Beautiful Series Boxset, books 1-4

by Lilliana Anderson

  In the early days of Matiari we had a girl on bass. Terrible idea. She lasted about a month before Marcus fucked her up so badly, she lost her shit—she didn’t even make it to a paying gig. And he’s such a scumbag that I had to be the bad guy and kick her out. She left my place screaming and ranting, then a month later, a song popped up on iTunes called, Dear Marcus. Subtle title, and even subtler lyrics. My favourite line was, ‘I hope you get mouth herpes on your dick and dick herpes on your lip’. It had a certain ring to it. And while it didn’t do too well in the charts, it was catchy. I still find myself humming it on the odd occasion. Like now.

  Humming to myself as I suck down the last of my beer, I watch my baby brother work the room with a busty girl hanging off his arm. He reaches down and squeezes her arse when she giggles. Then she giggles some more. Can anybody spell ‘cliché’? Sometimes I swear he’s only in this for the pussy. And if he wasn’t so damned talented—and if he wasn’t my blood—I don’t think I could stand being around him, let alone in a band with him. Ladies and gentleman, I hate my brother.

  And I want to go home.

  The afterparty is a necessary evil I loathe. I’ve never been a social creature, but as the band grows its following, we’re expected to sit around and smile pretty for the photos, play nice with venue managers and festival bookers. Sometimes it feels like this is more about networking than it is about the music. But then, I hate groupies too. I’m here to make music, and I couldn’t give a fuck about anything else.

  Is it time to go yet? Ugh. Not even five minutes has passed since I last checked the time.

  My eyes drift over to Naomi just in time to catch her reaction when she clocks Marcus lick the neck of this evening’s dick hole. Her features darken and she looks away, working her lips in a way that gives me hope. Maybe she won’t show up to rehearsal. Her face is saying she’s not interested in his shit.

  Good. I’m not interested in hers.

  I watch her move through the crush of bodies in the hot room until she finds her friends, Erica and Amy. Those two are always hanging around. They have a social media account dedicated to us and are our greatest cheerleaders slash fans slash stalkers. I appreciate their effort, but I’m wary of their motives. They’ve slept with every member of the band—except me, I don’t fuck groupies—more than a few times, but they don’t act jealous when girls are chosen over them. They kind of act like den mothers, making sure there’s ‘something for everyone’ at every party. It’s weird. But we’ve known them for a long time, so if any girls are going to organise our guest list so Marcus never fucks the same girl twice, it may as well be them.

  Amy shakes her head at something Naomi is saying, holding up her bottle of gin to show she’s only drunk a quarter of it. Then Naomi glances back to Marcus, an embarrassed flush to her cheeks as she gestures for the door. She’s leaving. Good. Fuck off. Erica places her hand on Naomi’s shoulder, her lips move then she and Naomi say something that makes Amy roll her eyes and put the bottle she was working through down. Then they all leave together and I can breathe again. She’s gone.

  I stare at the door after she leaves, an odd feeling twisting in the centre of my chest and making me feel too jittery for my liking. Bullshit, she doesn’t remember me.

  “You were great tonight,” some girl says from beside me, dragging my attention from the vacant space Naomi filled.

  “You like drummers?” I ask the bottle blonde with far too much makeup on.

  She grins and slides her hand over my arm like she’s making love to the curve of my muscle. “Uh-huh.” Jesus. This conversation is fucking riveting.

  “I’m going home,” I say, as I gently push her aside and stand. She jumps up with me, an excited bounce to her breasts. I glance down before I meet her eyes. “Alone.”

  “I thought—”

  “No one wants to hear what you think, sweetheart.”

  She scowls. “Jerk.”

  That makes me smile. “Thanks. That’s the nicest thing I've been called in a long time.” They’re usually way more creative than that. Her lips pucker and she folds her arms across her chest as I chuckle and make my exit, glad when no one blocks my path.

  The moment the fresh air hits me, I take a deep breath then grab my smokes out of my pocket and light up. Fucking crowds. A guy with anti-social tendencies probably has no business trying to make it in the music industry. But here I am, living the fucking dream.

  “You’re too late,” Amy says, moving in beside me and holding her fingers out for my cigarette. I hand it over and she takes a long drag that burns away half the paper. So that’s why the guys like her…

  “Too late for what?” She offers the cigarette back, but I shake my head. “I’ve got more.”

  “Naomi. She just left in an Uber.”

  Threading a fresh smoke between my lips, I frown at her while I light up. "I'm not looking for her."

  She shrugs. “I'm just saying if you were looking for her, she’s already gone.”

  Blowing smoke from my nose, I turn and meet her eyes. “Why’d you bring her here?”

  “Because the band needs her.”

  “And you make decisions for us now?”

  “I’ve always known what’s best for you, A—”

  “Don’t, Amy,” I warn. “Don’t say shit like you have some insight into my mind just because you've been hanging around like a bad smell since the beginning of time.”

  “Fuck you. Theo. Erica and I made you.”

  “You made us?”

  “Yes. Our Instagram account is doing for you what twitter did for One Direction.”

  “Is that right?” I scoff, flicking my unfinished cigarette onto the ground. “News flash, Amy. We’re not One Direction. In fact, I’m insulted by the comparison.”

  “That’s because you’re full of yourself. If you’d fuck a few groupies occasionally, you might learn to chill out a little and quit pining over girls you could never have.”

  Pressing my lips together, I nod slowly. “I don’t want to see you at our next gig, Amy.”

  Her eyes flash then I walk away, a chorus of disgruntled obscenities ringing out behind me.

  Six

  Naomi

  “Are you going?” Stephanie asks when I phone her the next day.

  “I don’t know. I don’t think I can have Marcus Bailey in my life again. My reputation is messed up enough.”

  “You never know, he could fix it this time,” she says, causing me to laugh.

  “I highly doubt that. Photos on the internet never go away.”

  “Look on the bright side, you weren’t completely naked in any of them and your face was so smudged with Aramis’s makeup, if they surfaced again, we could argue it wasn’t you at all.”

  “Except that it was me and everyone knows it.”

  “I wonder what happened to Aramis,” she muses as I sit back and let out a sigh.

  “Who knows? He never spoke to me again.”

  “Guess he got what he was after, huh?”

  “Yeah. I guess…” Thinking about him like that saddens me. In all our time together at school, he never gave off a sleaze-bag vibe. He was intense and passionate, but never sleazy… I guess it was all a ruse. Because why else would he act like I didn’t exist the next day? “Ugh. This conversation is precisely why I don't want to jam with them. Too many bad memories.”

  “Yeah. But, Aramis isn’t even in the band anymore. And Marcus is the biggest whore on the planet so he won't hold anything against you. He probably doesn’t even remember it.”

  “That’s what Erica and Amy said.”

  “Yeah? Well, they’d know. They spend every waking moment fawning over the guy.”

  “I still think getting involved with them is a bad idea.”

  “Why? Because you’re embarrassed around Marcus? Or because it’s been so long since you played, you’re not sure if you’re good anymore?” Jesus. Why does she have to know me so well?

  “It’s been sitting in its case fo
r two years, Steph. I won’t even be in tune.”

  “So get the thing out and tune it. There's no-one like you, Nomes. You know it, and they knew it too. It’s why Marcus asked you to jam with them.”

  “You seriously think I should do it?”

  “Yes!” She laughs. “I think you'd be crazy to pass this opportunity up.”

  “It’s not even an opportunity. It’s just a rehearsal.”

  "It's an audition. And it’s with a band on the cusp of making it big. Don’t let this slip through your fingers. Your passion has always been blending classical sounds with modern rock. Go and live your best damn life, woman."

  God damn her for making so much sense. "I'll think about," I concede.

  “Here’s some incentive: I love you, but don't call me again unless it's to tell about how your audition went.”

  I gasp. “Mean.”

  “Someone has to dish out the tough love. You can't tend bar forever.”

  “I reckon I could.”

  She laughs. “Goodbye, Nomes.”

  “Bye, Steph.” Sighing, I disconnect the call, spinning Marcus’s business card around in my fingers thoughtfully. Could I handle playing with him again? Can I even handle playing again?

  Glancing at my violin case, I chew on my lip, nerves building in my stomach as I consider popping the buckle. I lace my fingers together and stretch out my hands, shaking them while rolling my neck from side to side. “Maybe start with something a little easier,” I tell myself, sitting on the bench in front of my old acoustic piano—a replica of the one I used to play with Aramis at school—and closing my eyes. “Just like riding a horse.” I position my fingers and press down on the keys, a slightly off melody filling my tiny apartment and irritating me because where sound is concerned, I’m a perfectionist. I was gifted with the ability to play by ear which means I can tune by ear too. It doesn’t take me long before I’ve got my tool kit out and I’m tuning my old piano until every key has returned to its harmonious self.

  “Let’s try this again,” I say, noticing the tiny quake in my hands as I prepare myself to play Fragile, the first song Matiari played last night. As the cords flow from my fingers and into the piano, I’m filled with the peacefulness that only music can bring. I close my eyes and just listen and feel. It’s been way too long. I don’t know the words, but the melody is in my blood and it’s beautiful. And Marcus is right; it will sound even better with a string accompaniment. “Shit.” I can already feel myself caving.

  Letting my fingers drop on the keys in a nonsense note, I glance over at my violin case. It actually has dust on it. What if I’m not as good as I think I am?

  When I went to the Conservatorium of Music, I had dreams of being the finest violinist Australia had ever seen. But my maestros didn’t have the same kind of confidence in me as my high school music teachers did. They were quick to tear apart my technique, calling me clunky and unrefined. They stole my love and replaced it with anxiety by forcing me to study and replicate, shoving me inside a box that didn’t quite fit. I was relieved the day I walked away. I almost left my violin behind.

  Today I’m glad I didn’t.

  Taking it out of the case, I run my fingers over its body, loving the smooth wood beneath my fingertips. “You can always text and say no,” I whisper, taking a calming breath before I pluck at the strings to check and fix its tuning. “You’re just testing things out. No big deal, Nomes. This doesn’t have to mean anything.” When I finish my pep talk, the tuning is corrected, and I’m ready to go.

  Opening Spotify, I select the same song I played on the piano, hitting repeat before turning it up so it’s all I can hear. With my eyes closed, I straighten up and take a deep breath, positioning my violin on my shoulder, listening with my bow ready.

  Have you ever been reunited with an old lover? The feelings are still there, but you’re nervous to instigate the first touch, afraid that spark you once shared is gone, even more afraid that it’s still there, that you’ll get lost in it again and make the same mistakes over and over.

  That’s how I feel with my violin at the ready. Reunited with my lost love. How will it feel?

  Matiari's song plays through once while I listen and prepare myself to join in, deciding the chorus is where I’m needed most. The song is already beautiful, but I think what I bring to it evokes more emotion and adds power to the lyrics, ‘Why did you sing your song to my heart? When you knew we were fragile; Right from the start.’ I make it better.

  I play it over and over then I record myself, listening to the difference with a critical but relieved ear. It is better. I can still do this.

  Thank god.

  My stomach rumbles loudly, reminding me to take a break. I’ve been at this for hours, so caught up in the music I didn’t notice my neck stiffening and the blisters developing on my fingers. Pressing my thumb against my middle finger, I apply pressure to the fluid-filled bubble. It’s been a long time since I had one of those. I’m going to have to work on my callouses all over again.

  I guess that means I’m joining the band.

  Letting out a complex sigh, I place my violin, lovingly, back in its case. As I stand up and stretch myself out, I glance over at the business card Marcus gave me. It’s almost like making a deal with the devil; have everything you want with a side of chaos thrown in. Because Marcus is chaos. He always has been.

  “Fine,” I tell it, like I’m actually talking to him. “I’ll play in your band. But if you even try to find your way back into my pants, I’m out of there. Band members don’t have sex with other band members. It complicates things.” Nodding my head as if a deal was just struck between me and card-Marcus, I turn away and dust off my hands, heading for the kitchen to get some food before I get myself ready for work tonight.

  I have to say I’m feeling bloody good about this Matiari gig now that I’ve made a decision. I’ve really missed performing, and this opportunity feels like it was dropped in my lap just when I needed it most. And as long as I stay sober, I should manage to keep my clothes on this time….

  Seven

  Marcus

  “What’s going on with you two?” Lachlan asks, while sitting on a stool in our rehearsal space and strumming at his unplugged bass. I can hear the light twang of the strings as his fingers fly over them, and he looks between Theo and me through his dirty-blonde hair waiting for an answer.

  “Nothing,” I reply, focusing on my own setup.

  “Nothing? I don’t think inviting a girl to join the band without consulting anyone is nothing,” Theo growls from his seat behind his drum kit. He taps his foot on the pedal of his hi-hats, letting it drop with a crash as he glares at me.

  “What the fuck, man?” Jack yells. “You invited a girl? Are you insane? Can’t you just fuck her and be done with it? The last chick nearly ruined everything for us.”

  I hold my hands up in front of me, showing them my palms in the hopes they’ll calm down and listen. “Just hear her play, ok? And Jack; it’s Naomi. Remember her?”

  “The violin chick from school?”

  “Yeah.” I nod, noting how his expression changes. I can see the thoughts written all over his face. He can already see how much better our sound will be with her in the band.

  “All right,” he says after a moment, nodding his head. “Let’s give her a run. See how we sound.”

  “Who the fuck is Naomi?” Lachlan asks. He’s our newest recruit. We’ve been through a few bassists over the years. They’re almost as unreliable as drummers and half of them are wannabe leads who couldn’t make the cut so they try to tell me how to do my job. But Lachie seems cool. He’s good at what he does and takes direction well. That’s what I need.

  “Naomi was at The Metro last Saturday. The little blonde girl with Erica and Amy,” I tell him.

  “They were there on Saturday?” he asks, scratching at his messy blond head, probably trying to remember what ended up being a very drunken party for him.

  “Briefly,” Theo says, t
ossing his drumstick up, so it spins before he catches it. “Marcus dripped all over her then dumped her to pickup some big-breasted redhead.”

  Lachie lifts his chin and squints his brown eyes. “I remember the redhead…”

  “Naomi would too,” Theo says, his eyes trained on me. “She took off real quick. I don’t reckon she’ll even show up.”

  “She’ll come,” I say with confidence while I fix a broken string on my guitar. “I know her. She won’t pass up a chance like this.”

  “Tick-tock, mutha-fucka,” Jack says, spinning on his stool with a cigarette dangling between his lips. Rehearsal officially started five minutes ago.

  “She gets fifteen minutes,” Theo says, getting up and lighting a smoke himself. “If she’s not here, I’m locking the door and there are no second chances.”

  “You sound like that English teacher, Mrs McFarlane,” Jack laughs, increasing the pitch of his voice as he mimics her. “If you’re not seated by the bell, you’ll be sent to the office for detention.”

  We’re all laughing when he gets up and continues his bit, demanding to know where our ties are, and why our shirts aren’t tucked in. Then the door opens, and the laughter stops like someone pulled the needle off the record.

  “Looks like I’m in the right place,” Naomi says with a little smile, clutching her violin case in front of her with both hands. She’s looking fine in a tight pair of faded jeans, knee-high boots, a fitted white t-shirt, and a black vest on top with this long silver locket hanging down between her breasts.

  “You made it,” I say, grinning as I drink her in. Suddenly, I’ve got these visions of taking a hold of that locket and pulling her towards me so I can peel off every layer she’s wearing and bury my face in those tits. I’ve become so used to girls wearing clothes that leave nothing to the imagination—hell, half of them don’t even bother with underwear—that the idea of undressing Naomi is causing quite a stir in my nether regions.