It's Paxton.
Of course it is.
“I'm supposed to be impressed by that?” he calls over my shoulder and I glance back just in time to see the angry expression flash across Michael's face.
“I was,” I say, looking back at Pax as he stares down at me from that too perfect face of his. Eventually, it's going to crack and I'm going to see all the things inside of him that he doesn't want anyone else to see. It's fucking inevitable.
“Well, well, then let's see what I can do to change that?”
I start to back up against the wall on the opposite side of the alley when he spins me around and pushes my cheek to the bricks, my head turned toward Ransom. I can see him watching from those dark eyes of his, the scent of violets in the air, even with the few feet separating us. That smell surrounds me like a hug, competes with the sharp glaze of Pax's cologne.
“You alright, sweetheart?” he asks, ready to protect me, beat the shit out of Paxton if need be. I believe he could do it, too, if he really wanted to. That's one of the things I don't understand about their relationship, why Ransom lets Paxton treat him like crap.
“I'm perfect,” I say as Paxton unzips his slacks and teases me with his cock, sliding it against the wet aching heat between my thighs, that explosion of nerves, that desperate thirst that I can't seem to quench. “I can't seem to get enough,” I whisper, having a conversation with Ransom even as Pax grips my breasts through my bra and squeezes them tight enough to make me gasp.
“What a delightful problem to have,” Pax says, slipping the head of his shaft against my opening, teasing me with an inch, two inches, making me squirm and press back into him. My palms splay out against the irregular surface of the red-brown stones, and I shove my hips back, impaling myself on Paxton's warm cock. “Bleeding hell,” he whispers, slipping his hands back down my sweaty body to my hips.
He grabs hold of me and starts to move with these long, slow strokes that tickle all the right spots, make my chest and throat feel tight. When he moves one of his hands down around to my clit, I have to bite my lip to keep from screaming. My body ripples and tightens, my sex clamping down on Paxton and holding tight, pausing his movements for several agonizing seconds.
“Paxton,” I say, but I can barely get his name past my lips before he teases the hardened nub of flesh in tight, rapid circles, using the juices of my own desire as lube, rubbing me until my self-control breaks and I come around him. My orgasm is like the distant lightning lighting up the sky in the west, cracking the grey-gold afternoon into pieces.
I'm so wrapped up in the shockwaves of pleasure that I barely notice his orgasm, the switch of cruel, cold hands for warm, calloused ones.
I notice then that I'm not looking at Ransom anymore, but at Cope.
Ransom is behind me.
“Are you sure you want more?” he asks before he does anything more but lay his hands on the tight sweaty expanse of my skin. I feel like I'm trapped in it again, inside a vortex of want and need.
“I need more,” I say as Copeland's blue-green eyes connect with mine.
I have to close them as I feel Ransom's hands on my body, sliding up and freeing my breasts from the confines of my bra. I might be wearing panties still, but they're soaking wet and my dress is pushed up, my breasts hanging free.
I may as well be naked in this damn alley.
“I'll give you whatever you want, darling,” he tells me, caressing the torturous rawness of my breasts, his thumbs grazing the sharp points of my nipples, connecting the aching desperation of my pussy with my chest, my heart, my head. I'm all wrapped up in this, desperate to finish my last two boys before the show.
If we're not done when Octavia comes to collect them … I might not let them go.
Ransom's hands draw away from my breasts, one palm slicking up my spine, the other taking hold of my hip as he finds the ardent proof of my desire, soaking my crotchless panties and wetting my inner thighs. I know I have the others' proof all over me, too, their come inside of me.
“You're such a beautiful girl, sweet thing,” he tells me, filling me slowly, pushing inside of me with a single breath. “Such a beautiful fucking girl.”
I move my hips back against Ransom's, meeting the low thrumming bass that seems to be his natural rhythm. That instrument, the way he wields it onstage, that's how he works my body, easy and low and slow. Ransom moves inside of me like he's already in love with me, like he's trying to make me sing along with the deep decadent notes of his own groans. The sounds he makes when he's having sex with me are like after dinner coffee and desserts, that part of the meal you spend all night waiting for, when the lights are dim and the candle on the table's melted away to almost nothing.
Intimate. Esoteric. Transcendent.
That's Ransom Riggs.
We slide together, our movements almost coordinated, finding each other in the suddenness of the storm as wind sweeps down the alley and chills my heated skin. Goose bumps break out all across my body as my breasts swing like pendulums and I drop my head in pleasure.
My cunt is liquid, molten, scorching across Ransom's shaft as I let his darkness twist through mine, find its melancholy partner. We process things so much the same way that I wonder how good it is for us to be together. Last week, when I thought this was temporary, I was worried. Now … I just like him too much to care. I really, really do.
I use my body to drag the demons from his, make him come in me, just like the others. I claim him, mark him, take the proof of our connection inside of me.
“Oh, shit, baby girl,” he says, and I swear there's a sob inside of his voice. But when I stand up and turn around, his dark eyes are dry and he's looking at me with a small smile.
“Five minutes,” Muse warns as I lick my lips and lean back against the wall with my breasts exposed, my shirt-dress pushed up around my hips.
Cope approaches me slowly, takes Ransom's place as my scarred, twisted lover steps aside to fix his pants.
“You look like the cat that got the cream,” Cope whispers in my ear, taking my face in his hand and kissing me like the girl next door instead of the one half-naked in an alley with a bunch of horny rockstars.
When he lifts me up and I wrap my legs around him, it feels like we're together in some distant place, just the two of us. When he enters me, I can't help it—I have another orgasm. This one is a slow, sneaking shadow that takes over me, makes me shudder in Cope's arms, melt against his chest as he makes love to me outside the venue door. On this side of the alley, I can actually feel the music through the wall, teasing my spine, my ass, the back of my head. It thumps and throbs, almost as loud and frantic as my heart as I join up with the last guy in my band, the last man in Beauty in Lies to take his girlfriend in an alley.
A smile steals across my lips as the flash of my orgasm fades away and I enjoy my last few minutes with Cope, his body finally slaking some of that burning desire inside of me, taking that flame and dousing it until it's just a slow-burning ember.
At any moment, it might light up and flare to life, but for just a brief second there, I feel satisfied.
I hold him close as he finishes inside of me and I rub his back in small circles.
“You're wicked,” he whispers to me as he steps back, but we're both still smiling.
I put my breasts back in my bra, push my shirt-dress down … and then the venue door opens.
“It's about that time,” Octavia says, her lips pursed slightly, eyes locked onto my flushed face, dilated pupils, and swollen lips.
“I should go back to the bus and shower,” I whisper, but Ransom is grabbing me by the arm.
“After that, you have to see us play,” he says, mouth twisted to the side in a crooked smile as he tugs me into his arms, against the soft sweet smelling fabric of his sweatshirt. “Don't you think you deserve a good show after all that work?”
“I'm …” I swallow a little and reach back to play with my hair. It's a little tangled from the wind … maybe from rubb
ing up against the wall, too. “Well, I don't think boys quite get how messy sex is for girls.”
“Oh, it's messy for us, too,” Pax says, his wicked smirk hot enough to burn. Even after all that, I can barely look at him. Hell, it's kind of hard to look at any of them. I mean, I just went and had sex with five men in a row, one after the other.
And I loved it.
Mine.
My rockstars.
“Fuck, fine,” I say, following them inside and letting them each go with a kiss to the cheek before I stop in the bathroom and clean up as best as I can. When I step out, Octavia's waiting for me and I can hear the sound of the crowd cheering along to the animated video that always plays before the boys' set.
“Miss Goode,” she says, her brown hair in a single braid down her back, those pale eyes locked on my face. They're the color of wet sand, a light brown that would be pretty if she didn't look so pissed off all the time.
“Ms. Warris,” I say, trying to smile. After all, what's the point of giving her a second chance if I'm just going to act like a bitch? “Is there something I can help you with? I was actually hoping to catch the show tonight.”
“Why him?” she asks me, but her voice isn't cruel or mean right now, just … hurt. I think she really liked Paxton. I feel bad for her because so do I. Despite that cold cruelness, the mean things he says, he's got a big heart inside of him. Maybe Octavia can see it, too? “You … I don't know what you're doing with the rest of them, but can't you just let him go?”
She's pleading with me right now, her tablet and clipboard tucked up against her chest. She really is a pretty girl when she's not scowling and throwing daggers at me with narrow eyed glares.
“Octavia,” I say, hoping she doesn't mind me using her first name. I can hear the voiceover announcing the guys now. “It's not about me letting him go. It's not like that. I …” I try to figure out how to phrase this, some way that might make her understand. “Paxton and I, we need each other.”
“You just met,” she says, her voice rising an octave. “I've been working with him for a long goddamn time. How can you need each other after a week?”
“Have you ever lost someone you cared about?” I ask her, looking into her eyes, searching those depths for that empty flicker of pain that signifies true loss. I've been acquainted with that particular emotion for a good part of my life; we're almost friends, she and I. Grief. The best friend I never wanted.
“Not really, no,” she says, but at least she says it carefully, respectfully, like she realizes this is a sensitive subject for me.
“Then I'm happy for you, really,” I say with a deep breath, looking her straight in the face, trying not to squirm with the vivid carnal memories of what just took place outside. I fucked five guys. I took them all, made them mine, owned them with my body. “But that's why you and Paxton would never work. He's carrying around a lot of pain, and he looks for it in everyone he surrounds himself with. He'd ruin you if you ever got together. He needs to be around people that … are missing as many pieces as he is.”
“That doesn't make any sense,” Octavia says as I hear the lyrics from onstage leaking back to us, Pax's powerful voice carrying them like the storm tonight carried in the rain, thunder and lightning.
“Look into his eyes and say goodbye; never let another day go by; don't miss the quiet moments in between; never love and never leave again.”
It's the song. My song. The one I heard in the car right after I got the text about my dad dying.
“It makes perfect sense,” I whisper, my hands shaking suddenly as I look up at the dark ceiling above us. “A happy person, a whole person, keeps all their pieces, holds the complete puzzle of their life in their hands. A broken person tries to give those pieces away because they don't like what they see. They fill in all those missing spots on the broken people around them, and in turn, they take some of those people's pieces.” I look back down at the confused expression on her face. But I don't have time to explain it further. I need to see Beauty in Lies perform this song. And then I need to find out why Pax has it tattooed on his chest with some of the words changed. “They'll never be whole, but at least their pictures will change, until maybe they see something they like a little better than they had before. I have to go, I'm sorry.”
I push past her and sprint down the front steps, flash my badge at the security guards, and find myself alone in front of the stage, between the security fence and guards, and the raised wooden platform above me.
“A message from the afterlife, this curse burned deep inside my heart,” Pax sings, his hands wrapped around the mic, this vintage silver microphone that I've never seen before. It must be a prop for this particular song, the one he has literally etched into his skin. “I'm sorry for all my words of strife, the way our sins ripped us both apart.”
Cope spins his drumsticks in his hand and then pummels his kit like a drummer in an old-fashioned marching band, sending this rapid-fire beat into the crowd that seems almost at odds with the softness of Paxton's words.
“Those days we spent together fade away, but the hurt, that part is the thing that stays. Set me free, God, don't you see? All of this heartache is bloody murdering me.”
Pax curls his hand in front of his chest, eyes closed as he lets the words echo with this surreal static through the old mic. The age of the technology seems to change the way he sounds, hollows his voice out a little, but in a good way. It's very artistic, the whole setup, the way he truly sounds like he's singing to this fucking ghost from beyond the grave.
And then I see his grey eyes flick over to Ransom again, and I start to wonder.
This song … it's tattooed on his chest as look into her eyes. But he sings it as his eyes.
Her and his.
Chloe and Ransom.
That's when it first clicks together for me.
Michael is going to be a serious bitch to work with. It's only been a few days and I can already see that.
We're at the sushi place I picked out, seated around a table in the back corner behind a six-panel byōbu aka a Japanese folding screen. This one's got a scene of five warriors fighting over a beautiful woman in a kimono.
How ironic is that shite?
I stare across the table at Lilith sitting on Michael's lap, catch his eyes as they slide over to me, and smirk at him. That bloody wanker. Who the hell does he think he is? Popping into the game at this stage and acting like he already has the highest score.
“Come on, Ran,” Muse is saying, trying to get the hooded fucker to eat a spicy tuna, crab, and avocado roll. “How do you know you won't like it unless you try it?”
“I'm not eating raw fish,” Ransom whispers from inside his hood, his dark eyes focused on the weird cocktails we all ordered. A vanilla avocado martini. It's absolutely atrocious, but I tossed mine back anyway. Alcohol is alcohol, right? “Thanks but no thanks.”
Muse chuckles and pops the food into his mouth, a sea of tiny white plates covering the black tablecloth in front of him. About half are empty.
“Well, enjoy your teriyaki chicken then,” he says, sliding his gaze over to Lilith as she examines the spread from the safety of Mikey's lap.
I fold my hands together behind my head and lean back in my chair for a moment.
“You don't even have to do raw,” Cope says, lifting up his own plate. “Start in the shallows and have a California roll or something with chicken in it. I think you'll like it if you just try it. You used to eat those little dried seaweed flakes at lunch back in school.”
“I always ate what my mom packed—even if I didn't like it.” Ransom smiles sharply, the expression this deep dark thing just carved raggedly into the scarred planes of his face. I stare at him for a really long time, this strange gaping emptiness inside of me that I blame all the hell over Lilith. How can I just sit here and watch some crying, blushing grieving girl and not feel her tears loosen up the glue that's holding me together?
I've been a right git, I think, thi
s uneasy feeling taking over my body. I've been a rancid prick.
Ransom … Jesus bleeding Christ.
I look away again and find Lilith staring at me, her eyes like two dark emeralds surrounded by thick black lashes.
“Can I ask you a question?” she says and I feel my mouth twist up to the side in a smirk. It's my go-to expression, that smirk. I can wear it morning, noon, and night, and get away with whatever I want. The only people who could get me to smile for real were Chloe, Harper, and Ransom. Two of the fuckers on that list are dead and gone, and the other …
I'm done staring at that arsehole right now. Fuck him.
“About?” I ask, because there are a lot of questions I don't want to answer, not even for my new girlfriend. Hmm. My girlfriend. This is certainly an unexpected development. I must be completely mental to not only date some girl I just met, but to share her with my fucking mates. Somehow though, that makes this easier, not harder, like the pressure's not just on me.
And the sex?
Well, shit. I haven't met many girls who could satisfy me by themselves let alone me and four other guys without batting a lash. When she's fucking us all, she gets this wild look in her eyes, like she's not entirely human. I love that, that feral gleam.
I can't wait for her to meet my fiancée.
That uptight English twat is going to flip her lid when she sees curvy, redheaded Lilith Tempest Goode standing on my parents' doorstep with me. Because that's exactly what's going to happen. When we head to London for the concert, I've got three nights set aside to take a little detour and visit my parents' place just outside of York. I haven't told anyone else about it yet, but that's what's happening.
Won't that be fun?
“That song you opened the show with tonight, what's the name of it?”
“After All There's Us,” I say, sitting back up and grabbing a pair of chopsticks with my right hand, tapping them against the surface of the table as I return Lilith's stare and pray that that's the end of this conversation. I don't want to fucking talk about my music, any of it. It's all too personal, too full of pain, too rife with meaning.
Roadie (Rock-Hard Beautiful Book 2) Page 10