by S. L. Scott
“I love the house. It’s beautiful.” Our free night in LA is turning out better than expected. Per his wife’s request, an invitation text from Johnny to have dinner at their house showed up around lunchtime.
This gave me just enough time to squeeze some shopping in and get a manicure, which I needed desperately. Playing a guitar is rough on my nails.
Seeing the state that Laird and Shane are in makes me glad I left the bar last night after a few celebratory drinks. They’re going to burn out fast if they party like that every night. I’m glad I don’t feel icky today. I want to remember everything about this tour.
I lean against the kitchen counter and watch Holli taste each dish to make sure they’re up to her standards.
“Thank you,” she replies. “But I can’t take much credit. My husband bought it before we were together. If it were up to me, I’d be in Malibu on the beach.”
“I have a feeling your touch has made this house a home.”
She hands me a glass of wine. “You’re very kind, Nikki, and right. I came into this bachelor pad and made it fit for a family. I brightened it up and let the light shine in.”
From what I heard, she did the same for Johnny Outlaw when they met. It’s funny how I used to dream of meeting him, admiring not just how gorgeous he was, but his music as well. The Resistance was a big influence on my brother, cousin, and me wanting to form a band and try our hands at making music.
I just never dreamed back then it was possible. My brother bought us guitars, and we learned to play while a poster of The Resistance hung over my bed.
Taking her glass of wine, she looks back at the caterers. “It’s delicious. Thank you.” When she turns to me, she adds, “I hope you don’t feel like you have to be in here with me because you’re a woman.”
“No, I’m in here because you are.”
“I actually love to cook, but a meal for nine at the last minute is a stretch when I’m working so much.” She sips from her glass. “I saw you in a Bite Me Lime shirt online. I loved what you did with it.”
Holliday Hughes holds her own against the fame of her husband. Starting a company from nothing, she’s built not just a brand but an empire that she still runs between being a mom and dealing with Johnny’s success.
She’s a role model for me. I took her famous design and cut off the sleeves and everything below my breasts. I wore the cut-up T-shirt with a polka dot mini skirt and my Converse on stage for our debut at Coachella. “I hoped you wouldn’t mind.”
“Mind? No way. Fashion is about self-expression. Also, sales picked up around that time.” She nods toward the back terrace. As we walk to join the guys, she says, “You’ve got great style. Edgy and youthful.”
“Thank you. That means a lot coming from you. I’ve always admired your easygoing fashion sense. I used to emulate you.”
Her hair is a few shades darker than mine, her eyes more hazel than brown, but she exudes the cool California vibe and created a style movie stars pay big money for. Yet it comes so naturally for her. With her beauty and sense of self, her confidence and her humor, it’s easy to see how she snagged one of the biggest stars in the world. “That makes me sound so old, but I’ll take the compliment.”
She said nine for dinner, but I don’t think about which nine when we walk out to the terrace. The guests are already sitting. I’d love to say I notice the color of the beautiful blooms centered down the middle, but I don’t. Holli takes the seat at the head of the table, Johnny Outlaw happily at her side.
The only other available chair is the one across from my brother, right next to Tulsa Crow. With everyone’s attention falling on me, I move quickly to the other side and take the seat next to him.
Holli asks, “Have you two met?”
“Not officially,” I reply, tightening my hold on my glass as nerves rattle around my stomach.
Johnny leans in. “How have you guys not met yet?”
Tulsa chuckles. “Ships in the night, I guess.”
“I’m happy to do the honors.” Holli’s smile grows as she looks between us. “Nikki, this is Tulsa Crow. Tulsa, this is the lovely Nikki Faris.”
“Lovely indeed,” he says, looking at me. “Hello.”
Five empty bottles of wine clutter the table, along with plates and serving dishes. As we get tipsier, we get louder. Smaller conversations started happening shortly after our meal was served. Typical talk about groupies has begun between Shane, Laird, Rivers, and Tulsa. I’m not naïve. I know hookups happen on a regular basis. I see it as well as hear the lame lines groupies use on them and the ones they use on the girls.
Sometimes, I think they forget I’m not a guy even though I’m one of the guys when we’re together. I don’t need special treatment, but I really don’t need to hear about their sexcapades.
Tulsa’s blue eyes have been on my hands, my lap, my chest, my face, all of me. His hands brushed against mine during the first course, then he adjusted his napkin, trailing his fingers against my jeans-clad leg during the second course. He claimed it was accidental, but when it happens during the third course, I look over at him.
Tulsa opens his mouth to say something but then seems to think better of it.
I hear Laird talking at his end of the table, saying, “The fascination of a beach rock band fronted by a beauty queen got us gigs early on, but our music gained us entry into the industry.”
It usually doesn’t bother me when he tells the story. It’s the truth. Among this group, though, I start feeling self-conscious. Will they lose respect for me because of my pageant days?
People are always interested to hear more about my pageant days, but I’m not that keen to discuss the topic. Everyone has preconceived notions on pageants long before they meet me. These days, I’m not in the mood to defend myself or my decisions, then Laird says, “Nikki was Miss San Diego County.”
Excitedly, Holli asks, “Did you ride on a float? I’ve always wondered what it would be like to ride on one.”
“I did.” She seems genuine, so I add, “Five that year. It’s fun, and people are sweet when they see you.”
Jet starts talking about a prom queen he once dated when he was sixteen while Tulsa, keeping his voice low between us, says, “I always did have a thing for beauty queens.”
And there it is. I’m disappointed he’s taken such an easy and unoriginal opportunity to hit on me. My eyes roll before he says another word. “Let me guess. You’ve slept with a beauty queen.”
“Some say I’m the reason Miss Texas was dethroned, but it was more of a deflowering, if you know what I mean.” And then I’m “gifted” with what I call the Tulsa Special—the smirk I want to smack off his face.
Thank God no one else is listening to us. “You’re a pig,” I say with the snarkiness he brings out in me.
Then something changes—his demeanor and tone.
Disappointment darkens his eyes. “Because I like sex with women who like sex doesn’t make me a pig, but your comment makes you judgmental.”
My mouth falls open in shock, the smack of his words digging deep within me instead of bouncing off like most guys’ comebacks do. “I’m not offended by sex. I’m offended by how you boast about your conquests.”
“I don’t have conquests, sweetheart. Women surrender at first sight. So who’s using whom?”
Everything about that statement should offend me. This man deserves nothing but a cold shoulder from me, yet here I am, slowly turning to get a better look, to really see him. I really hate my traitorous body right now.
Tulsa’s attractive. I’ll even give him very attractive, but that doesn’t mean I should waste a second of my day on him.
His brows knit together as he focuses on his plate and cutting his chicken. Double-glancing my way, he asks, “What?”
“Nothing.” I shake my head to snap myself out of this Tulsa daze I’ve found myself in and resume eating.
His fight is gone.
I’ve gone too far, crossing his imaginary b
oundary of annoyance like he did mine. Either way, I’m perfectly okay with this silence between us while we finish our meal.
If only I didn’t keep looking at his plate like I’m checking to see how much time we have left. Why do I glance from his lap to mine, making sure our napkins are safely in place? Why do I not like the tension building beside me when I supposedly don’t care at all?
Ugh.
5
Nikki
Men.
They’re beyond frustrating. I’ve been stewing beside Tulsa for twenty minutes. Debating whether I’m right or wrong. Was I rude?
The bottom line is he’s right about sex and women. If it’s consensual and both people walk away satisfied, why should I care who or how many women he’s slept with? Damn it. I hate to admit it, but I need to be the one who smooths things over. “I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings.”
He doesn’t owe me an explanation or anything else. He can live his life how he wants, just as I can live mine how I choose. We have more than a month left on this tour, and then we can go about our own musical careers, never having these types of conversations again.
“Don’t worry about me.” By the detached tone of his voice, I can tell he’s built a wall between us. “You didn’t hurt my feelings.”
I am worried about him, though. I hate feeling uneasy with someone. That’s the people pleaser side of me. It doesn’t make me wrong for wanting things right, but if I give him an inch, will he take a mile? My sigh kind of says it all. I set my napkin on top of the plate and push my chair back. “If you’ll excuse me . . .”
I make my way through the large living room, down a corridor, and find the bathroom. I shut the door and lean against it. I might have thought he was attractive, but then he opened his mouth and became every other guy who’s ever hit on me. I’ve worked too hard to fall for another man who thinks he can save me. There are a few things I need from men, but saving isn’t one of them.
Did he think it was charming to talk about sex with beauty queens? Jet talked about dating, not getting laid. That’s the difference. Ugh. Men. Doesn’t matter what Tulsa Crow says to me, I have no intention of being the next notch on his bedpost. I doubt he even has a bedpost, considering all the notches carved into it. It’s probably a whittled down stick at this stage in his sex games.
It’s best not to mix business and pleasure anyway.
Three light knocks on the door startle me. “I’ll be out in a minute.”
I freshen up and open the door only to find that smug smirk situated on Tulsa’s face. He’s leaning against the wall, facing me with his tan, muscular arms crossed over that broad chest. From the way his shoulders fan out, I’d guess he was a swimmer once, but drumming does that too.
The hall is dark except for the light from the bathroom shining on the two of us. He stands up and comes closer, and for some strange reason, I decide now is a good time to stand my ground and remain where I am. Or maybe it’s his eyes and the way I feel them searching my soul for answers that keep me there. I don’t even know. “Do you mind?” he asks, his voice much quieter when it’s just the two of us.
“Mind?”
“The bathroom, Nikki. May I use the bathroom?”
Figures that the wine I’ve had decides to go to my head about now. “Go ahead.”
When he tilts his head, curiosity replaces his smile. “You okay there?”
“Fine. I’m totally fine.”
“You’re welcome to watch if that’s what you’re into, but I really need to take a piss.”
As if all my better senses return at once, I step out of the way. “Ew.”
Chuckling, he walks around and goes inside the bathroom. With the door almost closed, he looks at me again and says, “You know, if you dropped that good girl act you’re so determined to put on and just be yourself, you might find I’m not as bad as you think I am.”
“Two things, Crow. One. I’m not putting on an act. I’m who I am whether it’s in front of you or behind your back. Two. My thoughts on you formed when you opened your mouth. And just for good measure, I’ve added a third. I’m not like the women who fall at your feet or a groupie, so don’t treat me like one.”
He taps me on the nose. “Boop.”
My hands fly to the top of my head in frustration. “Don’t boop me, Tulsa.”
“I like booping you.” If I’m not mistaken his eyebrows waggle, and then he says, “You’re so hot for me the sexual tension is palpable. You’ve got a wild side buried beneath that uptight image you’re projecting. But like any good wizard knows, it’s not what’s in front of the curtain. It’s what’s hidden behind it.”
“Hot for you?” I scoff, but even he can tell it’s fake. I don’t even bother adding to this ridiculous discussion. I do not find his quips or his innuendoes cute. He’s annoying, and his good looks and badass drumming can’t save him in my eyes.
He will never get in my bloomers, so there’s no point in even talking about this anymore. I start back for the terrace, but stop dead in my tracks when he says, “Never say never, sweetheart.”
I whip around to see his eyes on my ass, sliding up to meet the ire on my face. “Never.”
His chuckle echoes in the hallway when I turn to leave and then cuts off completely when he shuts the door.
Returning to the table, I reach for my glass, down the rest of my wine, and then grip the back of the chair. “It’s getting late, and I need to reorganize my suitcases. I’m thinking I’ll catch a cab back to the hotel.”
Laird stands, and Shane follows. “We can go with you,” Laird says.
Holli stands as well. “I’ll order a car for you.”
Johnny sits with one hand wrapped around a beer bottle and the other strumming along the top of his thigh. The way he watches his wife walk inside makes my stomach do that fluttery thing. They’re a couple who doesn’t have to say how they feel. It oozes from them. Their love, their admiration for each other, the respect they have for one another—it’s all seen in the way they catch each other’s eyes and in the gentlest of touches.
I think I drank too much.
When Tulsa returns, it feels like everyone can see through us, perceiving the tension he mentioned. It may not be sexual on my part, but it’s thick and encompassing. I look at Shane. “Is it humid tonight or what?”
He shrugs. “Feels fine to me.”
Fuck.
Tulsa returns to my side . . . I mean to his chair next to me. “Maybe we can all ride back together?”
Jet stands. “I’ll see if we can get an SUV.”
Holli returns. “Already done.”
Rivers walks toward the house with Laird and Dave, who says, “I noticed that riff on the second chorus of . . .” talking about notes and fingers on the fretboard. Shane goes in at the same time as Johnny and Jet, who are discussing touring with kids, leaving Tulsa and me alone. To avoid another confrontation with him, I decide it’s best to keep my mouth shut while I gather plates to take inside.
Stopping to look up, I see Tulsa is clearing the plates on the other side of the table. He says, “Don’t be so surprised. My mom taught me how to clean up after myself.”
I like that he talks about his mom. It makes him much more relatable. “My mom taught me how to hire people to clean up after me.”
I didn’t mean for that to sound so solemn, but when sadness fills his eyes, I feel like I’ve said too much, given away too much about my life. Most people don’t understand that money doesn’t make you happy. He says, “I’m sorry.”
“No reason to be sorry.” I shrug. “We’re fortunate to have the means not to worry about that stuff.”
“Fortunate,” he repeats, rolling the idea I’m trying to peddle around in his head.
Feeling defensive, I try to let it go and turn the conversation back to him and his mom. “Did your mom cook a lot?”
A smile returns to his face; I prefer that to any other on him. “Every night. How about yours?”
“Sometimes. We
ate out a lot too.”
“Ah.”
“From a young age, we took over cleaning the dishes.” He chuckles. His laughter causes my lingering irritation to temper. “I remember Jet would scrape off the food. Rivers would load the dishwasher, and I was in charge of putting the soap in the dishwasher. One time, I put dish soap in by accident. After the kitchen flooded with suds, my mom let us play in it on the condition we’d clean the mess.” He sighs, and his smile disappears. “She was the best.” His smile returns. “I was taken off soap duty after that and put on table clearing.”
“Your mom sounds like a very wise woman.”
“She was.”
Was.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know she’d passed away.”
“It was a shock to all of us. A car accident.”
“I’m sorry,” I repeat, not sure what to say. “I must sound terrible.”
“We’re all dealt a different hand.” He picks up a mountain of plates and walks inside.
I take my stack and the silverware I’ve set on top and go inside, delivering them to the kitchen. Holli smiles. “Thank you, both. You didn’t have to do that.”
Tulsa says, “It was a great meal. Thank you for having us over.”
“I enjoyed tonight. Maybe next time I’ll be more prepared and cook for you.”
“I love a home-cooked meal.” Rubbing his stomach, his shirt slides up. He has an incredible body. Some guys just have it. No wonder he’s so cocky.
With Holli setting the dishes in the sink, my eyes find Tulsa’s, and he silently mouths, “Busted.”
Holli turns back around and asks, “Do you cook?”
“I grill and do some basic cooking, but nothing with more than two ingredients.”
Their attention turns to me, but my face feels hot from being caught staring at him, and I blurt, “I know how to cook an omelet.”
Holli and Tulsa are looking at me like I’ve suddenly stripped down naked in the middle of Times Square. She laughs. “I bet it’s a great omelet.”
Tulsa’s smile isn’t the cocky one I’m used to. It’s softer around the edges, kinder in nature. “I love omelets.”