I stared at him quizzically.
"Would you rather I lie?" he asked, curious. "Would you prefer to continue taking average photos and never reach your true potential?"
"No," I said firmly. "I don't want that. I want you to tell me the truth, even if it's not what I want to hear."
"You'll always get the truth from me." He handed the camera back. "Next time take more photos of Noah. He's the frontman, not me."
I swallowed down the embarrassment swirling in my chest.
"I was near the back and you were the closest," I lied. I didn't like the glint of amusement I saw in his eyes, less distant now, more focused. "What was wrong with the photos?" I asked hurriedly.
"There's nothing wrong with them. You're a skilled photographer. They just lacked that unique quality I'm looking for."
There it was again. August was looking for something I had no idea how to give.
"Maybe you chose the wrong person," I said.
"I don't think I did."
He said the words with that same easy assurance he used when telling me he was sure I would say yes to the job.
August took the camera from my hands and set it aside on the sofa. "I told you I've been following you."
"You know how creepy that sounds?"
"It's a compliment."
"Because you mean you've been following my work."
"I think you misunderstand what I mean when I say I see something in your art. In your photographs."
"Passion?"
I inhaled a sharp breath as August cupped my cheek with one warm, large palm. His eyes burned into mine, startling clear now.
"Passion doesn't have to be sexual."
My face flushed. "I never said it did," I stammered. Was August aware of all the thoughts and images that had been swirling in my head?
"I'm going to tell you some things. I want you to listen."
I frowned, confused. "Okay," I said hesitantly.
"Your first boyfriend asked you out, not the other way around." He said the words as if they were a matter of fact, not a question. "You only said yes because you had no reason to say no. You never felt anything for him."
My mouth gaped open, stunned and slightly freaked out.
"You're afraid you'll never feel anything for anyone," he continued. "Am I right?"
I pulled away, scooting to the other side of the sofa. I shot him a look of disbelief. "What are you, psychic now?"
"You never told anyone you felt that way. Even though you're afraid you'll never be able to make a real connection with people, you pretend everything is fine. You pretend that's the way you want it."
Drawing my knees to my chest, I snapped at him. "Stop talking."
"But something inside you craves intimacy. You want to experience true passion. And you use your art to channel all the feelings you can't express out loud."
I went silent.
"I see passion inside you," he said. "You just need to let it out." August stared at me, blue eyes alight with an intense heat. "I can help you with that. If you want me to."
My pulse spiked, warmth spreading from my chest down my stomach to my core.
This was desire. A desire I'd been trying to ignore since the first moment I'd laid eyes on this man.
I couldn't ignore it anymore.
"I want—" my voice faltered. I steeled myself. "I want you to teach me. Teach me how to find my passion."
The sound of footsteps climbing up the bus startled me.
August kept his eyes locked on mine as one of the twins climbed onto the bus, saving me from having to respond. My face burned hot, all my nerve endings tingling. I pressed my knees together, heat pooling at the apex of my thighs.
Damon flopped onto the nearest sofa. He stretched his long legs out and draped his arms over the back, feigning a casual pose.
"If I didn't know better, I'd think were we going off to war, the way those losers are acting," he said. "You better go drag them in here or we're never going to leave."
"Give them a few more minutes," August replied. "It's hard for them. This is our first long tour since they got girlfriends."
"I don't know why they all went and did that. Don't they know how many girls are going to be crawling all over us on tour? Whatever," Damon said lazily. "More for me."
"One day you're going to fall for a girl and then you'll know how it feels," the drummer said.
I slid my eyes to August. He leaned back against the sofa, nonchalant, and looking amused at Damon's visible cringe. August pulled a paperback book off the side table and opened it, scanning the pages.
No sign of what he'd just said. It was as if nothing had happened.
And yet there I sat, disorientated, as if the earth had shifted and tilted beneath my feet.
Chapter Six
"I already miss Hope."
Damon's brother Ian flopped on the sofa next to his twin, despondence on his face.
Damon opened his mouth to speak.
"I know," Ian cut him off. "I just said goodbye to her five minutes ago. You don't need to remind me."
"I wasn't going to say anything," Damon faked an innocent expression. "I just don't want to see you moping the entire tour. This is the fun part of our job. You should be pumped."
"I am. I will be. I need time to adjust, that's all."
"You're not the only one going through it."
The bassist, Cameron, ran a hand through his bright red hair, revealing both dark blue eyes for a moment, before his hair fell down to cover half his face again.
"I'm going to miss Lily," he said. "I'm not used to missing anything from home. This sucks."
"You're attached at the hip," Noah, the lead singer, said. "Maybe some time apart will make her come to her senses and dump your sorry ass."
"Never gonna happen," Cameron declared with a cheeky grin. "Our love for each other is pure and true."
Noah snorted. He flicked his gaze to me.
"So you're our photographer? I suppose I'll have to get used to you sticking your camera in my face all hours of the day."
Noah Hart's dark eyes were cautious, guarded. Nothing of the passion and fire I'd seen on stage.
Cameron threw a sofa pillow at Noah's head, smacking him in the face. Noah glared at the bassist.
"Don't be so cranky," Cameron told him. "She's here to make us look good." Cameron turned to me. "We're not used to sharing our tour bus with anyone. Hope we don't scare you off."
"I'm sure you're not that bad."
Cameron grinned. "I think you underestimate us."
"Have you done many concert tours before?" Ian asked.
"No. This is my first real job. I just graduated."
"So what sort of photography do you usually do?"
"Street photography, I guess. Abandoned buildings, graffiti, stuff like that."
"That's cool." Ian's eyes lit up. "You should show us your stuff some time."
A flutter of anxiety hit my gut. Sitting there while someone flipped through my photos always made my stomach churn. They always asked too many questions. What was the meaning behind my photo? What inspired me to shoot this scene or that? It always felt like a game of twenty questions. I never knew why it mattered so much. Why did everyone always want to know what I was thinking?
I much preferred to be the anonymous artist.
The artist and their art cannot be separated, Ashford always said.
We hit a series of bumps in the road, causing my stomach to drop even further. It was the same feeling as going up and down on a roller coaster, only without the fun.
"You feeling okay?" Cameron asked.
"Just a little nauseous."
From both the idea of them asking about my work and from the ride itself.
"Do you get car sick?" he asked.
"Sometimes," I admitted, glad to have another excuse. "Do you guys?"
"No, thank god," Cameron replied. "It would suck to be sick the entire time we were touring. Cassie, is it?"
I
nodded silently.
"August told us a little about you."
I quickly glanced at the drummer, who'd been silent so far. He seemed content to let his bandmates do the talking. Dread filled my chest, wondering what he might have told them.
"He said you were some kind of genius photographer. You've got a special talent or whatever." Cameron smirked. "I suppose you'd have to be a prodigy to get the attention of someone like August Summers. You should be flattered."
Flattered was only one out of a thousand emotions that swirled in my stomach when it came to August.
"Cassie's a fan," Damon drawled with a devilish look in his eyes. "Aren't you?"
"I like your music," I said. "I've never been to one of your concerts before today."
"We fucking rock on stage, right?" Cameron said, no humility whatsoever.
"You guys are pretty good."
"Pretty good?" the bassist groaned. "You're killing me with faint praise."
"I've never been to a rock show before. I have nothing to compare it to."
Cameron sat up straight. "So we popped your concert cherry, huh?"
I flushed. Cameron laughed.
"Speaking of cherries, what do you thinking of our new opening band, Cherry Lips?" Ian asked.
"They're good," August said simply. "Talented."
"Which is August-speak for beyond awesome," Cameron explained to me.
I thought back to what he'd said about my photos of tonight's concert. Maybe good wasn't as bad as he'd made it sound. I wondered what high standards I'd have to meet to be deemed great in August's eyes.
We hit another bump, bigger this time. A small, sickly sound escaped my lips. I put my hand on my belly to quell the queasiness.
"Is the ride always this rough?" I asked.
"Why don't you go lie down for a bit?" August suggested. "You can take the bedroom at the back. No one really uses it."
Nodding, I stood up gingerly. This way maybe I could put off more questions from them. At least for now.
"You said you mostly stay in hotels, right?" I asked. "I don't think I'd like to try sleeping on this bus."
"If it was up to August, we'd stay in hotels every night." Damon laughed. "The music execs all thinks he's high maintenance and demanding."
"Sleeping on a tour bus every night has a negative effect on your health," August said plainly. "We need to stay in top shape to give our fans one hundred percent. They understood once I explained it to them."
"Someday, someone's going to tell you no and you won't be able to handle it," Damon told him. He handed me a small waste basket. "In case you start throwing up. Don't want puke all over the bus."
Flushing, I took it from him. It was thoughtful, in a snarky sort of way.
Making my way to the back, I passed the bunkbeds. The sheets were crisp and smooth.
It seemed August had a lot of sway in the music industry. I wondered how he'd managed that. Maybe being a genius drummer, composer, and music producer all in one afforded him more leeway than most.
Opening a sliding door at the back, I found a small bedroom with a queen bed. Considering the rest of the luxurious bus, I'd half expected to find a king-sized mattress with black silk sheets, decadent and over the top. Instead, the bedspread was a simple light blue cotton.
The bed was soft when I laid down on it. Staring at the ceiling, on my back, with nothing else to occupy my mind, my thoughts drifted back to August's words.
He'd guessed so much about me. It was uncanny. I couldn't have been that transparent. I had no idea how he'd guessed half the things he told me.
August even guessed what happened with my first boyfriend.
Jake was a good guy. Always smiling, upbeat. He didn't mind I sometimes held back, confused or overwhelmed by his attentions. He dived into our relationship, holding nothing back, giving everything. He told me how much he liked me every day.
I tried to feel the same. I wanted to feel the same.
But those feelings never surfaced, no matter how hard I willed them to.
I felt nothing.
The first time we held hands.
The first time we kissed.
The first time we had sex.
The first time he said he loved me.
I felt nothing.
I broke it off. It devastated him. He wanted to know why. To know what he had done.
I didn't know what to tell him. The problem wasn't him. It was me.
For a long time I thought I'd just been too young. Not mature enough.
But it happened with the next guy. And the next. No matter how hard I tried to force it, I never felt a single thing.
I stopped trying.
Then I met August Summers.
When he saw something in my art that no one else ever had…
When words like passion and desire left his lips…
When he pinned me down with those ice blue eyes…
I felt everything.
And it terrified me just as much as it thrilled me.
Chapter Seven
A light knock tapped against the bedroom door. Sitting up, I called out.
"Come in."
August's blond head peeked through the door.
"You feeling any better?"
"A little."
The bus took another rough bump. I let out a small pained groan as my stomach dropped.
"Not really," I corrected.
Coming into the room and closing the door, August handed me a small box.
"This might make you feel better."
The label said it was an anti-nausea medication.
"Thanks. Do you have a bottle of water—"
Before I could finish asking, August offered me a bottle of water with his other hand.
I popped a pill out of the foil packet and downed it with a sip of water.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"For what? It's not your fault I get car sick."
"I mean for before. For what I said."
"For when you metaphorically cracked open my skull and revealed my deepest darkest secrets?"
"Feeling out of place and reserved isn't a dark secret. It's just another part of you." He sat on the side of the bed, turning those unnerving eyes to mine. "Still, I'm sorry for freaking you out. I hate to see you doubt yourself. I want to help you."
Feeling all kinds of awkward and hesitant, I couldn't help but repeat his previous words.
"Help me express my passion?"
"If you let me."
That offer had so many different connotations.
I prodded my finger into a small hole in the hem of my shirt, worrying at the thin material.
"In what way?" I asked, almost afraid of the answer.
The fierce look that flared up in August's eyes sent my heart racing. My cheeks flushed.
"You said—" I stumbled over my words. "You said passion doesn't have to be sexual."
"Not always," he agreed.
I heard his unspoken words. A tingling sensation spiked through my body, into my chest, between my legs, to the tips of my fingers and toes.
Feeling overwhelmed, I pulled my knees to my chest, my upper thighs clenched unconsciously.
August's gaze softened, the heat in his eyes easing.
"I did the same with the guys," he said easily.
My mouth popped open. Was he saying—?
He chuckled at my shocked look.
"Not in the way you're thinking," he said. "The other guys, when I first found them, they all had an abundance of talent. They had that inner fire all great artists have. But that fire was untempered. Directionless. I knew they had amazing potential, if only someone could teach them to harness it. To channel that passion into brilliance."
"And that's what you want to do with me?"
"Yes," he said simply.
"So I'm another one of your projects?"
His lips twisted, looking thoughtful.
"I suppose you could call it that," he conceded. "But I never waste my time o
n those who don't have the potential for greatness."
Potential for greatness. I liked the sound of that. I wanted to be great. And if August could help get me there…
I summoned all my courage.
"What do I do?" I asked firmly.
"Start by developing more self-awareness," he said briskly.
I was taken aback. I'd expected an answer slightly more…
Intimate.
"Take note of what you're feeling, why you're feeling it," he continued. "Use a journal, take notes in an app, whatever. Keep some kind of record."
"That really works?"
"It does."
"Okay," I said doubtfully. "I can do that. What else?"
"Challenge yourself. Go out of your comfort zone. Do things that scare you."
"I'm not going skydiving."
"Why don't you start talking to people about your art and go from there?"
I flushed. I hadn't thought my reticence had been so noticeable.
"This next one is the hardest," he warned. "You need to dig deep."
I frowned, confused. "Dig… deep?"
"Into your past. Into your pain. The things that shaped you, the things that turned you into the person you are today. You can't suppress it. You need to drag it out into the light. You need to wrestle with it, fight against it. You can't ignore it."
I let out a laugh.
"I don't have any inner pain. I'm not damaged. I wasn't abused. I don't have some kind of terrible illness."
"Everyone's damaged somehow. It doesn't have to be huge or world changing. Maybe it was the mean boy who teased you on the playground. The teacher who treated you unfairly. Maybe it was the time a parent disappointed you. You need to harness that hurt. You need to channel it. You need to put it into your art. You need to wrestle with your demons, drag them out into the light, and triumph over them."
"That sounds hard," I admitted.
"Art is hard. Life is hard. But it's worth it."
August's eyes shined with sincerity. He believed in what he was saying.
"Is that what you did?" I asked.
He raised an eyebrow, questioning.
"Do you have demons you wrestle with?" I clarified.
The corners of his mouth turned down, forehead creasing into a frown.
"I don't want to pry," I hastened to say.
Hard Rock Deceit: A Rock Star Romance Page 4