by Wynne Roman
They screech again, but by this time Ajia has his arms on either side of me. He’s pushing the cart forward, crowding me between the handlebar and his chest.
“Jesus,” he mutters when we reach the end of the aisle. “I think I’m deaf.”
I laugh. “Nothing quite like a young girl’s high-pitched squeal, is there?”
He lets go of the cart and moves to my side. I notice the sudden loss of heat and closeness, but I know better than to say anything. Not here and not now.
Besides, I don’t know what the hell to say. We’ve been too close these last few minutes, and I’m way too distracted.
“Uh, you know we don’t have ice cream,” I say instead.
Ajia laughs. “Doesn’t matter. I needed to get out of there.”
“You won’t be able to find them in the crowd.”
“I won’t remember to look.”
I push the cart up to a checkout stand. “Why didn’t you offer them backstage passes?”
He shoots me a frown. “They’re kids. You know what kind of shit goes on backstage.”
“Yeah. I do. Since when does that bother you?”
“I don’t mess around with girls who are still in high school. None of us do.”
“Just girls in college?” I smirk. “Or is nineteen too young now?”
He looks at his phone without responding to my question. I know he heard me—I can tell by the way his expression tightened—but he types something, waits, and then types again.
“Car will be here in ten minutes,” he says as he shoves his phone into his back pocket.
“You called a car?”
“Knox said no taxis.”
“Since when do you listen to what my brother says?”
Ajia drops his lashes enough that I can’t read his expression. “Since some mystery security shit is going on and we’re alone in an unfamiliar place.”
“But it’s Edge of Return’s problem. We’re just—”
“Following the label’s rules.”
“Is this more protective shit, A? Because if it is—”
“Don’t, Bree.”
“Don’t what?”
He looks at me again, his eyes suddenly churning with a bright golden fire. “Don’t talk to me about being an adult. About not needing anybody to look out for you.” His voice is tight. “Don’t even try it.”
“But—”
“Listen to me,” he snaps as he begins literally throwing things onto the conveyor belt. He stops only long enough to pin me with a sharp, penetrating gaze. “I have two things to say about your protective shit. Gabe Richmond and Ajia Stone.”
“Ajia—”
“Let. It. Go.” He stops moving long enough to stare at me with a withering look. “That says everything you need to know about men, life, and this fucking tour.”
CHAPTER 8
AJIA
I go back to avoiding Bree as much as I can after our shopping trip. Dumbass that I am, I said too much. Saying shit I want to keep secret is bad enough. But, no. I have to say crap that doesn’t make any sense. That only leads to trouble.
It’s a relief when we roll into Phoenix. It means, finally, a couple of nights in a hotel. Three nights, Baz said, because of a screwed-up schedule. We have a show, a free night when Edge of Return plays some kind of private gig, and then another show.
The security people join us here, but we don’t notice them much. One guy, Kel, is assigned to us, but we can still come and go as we want. Thank God, because it’s fucking creepy.
Nobody in Wycked Obsession is complaining about any of it. We get a whole fucking day and night to do nothing. A day and night when we aren’t on the road? Hell, yeah.
Three days and nights out of that goddamn bus so I can put some distance between Bree and me.
I hate to be such an asshole. She isn’t doing anything wrong; she’s just there. Smelling like strawberries. Present and so close. She’s still sleeping in the bunk below me.
Christ, she makes me think of shit I walked away from a long goddamn time ago. I didn’t fuck my way through a never-ending list of nameless, faceless girls who don’t give a shit about me because I’m hot and sexy. I’m a commodity. I make sure they come first, and they get to tell their friends they fucked a rock star.
Yeah, I come. I forget shit for a while. It makes me feel alive for a few minutes…and then I remember what a piece of shit I am. What I’ve done and the lives I ruined.
I’m not laying all that on Bree, no matter how much I want her, because with her, it will never be one and done. I want to protect her from all the bad shit…and especially me.
Fuck.
It’s our free day, and I’m in my bedroom in the suite I share with Rye. I hate admitting it, but the truth is I want Bree. Like I’ve never wanted another woman. And that’s, literally, never.
A shitty little voice inside me keeps whispering. You get with Bree, and it’ll be like nothing you ever had before. You’ll feel things with her. She might even fix you…heal you.
Fuck that.
I’m not broken. Don’t need fixing, and nothing in me can be healed. Yeah, I have a past. Everybody does. And that’s exactly where that shit needs to stay: in the past.
But…it colors stuff. Screws with you. And I’m not letting any of my shit touch Bree. She doesn’t know about Lara, about Mason and Jill, about the accident. About…any of it. Not many people do. I told the guys in the band, and that’s where it ends. Bree will never be tainted by my fuck-ups. She’s special, and I’ve always known that. Now that things have changed between us, even if it’s only in my mind, I know something else.
She is way too good for a piece of shit like me.
And that isn’t just in my mind.
I grunt and dig through my bag, change into shorts and a T-shirt. A place like this will have a gym. I’ll bury all this useless shit under some weights and cardio. Couple of hours ought to do it.
I find Rye in the main living area. He’s pulling a bottle of water from the refrigerator. “Going to the gym?” he asks as he tosses me the bottle and grabs another for himself.
“Yeah. You?”
He shrugs. “See you there later. Noah and Zayne’re out scouting.”
I laugh. “Looking for chicks?”
Rye grins and shakes his head. It’s an old story with those two. They fuck around way more than I do. Or maybe they’re just different from me. More fun. Playful. I’m into one night stands where we don’t know each other’s names. Noah likes his threesomes, and Zayne doesn’t mind an audience. Knox has a bit of a kink that he doesn’t talk much about, but I don’t get into it. If he wants to tie some chick up and she’s into it, who am I to say anything about it?
Rye’s different from the rest of us. He’s more…selective. Goes for a certain type of woman, but it’s still never more than a hookup. Never seems like he’s looking, but if he runs across his type, he’ll take her on.
Pretty sure Zayne and Noah look for Rye’s type and hook him up. Like they’re some kind of pimps or something. We all know it, and it makes me laugh.
“What?”
I shake my head. “Nothing. See you later.”
I bust my ass in the gym for almost an hour before Rye shows up. He does some cardio, some free weights, and finishes up about the same time I do. We shower and head down the street to a nearby Mexican restaurant. Everybody else is MIA.
A couple of beers and a skillet of fajitas later, Rye’s phone buzzes. He looks at me. “Hunting party surfaces.”
“Where are they?” I take a hit from my Corona.
“Hotel. Party in Noah and Zayne’s room.”
Like that comes as a surprise. I smile and shake my head.
“Knox’s with ‘em.”
“Where’s Bree?” The question comes automatically. She and her brother are sharing a suite. “He didn’t fucking take her along to scout women, did he?”
Rye texts and r
eplies when his phone pings. “Guess she went shopping this afternoon. She’s with them now.”
Fuck. I close my eyes. Here we go again. Another party, more drinking, more women, and Bree will be there, watching it all. While my cock gets as hard as granite thinking about her.
I wave the waitress over. “Two shots. Patron.”
Rye eyes me. “Tequila?”
“Might as well get started now.”
We toss back the shots as soon as we get them, and I order another round.
“What are you gonna do?”
I stare at Rye with a deliberately blank expression. “About what?”
He shoots me a look that says, Don’t take me for a dumbass. “Bree.”
“What about her?”
“Did you fuck her?”
“Jesus!” I search for the waitress and our tequila, but nothing is in our vicinity. “Jesus,” I say again. “Didn’t expect that from you, Rye.”
“Did you?”
“No!” I grab my water glass and take a long drink. “Hell, no. When would I have had the chance?”
“You want to.”
I flop back against the booth. “Who says?”
“Your face, every time you look at her.”
“What the ever-loving fuck?”
The waitress arrives with our drinks. I take them both, shoot one and look at Rye as I toss back the second. I don’t waste time with salt or a lime, just order another round.
“You kissed her.” He sounds almost casual, but I know better. Hell, yes, I know better.
“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”
“I saw you. On the dance floor.”
I blow out a ragged breath. “I don’t kiss women.”
“I know.” He angles one head in my direction. “But you kissed Bree.”
“Fuuuuck.”
“She wants you, you know.”
I shove a hand into my hair and wish suddenly that I’d pulled it back. It’s too much. Clothes are too much. I just want to be blissfully alone, naked and floating where none of this shit matters.
“It’s just a little crush.” I hate the desperation in my voice.
Rye laughs, and it almost sounds like he’s sympathetic. “It was a little crush when she was fifteen, bro. She’s almost twenty now, gonna start her third year of college this fall. She caught you getting sucked off by some groupie. You think she doesn’t know about shit?”
I stiffen. “Who told you about that?”
He gives me another of those dumbass looks.
“Fucking Noah,” I mutter.
The next shots arrive, but I just look at mine. After a minute, Rye salts his hand, licks the salt, kicks back the shot, and sucks his slice of lime.
“I wanna say that what you do with Bree is your business,” he says finally. “But you know that ain’t true. Knox will kill your ass if you sleep with his sister, and the rest of us will break every fucking bone in your body if you hurt her. So, if you’re thinking about going any farther with this shit, prepare yourself for the consequences. It ain’t gonna be pretty if you make the wrong choice.”
I wrestle with Rye’s words as we start back toward the hotel. Everything he says is true. Hell, I’ve been telling myself the same damn things. I just hadn’t realized, until I heard the words aloud, how much I hoped to find a loophole. A way out.
A way to have Bree, at least for a little while.
A really dumbass thing to think about, a rusty voice of conscience reminds me. She’ll never be anybody’s one and done, and you don’t let girls into your life who are anything else.
Not anymore. I had one—once—and it turned into the worst fucking mistake of my life. Not her fault. Mine. Totally mine, and I’ll live with that every day of my worthless life. That’s why Bree has to stay safe. Away from me. I’ve made as much of an exception for her as I can. She might not know it, but that’s just as well.
She can only be Bree…our baby girl. My kitten.
Five years into Wycked Obsession, and she used to be only that.
Now…she’s so much more.
Fuck. A dozen other curses roll through my mind.
She deserves a guy who can love her, who’s bright and clear and not filled with the pain and shit that follows me around. I hide what I am, what I did. Had years of practice at it. The ugliness is still there, though. Deep down. Killing and maiming people doesn’t go away. It eats away at you every fucking day, and so I bury it with meaningless sex, too much booze, and the knowledge that I deserve every fucking thing I get.
Except the success. That threw me when it started. I’m no more comfortable with it now. It shouldn’t be mine. The rest of the band deserves it, though, and that’s the only way I can accept it.
Well, that, and knowing the only place I feel at home, where I feel alive and at peace with myself, is on stage. Or when the band jams, writes, records.
So why the fuck do I suddenly have these thoughts about—these feelings for—Bree? Where did they fucking come from, and how the fuck can I get rid of them?
Rye and I take the elevator at the hotel and go straight to Zayne and Noah’s room. Music filters into the hallway. It sounds like stuff we used to cover. Rockstar by Nickelback. Fucking hilarious. The door is propped open with the swing bar that locks hotel room doors.
“Hey!” Zayne waves his red plastic cup the instant he sees us. “Where you assholes been?”
I shrug and Rye shakes his head.
“Havin’ a party,” announces Noah unnecessarily. He has a girl on his lap and one hanging around his neck.
“Come meet the girls!” shouts Knox, who has a chick perched on his knee.
I see a couple other girls—one who looks exactly like Rye’s type—and I shoot him a grin. He looks back, his eyes dark, almost sad, but then he grins back and heads across the room.
Everybody looks pretty drunk already, and I’m on the edge of a buzz. The only one who looks remotely sober is Bree. She sits at the table with the rest of them, a red Solo cup in her hands, and gives me a look that I swear says, What are you going to do?
I’m not sure what she’s asking, or maybe I don’t want to know. I don’t have a fucking answer, and so I blink and look away.
I wander into the kitchen, grab a cup, and mix myself a rocks margarita. It tastes shitty—the tequila and mix are cheap—but I drink it anyway. Maybe I’ll get drunk enough tonight to get whiskey dick and not have to worry about wanting to bury myself balls deep in Bree’s welcoming body.
Fuck.
I find an empty seat across the table from her. It’s a good thing, or so I think at first. She’s far enough away that I can’t smell her scent or feel the soft heat of her body. I just didn’t count on looking at her, seeing the light flush on her cheeks, the invitation of her mouth, the desire…and uncertainty in her sparkling green eyes. She’s wearing her Keep Austin Weird T-shirt. Was it always so tight across her tits? I forget about that as I notice her mink-colored hair draped all around her shoulders.
Jesus, now that I see her in this new way—now that I’ve tasted her—I can’t think of anything else.
Introductions are made, but I don’t give a shit about who the other chicks are. Won’t ever see them again, can’t remember their faces if I close my eyes. I nod and toss out that shit-eating grin that lets me get my way more often than not.
Everybody’s drinking, joking and laughing. We talk about Wycked Obsession stuff that excites the fangirls, joke in that sexy way men and women do, until one of the women says, “Let’s play a game!”
I don’t know who said it because I’m pretending not to look at Bree. I groan, along with Rye, but Noah laughs.
“What kind of game?”
“How about…Flip, Sip, or Strip?”
It might have been the same chick who suggested a game in the first place—I can’t tell—but it doesn’t matter. “No!” snaps Knox.
The woman
on Zayne’s lap pouts—it must have been her—but nobody says a word. The guys know why Knox refused.
Bree.
I shoot a stealthy gaze in her direction and see she’s blushing. She knows, too. Or is it the idea of playing a game where we’d all start stripping that has her cheeks so pink?
“How about Truth or Dare?” suggests Noah.
I groan again, but nobody else seemed to care that much. The chick who sits next to me, wearing some kind of skin-tight dress that barely contains her tits or covers her ass, wiggles in excitement. “Ajia!” I tense as she claws at my arm. “I dare you to kiss me.”
I stare at her hand clutching my forearm and slowly drag my gaze up to her face. She’s probably pretty enough—or would be if she didn’t have so much makeup caked on and more eyeliner than I wear on stage—but nothing about her appeals to me.
“That’s not how it works, honey,” I say as I force a grin.
“It’s not?” She fake-pouts, like it’s supposed to be sexy. It isn’t.
“Besides,” puts in Knox. “Ajia never kisses on the mouth.”
My gaze zooms to Bree’s; I can’t help it. She stares back at me, but I can’t read a goddamn thing in her eyes.
“What do you mean?” demands Tight Dress.
I shrug. “I don’t kiss. Not on the mouth.”
“How come?”
I weigh my answer. Most women never notice after I give them their first orgasm, but I’ve come up with a few bullshit reasons over the years.
“Fuck that. We playing or not?”
It’s Rye who interrupts the moment, and I shoot him a look. He’s staring at Noah with a frown. I bet he did it for Bree. Our conversation at the restaurant reminds me just how much Rye knows. Doesn’t matter. I’m relieved. Kissing is still part of an open wound between Bree and me.
“You start, Beater,” Rye said. “It was your idea.”
“Oohh,” squeals the woman hanging around Noah’s neck. She sucks on his earlobe. “Beater! Is that your nickname?”
He grins over his shoulder and gives her a quick kiss. “Among others.”
“Does everybody have a nickname?” screeches the girl next to me. Why the hell do these girls’ voices always get like five octaves higher that way? “What’s yours?” she demands as she tightens her claws on my arm.