“Uh, sure.” I scrub a hand over the back of my neck, rubbing away the goosebumps I got from hearing her say those three words to me, even in jest.
Decha takes a step closer and raises his camera to pretend to take my picture, shrugging out of the neck strap so he can drop it quickly if he needs his hands free. Ava snatches a napkin from underneath somebody’s silverware and practically mugs a waitress for a pen.
“Traitor,” I whisper to her as I scribble something on the napkin, listening with half an ear to the lead singer babbling into the microphone about me.
“Sorry, sorry,” he finally says, pausing to catch his breath. “I’ve got tickets to your show tomorrow, is all, and it’d be the coolest thing in the world if you came up and did a song with us.”
I try to look reluctant, even though my body hums at the thought of not having to wait a whole day before I get back behind a microphone. “Hey, I wanted to hear that new song you were talking about. I’ve heard all mine.”
“You guys’d rather hear Jax Sterling of The Red Letters than us, right?” The room erupts, and Ava adds her voice to the screams. She keeps her head down so her hat shields her face, but I can still make out the shine of her grin. That, combined with the tide of voices, gives me all the permission I need to head for the stage.
Screw it, what do I need a night off for, anyway? I’ll be able to impress my girl better from up here than I’d ever do nodding my head along to the music at a table, pretending to sip a lame-ass club soda.
I step up on the narrow stage, clapping the singer on the shoulder in greeting. As I turn to face the room, Ava accepts a seat at the table of the people whose napkin she stole. “At least give me a guitar to hide behind,” I joke with the singer, and he shucks his so hastily he almost drops it, passing it over a well-loved Takamine acoustic. The B is slightly out of tune, but I don’t want to embarrass the guy by adjusting it on stage. “What do you think, Nashville?” I ask the crowd. “Should I try my hand at something a little country?”
The crowd whoops, the sound a little more subdued than the screams we get in the stadium, but homier for all that. I think through the very few country songs I know by heart and then lean down to speak to the drummer. He nods, his Stetson bobbing a little nervously, and I hope he can hold a beat with his hands shaking the way they are.
“I’ve been on tour a few times now,” I say into the microphone, adding a little drawl to my voice, “and I love rock, but it sure ain’t a smooth ride. It does have its perks though.” I nod toward Ava, half a smile curving my lips. “This one’s for my number one fan over there.”
I break into the first, urgent chords of “Rodeo,” an old Garth Brooks song I remember hearing on the radio when I was still young enough to play cowboys and indians. But as soon as I start, I remember the lines about a broken home being all he had left after his years on the road.
Well, never mind tonight’s rule about no songwriting. I’ve never been great at rules anyway.
I rip into the song, sharpening the notes. When I open my mouth to sing, my own words come out.
Ava’s eyes widen, but soon she’s stomping her lightning-streaked boots along with the beat, singing along with my brand-new chorus.
“It’s the cash and cars/it’s the girls and bars...” I lean in and flare my eyes at the crowd, “it’s that damned old rock and roll!”
I yank an electric-sounding twang out of the acoustic to finish it off. The audience eats it up, but when I look out to see Ava’s reaction, she’s got her head bent over a phone.
Thanking the band and audience, I make my way offstage amongst chanting for an encore. I reluctantly head for a table of my own, but Ava beckons me over. Heads turn as people begin to notice she’s not the ordinary fan she pretended to be earlier.
“You wanna change locations now that our cover’s blown?” I murmur.
“Actually, you’ve got a car coming to pick you up out back, ETA three minutes.”
“I’m not going anywhere.” I frown. “This is our date night. I know I said I wouldn’t perform, but it’s not like I—”
“It’s not that,” she interrupts. “I checked your texts, just to see if it was important and you were maybe pretending like it wasn’t, for my sake.” She squeezes my arm. “Turns out that YouTuber from the interview tonight was fishing with an eye toward editing the footage to revive the old rumors about Danny and Jera’s secret affair. And without you there, it doesn’t look good. I think you should go,” she says gently.
If I go now, I probably won’t get back to her tonight, which means I’ll miss the spectacular sex we no doubt would have fallen into after a whole night of foreplay disguised as music and dancing in very tight jeans. Which means all day tomorrow will feel like the cranking of a vise squeezing my whole body.
I shove the thought aside, annoyed with myself, because I don’t want to miss the rest of the night either. The way everything in my life seems lighter when I manage to make Ava laugh.
“Jera and Danny are grown-ups, and that rumor’s years old. They can deal.”
“Sure they can. But we both know you’ll be worrying about them all night, even if Decha takes your phone.”
The calls for encores have died down and fans are starting to get out of their seats and crowd closer, cell phones lifted as they pretend to text and actually snap poorly-framed pictures of my conversation.
I look down at Ava, at how soft her smile is. My band has made her life pretty damn rough since this tour started, but she’ll still put them first just because she knows it matters to me. I duck my head and kiss her forehead. “You kick all of the ass, you know that?”
“You better not forget it.” She pats my Wrangler-clad butt and slips my phone into my pocket. “Now get moving. Dean’s getting dropped off by your ride and he’ll give you shit if you’re late.”
I laugh, gesturing to the thickening crowd without comment. We both know it’s going to take me at least thirty minutes to sign and selfie my way over to the alley.
“This isn’t my first rodeo, Sterling.” She pulls off her Stetson and perches it on my head, turning to face the band as she raises her voice. “Don’t suppose you boys know ‘Bad Girls’?”
Their answer is lost in the cacophony as the name of her first hit single transforms the crowd from tentatively edging forward to full on riot. I throw my arms out to shield her on instinct, but Decha’s already there, elbowing the others out of the way. He stays right behind her without ever blowing his cover; snapping pictures like he’s angling for a spot at the National Enquirer while he delivers her to the stage where two new bar bouncers are already waiting.
The crowd settles at the edges of the spotlight and Ava waves. It looks like it’s to the fans, but I know it’s for me. I make myself turn and take the diversion she made for me, hustling off to rescue my best friends.
I shove out the push bar of the emergency exit, my eyes focused on the gritty Nashville alley, though all I can see is the beautiful girl I left behind me. When you’re as famous as we are, gifts tend to lose their meaning. We have money, we have all the bright and sparklies, all the sleek and fasts we’ve ever wanted. The thing Ava just gave up for me is the only thing a celebrity really values, the only thing that’s truly irreplaceable: a night off.
Chapter 17: Withdrawal
I struggle not to slouch as I push open the door of the limo. The concert tonight was sold out, and these reporters never seem to sleep. Out of habit, I spin to help Ava out behind me, bending to kiss her hand just as the streetlights illuminate her face. After that one staged shot, we throw up our hands to foil the paparazzis’ chance at a candid shot. 2:30 a.m. is no one’s best angle.
All the eyes surrounding us fail to fill me with the usual bounce of my manic confidence. Instead, flashbulbs ricochet off my paper-thin skin and I wonder if they can see straight through to the organs beneath: my hollow, gasping stomach, the liver and lungs I wrecked years ago, the heart that struggles to keep up with the need that
yanks and stretches at me. Relentless, in every second since I took my last bow tonight and I’m so fucking sick of fighting myself.
“Jackson, do you have anything to say in response to the man who came out after selling you speed tabs before your show at the Gorge last week?”
“Ava, when your boyfriend punched a hole in your hotel room wall in San Francisco, were you afraid for your safety?”
“Ava! Is it true you broke Danny O’Neil’s nose after he impersonated you at the Jagermeister Ball two months ago?”
“Will you be combining your bands? Is The Red Letters’ name going to be dropped entirely?”
Christ. I scramble for something sarcastic to say, anything that will make these questions look as ridiculous as they are, but my mind is scattered across too many city blocks to make connections right now. Ava’s steps falter, and I kick back into gear. I leave Dean to keep the crowd at bay as I pull the door open and usher her inside the peaceful quiet of the hotel lobby.
“Impersonated me?” Ava complains through a yawn. “He was covering ‘Oops, I Did It Again.’ I mean, not that I’d mind Britney’s abs, but I’m not sure the comparison holds much further than that.”
“I’m afraid I’m going to have to see you in a sequined Speedo before I can answer that question.” I hit the button for the elevator, happy to focus on her instead of my own thoughts. “Topless. Just so we don’t confuse any of the original variables.”
“Do I have to stuff a pair of socks in the front like Danny did?”
I smile. “I’m telling him you said that.”
“Do it. I want to see his face change expression, just once.” She stifles another yawn.
“He’s not as Mr. Miyagi as you make him out to be, you know. He’s just doing that to fuck with you.” Gotta admit, I can’t blame him for egging her on. Now that they are semi-tolerant of each other, Ava teases him mercilessly, flirts and insults and flips from sugar sweet to outrageously inappropriate in seconds, and Danny rarely does more than change the rhythm of his breathing in response. Then again, that could just be because he’s distracted by other things.
I can’t think about that right now. I’m too tired, strung too thin to deal. I slump against the wall while we wait for the elevator and Ava’s head comes to rest against my chest, her eyes closing. She sways a little, her hip brushing my fly. Even that small touch is enough to draw my balls tight, all too eager for a release I don’t want to admit I need.
Ava’s been up since three hours after she went to sleep last night, working out with her trainer, then going straight to a photo shoot where they had her riding a bike splashily through a stream for a couple more hours, back for a couple hours of working on finances for her charity, followed by fittings for her gown for an award show in a couple months. After that it was a new outfit, off to soundcheck and working out the quirks of the venue with me, her and the production manager. When that was finished, she performed a two-hour set with seven outfit changes and two different hairpieces, dancing full-on the entire time while singing lead vocals...which only looks easy until you try to do it yourself for about three minutes.
Her body’s burned through about five thousand calories, been poked and prodded by a couple dozen people, and scrutinized by thousands, all in the last sixteen hours. The last thing she needs is more demands put on it from me.
The elevator dings and Dean appears behind us. I usher Ava on, her eyes not coming fully open as she lets me lead her.
Dean glances at me. “Fuckin’ reporters asked me if I did a threesome with you.”
“I hope you told them I rocked your world.” I wink.
“Told ‘em a lot of things look bigger on TV.”
“Like your sense of humor?” I close my arms around Ava and let her rest her weight against me. As soon as I do, her bodyguard digs out his phone, as close to relaxed as he ever gets. I want to take it as a compliment, but if he knew where my thoughts had been all day, he wouldn’t be as eager to trust me with his precious charge.
It’s been sixty-two days since I’ve been with another woman, and forty-six hours since I’ve warmed myself in the complete acceptance of Ava’s body. I’ve been spending every second I can grab with her, abandoning my bus for her plane’s express ride to the next hotel each night. Even so, the spaces without her are beginning to stretch impossibly long.
I thought it would be better, focusing all my attention on a woman who really mattered, on someone who looked at me like there might be something there worth seeing. After all, every drug ever made is just trying to imitate the rush of being in love. Somehow, I didn’t expect the rush to be terrifying.
With the other girls there’s no risk. I’m always gone before they can get tired of me, or offering up their next orgasm before they can get bored. But with Ava, there’s all this time when we’re not in bed, there’s no set list to follow, and every day she doesn’t dump me just builds our tower of blocks teeteringly higher. I have no idea how long it can stand.
Ding.
I flinch at the too-loud sound and Ava wakes, blinking. “Are we at the airport?”
I don’t bother to remind her we’re playing this venue twice in a row. “Better,” I promise. “Already at the hotel.”
She kisses my chest, leaving a tiny lip gloss mark on my designer shirt that I’m pretty sure just tripled its value. “You are like the good news fairy.”
“He’s some kind of fairy,” Dean rumbles, checking the hall before he proceeds.
I scoop Ava into my arms before she can take her first wobbling step. She scares the hell out of me, walking half-asleep on those mouthwatering stilettos she prefers. She nuzzles a sleepy kiss into the hollow at the base of my neck. “Put me down, crazy pants. You’re as tired as I am.”
Actually, I’m not. I think all those years of uppers fried my circuitry, and the fatigue registers more like electricity crackling throughout my nervous system, making my fingers want to fidget, my toes want to curl inside my shoes. I can already feel the hours of the night stretching endlessly out before me. I hold Ava a little tighter, the leather and cucumber scent of her stilling everything else that tugs at me.
“Pshaw. My guitar weighs more than you.”
She lays her palm against my sore pectoral muscle, relaxing into my arms. “Maybe now that you’re built like the Hulk from all those hours in the weight room.”
“Your fault.” I wait for Dean to use the keycard on her suite door. “I can’t very well leave the gym before my girlfriend, can I?”
She scoffs, but her lids are already drooping again. “I’m doing endurance cardio. You’re not exactly supposed to lift weights for three hours in a row.”
Judging by the scream of my tattered biceps at carrying all buck twenty-five of her, she might be right about that. A drop of sweat pops out on my forehead, and Dean’s quick eyes register it. He smirks before disappearing into the suite.
Instead of dozing again, Ava toys with the first button on my shirt. “Not that I’m complaining. You do seem to get a lot of...stamina out of the deal.”
My dick responds so fast I have to shift her in my arms before she can feel my overly-enthusiastic response. I kiss her forehead, nausea twisting my gut at the idea of easing my addictions at her expense. “You should catch up on your rest. I can find my own room tonight so I won’t keep you up.”
She crinkles her nose. “Did you just headache-excuse me?”
A laugh jumps out of me. “Not even a little bit. I—”
Dean reappears and I snap off my sentence. “No monsters in the closets, kiddies.” He eyes me. “Put her to bed before you drop her, String Bean.”
I pucker a kiss in his direction. “I’ll carry you to bed next, Snookums.”
I head for Ava’s bedroom for the night, letting the front door of the suite fall closed behind us. I’m glad as hell my ribs are finally healed, but she’s not helping my balance any, craning her head to study my face.
“Jax,” she says. “What.”
&nbs
p; Bending my knees, I set her on the bed, my arms burning from the long wait. “Nothing, seriously. We’ve both been up about a million hours, that’s all.”
Her eyes drop deliberately to the bulge behind my fly, back to my face, and then to my hands. As soon as I realize they’re trembling, I stuff them into my pockets. When I’m with her, I’m usually okay, but for all the long hours when she’s busy and I can’t yet get onstage, I’m...fraying. I can’t distract myself with girls or smooth the rough edges with whiskey. I can’t use coke to make my life a perpetual stage, my every word a manically beautiful performance.
And I don’t know how long I can hold on like this.
She scoots to the edge of the bed. “Was it all the booze at the afterparty? I told you if it bothers you to be around that crap, we don’t have to go.” She winces. “It’s my fault. The damn album just slid down to number four and I was hunting for some new connections to give me a bump. It was selfish; I shouldn’t have made you stay so long.”
I shake my head, my eyes unable to hold hers as they bounce around the room- the pillars flanking the darkened French doors, the arrangement of flowers I sent earlier but neither of us have been back to enjoy. It sucks almost more to see her concern than it did waiting for her to kick me out. Every night I’ve waited for her to ask for more space instead of rolling me into her sheets, but I know the honeymoon phase can’t last forever.
“I’m just sick of being in my own head today.” I flash her a quick smile. “Nothing for you to worry about. And number four isn’t bad. The last time I saw that spot, there was a hell of a lot of champagne involved.”
I take a step back from the bed and Ava catches my hand, running her thumb up the underside of my wrist beneath the cuff of my shirt. Pleasure tingles up my arm and expands into my chest. Girl picked up on my weak spots fast.
“Bet I can make you forget about that.” She wets her lips and all I can think about is that mouth stretched around my cock, her tongue slicking the line between my tip and shaft.
Insatiable (Sex, Love, and Rock & Roll Book 3) Page 18