Lead Him Not Into Temptation (Redemption Book 2)

by Steinbrunn, M. L.

  “Fuck yeah!” Royce excitedly shouts, breaking the silence and allowing all of us permission to celebrate. We stand, hugging and high fiving each other. There are several moments of celebration, before Jen clears her throat and draws our attention back to the table.

  “Congratulations and everything. But, um, why in the hell am I here?” she asks Campbell.

  Campbell’s excitement fades and her serious tone takes effect once more. Cool and collected Cam looks nervous. “You see…the thing is…the label really liked the photos you took.” She cringes before continuing with the explanation. Jen begins to catch the drift of what her proposed role is and her brows pull together. “They liked them so much they want the same photographer who took them to follow the band’s shows and take all of the pictures for the exposé.”

  Jen vigorously shakes her head. “Not happening. I’m not some band aide from Almost Famous. I’m a professional photographer who did you a favor; believe me, my generosity has been stretched to the max in regards to this band.” Her eyes slide to mine as she enunciates the last bit of her sentence. I take the hint. It’s not that she’s done with the band, she’s doesn’t want to have to deal with me.

  Fuck that. I can’t let this opportunity slip through our fingers just because neither of us knows how to handle our attraction for each other. While I turn into a bumbling idiot who is one glue lick away from being required to use safety scissors and wear a teddy bear harness backpack, she wants to scare me away as a way to avoid it altogether. I refuse to let her intimidate me. I plan to chisel away at her frozen exterior, one ice chip at a time.

  “Jen, can I speak to you alone for a minute?” I ask her. Somehow, I have to convince her we both can be professional and put whatever it is between us on the back burner or extinguish it entirely. She looks at me like I’ve grown two heads. She rolls her whisky brown eyes before sliding out of the booth to stand next to me. The guys move out of our way and she ushers me to lead her away from everyone.

  The place is beginning to fill up, so finding a quiet space to talk is nearly impossible. I lead her toward the parking lot, where I at least know we won’t be interrupted. I look back at the guys to signal to them I’ll get everything smoothed out. Royce once again proves himself the king of the dickheads as he dry humps the air. John notices and pushes him back into the booth.

  “Oh yeah, how tempting. I can’t wait to join the ranks,” she sneers after witnessing the immature Royce-ism. Yes, we’ve actually named the stupid shit he does; Royce-ism is all we could come up with to cover all of his moments which embarrass the hell out of us.

  I don’t answer her. Instead, I lightly place my hand on the small of her back and push her toward the exit. The thin, soft fabric of her cotton dress snags on my callused hand, but I refuse to move away from her. I want to savor this small, physical moment, as it might be the only one I ever get.

  When we hit cool air and the open space of the outside, she moves away from me to gain some distance. She veers in the direction of her car, but I grab her hand and pull her toward my truck. She looks at me somewhat conflicted, but continues to follow me.

  My truck is parked in the back half of the lot; it’s my baby and I don’t trust the parking skills of the rest of society to not scratch it. I always take extra precautions when it comes to Nelly. Nelly is a black 1956 Ford truck I found at a junkyard, rusted out and missing most of her parts. It took several years and a lot of money, but she is now completely restored.

  “Holy shit!” she gasps. “How does a starving musician afford a truck like this?” she asks when we arrive at Nelly.

  “I get that a lot,” I smirk. “I said I was a musician, but I never said I was starving,” I tell her as she walks around the truck, admiring each polished and waxed piece until she meets me at the driver’s side door.

  “Oh, I get it. You’re a spoiled rich kid who has chosen to follow his artistic talents instead of the family business,” she huffs. The comment couldn’t be further from the truth, and it rubs me the wrong way considering her own upbringing.

  I lean up against the side of the truck, careful not to scratch the pristine paint job. “Actually no,” I explain. “I was raised by my grandmother on food stamps in a single-wide trailer. I invested what little money I was making once I left home and I did well for myself. I play guitar because I love it. Don’t take this the wrong way, but isn’t that kind of the pot calling the kettle?”

  Her back stiffens and I raise my hands up in surrender. “I don’t mean to piss you off, Jen. It just seems pretty shitty to knock me for possibly having money growing up, when I know you did.”

  “Yes, I had money, Casen,” she admits, placing her hands on her hips. “However, while you earned your fortune probably with the support of your family, when I graduated college I walked away from mine. What I have, I earned on my own.”

  “You know, we really aren’t too different from one another. If you weren’t so busy protecting the saddle on that high horse of yours, you would see that.”

  “High horse? High horse? I’ve only been reacting to your self-absorbed, arrogant comments which you’ve continuously whirled at me since we met. If anyone has been sabotaging any kind of working relationship, it’s you,” she spits back.

  If I think about our few encounters, half of the time it was me who egged her on and acted in a manner, which resembled pulling a girl’s pigtails on the playground.

  “I think we are both at fault, yet I also think there is no reason you can’t take the job. We’re grown-ups, and it’s not like you are going to follow us around like some stalker fan. You’ll show up to gigs, take some pictures, and go home…just like any other photo shoot.”

  She begins to mull over her options and, no doubt, her thoughts about me. She then starts moving closer to me, jabbing her finger toward me with each step. “I’m not hanging out with your groupies; I will not photograph any of them. And if you guys, i.e. Royce, can’t keep it decent around me I swear on your shriveled dick I’ll quit.”

  Her tirade leaves her only centimeters from me, and I feel her toned body rub against mine with every breath she takes. Her coconut lotion smells so good, I want nothing more than to live in her scent. Towering over her tiny frame, I struggle with my desire to pick her up and spread her out across the hood of Nelly. As much as I want to, I realize it will only complicate our working relationship. Until the tour is over, it’s essential to remain friendly yet contained. Before I commit to my new hands-off policy, I need to send her a similar message. When I see her eyes bounce from my eyes to my lips, I know I have the green light to send my message.

  I quickly pull her hips toward me and spin her up against the driver’s side door. She is taken completely by surprise, but I crash my lips onto hers before she can say or do anything to stop me. Her lips are soft and when I demand more from her she obliges. I grip onto the back of her dress, bunching the fabric in my strong grasp to hold her in place, putting everything I have into this kiss, hoping it will be the first of more to come after the tour.

  When I feel her begin to lose to control and melt into me, I quickly pull away. “I don’t know why you would think I wouldn’t want more of that, but for now you can pretend you don’t want me either,” I whisper in her ear. I lightly kiss her neck just behind her ear, spin her around, and climb into my truck. I reverse, leaving her there dumbfounded, standing wobbly-legged in the parking lot. I can’t help but grin at achieving the task of flustering Jen to the point of both confusion and excitement. I only hope her anticipation wins out in the end.

  Casen

  “I think I’m going to throw up,” Seiger announces as he rushes through the dressing room to get to the staging area.

  John is oblivious with his headphones on. He’s been drumming on every hard surface he can find for the past hour. He needs to get ahold of his nerves before we’re forced to use a back-up drummer. He won’t be able to perform with us because he’ll be too busy dislodging the drumstick I’m going
to shove up his ass.

  Royce strolls into the room while passing Seiger in the doorway, offering a look of confusion. “I don’t know what his problem is,” he says to me once he’s in the dressing room and seated on the table with what little food and drinks have been offered by the venue. It’s usually not much, just a package of bottled water, a few pieces of fruit, and a box of whatever cookies were on sale at the local grocery store bakery. Tonight is no different, but to Royce, this is a feast. Whatever is leftover at the end of the night will be packed in his backpack and taken home to fill his cupboards until the next gig…yeah he’s that guy. You should see him at hotels. It’s embarrassing, the man takes everything but the remote and towels.

  “Whether we play well or not, by the way, we always play well, I’m still going to be banging the best lookin’ piece of ass here,” Royce says between bites of apple. “I don’t see why the guys are so uptight tonight; they know I always share the ladies.”

  I roll my eyes. “How considerate of you, but I don’t think they’re worried about pulling in the chicks tonight. They want to do well for the tour.” My clipped tone reflects my own growing nerves. Tonight’s show really is no different than any other we’ve done over the last two years, but it doesn’t make me any less nervous. I know we’ll probably perform well and the crowd will love our sound. What has me on edge is the presence of someone in particular this evening. Tonight is Jen’s first night with us on tour, and I’m all twisted up over it.

  “You on edge too, man?” Royce asks. “It wouldn’t be because of a certain little spitfire who will be joining us tonight, is it?”

  “She’s a pain in my ass. The only thing I care about in regards to her is she stays out of my way so I can do my job and she does the job she’s being paid to do,” I lie. He has absolutely pegged what I’m all worked up about. A tiny blonde with a sassy mouth and witty comebacks which keep me on my toes is who has me in knots. I would never admit it to him, though.

  “Glad to hear that, Thompson. I think with a little extra effort and charm, I can get her to use her camera with me in a not so professional way, if you get my meaning.”

  I know for a fact Jen would rather live a life of celibacy before she would ever consider sleeping with Royce. If they were the last two people on Earth, she would allow the human race to go extinct. Nonetheless, a spark of jealousy rises up at the thought of the two of them together. My possessiveness for someone who I’m not even with is why I’m not going to give him the heads up about her disdain for him. It will be much more fun watching the humiliating rejection headed his way.

  “I don’t think it’s a good idea for any of us to get involved with her. It needs to stay a working relationship, at least until the tour is over,” I lecture, knowing full well he’s not going to follow any bit of the advice I offer.

  “Yum, wouldn’t mind a taste of that kind of work,” he responds, using air quotes for the word work.

  “You’re such a douche,” I say, picking up an orange off the table and chucking it at him. “How you have even found one woman to sleep with you is beyond me.”

  He snags the orange, but briefly fumbles it in his hands before maintaining control of the fruit and tucking it into his side and jumping off the table to model the Heisman stance. “It really is a gift,” he says with a crooked smile, pointing to his member. “Women struggle to resist this tuna tornado.”

  I notice Jen in the doorway taking photos of the spectacle, which is Royce. I find humor in the whole situation, but Jen looks offended. Royce has yet to realize he’s being photographed, and has now moved onto humping and spanking the air as though he’s king ding-o-ling.

  “Well, hello there, Royce,” Jen coos. Royce’s eyes bolt open and he stills his gyrating. Jen waltzes in, the natural sway of her slender hips causing her baby blue flowing dress to move back and forth, hitting several inches above her knees. It’s not the dress I notice though; it’s the jeweled cowgirl boots which click against the wooden floor. I know she’s the farthest thing from country and her boots are merely for fashion, but good God, do they look sexy on her. So much for me being able to possibly play it cool with her tonight.

  She walks past Royce and throws him a present. “I figured you might be in need of some kind of reproductive assistance while I’m with you guys.”

  He rips open the gift and immediately his brows pull together as he holds up the gift for me to see. “Lady Sally Inflatable Love Doll,” I blurt out, reading the packaging.

  “Yup, the triple hole version,” she adds. “Whenever you feel the need to hit on me, I will kindly direct your attention to old faithful Sally, because these lady parts,” she says while circling her vagina, “want nothing to do with your tornado.”

  I burst out laughing which only pisses Royce off more. He throws his leftover apple core at me and begins to walk out of the dressing room. He stops at the door and returns to the table, picking up the inflatable Sally. “Thank you for the gift, Jen. I needed a new floaty for the hotel swimming pool,” he quips and walks out the door toward the stage.

  “Do you have any idea what you’ve done? He really will use that at the Holiday Inn. He’s probably already making plans to make me take him to the store to get a swimsuit so he can bring her along to Water World.” I shake my head, picturing the bikini he’ll pick out and the stares we’ll get when he reserves a lawn chair for her. I’m going to have to start my sabotage immediately.

  “He needs to know where I stand with him. Sorry if Sally interrupts the groupie prowl.” She snaps a quick picture of me pissed about the groupie comment and takes off out of the room. “See ya out there, rock star. Good luck tonight.”

  Yes, the groupie assumption struck me the wrong way. People always assume since we’re in a band, all of us are willing to fuck anyone who shows an interest in the band. That stereotype might fit the notorious Royce, but I resent the assumption. I don’t sleep around, I don’t use my music to pick up women, and it’s disappointing Jen would think so little of me that she would lump me in with Royce.

  I do my best to clear my head before grabbing my guitar and make my way to find the others so we can make our group entrance onto the stage. I need to get out there, feel normal again, and use the music to regroup my emotions. Jen has, once again, made a cluster fuck of my psyche.

  Sweat is dripping off of me as I walk off stage. The heat of the house lights was almost unbearable during the show, but the crowd was so energizing, I could have stood on the scorching stage all night. Thankfully, Jen was stealthy during the concert, which enabled me to focus on my playing and not her. Now that we’re finished for the night, the up-close and personal shots have resumed. I quickly find the nearest, cleanest towel to dry the sweat off and head toward the dressing room to load my guitar in its case. The rest of the guys lag behind, but Jen hurries to catch up to me.

  “So what do you guys do now?” she asks, taking a picture of me wiping my face of the leftover beads of sweat.

  “I’m sure you have your own ideas of how the rest of our night plays out; you want to tag along?” I challenge. Other than Royce, our evenings are extremely tame unless Jen considers a few beers, videos games, movie marathons, and camping trips out of hand. Provoking her is a little more fun than telling her the truth, at least for a while.

  I open the door to the dressing room, now sans-food, and leaning against the back wall is the perfect person to assist me in my Jen provocation. Stacy has been an uninvited fixture with the band for the past few months. She’s a sweet girl, it’s just too bad she doesn’t value herself more than a musician’s evening companion. She’s offered the goods repeatedly to everyone, but Royce is the only one who has cashed in the offer—repeatedly.

  “Casen, there you are!” she exclaims, her voice reminiscent of one of those chicks from Clueless. My IQ plummets each time she speaks to me. She’s jumping up and down and her tits flail about like they are fighting each other to escape the garment prison she’s trapped them in. I use the
term garment loosely. Her double Ds aren’t held in place by a bra, although her tiny shirt looks similar to one. She’s paired it with cutoff jean shorts. The pockets hang down out the front, which suggests if she turns around, we’ll be greeted by Stacy’s butt folds. She runs to me, hopping into my arms and landing a kiss on my cheek. I turn with her in my arms to face Jen and, judging from her expression, I was dead-on with my butt cheek assessment. She’s caught so off guard, it takes her a moment to remember her camera.

  “Hello, Stacy,” I respond unenthusiastically. “Did you enjoy the show?” I drop her to the ground as Jen clears her throat.

  “Are you going to introduce me to your little friend?” Jen inquires. I can tell she thinks she’s nailed it, that I’m a groupie hound and Stacy’s presence proves it. I sense a bit of jealousy as well, though. This is the perfect situation to sour her mood.

  “Sorry. This is—”

  “Stacy,” she interrupts, stepping in front of me to shake Jen’s hand. “I hang out with the band sometimes.” Then she rounds on me. “By the way, Mr. Guitar Man, you know I don’t mind sharing, but the least you could do is ask.”

  Jen’s expression is priceless, she could catch flies with the way her mouth hangs open. To her credit, she recovers quickly. “I’m not here to sleep with anyone,” she says, holding up her camera.

  “Fuck, Casen, you know I have rules about photography,” Stacy huffs, placing hands on her curvy hips. “You always ask a girl first, but I guess for you I can make an exception.” She begins to stride toward me, a smile lighting up her face. Before I can correct any part of the situation, Jen takes the room’s climate from slight breeze to hurricane status.

  “So your primary role here is to service the band, roadies, bartenders, and anyone in need of a vagina?” Jen snips as she clicks away on her camera. “Is this a new business/social venture or have you always been into trying to land wealthy men with your physical assets?”

  Stacy may not be the brightest, but she understands immediately that Jen is calling her out. The claws come out and I’ll begin to fear for my life if I don’t intervene or get Royce in here to help separate the ladies into their opposing corners.