Dangerous Crush: A Rock Star Romance (Dangerous Noise Book 2)

by Crystal Kaswell

  "I don't talk to a lot of people either," she says. "But I do talk to you. I trust you. And I really do value our friendship." She says the word with care and intention, like she's making a point of reminding me she knows we're only friends. "If you ever want to talk about it, I'm here. You can always call."

  I nod. "That's a sweet offer, thanks."

  "I mean it." Her blue eyes bore into mine. "If you ever really need to talk to someone... like if you're ever thinking about using, not that you're not doing well, just that kind of thing happens."

  "It does."

  "Well, promise you'll call me if you really need to talk to someone." She looks back to the road but her voice stays demanding. "Promise you'll call before you do anything stupid."

  Stupid is a broad category, one that might include promising this kind of intimacy with her, but I know what she means.

  Does my well-being mean that much to her?

  "Kit." She looks back to me. "Promise, so I don't have to keep looking at you instead of the road."

  I don't want to promise anything unless I mean it. I turn over the thought for a moment. It's a good idea, having someone to call.

  That person being Piper... not as much.

  But I want it to be her. "I promise."

  She smiles and turns back to the road. Slowly, her attention shifts to her driving. Then to the music.

  When I turn up the music, it only takes one verse for her to drift back to singing.

  My thoughts stay stuck to her words. It's been two months on the road. It's been weird. Used to be, I went out every night with Ethan or Joel. We'd drink until we were ready to drop. Or we'd pick up women and part ways.

  The last two months, I've spent nearly every night at a show or alone, in my hotel room. Occasionally, Miles, the Sinful Serenade lead singer, made some excuse to hang out. Mostly, we'd watch movies, read, and gossip about all the other guys in the band.

  Tours are always weird and isolating, but this was different. It wasn't just my old friends and family I couldn't see. When we were on stage, everything was normal. But after, I didn't feel like a part of the band.

  I'm lost in thought. I barely notice the car turning off.

  Piper pulls the keys from the ignition and sets her hands in her lap.

  She turns to me. "Is my singing really that awful?"

  I chuckle. "No, it's soothing."

  She shakes her head.

  "You're a Mal in training."

  She mimics Mal's breathy style as she sings a line of Better Days. "Oh—" She inhales dramatically— "Baby"— she sighs as she exhales— "I know—" She lets out a low grunt— "You know—" she takes a long inhale. "Better days." She laughs as she exhales. "I don't know how he does it so fast."

  "It's easier to do if you don't think about it."

  She tries again. She lets out a groan. "Oh Baby, I know—" Her voice gets breathy, needy— "you know better days." She takes a slow, deep breath and looks to me. "Better?"

  Too much better. I'm used to Mal's voice enough to tune out thoughts of how he sings like he's in the middle of a vigorous fuck. His style is undeniably sexy.

  But when it's Piper... god damn, I'm getting hard just thinking about it.

  "That bad?" Her voice is light. She's teasing. She looks into my eyes, studying my expression. Her face lights up with realization. She knows it's not bad. She knows why I'm distracted. "Let me try again." She takes another slow breath. This time, she nails the breathy, sexy, I'm in the middle of fucking hard and about to come style. "Oh baby, I know you know better days."

  "Fantastic."

  She beams. "Thank you. I'll keep practicing for my debut."

  "Your debut?"

  "Karaoke. Usually, I do Britney, but this will be a lot more fun." Her eyes go to my building's locked door. "You have any stuff in the back?"

  "It's on the bus."

  "Oh. I guess you'll need to get that sometime."

  "Just clothes." I unbuckle my seatbelt, open the door, and step outside. "I have more."

  She gets outside too. "Oh, well, I can ask Ethan to grab them, hold onto them for a while."

  "I will."

  She shifts her weight between her legs. It's like she's suddenly nervous.

  I only hope she isn't working up the nerve to invite herself up.

  I don't have it in me to say no.

  Not tonight.

  Fuck, there are two things I want right now, and both of them are off limits.

  I might want her more than I want to be high.

  And might be worse news.

  I can check myself into rehab again. I can convince Mal, Ethan, and Joel I'm serious about recovery.

  But if I fuck Piper...

  There's no way I convince Ethan or Mal I'm anything but the piece of shit who used their sweet, innocent baby sister.

  She moves around her car until she's next to me. "I'll see you soon. To buy you that coffee."

  "You can keep your money."

  She shakes her head. "A deal's a deal." She moves closer. Slings her arms around my neck and looks up into my eyes. "I'll see you around."

  "You too." My palm presses against her lower back. Then I'm pulling her into a hug and wrapping my arms around her.

  It feels good, holding Piper.

  Better than it should.

  Fuck, she smells good too.

  Every part of me, one in particular, wants to carry her to my apartment. I step away before my cock can take over.

  Her eyes stay glued on mine. "Goodnight."

  I take another step backwards. "Goodnight, Piper."

  She waits until I'm inside to get back into her car. I wait until she pulls away to get into the elevator.

  Fuck, this is bad news.

  I like her.

  Not as a friend.

  Not as my bandmate's baby sister.

  Not even as a casual fuck.

  It's more than that.

  My body is stuck on the casual fuck part. She has those sweet lips. The pretty blue eyes. The soft tits.

  She's never been with anyone before.

  Fuck.

  I try washing away everything—the post tour exhaustion, how weird and different everything is, all my thoughts of tasting and teasing Piper—in the shower.

  The water pounds my back and neck enough to relax most of my muscles.

  Not so much my cock.

  The warm embrace of the shower is the closest thing I get to being high now. I don't miss the drugs, not exactly. But I do miss that safe, comfortable feeling of a good opiate high.

  Like I'm exactly where I belong.

  Like I fit in the world.

  Like everything is gonna be okay.

  There are only two things that compare— getting on stage and fucking a beautiful woman.

  I could get out of this shower and text any number of booty calls to come over. Don't have to get dressed or say please or reciprocate.

  But that doesn't fucking appeal.

  Piper's sweet smile and her warm body against mine—that fucking appeals.

  Her big blue eyes filled with pleasure—

  Her lips parting with a groan—

  Her hair in my hands as I come inside her—

  Fuck.

  I haven't been this hard in a long, long time.

  I haven't wanted sex that was more than a physical release in a long, long time.

  I wrap my hand around my cock and I stop trying to push away how badly I want her. My head fills with thoughts of Piper's soft body under mine.

  Of her blue eyes filled with pleasure.

  Of her teeth sinking into her lips.

  Fuck, I come so fast it's embarrassing.

  By the time I'm dried off, I'm on edge. Doesn't help that I've only got a towel wrapped around my waist. It would be easy to get her back here, to get her in my bed, to get her coming on my face.

  I don't usually wear pajamas when I'm alone, but I do wear them nights we stay on the bus. Otherwise, I don't hear the end of
it.

  Those things are still on the damn bus.

  Shit, must have a pair of boxers around here somewhere. I dig through my drawer for twenty minutes. No boxers. But there is something in my bottom drawer, hidden in the pocket of my old leather jacket.

  A prescription bottle.

  My prescription bottle.

  My Oxy.

  And it's half full.

  I stare at the thing until my eyes are numb.

  It was comfortable, easy, like a warm hug. Not like the physical release of sex but like the kind of sex I only see in the movies— the satisfaction of knowing somebody loves you.—

  I leave it on the dresser and move into the practice room. It's bare except for a few pieces of equipment and the DIY soundproofing foam glued to the wall.

  I press my back into the foam, feeling it mold around me.

  If I take those pills, that's it. I'll take the rest tomorrow. I'll find more when I'm out.

  There's two weeks before we're back on tour. That's two weeks to feel nothing but that warm, comfortable high...

  Things are good now. I can't fuck that up. Even if it means feeling every ugly thing that comes into my brain.

  Need to keep my hands busy somehow. I go to the bathroom and get back into my clothes. Now, to play.

  I'm back in my practice room when my pants start buzzing. That's my phone.

  Piper: I may have sung along with that CD all the way home.

  For a second, I feel it, that sense that I belong somewhere. That somebody gives a fuck about me. And it's real. There's always this tinge of hollowness to a high.

  But this, this is fucking real.

  I need to get rid of these now. I might change my mind when I forget this feeling.

  My hands are shaky as I grab the pills off my dresser and walk to the bathroom. I can barely get the cap off. It's so fucking close.

  I could wash away everything that hurts...

  But that will fucking ruin everything.

  I turn the bottle over and watch the pills fall into the toilet. Watch them get sucked down the drain as I flush them.

  I toss the bottle in the trash.

  I expect to feel remorse, but I don't.

  If anything, I'm relieved. The high isn't what I want. It's fake. It's hollow.

  This thing with Piper is bad news.

  But it's real.

  And it's full.

  And I'm fucked, because I really fucking like her.

  Chapter 8

  Piper

  Nervous energy fills my stomach the closer I get to the theater. By the time I'm there, I'm shaking. It's just community theater. And I really don't have time for this play.

  But I'm a woman of my word. I lost that bet to Kit. I'm auditioning for A Streetcar Named Desire.

  The theater is nestled behind a set of bushes. It's in the middle of a small commercial district and its sandwiched by a bar and a restaurant. It looks more like a restaurant, really like a cute Italian restaurant in a fairytale cottage, than anything else.

  But the handwritten sign on the door reads Auditions Inside.

  I hug my purse to my chest and I make my way into the building. It's a small space, the lobby, and it's filled with women older than I am, with better makeup and wardrobe than I have, with a hell of a lot more poise than I have.

  These are open auditions. Which means it might be a while. I put my name on the list—I'm spot 20 and they're currently on five—and take a seat in one of the blue plastic chairs. There must be twenty people here, a mix of men and women, young and old.

  I play with my phone, cursing its utter lack of texts from Kit. It's not like I'm waiting for a reply.

  I shouldn't get caught up in wanting to hear from him.

  I should focus on practicing my monologue.

  Instead, I unlock my phone and shoot him a text.

  Piper: I'm at the audition, waiting. I'll probably be waiting another hour. I'm really nervous.

  Kit: You're cute nervous.

  Piper: Yeah?

  Kit: Yeah.

  I should let it go.

  Kit is important to me. And he's a good friend. But I want a lot more than friendship with him. I want to know that when he says you're cute nervous he means and I've been thinking about how fucking hot it will be when you're nervous over stripping for me.

  Deep breath.

  Piper: Cute how?

  Kit: You get red. You ramble. You have a sweet, innocence about you.

  Piper: Corruptible?

  Kit: You could see it that way.

  Piper: How do you see it?

  Kit: You should get ready for your audition.

  Piper: I am. I'm relaxing before my turn.

  Kit: Bullshit.

  Piper: It's true.

  Kit: Then tell me about that show you're watching.

  Piper: Which one? I'm watching a dozen.

  Kit: Pick one and tell me about it.

  He's changing the subject. I have no idea what that means, but I want to talk to him. I'll go with it.

  I get so caught up in talking about nothing with Kit that I barely notice the director calling my name.

  "Piper Strong," he repeats himself.

  I bounce to my feet. "That's me. Hi."

  He shoots me a you're clearly too young for this look. I step forward and shake his hand anyway. After the usual introductions, he leads me to the main room and points me to the stage.

  "What are you reading, sweetheart?" He takes a seat next to an older woman with glasses and a sharp haircut.

  "It's from Chicago." I climb on stage, set my back by the sidelines and get in place. The lights are bright. This feels familiar but in an old kind of way.

  The guy nods. "When you're ready."

  I channel my semester and a half worth of drama classes. And my high school drama classes. And all the monologue practice I've been doing in my free time.

  I turn to prepare then I turn back to the audience, in character. For the first line, I'm nervous. Then I slip into character and I feel everything. That's what I love about acting— it's instincts. You learn your lines and you rehearse but acting isn't a dance routine. It isn't choreographed. It's more like letting the music flow you and dancing your heart out. You inhibit the character. You exist in the scene.

  When I'm finished, I nod thank you. The director is giving me feedback. I only absorb enough to know I'm done. I nod another thank you, grab my purse, and make my way back to my car.

  There's a text waiting for me from Kit.

  Kit: How was it?

  Amazing.

  And the only thing I want more than that is to tell him all about it.

  Maybe I can do this.

  Maybe I can go after acting.

  And maybe I can go after Kit too.

  Studying for midterms consumes my life. I barely notice my rejection email. I'm too busy to care I didn't get the part. I'm a mess of notebooks and flashcards all weekend. Then Monday. Tuesday. Wednesday.

  Thursday afternoon, I stroll out of my last test exhausted but triumphant.

  I'm done with tests for another eleven days. Or maybe twelve. Fuck math. It's spring break.

  I wait outside the humanities building for Rory. We're in the same lit class. We took it so we could hang out, but the professor is too strict for us to manage any actual conversations.

  She stretches her arms over her head as she steps out of the building. She nods hello to me and pulls her dark hair into a ponytail. Rory is pretty in a natural way. She dresses casually and shuns makeup. Guys have always flocked to her. She batted them away until Carter.

  It makes no sense. He's a dull stoner. Cute, funny, smart guys asked her out all the time. I'd get it if she wanted to satisfy some bad boy craving—God, do I understand a desire for a guy with tattoos and interesting piercings—but Carter isn't really bad. Just stoned.

  "How'd you do?" she asks.

  Ugh. The only midterm that went well was drama. I killed it with my scene from Othello—my
scene partner and I did a gender swapped version, where I played Iago and she played Othello and I got to play evil and manipulative.

  I still haven't figured out how I can possibly study acting and make sure I have enough practical skills to pay my bills on my own, but I'm starting to believe it's possible.

  "Pipes?" she asks.

  Shit. I'm daydreaming again. Maybe Rory can commiserate on the pain of midterms. "I hate tests."

  "They're not so bad. Now the speech I had to give in my debate class." She shakes her head. "I was awful. I don't know how you ever get on stage. It's horrifying enough when I have notecards." She pulls her cell from her backpack and taps a reply. "Carter wants to meet at In N Out."

  "He's coming?"

  "You don't mind, do you?" Her eyes stay on her cell phone.

  I've got two options here: say of course not and deal with Rory and Carter making out all afternoon. Or say of course I mind, we're friends and get into another fight over how she's been stuck in boyfriend-land the last few months.

  There is a third option. "I'm tired. I'm going to head home and take a nap." I wipe my frown off my face. Rory is still staring at her phone.

  Does she even care that I'm here?

  "Good idea." She taps something else into her phone. "Get some rest before the party."

  "Party?"

  "Yeah, at his place, tonight. I told you, didn't I?"

  No. I'd remember.

  "Piper?" Her eyes stay glued to her phone. "You're coming, right?"

  "Where is it?"

  "His place in Long Beach. Let me text you the address." She taps her phone screen. "Starts at eight but most people will be rolling in around nine or ten. It will be fun. Drinks. Weed. Cute guys."

  Before Carter, she'd never say weed like it was a necessary part of a fun evening.

  I try to shake it off. I hate feeling like the uptight one.

  I'm not an idiot. I can see that she's ignoring me. That I mean nothing to her compared to her boyfriend. I'd understand if Carter was somehow cute, interesting, smart, something. But he's not. He doesn't have a job. He doesn't go to school.

  He doesn't do anything but drink and smoke weed.

  But she's my oldest friend...

  Finally, she looks up from her phone. "You'll be there, right?"

  "Maybe."

  "Please, Pipes. We never hang out anymore."