. His fingers dig into my scalp, and he demands and steals from me what he needs to reach his climax. With tears streaking my cheeks and his cock so far down my throat I can barely breathe, I play the part. I’ll give him whatever he needs.
As soon as Coy comes in my mouth, our little tryst is over. I’m back on my feet and left to get ready while he goes through his somewhat superstitious routine. YouTube clip of the Chili Peppers all the way through an extended version of Californication, then brushing his teeth and rinsing mouthwash before he’s back to the practice pads. He goes through the same exact motions before every big audition or performance. I stay out of his way and quickly apply my makeup, straighten my hair, and tug on my work approved ensemble: black blouse, black jeans, and black heeled boots.
“Don’t make me late!” he calls from the front room, tapping along to a Hendrix tune with his practice sticks and pad.
“I’m ready!” I scoop my jewelry from the counter and grab my purse on my way out.
Coy shoves off the couch, looking every bit the talented rock star he’s meant to be, and for probably the thousandth time since I met him I wonder what I did to deserve his affection. “Let’s go, then!” He shoves his sticks in his back pocket and holds the door.
I hustle to keep up with his long strides as I fasten my earrings with one hand and grip my necklace with the other. They’re costume, probably not even worth the five bucks I paid the consignment store I found them in, but they’re shiny, and beautiful, and I feel pretty when I wear them.
If Coy notices my new jewelry, he doesn’t say a word. His brow is frozen in a perpetual frown as he starts the car engine and cranks the wheel. He’s nervous. This is just how he gets, and I pull out my cell phone to glance at the time, nervous I’ve made him late.
“You got somewhere else you’d rather be?” The words grate through his lips.
I stuff my phone back inside my purse, and shake my head. “No. Just checking the time. You sure it’s okay I tag along?”
He drops one hand from the steering wheel and threads our fingers together over the center console. “I want you with me.” At the next stoplight he lifts our hands to his lips and presses a kiss to the back of my fingers. “My good luck charm.”
Coy turns on the radio and we don’t speak the rest of the ride. It’s LA, and even though technically, rush hour should have long passed, we roll along in bumper-to-bumper traffic until we near the exit for the studio. Coy’s nerves return the closer we get, and his fingers tap out an anxious beat against the rubber coated steering wheel while I help navigate.
The studio, Off Track Records, comes into view and we both let loose an exhale of relief. Hell, we’re even early. Coy finds a parking spot in the back and I turn to face him after unbuckling my seat belt. “You’ve got this, baby. They’ll love you.”
“I couldn’t do this without you. You know that, right?” His brow dips as he closes the space between us to kiss my lips. “I need you.”
I need him, too. I don’t allow myself to think about the woman I was before he found me. Before he saved me. As much as he needs me, I need him even more. He’s my very reason for being alive. “You’ve got this.”
He nods and opens his door, and I meet him at the front of the vehicle. We walk side by side around the building and through the front. A waiting room full of music memorabilia and awards greets us, much the same as every other studio I’ve been inside, and while Coy checks in with the striking young woman working reception, I find a seat in the far corner so I can blend in and hide.
I’m good at both, and it’s my go-to when a situation is overwhelming. I don’t want to do anything that could ruin this opportunity for Coy. Even small talk seems too great a challenge. I’d probably make a lame joke to the wrong person and they’d get the assumption Coy isn’t cool or worldly enough to take on such a huge role.
There’s a table to my right that holds all of the latest issues of music magazines, including a few centered on celebrity gossip, my guilty pleasure. My fingers itch to pick one up. I know they’re full of crap and rumors that probably aren’t true, but there’s something about having that little window into the lifestyles of the rich and famous. Probably the little girl in me who to this day loves a good fairy tale. Coy’s utter disdain for that kind of reading forces me to pick up an issue of Sound On Sound instead and pretend to care about the latest in music recording technology while I people watch from behind the pages.
Coy’s greeted by a few older gentlemen whose outfits scream executive, and when they immediately invite him back, I take that as a good sign. I also pick up the issue of People and hide it inside my current magazine so I won’t get caught. The waiting room is quiet, but for the music piped through the speakers overhead, and I’m quickly forgotten by the receptionist who goes back to answering phones and Snapchatting on her cell.
My attention is drawn by the pages of trendy clothing, beauty hacks, and who’s dating whom when the front door bursts open with a rambunctious crew. I recognize them immediately—Trent, Sean, and Austin—and even though Coy’s here to audition for Three Ugly Guys, I’m stunned and starstruck at the sight. Maybe because I didn’t expect them to waltz in the front door. Surely, there’s a special entrance for famous rock stars.
“Hey, Lizzy!” Trent says to the receptionist.
She sets down her cell and perks up on her chair, pressing her breasts forward and together so the band gets a good look at her perfect cleavage on their walk to the hallway. “Bedo’s already back with your first applicant of the day.”
“How’s he look? Good fit?” Austin says, and I realize they’re inquiring after Coy.
I sink a little further into the back of my chair to observe their reactions.
“Sexy. Has the right vibe. Confident, too.”
“He’s not better looking than I am though?” Austin teases her and she laughs, a deep throaty sound that’s both provocative and demure.
“You worried, big shot?” She winks and I wish I could come off that polished. Comfortable and confident.
“Never.” He slaps Trent on the back. “Not with these motherfucking ugly shitheads.”
“Who you calling ugly?” Sean chuckles and tips his chin up to shake his face. It gives me a better view of his strong jawline. He’s as stunning as the tabloid photographers capture him to be, but I’ve never seen his smile before. It seems to come easily, and lights up his face with a trace of mischief. His eyes drift over the waiting area and catch me staring.
Crap. I should look away, dip down in my seat and hide beneath the magazine I’m holding, but I’m sort of arrested by his eyes on me. Famous eyes I never expected would notice a girl like me hiding in the corner.
“The facts are the facts. I get more ass than everyone. Just saying,” Austin boasts.
Sean continues our stare down, but his response is to his friend. “That’s ’cause you can’t keep your dick on a leash.”
His words send a little thrill, leaving me one part uncomfortable, and another totally glued to the hazel hued orbs that meet me with interest. The corner of his lips lift just the slightest, as though we’re sharing a secret joke.
“Hey, not my problem our front man is whipped.” Austin speaks up again, using his hand to crack a pretend whip.
“We better get back. Bedo’s already panicked.” Trent pipes up, and he claps both Austin and Sean on the shoulders, pushing them both ahead of him toward the hallway. “He’s gonna hire us a fucking babysitter, I kid you not!”
Sean cranes his head, not releasing my eyes from his scrutiny until he’s all the way around the corner. I swear he winks before he’s out of sight, but I must imagine that part. He wouldn’t be winking at me. Couldn’t be. In fact, I probably inflated the entire encounter to more than it was. He was probably wondering who the freak was staring at him from the corner. His smile probably had more to do with him laughing at me than any sort of secret. I shake my head and go back to my magazines, unwilling to check the time again. I’m not sure how I’ll make it to work on time, but I surmise the longer Coy’s in the back, the greater chance he has for getting this gig, and that’s better than my career as an assistant washing hair at a salon.
And how pathetic am I? At my boyfriend’s biggest audition, and having a weird staring contest with the bassist for his new band. It felt like a connection, but that’s stupid. All in my head. That thing, whatever it was, with Sean Willis, wasn’t more than a curious look. I can’t gawk at the talent. If Coy gets this gig, he’s one of them, and just like that it hits me. He won’t have any reason to keep someone like me around. Especially if I act like a starstruck idiot.
Flipping the pages to In Style and People, I go back to examining the finer details of the rich and famous, this time hunting for clues on how to appear more refined and polished than the woman I am. I’m good at blending in and I can be useful. I’ll just have to work extra hard to prove my place in Coy’s life. I can do this.
I can’t imagine a life without him. Or going back to before.
Yeah, I’ve got to do this. Coy can’t ever leave me, so I’ll be the best damn girlfriend in the whole world.
41
Sean
“He’s fucking good.” Austin’s brows rise and he lets loose a whistle from inside the sound booth where we’re all gathered watching some dude wail down on the drums like he was born to play rock.
“The right look.” Trent nods in agreement.
“Mad skills. I’ll give him that.” I tip my chin and watch as he breaks out into a roll that’s ten times better than any of our former drummers could have pulled off. The man doesn’t even break a sweat. In fact, he’s so calm he almost looks bored.
“Not a cokehead, either.” Austin laughs, but that earns him a room full of glares. “What? Too soon?”
“You’re a jackass, Austin,” I mutter and plop into one of the padded leather chairs, leaning back enough to rest my feet on the counter.
“Yeah, well, you’re a tightass. We each bri
ng our individuality to the band.” He grins and sticks his tongue out my way. We’re all dealing with the latest turn in 3UG history differently. Austin continues to crack jokes as if it’s not a big fucking deal we’re drummer-less. Again.
I’m working to come to grips with it, but honestly, I don’t give a flying fuck who they bring in to play. He’ll probably leave like everyone else. I’m more consumed by the fact Iz is a drug addict. The guilt I have from enabling him to use while I turned a blind eye haunts me more than I’ll ever admit. I should have said something that night at the Grammy’s. Before, too. Would it have changed events? Maybe, maybe not, but now I’ll never know.
“What do you think, T?” Bedo asks, his eyes trained on our lead singer while Trent watches Coy through the glass of the studio booth.
“He can play. So, let’s meet him. If he’s cool, I say give him a temporary contract.”
“You all good with that?” Bedo asks and we all nod. He steps over to the control panel, knocking my shoes off the edge with a dirty look before pressing one of the buttons. “Hey, Coy. That’s enough. Why don’t you come on back so we can chat?”
I don’t miss how Coy’s lips fall with the interruption, or how his shoulders droop with a polite nod as he stands from the drum set and makes his way toward the sound booth. He assumes we don’t want him. Well, he’s in for the surprise of his life. I wonder who he is and what’s with his story. He can play like a motherfucker, but that’s not all there is to making it in this biz. Our band is tight, and we all grew in our success together, but this guy, he’d be climbing into an already made bed. Can he handle it?
Bedo pops open the door. “Come on in. Have a seat.”
“Thanks. Thank you all for the opportunity.” Before sitting down, he shakes each of our hands. It’s a nice gesture, and I’m hopeful this could really be so simple. We auditioned a bunch of guys last week, but they were nowhere near the caliber of musician we needed. Maybe Coy’s our next Ugly Guy.