"You think that's funny?" Presley teased Jett. "You're next!"
Jett jumped out of her chair but I tackled her, holding her still while Presley slobbered all over her.
We collapsed onto the antique rug in hysterics. When we finally stopped laughing, we lay on the floor, arms intertwined.
"We haven't been on tour in a long, long, time," Jett said. "It may be fun."
"We've never been on tour," I said.
"I mean when mom used to drag us around," she said. "Not us as a band."
Presley groaned. "You guys remember touring with Mom, right? That was not fun. At all."
"It'll be different this time," I promised. "Mom was a groupie hauling around three kids. Now we are the opening act. We'll get treated better."
"Hope so," Presley said. "You were too little to deal with that shit, but I remember ducking lecherous old roadies. Being 16, most of them thought I was the groupie, not mom."
"Devlin wasn't like that, was he?" I asked, recalling my favorite roadie.
"Devlin was the bomb," Jett agreed. "He used to buy me books. Loads and loads of them."
"You mean he stole you books," I corrected her. "He stole them out of the libraries in each town we went through."
"Still, it was more than anyone else did for me," she said.
"Devlin was a prince," Presley said. "But I remember more assholes than Devlin’s on the road."
"Yeah this time it'll be different," I promised.
"I think so, too," she said. "I mean, wow. Our first tour. That's pretty cool."
Jett groaned. "Guys, what if we become famous?"
Presley punched her in the arm. "You say that like it's a bad thing!"
"How will I ever go back to school?" Jett whined.
"Famous people go to college all the time," I said. "Look at that actress who played Hermione in the Harry Potter movies. She went to an Ivy League university too."
"We're only young once," Presley said. "You can go to college when you don't have the stamina to play anymore!"
"And think of how great this will be for your writing," I said, egged on by Presley's enthusiasm. "You'll get so much material by traveling around, seeing the world."
"More poems means more songs," Presley agreed.
"Fine fine fine," Jett said, feigning enthusiasm. "I'm excited about it, really."
Presley rolled her eyes. "You'll come around, you'll see."
"But let's just make a deal to stay far away from our stepbrothers. They are trouble with a capital T," Jett warned.
"Agreed. We don't need no stinking boys anyway," I laughed.
"Speak for yourselves," Presley sighed. "It's been so long for me, I think I'm falling in love with my vibrator."
And with that, we collapsed into giggles.
CHAPTER FOUR
Nirvana's classic album In Utero was cranked up on the sound system. I surveyed my closet, trying to decide what to bring with me. T-shirts seemed like a tour staple. I tossed a few of them into the open suitcase on my bed.
Loud knocking interrupted my work flow. I tightened my short silk robe around me and pulled off the turban that wrapped my wet hair and raced to the door. Carne Asada fries from Taco Love were just on the other side and I was starving. I peeked through the peephole, ready to see my favorite delivery guy. Instead, an emerald green eye stared back at me. I knew that eye.
"Who is this?" I asked through gritted teeth.
"Your brother," Dion's voice answered back.
"What the hell do you want?" I called through the door.
"I want to talk to you," he responded.
"You lost my phone number?"
"Come on, Nik," he said with another thump on the door. "Let's not do this so your whole building can hear, please."
I rested my hand on the door knob. He was right. My neighbors didn't need to know our family drama, and there was a good chance they would sell it to the highest bidder anyway. Rogue Nation was always turning up on TMZ and all those other gossip web sites. It's partly why their debut album was doing brisk sales.
I opened the door an inch. Dion shoved himself in the rest of the way.
I backed into the wall behind the door. "Really, make yourself at home."
He kicked the door closed and turned on me. "You are a first rate little bitch."
I stepped towards him, hands balled into fists. "Whoa, you can't come in my home—"
He thrust both arms out on either side of my head and slammed his hands against the wall, pinning me into a corner.
"You don't talk right now," he said, leaning into me. "I don't know how the hell you blackmailed Satan's Sister onto the bill, unless... Are you fucking Grimm?"
I shoved at his chest, trying to push him off. "Are you insane? How can you even say that?"
"It wouldn't be the first time a Benson woman spread her legs to get ahead, now would it?" he growled.
My back stiffened at the reference to my mother. "Your father didn't have to marry the woman. That decision was on him."
"My father was high on pussy," he growled. I felt his body tense through the thin silk of my robe and my knees went a little weak. “That’s a hard thing for a man to resist."
"At least my daddy didn't buy my way into a record contract," I hissed, hoping what I felt was anger burning through my body.
"Because your daddy's standing in a methadone line in the backwoods of Maine," he said.
"At least he's functioning," I snapped back at him. "Not to mention alive."
Dion, stunned, finally backed off. We both needed breathing room, and bringing up addict family members were low blows on both our parts.
I crossed my arms. "We both have junkie history to throw up in each other's faces. So what the hell did you come here for, Dion?"
"I don't know," he said. "I just thought...."
He stood in the middle of my living room and raked his hands through his supple curls.
"You thought you could bully me off the tour?" My tone was calmer than I anticipated.
"No," he raised his head and met my eyes. "Yes. Maybe?"
"You need at drummer, I know the songs," I said with a shrug.
"Why did you insist on Satan's Sisters touring too?"
"You think I want to be on that tour bus with you and Rafe by myself?" I asked. "You boys made it quite clear how you felt about all of us for the past seven years. I'm not up for a several-months-long hurl abuse at the little stepsister tour."
"I think we've grown up by now," he said.
"Have you really, now? Your dad married my mom because he was high on pussy? How adult is that?"
"Well, let's not count tonight," he said, a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, giving his face a rakish charm. "You got a beer or something?"
Before I could respond, Dion made a beeline to my kitchen and opened the stainless steel SubZero fridge.
"Guess you don't eat," he quipped as he surveyed the contents. "But you do have an open bottle of something French here so let's drink that. Celebrate the tour."
He pulled out a bottle of Sauvignon blanc. With two wine glasses in hand, he settled onto the couch and poured the wine, singing softly to Heart Shape Box. I closed my eyes and listened, caught up in the vocals. He was gifted with an extraordinary voice, just like Vince.
"You know Dad was supposed open for Nirvana back in the day," he said. "Then Cobain OD'd."
"Yeah, I remember my mom telling me about it," I said. "She was a huge Courtney Love fan."
"Of course she was," Dion snorted. "Courtney Love, the ultimate groupie."
I bristled. "Courtney may be a hot mess but Live Through This was an exquisite album. And before you even say it, the only way Cobain had a hand in that one was from the afterlife."
"I'm not going to fight with you on Kurt vs. Courtney," he sighed. "For the sake of this tour, we need a truce."
"A truce," I repeated. I sat at the opposite end of my couch, keeping some distance between us. My short robe rode up my thigh, and
it did not go unnoticed by Dion.
"Do you do that on purpose?" he asked, handing me my glass.
I pulled at the edges of the robe. "Do what?"
He sipped at his wine and stared at my legs. "Tease me."
"God, Dion, of course not," I said. "You are the one that showed up unexpected at 10 o'clock at night."
"Right," he said. "So about the tour..."
"I'm listening."
He glanced around the room. "So this is your place? It's nice. Small."
"Venice Beach is expensive so small is all I could afford," I said. "What do you want?"
He ignored my question. "Dad's allowance not big enough?"
"Allowance?" I snorted. "What am I, ten? I'm paying for this. There's no allowance."
"Really?" he asked, looking at me over the rim of his wine glass. "I just assumed."
"Well, I make my own way gigging," I bristled, gulping down some wine. "What do you want, Dion?"
"God this is such a distraction," he said, staring at the outline of my nipple as it grazed against the silk robe. "Do you always wear that robe when you're home?"
"My robe?" I asked, my face heating up. I took another swallow of wine.
"It's distracting." He raised his eyebrows and looked down at his crotch. "If you think I'm lying, you can check for yourself."
"Dion," I said. "If you want to talk about what happened between us the other day—"
"Nope, we need to talk about this tour."
"Okay," I said, little red flags waving in my head. "So talk."
"We need to set some ground rules."
"Ground rules," I repeated, downing the rest of the wine from my glass.
"You can keep a beat, I'll give you that," Dion started. "But I don't think we'll be giving you any drum solos just yet. That said, you've grown up to be a fine piece of ass. And I think some of our fans could appreciate that."
I opened my mouth to protest but he leaned over and poured out half a glass of wine.
"Like if you wanted to wear that robe behind the kit, that'd be cool. Or one of those smoking hot bra tops with a pair of short shorts. That sort of thing." I scowled, snatched the wine bottle from him and filled my glass while he continued. "Show some skin. You got the body. Fuck knows you've definitely got the tits." I crossed my arms in front of my breasts and glared at him. "The point is, let’s make the male fans want to fuck you and the female fans want to be you. Then maybe I'll forgive you for blackmailing Satan's Sisters onto my tour."
I jumped up, fuming. "You think I can't play because I have boobs?"
In my haste getting off the low couch, the bottom half of my robe flew open, and Dion got a full accounting of my freshly groomed mound.
"That. And a very lickable cunt," he said, licking his lips.
I pulled the edges of my robe closed while a familiar ache settled into my lower region. Dion, now on his feet, stalked toward me. He backed me against the breakfast bar. He pressed his body against mine, his rigid cock straining in his jeans.
"What the fuck are you doing to me?" he asked, his breath labored.
"I'm not doing anything," I whispered, as he pressed his length against my leg.
"Then why is it that every time I am in a room with you, I want to fuck you?" he asked. He ran his tongue along my neck, sending shockwaves of pleasure straight down to my toes.
My body fought to respond to his. I grit my teeth to keep that from happening. "Dion—"
He untied my robe. "Tell me you don't feel it, too?"
His hand reached into my open robe and caressed me from my hip to the curve of my waist.
"Dion," I said again this time with a sigh. My resolve weakened with each stroke of his hand as it moved further up my rib cage.
"You feel it too, I know you do," he whispered. His warm breath in tickled my ear, and my self-control disappeared. I gave into him.
I shrugged out of my robe and it landed on the floor in a heap. I guided his left hand to my breast, where his fingers teased my nipple into a rigid peak. Then he gripped my ass and lifted me onto the counter. The cold marble countertop was a pleasant shock against my hot slit, and I gave a small moan.
That wasn't lost on Dion. He leaned on me, his hardness pressing into me further, and stretched over to the fridge where he pressed the ice dispenser. Cubes spilled from his hand and shattered on the floor, but he brought the handful that he caught to the counter.
One cube in hand, he drew a wet line from my clavicle to my breast, circling it before gliding the ice over my nipple, which hardened instantly. I drew in a shaky breath as his hot mouth then wrapped around its rigid tip and his tongue flicked back and forth. He repeated this on my other nipple, back and forth, until my ass squirmed against the marble, my inner thighs wet with need.
He placed the ice in his mouth and pushed my legs apart. His cool fingers brushed along my labia, teasing it into a bloom. His head dipped down and his ice cold tongue pressed on my clit. I wrapped my fingers around his curls holding his head as his tongue heated against my nub. A finger separated my outer lips he worked brushed it in and out, the slow, shallow movement made me ache for more. My breath ragged when he curled a second finger into me, plunging deeper into me. His mouth worked faster against my clitoris, edging me closer to climax. I bared down on his fingers as he nipped at my hooded nub with his front teeth. Just as a wave of pleasure began to wash over me, he pulled away, leaving me naked on the counter, a puddle of my juices under my ass.
"I don't get why you play when you make a perfectly fuckable groupie," he said. "I almost see why my dad married your whore mother. Almost."
He turned his back and tears stung at my eyes. I scrambled off the counter and snatched up my robe, pulling it tightly around me.
"So you still want to tour with me?" he asked, gulping down the rest of his wine.
"I'm on this tour, Dion," I said, biting back tears of anger. "Hell, I am saving your ass by going on this tour. Don't you forget that."
"I'll make your life hell every day we are on the road," he promised. "Every. Fucking. Day."
He turned and stormed towards the exit. I threw my wine glass at his head, just missing as he slammed the door. The glass shattered against the wood instead.
I fled to my bedroom, pushed the suitcase so it tumbled onto the floor and flopped on my bed. I shoved my face into my pillow and screamed out my frustration. Then I reached into the drawer on my night table and pulled out my vibrator. I settled it between my legs and ramped up the speed, climaxing as angry sex with Dion fueled my fantasies.
CHAPTER FIVE
"You've got to be shitting me," Presley shrieked from inside the luxury tour bus.
"That cool?" I called back to her, unable to temper my excitement.
She poked her head out. "I'm not sleeping in there. Hell no."
"What's wrong with it?" I asked, trying to angle my way past her as she took cautious steps down the stairs because of her stiletto heels.
"It's a bus," she hissed.
Once I got onto the bus, I surveyed it. The bus was tricked out with plush carpeting, leather bound club chairs and Mahogany wood accents. It was nicer than my Venice Beach apartment.
"Pres," I said, stepping out again. "That bus is amazing."
She sniffed. "Didn't you see the beds?"
"What about them?" I asked.
"They are bunks," she replied. "B. U. N. K. S. What are we, Girl Scouts? Is this camp?"
"All tour buses have bunks," Jett chimed in. She was sitting on one of her suitcases, her nose in a book.
"That's a tour," I said. "Fleetwood Mac has the same set up."
"Fleetwood Mac flies," she said. "First class. There's none of this bus-and-truck shit."
"Bands should never fly," Jett replied, flipping a page. "Bad juju."
"That's superstitious bullshit," Presley said, kicking at pavement.
"Randy Rhodes, Otis Redding," Jett began to list the musical artists who died in plane crashes.
"Pa
tsy Klein," I added. "Aaliyah."
"Both of you are ridiculous," Presley argued "It's safer to fly than drive."
"Well, I like it," I said, ignoring her negativity. "It's old school."
"Where's Vince," she whined. "He'll get what I mean."
"Anthem didn't fly either, remember?"
"How can I forget?" she said with a shudder. "The sounds of him and mom in those stupid bunks. I was the one below them, you know."
Jett peeled her eyes away from the book to roll them. "So your issue with the bus is PTSD. Clearly."
"I don't have ESP," Presley huffed.
"PTSD," I said, biting my lip to keep from laughing at her. "Post-traumatic stress disorder."
More like post traumatic sex disorder," Jett corrected me, and we both burst into giggles.
"Oh that? Yeah, that I have," Presley said. Even she smirked a little. "Listening to mom and Vince? You'd have it too!"
"I don't think Vince is going to okay any airplanes," I said. "The label is shelling out for this tour, so I doubt flying is in the budget."
"This sucks already," she groaned.
" Better than playing second fiddle to Stevie Nicks," I offered.
"Third fiddle," Jett reminded us. "Christine McVie is touring with them this year."
I nodded. "See? Third fiddle."
"I guess," she grumbled just as the gates to the parking lot of Grimm Records opened. A convoy of black SUVs roared through. Four pulled up to the bus and one went to the far end of the lot where roadies were loading up a semi-truck with our gear.
Dion's long legs came out of the back of one SUV, his dad out of another, and Rafe from of the third.
"Don't they all live in the same house?" I muttered. Jett snorted.
"Oh fabulous," Presley said. "Look who came with them."
Vince held out his arm and my mom's legs swung out of his SUV. She clutched his hand and tumbled out, unsteady on her high heels and pencil thin mini skirt. Cleavage spilled out of her one-size-too-small top.
"She is way too old to be wearing that," Presley hissed.
The Forbidden Beat (A Stepbrother Romance) Page 3