by Wynne Roman
And me?
My conversation with Rye comes back to me. Give her the real you. Not some guy fucked up by the past, and not some manufactured rock star bullshit. The Ajia Stone nobody else knows.
If we do this, she deserves that much. Doesn’t she?
Her hands are soft and warm on my back. She shoves my ponytail over my shoulder and rubs lotion over my neck and shoulder blades, down my spine.
“I haven’t seen your back up close before.” She’s rubbing more sunscreen but seems to be tracing the contour of my biggest tattoo. “Who’s Cecelia?”
“Patron Saint of Musicians.”
Her hands stop for a second. “Are you Catholic?”
“Nope.” The real you. The Ajia Stone nobody else knows. “I was really…lucky as a kid,” I finally admit. “Seems like somebody was looking out for me. Musta wanted me to stick around. Finally decided it must be Saint Cecelia.”
She keeps rubbing. I don’t know what she’s thinking, but I know what she’s seeing. A tat of a beautiful dark-haired woman dressed in gold and white, flowers in her hair, and a harp in her hands. I got her after Run started to get Wycked Obsession noticed.
Bree’s sudden squeal comes as a surprise. “What?”
“Oh, my God!” she snickers. “You got Wicked Is As Wycked Does as a tramp stamp?”
I glance over my shoulder. “I don’t think it’s called a tramp stamp on men.”
She rubs lotion down there. “I don’t care. It’s…”
“What?” I dare her with my tone, my look, even though she can’t read my expression behind my aviators. “It’s what?”
“Slutty.”
I push my sunglasses down my nose far enough for her to see my eyes. The words are out before I can think about them. “That’s what I am, aren’t I?”
She hesitates, her hands on my lower back, and then she reaches up to reveal her own expression as she settles her sunglasses on top of her head. “You don’t have to be.”
“I’m a rock star, right? Sing some songs and fuck some girls. It’s what I’m good at.”
I hate the words. Hate that I said them, and especially hate that I said them to Bree. But she has to know what she’s getting into with me. Doesn’t she? I can’t take the chance that she doesn’t.
“No.” She leans forward and places a soft, gentle kiss on my shoulder. The back of my neck. Her arms circle around me and link together over my middle. “You’re anything but that to me. You’re the guy who’s called me kitten since the day we met because I was so OCD over babysitting that stupid cat. You’re the guy who came to my high school concerts and plays with Knox and my mom, because I didn’t have any other family to come. You’re the guy who threatened to beat up my prom date if he touched me, and you’re the guy who whistled and clapped and raised such a ruckus when I graduated from high school that I was actually embarrassed.” She kisses my shoulder again. “You’re anything but a rock star or a slut to me.”
Jesus.
I don’t mean to, but I wrap my arm around her neck and pull her down for a kiss. I catch her bottom lip between my teeth and suck it into my mouth, then bring my tongue into play as I stroke the contours of her mouth, her lips, her teeth. My tongue pushes forward, and hers comes up to meet it. Her fingers clutch my biceps, and I’ve got one hand wrapped around her waist.
The kiss goes on. Changes. Deepens. Retreats and then resumes. Everything I ever wondered if a kiss could be.
For a guy who doesn’t kiss—ever—I’ve sure done a fuck of a lot of it lately.
We kiss until neither of us can breathe, and I finally tear my mouth from hers. She rests her forehead against mine, and our breath is heavy and ragged. I can feel her breasts heave against my back, and my cock has surged to hard, granite life.
“Bree,” I pant. “Baby.”
“Ajia.” Nobody says my name as perfectly as she does.
“Are we really gonna do this?”
She pulls back. “Do you want to?”
I close my eyes and slowly pull my aviators from my face. “Fuck.” I let out a low breath. “I shouldn’t. I should fucking leave you alone and let you find a guy you deserve. But…”
“But?” Her eyes are wide and bright in the sunlight.
I pull her close enough to catch her lips in another, this-time-gentle kiss. “I want you. And not just in bed. I like you, kitten. You’re fun and funny. We have a history. And I…wanna know what else there could be.”
If I’ve got anything else in me.
“Ajia.” She whispers my name, and this time she kisses me like a soft promise.
“I don’t have a good track record, baby. You know that. I don’t fucking know what this means.”
“Day by day,” she murmurs against my mouth. “I don’t know, either, so we take it day by day and see where it takes us.”
“And your brother?”
She pulls back just a little and shakes her head. “I don’t want to tell him yet. I want us to have a chance to figure this thing out without him getting in the way.”
It makes sense. I even agree. But…
“If he finds out on his own, he’ll take it wrong. You know that.” I brush the backs of my fingers down her cheek. “And he’s gonna hate it, no matter what.”
Her hand comes round and cups my cheek. “This isn’t about Knox, A. It’s about us. You and me. And I’m not going to let him freaking screw it up. I want it to be just you and me for a little while.”
A thought occurs to me. “Like you don’t want to tell your mom about Gabe?”
“Fuck.” She mutters it softly, but I hear it.
“You can’t hide shit from people, baby. Not this kind of shit. Important shit. It comes out the wrong way, and everything’s fucked. Unless…”
“Unless what?”
“Maybe you don’t want people to know you’re hooking up with manwhore Ajia Stone. Maybe—”
“Shut it.”
“What?”
“Just shut up. Jesus! I want everybody to know that I want you and you want me! But there isn’t really anything to know yet. We haven’t even—you know.”
“Fucked?”
She scowls. “Is that all it’s gonna mean to you? Another girl to fuck?”
I frown back. “You know it isn’t.”
“So we haven’t even slept together. And you know what’s going to happen when we go public? Besides Knox and all his bullshit, your fans are gonna hate me. They’re already jealous of me being Knox’s sister. Once I’m anything other than that, I’m dead meat. I want just a little time to get to know this different side of you. Ajia, the man who kisses me and nobody else. The man who makes me come and holds me when I’m scared. I don’t want that to be up for public consumption.”
I get it. I do. And even knowing it has the potential of turning into a shit storm just like the others we’ve been through in the past couple of weeks, I don’t have the heart to turn her down.
“You got it, baby.” I give her a quick, promising kiss. “We’ll keep each other’s secrets for now—but it can’t last long. You know that, right?”
“I know.” She kisses me back. “I don’t really want it to. But there’s one other thing you ought to know.”
“What?”
“You’re mine now. No sharing. So you better find a good way to let your groupies down easy, Pipes, or it ain’t gonna be fucking pretty. Knox finding out will be the least of our problems.”
“You talking violence, kitten?”
“Yes. No more Tits. Or Garage Girl. You ready for that?”
I don’t hesitate. For better or worse, I’ve made up my mind. “I’m ready, baby. Are you?”
CHAPTER 15
BREE
I dress carefully for the concert. I’m not quite sure what I’m doing, but I know I want to look nice for Ajia. Not slutty, but I want him to know I’m the woman for him. I don’t have a lot of choices, though—which I suppose is
good. If I change things up too much, Knox might get suspicious.
I did some shopping in Phoenix, and I found a cute pleated skirt in a floral pattern of pink, turquoise, and white. I can pair that with my pink spaghetti tank and white sandals, and I’m good to go.
I take extra time with my hair and makeup. I leave my hair long and loose because guys like long hair—right? It’s silly, because Ajia has seen me looking about as bad as a person can look. Still, I know the groupies are going to be there and all over him, just like every other show, and I want him to see me at my best. Remind him of his promise.
No more Tits. Or Garage Girl. You ready for that?
I’m ready, baby. Are you?
I text Baz that I’m ready to go, and he replies that he has a Town Car waiting to take me from the hotel to the venue. It seems silly that I can’t just take a cab, but the security restrictions haven’t changed. Kel and some other guys are usually around, but nobody will tell us much. All I know for sure is that one of the Edge of Return guys had a stalker, maybe even threats, and Wycked Obsession gets the same security. The team is good—I don’t notice them all that much—and they seem to make Knox happy.
The driver drops me off at the venue, and I make my way to the back. I’ve learned to keep my laminated backstage pass on me all the time, and it gets me wherever I want to go. The roadies, merch guys, and other crew recognize me by now, and I wave at everybody.
“Hi, Bree!” The pimply-faced guy I almost ran over that first night always greets me, and I give him a friendly smile. His name is Steve, he said, and he seems like a nice enough guy. He’s no Ajia, but nobody else can compare. Not even the guys from Edge of Return.
“Lookin’ good, honey,” shouts Ayden as I pass the open door of their dressing room. Maddox, their lead singer, gives me a thumbs up, and I wave back at them.
My guys are in their dressing room, a couple of doors down. Noah’s sitting on one end of the sofa, drumming a steady beat with his fingers. Rye’s on the other end, head back and eyes closed, flexing his fingers. Knox is standing over a table, pen in hand. I’d bet the price of ticket sales for the night that my control-freak brother is going over the set list one more time. Zayne’s sprawled out on the other sofa like he’s comatose.
And Ajia? He’s in the bathroom, shower on hot and steam filling the room. He spends some time that way before every concert. It’s for his vocal cords. He started doing it a couple of years ago after he quit smoking. Because of my nagging, I’m proud to add.
I don’t say anything, just let the guys go through their pre-show ritual until Noah notices me. “Hey, baby girl.” He smiles.
“Hi.”
“New duds?”
I smile. “I bought some stuff in Phoenix. I was getting really tired of the two skirts I brought.”
“You look nice,” says Rye, and I cross to give him a kiss on his head.
“Thanks, sweetie.”
I head over to Knox and hug him around the middle from behind. “I love you, bro.”
He turns and wraps his arms around me for a real hug. It isn’t something he does a lot—at least not this kind of hug—and I know our bickering has bugged him, too. “You good?” he asks and lets me go.
“Yep.” I grin at him. “Ready to rock out with y’all.”
“You better get out there, then. We’re on in less than ten.”
I wish I had an excuse to wait for Ajia to make an appearance, but I know I can’t do it. Keep it copacetic, as Knox would say. Things are too…unstable right now.
Ajia and I need time.
I have a certain general area where I like to watch the shows. It gives me the best view of Ajia, but I let Knox think it’s so I can see him. I find my spot and settle in to be out of the way and comfortable. Others shift around in the backstage darkness, and I can sense the anxious crowd out front.
I stand there for a few minutes when I hear a voice. “You always watch from here.”
Glancing aside, I smile. “Hi, Steve.” I nod. “Yeah, it’s the best seat in the house.”
He points to the stool in his hand. “Thought you might want to actually sit for a change.”
“Wow!” My smile grows. “Thanks, Steve! That’s really sweet of you.”
He moves the stool into place for me, and even holds my hand as I hike my butt up. It pushes my skirt up pretty high, and I wish it was too dark for him to notice, but I think he does. His eyes are glued to my legs.
“Well…” Finally, he looks at me and then nods kind of jerky. “Enjoy the show.”
“I will. And thanks again, Steve! I really appreciate it!”
I sense movement on the stage at almost the same time and forget all about Steve and his friendly gesture. I focus all my attention on the shadows in front of me until I hear the familiar twang of Zayne’s bass. Noah’s bass drum follows, Rye’s keyboard, and then they open up with Run. They like to start with that song, maybe for sentimental reasons. I always like to see Ajia when the spotlight first hits him, like he’s making love to the microphone.
He’s dressed a little differently tonight, all in black. Instead of an open button-down shirt, he’s wearing a black tank. Part of me is disappointed, because I got a really good look at his chest when we were at the pool. Saw his tattoos closer than I ever had. Before, I was always trying not to look, or I forced myself to look away before anybody knew what I was thinking. Now I know that he has Wycked Obsession’s logo on his right pec, an odd winged heart on his left, and the names of each of the band’s single releases in script down his right side. His sleeve is made up of a microphone, guitar, drums, keyboard, musical notes, and all things musical entwined with each other. I plan to trace every single line on his body with my tongue.
Most of me, though, is super satisfied that no groupie or fangirl is going to get a chance to look at his chest tonight. Touch him skin-to-skin. At least not there. You’re mine now, I told him. No sharing. I mean it.
Ajia goes through his usual courting of the audience after the first number. He doesn’t call back but points and waves when women call out how much they love him. He gets Knox to step forward for his share of catcalls.
No Doubt is next, a song I’ve always loved. Knox wrote the music, Ajia the lyrics, about his fantasy romance with his ninth-grade English teacher. He’s never admitted publicly who it’s about, and I’ve always loved knowing that little secret.
No doubt that I want you.
No doubt that I need you.
No doubt that we’d be good.
But I can’t have you.
Shouldn’t take you.
Should have left you alone
Right where you stood.
Is it my imagination or does he turn to glance in my direction as he sings? I’m in no mood for his second thoughts, and so I do the only thing I can. I show him how the music and his fuck-me voice overtake me. I sway from side to side and imagine Ajia’s arms around me, moving with me, his mouth on mine. I keep my eyes open and watch him through every single note. I know he can feel the pull of my gaze, and our eyes catch and hold for the last few seconds of the song.
It’s true, he seems to say.
You’re mine now, I tell him again. And I’m yours.
The crowd erupts with the last notes. They always do. It’s a fan favorite with a harder beat and faster tempo. It’s not about seduction. It’s about the urgent need between lovers who know what they want and can’t wait, even if it’s a little illicit. In that way, it is me tonight. I want—need—Ajia in a way I never did before. I know what his hands feel like on my body, how his mouth tastes, and the warm strength of his body against mine. I’m tired of waiting.
The lights go out, leaving me in blessed darkness. I’m glad suddenly. I take a deep breath and pretend that my nipples aren’t stiff and aching, my panties wet, my legs trembling. The anticipation of being with Ajia again is killing me.
I force myself to look anywhere but at him during the
next couple of songs. I watch Knox breeze through the tricky guitar solo in Leaving You Behind, and follow Zayne’s heavy bass line in Lonely. Noah’s a wild man behind the drums, shirtless now after he sent it flying into the crowd. Rye’s understated keyboard melodies always haunt me, and love for these amazing guys fills me to overflowing.
I’m caught up watching them in a way I haven’t been in years. Not since they first started playing clubs and gaining a following. Is it because of my changing relationship with Ajia? Or because of our little intervention in Phoenix? Whatever explains the way I feel, I love these guys, and I’m captivated by their performance.
They play with perfection, ending with their current hit Tonight, before I realize how much time has passed. It’s Rye’s song, but I swear Ajia looks at me when he sings the opening lines.
I’m yours for tonight,
Baby, it’s all right.
God, I hope he means it.
The lights go down, and screams and applause send the band offstage. They don’t go through the back but come my way, and I give every one of them a triumphant, loving hug, sweaty or not.
“You guys were fantastic tonight!”
“You had the best seat in the house.” Knox indicates my stool.
I grin. “Yeah. Steve brought it out for me.”
“Steve?” Ajia asks sounding funny.
“Yeah.” I look at him. “A roadie. He’s about my age.” I lower my voice, in case he’s anywhere around. “Acne?”
“Steve,” he repeats.
I shrug. “He said he thought I might like to sit for a change.”
“Is that so?”
Is Ajia—could he be—jealous? Of something as simple as some ordinary, pimply guy offering me a place to sit backstage? No. I’m overreacting. I can’t believe anything like that. He’s Ajia Stone, for God’s sake, and I’ve loved him for five years. He knows that.