I don't have to leave in a week.
I don't have to leave.
I get to stay.
I sip my tea to hide a smile and realize that Muse is staring at me over his shoulder as he stands at the counter to prepare his own cup of tea.
“You should try to memorize our numbers,” he says, ever the practical one. He's already plugged them all into my phone, but like last night proved, that's not enough. “And our personal emails, just in case. We should put together a plan in case anything like that happens again. With the security on the tour, we're not the easiest people to get access to.”
“No kidding,” I say as I try to figure out what type of tea it is that I'm holding in my hands. It's got this warm, grassy taste and the color is slightly green. Must be green tea then, right? But it tastes different and it has this bright herbal scent that I don't recognize.
“What the fuck is this?” Michael asks, making a face. “It tastes like grass.”
Muse just laughs and grabs his mug from the counter, coming over to sit in the swivel chair across from Cope.
“What time is it …?” I start, leaning forward to glance at the clock on the wall.
It's five in the morning.
“We're almost to Jacksonville,” Muse says, closing his eyes and breathing in the white steam from his mug. “We should be pulling into the venue soon.”
“Can I make you breakfast, honey?” Ransom asks, his voice as dark and sensual as it ever is. Even that simple question warms me up from the inside. Honey. That's a good term for him to use—because that's what his voice is like. Thick, warm honey.
“I'd love some,” I say, realizing then that I'm starving. I haven't eaten since lunch yesterday. That, and doesn't it feel like emotional breakdowns just suck the life out of you? And then, of course, there's the sex. Fucking five men takes a lot of energy—especially when I can outlast all of them.
“I'll make my mom's pancakes,” Ransom whispers and everyone goes quiet for a moment.
“So,” Pax drawls, taking his cup of coffee over to the other swivel chair and sitting down, his storm grey eyes focused on my face. “Michael's in the club now, is he?”
“As if you need to ask,” I say back, my voice barely above a whisper, “you were both inside of me at the same time last night.”
“And so we were,” Paxton says and that's that; everyone goes quiet again. This time though, it's a companionable silence, easy and comfortable. If the guys are at all weirded out by our unconventional little arrangement, they don't act like it.
I stare at Pax's face for a moment. He's the leader, too much of an alpha male to realize how much he's hurting. Covered in tattoos, hidden behind his well-pressed suits. There's a breakdown waiting to happen there, and I want to see it. There's so much sadness inside of him that he pushes down with anger, it must feel stifling …
Sitting there, enjoying the easiness of that one perfect moment, I don't wonder if the six of us will work as some kind of group, if one day the boys will make me choose, if eventually I'll want to choose. No. None of that matters. I've been taught many harsh lessons in my life; everything is temporary. Even things that are supposed to be forever …
With the band surrounding me, I realize then that I've never wished for anything to last so much as I wish for this.
I pick up one of Copeland's books and read for a while, but I can't get into the story because there's too much tension around me, too much waiting around for the bus to stop, for Pax to get off, for Octavia to face the band.
Also, as I sit there, I start to realize that no matter how glad I am to be back on this bus, how happy I am to have these wonderful men around me … none of that changes the fact that Dad is still dead. Cancer ate him and he's gone, and by the end of the week, I'll have to really face his mortality. All of this missing him and wanting him and needing him will finally hit its peak and then what? Time only helps in that it blows dirt over that dark, dirty hole in the ground, the one that's swallowed up the people you love. Grass grows, and sometimes, maybe even flowers. But if you pick them, if you dig, there's still this yawning pit waiting to swallow you up. The hole is never gone, just buried.
And that, that is the face of my own grief.
Putting the novel in the precarious stack on the back of the couch, I force myself to be brave, to get my phone and turn it on. It's been charging for hours, but I've been too scared to look at it. What if there's a message from my stepmother? From Kevin? Worse—what if there aren't any messages at all?
“Do you need something, sweet love?” Ransom asks and I get this warm spread of feeling all over my body when I look at him, standing next to me in an oversized black hoodie, those eyes of his like warm coffee on a cold morning. I want to drink him up, let him fill up every frigid part of me.
I manage a small smile as I pause next to the counter where my phone is sitting.
“Sweet love, that's a new one,” I say and Ransom smiles. The movement pulls at the scar on his face, a scar left by a monster. Of course, physical wounds are nothing when compared to emotional ones, but this? This is the worst kind of both. These scars, every time he looks at them, they're a reminder of what happened to his mother, what happened to him.
I want to kiss them all, run my tongue along them, repurpose all of that hate with my love.
Love.
My heart constricts and I glance away.
Fuck.
I can't be falling in love with five different guys that I just fucking met. That's insane. That's beyond insane.
I run my fingers through the lightly tangled strands of my red hair and suck in a deep breath.
“I'm going to turn my phone on,” I say and although the statement's innocuous as hell, there's an ominous ring to my voice. Ransom watches me as I grab the phone and power it up, closing my eyes briefly against the brilliant flash of light from the screen.
“We probably blew your phone up,” Ransom whispers in that bedroom-dark voice of his.
It takes me a moment to realize what he's talking about and then … text messages, missed calls, voicemail. From my boys. My five rocker boys.
I flick through the messages, catch things like Where are you, hon? and I'm sorry you missed the show—I played for you tonight.
I glance up at Ransom and fight back another wave of emotion. I'm not weak. No, I won't be weak. I choose strength. Because sometimes, it is a choice. Bad things happen, people die, hearts are broken, but it's how we walk in the rain of grief that defines us. Do we cower in the downpour and let the frigid chill soak us through? Do we grab an umbrella and fight the storm? Or do we stand tall and let our heads fall back, open our mouths and taste every fucking drop as its coolness sizzles against the heat of our tongue?
That's the woman I want to be.
I drop the phone by my side and I smile in place of the tears that want to come.
Dad is still dead, but Ransom … Ransom is here.
“You were really that worried?” I ask, but it's a stupid validation question that I shouldn't have even bothered to ask. But still, Ransom smiles again and takes a step closer to me, setting aside the mug in his hands and wrapping his arms around me instead.
“We really were,” he whispers, his breath hot against my ear, the smell of violets surrounding us in a fragrant cloud. I close my eyes and drink in all the sensations: the softness of his sweatshirt, the heat of his body, the frantic beating of his heart against my own. When he lets me go, I almost groan. I want him to keep holding me forever.
“Lilith,” Michael says from behind me, drawing my attention back around to his sleepy face. Shortly after he finished what he dubbed that nasty as fuck grassy tasting hippie tea he fell asleep on the couch, dreaming away the nightmare of the day as I ran my fingers through his shiny black hair. The style is razored, very rockstar, edgy as fuck, but god is it soft. I could spend all day with my fingers tangled in that man's locks.
Michael sits up and stretches his arms above his head, the muscles
in his shoulders, chest, and tummy lengthening with the motion, drawing my attention with a sharp surge of desire, heating me up in all the places I need to be warmed.
“Did you think we left you?” he asks, but not like he's going to judge me for my answer, just like he's curious.
“I did,” I say and he nods, like that's basically what he expected. He rises to his feet, the tattoos on his arms and chest this colorful art gallery of jewel toned pieces. The phoenix, rising from the ashes, dead center in all of it.
That's who I want to be, that phoenix.
Ashes. Mom, and now Dad.
Me.
Rising from them.
A bird of fire and flame.
“Let's just … get this out there,” Michael says, drawing Pax's attention away from his phone. He's back at it again, frustratingly texting someone, ignoring their repeated calls. His parents again? Or something else? I still have a hell of a lot to learn about these boys, don't I? “This … thing,” he says and then pauses for a moment, closing his violet eyes to catch his breath on the end of a yawn. I might've had a hard day yesterday, but so did he.
“This relationship,” Muse corrects, glancing up at the ceiling in thought, his dark glasses perched on his face. “I don't like the word thing. It's too ambiguous. This is a relationship.”
“Fucking Christ,” Pax swears under his breath, but he just tosses his phone on the coffee table and tucks his fist under his chin, staring at me like he's just as confused by my attitude, my actions, and my presence as he was that first night when he cursed and ran out on me, leaving me tied up with his belt. What a dick. But a dick with a heart who's hurt, who misses his baby sister, who sings about her in the voice of a weeping angel.
“This relationship,” Michael corrects, opening his eyes and glancing back at the other boys. Ransom stands at my side, looking at Cope of all people, the one who distinctly looks the most uncomfortable with this conversation. Huh. The boy next door type, the one who offered me a hug at our first meeting, who held and kissed me like I was his girlfriend the first night we had sex, is looking away toward the door with a gentle frown on his face and a sparkle of … something in his eyes that I can't read.
Is he regretting Muse's invitation? Does he wish this whole thing was as temporary as it seemed a few days ago? I stare at him, dressed in a white Misfits t-shirt and linen pj pants. No. I don't think so. The way he wrapped his arms around me earlier … There's no way. But something else is bothering him then. I want to know what it is.
“This relationship,” I repeat when I draw my attention back to Michael and see his brow scrunched as he struggles for the right words.
“Well, I hope you're tickled bloody pink that he's involved now,” Pax drawls, draping himself in his chair as he studies his friend, me, Ransom. Those steel grey eyes flick back to mine. “Because Michael is nothing if not intense.”
“Shut your mouth, Pax,” Michael says, but not unkindly. He tucks his hands in the pockets of his sweats and stares right at me. “This relationship thing we're doing then, it's not going to be willy-nilly or casual, not if I'm going to be a part of it.”
“Okay,” I say, blinking at him, watching him watch me and feeling this … heat swirl in my belly that takes over all my limbs and makes me wish I was naked and underneath him. Them. All of them. Mine. As soon as I fucked Michael, I felt it, this overwhelming sense of primal, of beast. I feel like a queen with a clutch of kings, like I have a harem.
Or … no, more than that. A female with her males. A wildcat with her mates.
A blush rises to my cheeks and I cross my arms over Cope's t-shirt that I snagged off the floor.
“To tell you the truth,” Muse says from behind Michael, still situated in the leather swivel chair with a book on his lap. It's titled Beautiful Survivors and the cover features a woman … surrounded by men. It must be one of Cope's—and it might be something I'll need to read. All of this—the boys, the sex, the feelings, the dynamics—is completely new to me. I've been your average typical middle class American with the one boyfriend and the dreams of a house, kids, a decent, normal, average happy life.
This … has the potential for so much more. And yet, it also has the potential to go up in flames that would consume the heartache I felt at Kevin's betrayal and make it look like a match in an inferno.
This is a big risk … with a big reward.
Am I brave enough to take it?
“This wasn't really casual before you joined in—no offense.” Muse sets the book aside and rises to his feet, crossing his arms over the red wife beater he's wearing, his silver mohawk falling onto his forehead, wet and dripping from the shower he took while I tried to read. “But you're right—we should define the rules more clearly.”
“Bloody rules,” Pax says, rolling his eyes and rising to his feet like he doesn't give a shit. But when he passes by me, our arms brush and I get this scalding thrill through my body that doesn't lie. He really does give a shit. A lot of them, maybe. “Typical, yeah? Muse and Michael, taking the fun and turning it all bureaucratic. Don't you two ever get tired of being so fucking dreary?”
“No other guys,” Michael says, crossing his arms over his bare chest, cutting into me with his violet gaze. “Just the five of us.”
“No other girls,” I say, almost breathless, my heart thundering in my throat. “Just me—and not just because of the no condoms thing. I mean no other girls period. Not with condoms, not to kiss, nothing.” My throat gets so tight when I say this, lay it out there like that. It seems so unfair, doesn't it? That I'd get to fuck, date … fall in love with all of them, and they'd be limited to me?
I pause and glance at the heated hardwood floors under my feet for a moment.
“No other girls,” I start and then look up at Michael, over at Ransom. Cope won't look back at me, still lost in whatever nightmare he's currently revisiting. “But I …” I think of Pax and Ransom kissing, and I don't know that they even liked it at all, if it was just for me, but … “I don't care what you do with each other.”
I meet Michael's stern gaze dead-on.
He raises a dark eyebrow at me.
“Each other?” he asks, like the thought never even occurred to him.
“Yeah,” I say, tucking some red hair behind my ear and nodding. “Each other. If we're in this, we're all in it together.” When those words come out of my mouth, they feel right. “I know it seems silly right now, but that's how I feel. It's not just me, and you and you and you and you and you. This is an us thing.”
“Okay …” Michael says, but like he doesn't see that particular avenue going anywhere. “No sleeping around with anyone but the people in this room. That's simple enough. Lilith,” he says, and this is where he gets really fucking serious, “we will not end this thing like it was a fucking one-night stand or a fling. If we end this, we do it properly. We don't fuck around with other people and then apologize later: we end it first. We break up the right goddamn way—like a real relationship.”
“So … if you get lost again,” Muse says, coming across the living room and going straight into the kitchen to put on more water for tea—I'm assuming for Copeland this time, “then don't for a second think we've left you. Unless you hear it straight from our mouths, or we hear it from yours, this is happening, okay?”
I really do smile then, nice and big.
Boundaries and rules, like any other relationship. Some people feel stifled by them; I feel bolstered. To set rules, to care enough about someone breaking them, you have to actually feel something real.
“We won't leave you without talking about it first—any of us,” Michael gives Paxton a look as his friend turns around with a fresh cup of coffee clutched in his tattooed hands and raises a blonde brow. But he doesn't say a damn word. “And you'll give us the same courtesy?”
I nod and breathe out a breath I wasn't even aware I was holding in.
“I promise,” I say and then feel Ransom's warm hand curl around my own.
/> Fuck.
Did I just … agree to date five guys at the same time?
Yeah, I think I just did.
“So … if I happen to call you my girlfriend in the back room of a seedy BDSM club …” Ransom starts and my smile turns into a grin.
“What about the press?” Cope asks, speaking up for the first time, his voice slightly shaky and surreal. The other guys exchange glances, like they have some idea of what might be going through his head. I have no fucking clue, no idea about this guy who holds me like I'm precious, who takes me out to dance the Charleston. I need to; I want to. “Do we tell them?”
“Fuck the press,” Pax says with a harsh laugh. “If they find out, then so be it.” He lights up a cigarette and shakes his head dismissively. “We don't have to advertise our shit to them, but we also don't have to be ashamed of it.”
He pauses and then his mouth turns cruel and cold.
“Do you feel that?” he asks and we all pause.
The bus is rolling to a slow stop beneath us, breathing out a mechanical sigh as the brakes are put in place. I grab the curtain on the window nearest me and pull it back, watching the marmalade wash of sunrise peak up above the Florida coast. The water sparkles and beckons, begging me to take a dip.
I realize then that it's been years since I've seen the ocean, and my breath catches in my chest.
I turn back to see Pax going for the door to the bus and my elation fades like a deflated balloon.
We're in Jacksonville, Florida, and it's time to see Octavia Warris.
“Wait,” I say as Paxton reaches for the handle and pauses, glancing back at me with his cigarette hanging from his lips. Both blonde brows go up in surprise. “Let me throw something on; I want to talk to her, too.”
“There's no need for that, love,” Pax says, waving his tattooed hand dismissively. “I'm going to rapidly and succinctly fire her arse and kick her off this tour. You don't have to see her if you don't want to.”
“I want to,” I say, not entirely sure what it is that I'm doing. “Give me a minute. Just one minute.”
Roadie (Rock-Hard Beautiful Book 2) Page 2