"Come on, Beef, hand one over."
"Grimm wants a count for everything. I can't just hand it over."
"But I'm with the band," I said.
"You get 10 percent off," he said.
I turned out my pocked. "Beef, look, I don't have any cash."
"Can't sell you a t-shirt then," he said, his face set to stubborn.
"Seriously? Jeeze, Beef, I'm good for it. You know where I live!" I joked.
"Actually, I don't know where you live," he said. "Do you live in the fancy house with Vince?"
"The tour bus, Beef. I live on the tour bus right now."
Dion's laugh filled up near-empty room. "Beef, give her a t-shirt."
"I don't know, Dion," he said. "Grimm said—"
"Fuck that greedy bastard," Dion said. "I'll have him take the ten bucks out of our tour account."
"Ten bucks?" I asked. "You said 10 percent off."
"Beef," Dion scolded. "Are you trying to pocket a few bucks? We get them for cost."
"Will you sign for it at least?" Beef asked, looking sheepish. "Please."
"Sign for it?" Dion started to grumble.
"Grimm will chew out his ass, not ours," I pointed out.
He dug into his pocket and pulled out a twenty. "Fuck Grimm. I'm not signing for shit. Here, keep the change."
Beef handed me a shirt.
"You got a gold or silver Sharpie somewhere?" I asked.
"Yeah, why?" Beef said.
I handed the shirt to Dion. "I need Dion to sign it."
Dion belly-laughed. "You're getting a t-shirt for your boyfriend and he wants me to sign it? Isn't that rich?"
"Come on, Dion, just sign the damn thing," I said, taking the Sharpie from Beef. Beef went back to packing up the merch. "It doesn't matter to you, really. Right?" He looked at the pen I held out. "Come on, I dumped beer on the guy. It's the least I can do."
"So I have to pony up an autograph because you're a klutz?"
"Forgot it," I said. "I'll forge it or something."
"Hey, Miranda, can we get two beers here?" he called to the bartender, a woman around my mom's age. "I know you're closing up but we're thirsty." He flashed her a smile that could charm the habit off a nun.
"Only because you guys played a rocking set," she said, pouring two drafts into a plastic cup. "One of the best I've seen since your dad played here back in the day. Love your new drummer."
"Thanks," I said as she slid both beers across the bar to us. "I appreciate the support."
She winked. "On the house."
She went back to cleaning up, and I held the pen out to Dion. "Come on, please?"
"I like it when you beg," he said. "Do it again. But this time, push your tits out. I like that top."
I crossed my arms my chest, feeling my face flush. "Presley's idea."
"She finally had a good one."
I barreled on. "I know I look ridiculous but I didn't have any clean shirts—"
He stepped towards me and ran his hand down my arm. "Why would you say you look ridiculous?"
I shivered. I wasn't going to fall for this again. Not this time. "It's too, you know, Presley for me."
"What does 'too Presley' mean, exactly?" he asked. He had run out of arm, so he held my hand loosely in his.
"You know. Presley," I mumbled, watching his thumb caress my fingers. "She's just like sex on legs. That's not me."
"No, that's not you," he agreed. "But you don't have to be sex on legs to wear that shirt and look hot in it."
I felt my resolve weaken. "Are you talking hypotheticals?"
"Nope," he whispered into my ear, his mouth lingering for a moment. "I'm not the only guy with that opinion."
I swallowed and changed the subject. "So you gonna sign the shirt or what?"
"On one condition," he said.
I stepped closer to him and closed my eyes, I couldn't help it. Post show, he smelled determinedly masculine, a heady mix of soap and sweat. I wanted to breathe him in, just for a moment. "What's that?"
"Bus is kind of crowded."
"Yes, it is," I murmured, absorbing the heat from his body.
He moved my hand to his crotch and rubbed it on his stiff cock. "Come to Randy's place with me."
He brushed his arm lightly over my breasts, and my nipples hardened instantly. "Who's Randy?" I asked, breathless.
"Randy's the girl wearing nothing but a thong in the other room."
I snatched my hand away from him. "You cannot be serious."
"And two of those girls on the couch are her roommates," he continued, swallowing some beer. "Come on, Nik. Four on one. How hot is that?"
I stepped back from him. "Not hot at all."
"I'm sure the girls won't mind if you bring your fanboy," he said. "They may even appreciate it."
"Dion," I started, but hated the quiet desperation that creeped into my voice. "Just sign the damn shirt and I'll leave you alone."
"Not signing unless you come to Randy's," he said. "Come on, those girls get wild."
I snatched the shirt up off the bar. "I have zero interest in an orgy with you and the skank sisters."
"Have fun with your boyfriend," Dion sneered.
"You know, Dion, unlike you, I don't need a million people to get me off. It just takes one who knows what they're doing."
Dion's jaw dropped. He started to say something, but I turned on my heel and walked out of the bar.
CHAPTER TWELVE
I tossed and turned on the hard mattress the bus bunk. Every time Devlin hit a bump—and there sure were a lot of them—my hipbone slammed into the mattress hard enough that I could feel the hard support bench below me. Rafe was snoring in a bunk above me.
I flipped onto my back and heaved out a sigh.
"Shhhh. Trying to sleep here," Dion stage whispered from the bunk beside me.
"Like you'd be sleeping at Randy's house," I whispered back.
He snaked his body out of his bunk and poked his head into mine through the thin curtain. "You didn't go home with your freaky boy toy? Was he mad that I didn't sign his t-shirt? And what the hell are you wearing?"
I pulled the blanket up to my neck. "Pajamas."
"You're wearing the Rogue Nation t-shirt," he said.
"So what?"
He tugged on the sheet. "You didn't give it to your boyfriend?"
I held it tight with both hands. "You didn't sign it."
"Come on, let's see how it looks," he said, giving another tug.
"Go to sleep, Dion," I hissed.
"I want to see how you fill it out," he insisted.
He pulled again, hard. This time, I released the blanket. With momentum behind him, he tumbled out of the bunk and landed on the floor with a thud.
"What the hell is your problem?" he yelled.
"What the hell is yours?" I challenged back.
"What hell is both of your problems?" Presley moaned from her bunk. "It's four in the damn morning."
Rafe poked his head out of his bunk. "Are you two fighting again?"
"Dion fell out of the bunk," I said. "And blamed me."
Dion glared at me from the floor. He opened his mouth to argue but was cut off by a loud pop and then the bus took a sudden swerve to the right.
"Hang on," Devlin yelled from the driver's seat as the bus went into a skid. Presley shrieked and I watched as Jett's hand reached down and held onto the bottom of her bunk. My own reaction time was too slow. I was tossed out of my bunk and landed on top of Dion. He wrapped his arms around me as the bus spun out 180 degrees and skid sideways down the highway, a high pitch scream coming from the tires burning on the asphalt.
The bus finally came to a stop. Devlin's labored breathing from the driver’s seat punctured through the sudden silence.
"Holy shit," he repeated. "Holy shit."
"Devlin, are you okay?" Dion called out, his arms still wrapped around me. The t-shirt rode up around my waist, exposing my decidedly unsexy underwear—a pair of baby blue cotton b
riefs.
Presley stumbled out of her bunk and tripped over Dion and me, not even paying attention our position. She rushed to the front of the bus. "God, Devlin, what happened?"
"Tire blew," he said from the driver's seat.
"Jett? Rafe? You guys alright?" I called, unable —okay, maybe unwilling—to move from my position in Dion's arms.
"I'm okay," Jett said. She still clutched the bunk.
"Yup, I'm good," said Rafe. He popped his head out of his chamber and saw Jett white-knuckling the wood slat. He reached for her hand and pried it off.
I extracted myself from Dion.
"So I finally get to see the t-shirt," he said, sitting up on his elbows.
I stood and stretched the t-shirt down to cover my butt. "Yes, you do."
"It's a good look for you," he mused.
I ignored him and focused on Devlin, who finally climbed out of the driver's seat. "Devlin, what's up?"
"Gotta call a tow," he said, grabbing his cell phone and getting off the bus.
"Great," muttered Presley, who stomped back to her bunk. "This is why I said we should fly."
"Travis Barker," muttered Dion.
"What about him?" I asked.
"Travis, of course," Presley said. "See, he survived a plane crash. Not all musicians are doomed."
"But it still crashed," Jett pointed out.
"And DJ AM killed himself because of survivor’s guilt," Rafe added.
"I thought that was drugs," Presley said.
"Why do you think he was doing so many?" I snapped. "Get off the flying thing. Not. Gonna. Happen."
"We'll see about that," she said, pulling out her phone.
"What are you doing?" I asked.
"Calling Vince," she said.
Dion reached over and snatched the phone out of her hands. "You are not calling Vince."
Presley lunged for the phone. "Hey, give that back."
Dion pulled away from her and scrolled through her phone. He frowned. "You and Vince sure have a lot to talk about."
Presley shrugged. "Not really."
"There has to be at least 30 calls between you," he said. "What the hell are you talking about with him?"
"Nothing," she said, snatching her phone out of his hands.
"Thirty phone calls isn't nothing," he said.
"Drop it, Dion," I said, watching the color drain out of Presley's face.
"I will not drop it," he said. "And you shouldn't want me to."
"Oh no, I want you to," I said.
"What if she's negotiating a Satan's Sister deal behind your back?" he challenged.
"I would never—" Presley said around rapid intakes of breath. "Nik, Jett, I would never ever negotiate anything without you."
Jett jumped out of her bunk. "You better not be. I don't want a lifetime supply of mascara in exchange for my publishing rights."
Presley's eyes went wide. "Jett! I would never—"
"Thirty calls to Vince? I'd sure as hell like to know why," she said. "Nik is probably curious too."
Presley's lower lip trembled. "Nik?"
I sighed. "It is a lot of calls, Presley. I think I called Vince like once, and that was for that PR witch to send us directions to the radio station for the interview."
"I just...this tour is just," she stuttered. "It's hard on me."
"You're not a goddamn Disney princess, you know that right?" Dion exploded. "You think you deserve a hotel room? A private yet? Without us, you'd be driving yourselves in a shitty van."
"Or not touring at all," Rafe added.
"I hate to agree with the fools," Jett said, "But, Presley, you need to check your privilege."
"I promise, I am not doing anything behind your backs," she insisted.
Dion, Rafe and Jett just stared her down.
"Pres, just tell us what's going on," I tried. "Be honest with us."
She shook her head. "Vince is helping me with some stuff that's all."
Jett narrowed her eyes. "What stuff?"
"It's personal," she whispered.
Jett threw up her hands. "Great," she said before she stalked off the bus.
"This is some bullshit," Rafe spat. "Clearly the apple does not fall far from the tree."
"And what does that mean?" I bristled.
"Exactly what Rafe said," Dion explained. "Your mom's a gold digger. In it for herself."
"Yes, my mother's a gold digger," I agreed. "But that's not Presley. Or Jett. Or me."
"I don't see it in you or Jett," Rafe said. "But her?" He jerked his head towards Presley.
"Screw you," she shrieked. "I did nothing wrong." She turned on her heel and fled the stifling quarters of the bus.
I rounded on the boys. "Presley may be a lot of things, but she's nothing like our mother."
"You don't think she'd fuck to get ahead?" Dion asked. "Would you?"
I slapped him. I didn't even think about it. My hand just whipped out and slammed straight across his cheek. He stood there, stunned.
"Damn, bro, you're on your own with that one," Rafe said, following Presley out to the street.
Hands on hips, I prepared myself for Dion's response.
"I'm sorry," he said. "That was out of line."
I blinked at him. "What?"
He raked his fingers through his hair. "I'm sorry. I don't know why I said that."
"Oh," was all I could think of to say. I was ready for a fight, not an apology.
"So what now?" he asked.
I took a deep breath. "You should apologize to Presley, too. You were shitty to both of us."
"But I don't want to be shitty with you," he said.
I snickered. "Dion, you've been shitty to me for years. It's like your default or something."
"I know," he said. "And I don't want to be like that. Not with you. Anymore."
I crossed my arms and looked at him from the corner of my eye. "How do I know you're not full of shit?"
"You don't," he said.
"I don't know, Dion," I said, biting my lip. "I mean, the band, and the tour, and our parents—"
"We made mistakes," he said.
"Mistakes?"
"Both of us," he said. "But me especially."
I stared at him, his overgrown curls danced around his strong jaw. I made out his muscular chest in the low light of the bus, cuts that I'd memorized from years by the backyard pool spent gazing at him from behind my sunglasses. My more recent sense memory recalled the feel of his hard body on top of my own. I dug my fingernails into my arms, tamping down the desire that flooded over me.
"I don't want it to be like that anymore either," I whispered.
I closed my eyes when he touched my cheek, and licked my lips in anticipation of his touching mine. But those lips never came.
"Let's be friends, Nik. Okay?" he said.
I snapped opened my eyes and swallowed my disappointment. "Friends?"
"Friends," he said with a smile. "Maybe with benefits once in a while."
I turned his words over in my mind. "Friends with benefits?"
"Come on, Nik," he said. "We're grown-ups here."
"Are you sure about that?" I snapped. "Because it looks like I'm the only grownup left on the bus."
"Chill out—" he started.
"I am not a booty call, Dion," I said, barreling right over him.
"I didn't think things were so serious," he said.
"We're not serious," I responded.
"So then what's the problem with a booty call?" he asked. "Not interested?"
"No," I gasped. "Wait, what are you talking about?"
"You and me, friends with benefits," he said. "But if you and that guy are serious, it's cool."
"What guy?"
"The guy that's been coming to the gigs," Dion said.
"Brian?"
"Is that his name?" Dion asked with a shrug. "It didn't seem like you were that into him, so I figured we could still booty call it. My bad."
My body stiffened. "You did?"
"Not gonna lie," Dion said, dropping his voice. "I like the way we fuck."
I blinked at him. "You like the way we fuck?"
He advanced towards me and slipped his arms around me, cupping my ass. One hand wandered further down between my legs, caressing my slit through my panties.
"Wow, you're are wet for me already," he whispered into my ear. He wasn't lying. My panties were damp the minute his arms wrapped around me.
I pushed him off of me, angry at myself for allowing myself to feel something for him. Angry at my body for betraying me. Angry at him for being an insufferable, irresistible ass.
"I don't want to be a booty call, Dion," I said, my voice low.
"It's what I do, Nik," he said.
"I know," I said. I turned and walked away, leaving him alone on the bus.
I stood at the bottom of the stairs and looked out.
Presley was shadowed in the pale light of day break. She was on her phone, crying, most likely to Vince. Jett and Rafe stood several feet away from her, glaring, both united in their anger towards her. Devlin stood by the front tire and surveyed the scene around him.
"I don't know fuck all about what's going on," he said in his nicotine coated voice. "But if you guys don't work your shit out, this tour will be your last. For both the Sisters and the Nation."
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Vince waved at me from behind the glass of the recording studio. I took in the ridiculous image of Vince Davis, American Rock God. His gray-tipped hair poked out in wild tufts, which he pulled at with one hand while making wild gestures with the other. His mouth was moving, but I couldn't hear a thing.
I blew out a breath and popped the plugs out of my ears. "What'd you say?"
"I said," he started, letting his annoyance bleed through his voice. "This is supposed to be a ballad. You are beating the shit out of those drums. Ease up."
Rafe leaned against the sound-proofing that lined the walls. "Honestly, Nik, this was your beat. What the hell are you doing?"
I shrugged. "I'm tired, that's all."
"Dad," Rafe yelled towards the glass. "Can we get Nikki a Red Bull or something?"
"Nobody gets shit until this track is laid," Vince barked back.
Dion sat beside him in the booth, leaning back in a desk chair, hands behind his head. His vocals were already laid. "Come on," he groaned. "Grimm wanted this yesterday."
The Forbidden Beat (A Stepbrother Romance) Page 10