Roadie (Rock-Hard Beautiful Book 2)

by C. M. Stunich

  WARNING: This book features one stronghearted young woman and her five rockstar lovers. All six of them are struggling to overcome their dark pasts while falling more deeply in love.

  P.S. Nobody said she had to pick just one.

  Turn the page only if you enjoy true love, raw grief, genuine human connection, rock 'n' roll, and books with unfiltered, unashamed sex.

  Roadie

  Roadie © C.M. Stunich 2017

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  For information address Sarian Royal Indie Publishing, 89365 Old Mohawk Rd, Springfield, OR 97478.

  www.sarianroyal.com

  Cover art and design © Amanda Carroll and Sarian Royal

  "Timeless" Font © Manfred Klein

  "Autumn in November" Font © Misti's Fonts

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, businesses, or locales is coincidental and is not intended by the author.

  this book is dedicated to the princesses who find their prince(s)

  but who also know how to wield swords.

  Sign up for an exclusive first look at the hottest new releases, contests, and exclusives from bestselling author C.M. Stunich and get *three free* eBooks as a thank you!

  Author's Note

  Welcome to Roadie, the second book in the Rock-Hard Beautiful Trilogy. Before you read this book, make sure you've read the first in the series, Groupie, or else it might not make much sense. ;)

  Once you've done that, turn the page and be prepared for music, grief, love, strong emotions, dark pasts…and lots and lots of sex.

  P.S. If you enjoyed the first book, or if you enjoy this one, would you mind leaving a review? Indie authors count on readers to share the stories they love. Thank you!

  Love, C.M. Stunich (aka Violet Blaze)

  There's no energy left inside of me for tears tonight.

  My heart beats furiously as I sit up, tangled in black silk sheets, my body thrumming with the remembered touch of lips and hands and cocks. Putting both palms on my face, I drag my fingers over my sweaty skin and turn to glance down at the face of the boy closest to me.

  It's Ransom Riggs, the dark eyed, dark haired bassist for Beauty in Lies.

  Surprisingly, he's awake. Even more surprisingly, he's still naked, the faint scar on the left side of his face almost invisible when compared to the ones on his chest, partially hidden by black and grey tattoos. His eyes are locked on my face, and his mouth crooks into a sensual half-smile when he sees me looking at him.

  “You alright, sweetheart?” he asks, and the honorific turns my own lips up into their own half-smile. A slight flush colors my cheeks, but mostly because of the carnal memories sliding up from my subconscious and not because Ransom's reached up to run his finger over my lips.

  Tonight's been … interesting, to say the least.

  “I'm okay,” I say because I'm warring between two sides of the same coin. One face is ecstatic, brimming with affection and joy and anticipation of being with my boys. The other face is remembering Kevin's ugliness, Octavia's triumphant hate, and the cold feel of the cement beneath my bare legs. “It's just been a long night,” I say as Ransom sits up, propping himself on an elbow and laying on his side to face me. Without the hood and the eyeliner and his usual hunched posture, he looks a lot less intimidating this way. For a second, I see the bright wink of a happy boy, a content and joyous young man unspoiled by grief. “I think I'm still …”

  “Processing?” he asks in that thick, heavy bedroom voice of his. “Totally understandable. Lilith,” he says and my eyes widen slightly in surprise at the sound of my full name on his lips, “we really thought we'd lost you tonight.”

  The graveness in his voice gives me pause, darkening that carefree glimmer I just saw.

  “I … started imagining all sorts of shit,” he says, sitting up and running his palm down his face. He won't look at me now. “You lying in a pool of blood like my mom …”

  “Ran,” I whisper softly as he glances back at me and closes his eyes for a moment.

  I think of him shouting, jogging toward me, my name falling off his lips with a downpour of relief. I'm only just now realizing how traumatizing tonight might've been for him—for any of them. A girl with no family, no weapons, no self-defense training of any kind wanders alone into a big city she's never been to … and disappears.

  The implications of that make me shiver.

  I was drowning so deeply in thoughts of my family, my own misery, that I didn't even think about any of the other awful things that might've happened to me. In hindsight, Kevin and Octavia seem like small potatoes.

  “I'm so sorry, Ransom,” I say, but he makes this gentle sound in his throat and pulls my naked body to his for another hug. The scars on his chest are rough against the softness of my breasts, but I don't mind. I curl against him, fully aware of his bare skin kissing mine in every possible place but one …

  “You're awake?”

  I glance over my shoulder and find Michael standing in the doorway, watching me with Ran. His expression is hooded in shadow, but I can see that he's shirtless, bringing up this sharp sudden case of déjà vu when I think back to my first night on the bus. He looked at me with heat—a heat that pales in comparison to the brilliant fire of his expression now—and then he rejected me.

  He's definitely not rejecting me now.

  I pull away from Ran—not an easy feat to do—and crawl over to Michael, sitting up on my knees and feeling his muscular arms encircle my body. His touch is foreign and familiar all at once; I want more, more, more of it.

  I got him; he's mine.

  The thought repeats in my head and makes me smile.

  Wow.

  Five rockstars … all mine.

  I try not to think of how unusual our situation is, how 'unfair' it might be to the boys, how fucking excited and shocked I am by the sudden turn of events. My life crashed to literal rock bottom last week; last night, I was afraid I was finally going to have to start living in the darkest part of that never-ending well.

  But instead, here I am, hugging Michael Luxe, the lead guitarist for Beauty in Lies, burying my face against the side of his muscular neck.

  “Would you like to come on our world tour with us?”

  Derek Muser's words ring in my head as Michael's arms loosen and I glance over my shoulder to look for him, remembering that shattered, broken look on his face. Muse's story, when I finally get it, is going to break my heart in half; I'm already trying to prepare myself for the inevitable.

  But Muse isn't in the bed; it's just me and Ransom.

  “Everyone's in the living room,” Michael explains as I unbend my naked legs and swing them over the edge of the bed, fishing around in the discarded pile of clothing for something to wear. I end up with Paxton's sweats and Copeland's t-shirt, standing up on the heated wood floors and glancing over my shoulder at Ransom.

  He's already got his hoodie on, hood thrown up, and is crawling down the bed toward me. The sight is enough to fire my brain on all its synapses, reminding me that just a few short hours ago, I was naked and tangled up with all five men. For me, it was as close to heaven as I could get in this lifetime.

  A miracle that, since I just so recently crawled up out of hell.

  “It makes me want to go bloody fucking mad knowing that twat's sitting right there on the other side of this glass,” Pax is saying when Michael slides the hall door open and we step into the kitchen. He pauses his rant to glance over at us, those shar
p, cruel lips curling in a smile. “Miss Lilith Tempest Goode,” he says as I smile back at him, at the two boys on the couch.

  Muse is on his feet in an instant.

  “Tea?” he asks, pointing at me, his expression back to normal but somehow oddly fragile, like whatever surge of emotions he experienced tonight cracked the careful, neutral shell around his heart. He pushes his glasses up his nose and pauses next to me, Cope rising to his feet behind him.

  “Tea would be great, thank you,” I say, feeling awkward and silly all of a sudden. But good, too. Really good. I mean, here are these five young guys fawning over me like I'm something special. At the time, if you'd asked me, I never would've dared to think that I really was. Later, I'd get my confidence back, my strength. For now, I felt loved. And it always feels nice to be loved.

  I wave at them all dismissively and try to smile.

  “You don't have to fuss over me—” I begin and startle when Michael makes a derisive snort beside me.

  “Please,” he says, drawing my attention back to him, to his violet eyes and pursed lips. “It gives these assholes purpose. Let 'em do it.” But he's staring right at me when he says it and I get the impression that these assholes also includes him. We continue to look at each other, and I realize that for the last nine days, I've been staring at him with a filter over my vision.

  Michael isn't just handsome … he's fucking gorgeous.

  “Wasn't it just you that was nagging me to let it all out?” Pax asks, crossing his arms over his chest. He's wearing an unbuttoned button-up—as usual—with sweats and some ridiculous slippers that look like they should be paired with a gentleman's smoking jacket.

  I sigh.

  The asshole's right.

  “Do you want another hug?” Cope asks, holding out his arms. This time, when he asks, I don't have to think about it. I definitely want a hug from him.

  I slip into the circle of his warm arms as Muse fills the teapot with water and turns on the stove.

  “Make a big pot,” Pax calls when Ransom starts prepping some coffee. “I'mma be up all damn night. I'm not sleeping until I get a chance to fire Octavia—in person. Face to bloody face.” He smacks his palms together and then slams one against the curtains covering the wall that separates our part of the bus from the driver's side.

  “Tell us again what happened with Octavia,” Muse says as he turns and leans against the counter, his gold-grey hazel eyes sparkling with anger behind the thick black rims of his glasses.

  I sigh again and burrow against Copeland, the scent of laundry soap and new denim surrounding me in a cloud. And the way he holds me … it's a little bit different than it was before.

  I guess I really did give these guys a scare. Well, hell, they gave me one, too.

  I imagine myself curled up on a cot in a women's shelter, no money, no phone, my mother's ashes rumbling away inside their bus. If they really had left me in Atlanta … Ugh. No. I don't want to think about that. I should've known; I should've trusted them. But how can I? When I can't even trust myself.

  “She told the security guards that I was banned from your shows for stalking … or something.” I turn in Copeland's arms and let him hold me around the waist from behind, his chin resting on my shoulder. It's such a comfortable, familiar pose that it almost makes me cry again. I'm just a huge bundle of emotions tonight, I guess. But that's the way with grief; it strikes when you expect it, when you don't expect it, when you think you've finally beaten it down forever.

  No, the only true immortals in this world are grief … and love.

  I'll have to use the latter to defeat the former.

  “She had me escorted off the property, across the street.” I pause again because I've already told the guys that part of the story. I don't think that's really what Muse is asking. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I had lots of ugly words thrown at me tonight, but the thing is … words are just words. Dad is dead; that's real pain, real grief. I can't let petty insults get to me.

  “I always knew you were a whore … I know it; you know it; your dead fucking dad knew it.”

  Fucking Kevin. I should've punched him when I had the chance.

  “And she said a bunch of stuff that I just … I don't care to repeat,” I say, Octavia's words layering themselves on top of Kevin's.

  “You are nothing to them. I've seen them do this a hundred times with a hundred different girls. You think you're different because they all fuck you? You're nothing but a shareable sex doll.”

  “You don't have to tell us if you don't want to,” Muse assures me and Michael snorts again.

  “I just … what a day today,” he breathes and I remember then that he went through some awful shit, too. His girlfriend, Vanessa, and his older brother, Timothy … having an affair. I watch him run some fingers through his dark hair, as shiny and black as a raven's feathers. Do I ask him about it?

  I touch my fingers to the necklaces around my throat, and he notices the motion, going completely still.

  Our eyes lock and my heart thunders in my chest.

  “These are pretty,” Cope says, reaching up to finger the jewelry. “This matches your bracelet, doesn't it?” he asks, and I feel my cheeks color slightly. I can deal with the sex stuff—group sex stuff, even—but the emotional stuff still gets me.

  “Michael gave them to me,” I say softly, drawing this terrible mocking laugh from Paxton's throat.

  “Of course he did. Of bloody course. So how did you break up with that bitch anyhow?” he asks, moving away from the windows and coming to stand in our little circle in the kitchen. “I want to know what Vanessa's face was like when you gave her the boot.” Pax pauses and points a finger at his friend. “You've been planning on it for days, haven't you? I could tell.”

  “I wasn't going to do it,” Michael says with a small growl, looking away from me like he's ashamed. “I wanted to, but I wasn't … fuck. I've hated her for a long time now, but I felt like that was my punishment for the things I did before: the drugs, the cheating, the way I treated all those groupies.”

  “That's fucking ridiculous,” Pax says, but Michael snaps his gaze over to his friend and shuts him up quick.

  “Yeah, well, ridiculous or not, that's what I felt.”

  “Then what changed your mind?” Muse asks, looking at me and not at Michael. He smiles slightly and I smile back.

  “I …” Michael starts and then he's looking at me, too, and then away again. “I caught Timothy balls deep in Vanessa.”

  “No bloody way!” Pax chortles, like that's the greatest thing he's ever heard in his life. “Those hypocrites! Oh, that's great. That's just … that's brilliant.”

  “The baby might not have been mine; she's been fucking Tim for years.”

  “Even better!” Pax says, slapping his tattooed hands together. “We are free of fucking Vanessa! It's about time, Mikey.”

  “Please don't call me Mikey,” Michael says, ruffling up his hair again and looking over at me. Our connection is so fresh, so new. I mean, it is with all the boys, but Michael and I … I have no idea what he's thinking when he looks at me, but his words from yesterday are still vibrant and fresh in my mind.

  “I want to kiss you without restraint.”

  My cheeks flush with color again.

  “I don't give a crap about Vanessa and Tim,” Michael says as he moves over to stand in front of Cope and me. “I want to know what happened with your ex.”

  Copeland releases me to face Michael, my entire body thrumming with the desire to be touched by him. But he doesn't really seem like the cuddly, hugging type.

  I decide to go for it anyway, stepping forward and sliding my arms around his bare waist.

  His skin is warm and dry and he smells like his shampoo, the shampoo I've been using since the first night I climbed on the bus. For whatever reason, I was drawn to it. Maybe because subconsciously I related that scent to him?

  Michael stiffens up for a moment, going completely still, his heart beat
ing like the hooves of a thundering horse, this terrifying gallop that makes me wonder if I've just made a mistake. But then he puts his arms around me and pulls me against him; I can feel his arousal hard and insistent against me.

  “It's been a long time since I've just been … touched,” he says, as if he feels I need an explanation. A year. A year without sex … and hugs.

  I lay my cheek against the hard muscles in his midsection and close my eyes.

  “Kevin was in line; he saw me walking by, asked if I wanted to have some coffee.” Michael stiffens again, but he doesn't relax the strong band of his arms around me. “I thought … if I talked to him, maybe I could forgive him for all the shit he put me through and move on. But then we got into a fight and he tore the lanyard from my neck, set it on fire with his lighter and chucked it into a locked mailbox.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Michael curses, taking me by the shoulders and moving me back a step. He looks tall and fierce, his razored hair falling almost to his shoulders, his indigo eyes narrowed. And his tattoos … are just a sea of rich color, emphasizing the paleness of his skin. “Did he hurt you?” he asks, and he's dead serious about that question. I imagine that if I told him yes, he'd fly to Phoenix and beat the shit out of Kevin Peregrine.

  “Not physically,” I say, which is the truth.

  Michael releases my shoulders and then pinches the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes for a moment.

  “Last night could've been really bad,” he says as Muse brings me my cup of tea, and I sit on the couch next to Cope. “I mean, you were right there and we couldn't find you. What if something really bad had happened?”

  “Agreed,” Muse says, handing a cup of tea to Michael. Somehow he always seems to know when someone could use a kind gesture. Michael narrows his eyes, but sits down on my other side, sending an excited thrill through me.

  I feel strangely complete and excited right now.

  The world tour.

  They invited me on their fucking world tour.