Roadie (Rock-Hard Beautiful Book 2)

by C. M. Stunich

  Mikey sighs.

  “I'm already a cheater,” he says, but he meets my eyes when he says it, owns his mistake. “But I won't be one with you.”

  I smile as he drops a kiss to my mouth, refusing to part his lips, just breathing against me.

  The trick works, making my nibbles pebble, my cunt tighten, my skin flush. It's hard to think about crying when hormones are crashing into my heart like tidal waves.

  “Let's go,” he says, taking my hand and pulling me through the quiet darkness of the bus, outside and toward a squat white building squashed between two much taller ones. There's a set of steps and a big stone arch that lead into the backstage area where the rest of my boys are waiting.

  Paxton is smoking a cigarette—despite the fact that it's illegal in New York State to smoke inside—and tossing glares at Octavia. As soon as he sees me, he curls his arm around my neck and pulls me away from Michael, putting his lips to my ear.

  “You are in big bloody trouble,” he tells me, but he's had all day to get used to the fact that I invited Octavia to stay. Technically, I had no right to extend that offer to her. I guess I was pulling a Muse there, overreaching a little. But surprisingly, Paxton didn't unleash any unwarranted anger my way. “I swear to god if she oversteps her boundaries by a single inch, I'm canning Octavia's arse and having yours for breakfast.”

  He lets go of me and continues to puff on his cigarette, his wicked pouty mouth twisting into its usual slash of a smile. As he leans back, resuming his position against the wall, I catch Muse's eyes and try not to grin too stupidly at him.

  “What's the plan for tonight?” Cope asks, standing next to Ransom and watching me carefully. They're all doing that right now, staring at me like they're worried. I wonder if it's my lack of emotion that's stressing them out, or their fear of what's to come.

  “It's okay, you guys,” I say, slipping my hands together behind my head, crossing my ankles. This is the perfect moment for my strength pose. “I've got this. Stop freaking out and play an amazing show to knock the socks off these New Yorkers.”

  “Don't hide what you're feeling, not right now,” Ransom says, stealing Pax's cigarette and taking a few drags on it with hands that are remarkably steady. He's got one of those long, loose tanks on with the giant armholes. I wish he'd wear them everyday; I can see all his muscles when he moves.

  And fuck, did he get twice as handsome since making up with Pax?

  Ransom smiles at me through the stubble on his face and smokes his stolen cigarette.

  “I'm not hiding anything,” I promise as I smooth my hands down the front of the ruched dress. It hits me mid-thigh and has a square neckline that shows off my cleavage. It's my own dress, salvaged from one of my boxes. I'd actually bought it to wear to a Halloween party with Kevin once upon a time, but he'd called late that night, after I was all dressed and ready to go, and cancelled on me.

  I wonder if that was the night he caught the disease he gave me?

  I shiver.

  I can't deal with thoughts of Kevin right now.

  “I'm waiting to process my emotions. I'm saving them for later.”

  “Lil, this is a week's worth of fresh, raw feelings that you've got in the bank. Once you let that wall down, it might come as a bit of a shock.” Muse tilts his head to the side, his mohawk in these vibrant silver spikes on top of his head. “The first week you were with us, you cried a lot. Which is good. That's what you should be doing in a situation like this, but since Atlanta … not much, Cutie.”

  “I'll be fine,” I say, feeling this flutter in my chest that surprisingly enough doesn't have anything to do with the boys, just nerves. Tight, tight bundles of nerves.

  “You don't have to be tough,” he tells me, meeting my gaze with his copper-emerald-sapphire one. “Just remember that: we're here for you.”

  “And I'm here for you—to cheer you on. Please just get up on that stage and play.”

  “I'm the king of holding it all in,” Muse says one last time, just before Octavia calls Beauty in Lies up to the stage, “and my advice is: fucking don't.”

  He leans forward and kisses me on either cheek, on my forehead, and then my lips. The other boys do their own variations of the same thing—Paxton never kisses without sliding his tongue between my lips which I don't at all mind—and then they pull away, disappearing through the black curtain.

  To my left there's a set of steps to the second floor, leading to a hallway with private opera boxes. Octavia told me during our coffee date that the first one is reserved for staff; that's where I decide to watch the show from.

  I show my VIP badge to the security guard at the bottom of the steps and head up, pushing past a small black curtain and finding myself in a curved balcony. It protrudes out over the churning crowd below, a few theater style seats lined up in two small rows.

  I skirt around them and head to the railing, curling my fingers around it and leaning forward, hair swinging with the motion, and manage to catch the first glimpse of Beauty in Lies, briefly frozen, waiting to start the show. As I clap with everyone else, the building shutters, the music pouring from the speakers and seducing the audience. Me, I've already been seduced. The only thing that can make me like these guys any better is time. Otherwise, I'm completely fucking sold.

  In serious lust.

  Feeling the cliff of logic and reason crumble beneath my feet, falling into the abyss of love, that mysterious force that's wielded for both good and evil, that's triumphant at times, apologetic at others. It's dangerous, too, especially in a situation like this, with five guys balanced on the tip of my heart, using me as a compass to point the whole group in the right direction.

  If I want this to work, I have to be strong as hell. Dating—being in love with—five people offers five times the affection, five times the romance, five times the sex. But it also requires five times the work. Being a queen, even one with such ardent worshippers, requires sacrifice and balance, a steady hand and the heavy weight of responsibility.

  But I want this. So damn much.

  As hard as it'll be to visit that town, that house, those memories, I remind myself that I could be doing this alone, stumbling into Gloversville with nobody and nothing, opening the door to an empty living room and having to carry the weight of my father's ashes alone.

  I got lucky though; I got backup.

  A few roadies slip into the balcony with me, pausing when they see me standing there.

  “You're welcome to stay,” I tell them, inviting them over with a smile, wondering what it'd be like to work on the tour, so close to the boys and yet so far away at the same time. That was me with my own life not that long ago, working my ass off for goals and dreams that weren't mine, taking care of a man with an ego big enough to match up to an entire rock band's worth of cockiness. But at the end of it all, what did I have left? Less than these people will have after this tour is over. At least they got to see the shows.

  Fuck.

  I was a roadie in my own life, going through the motions, hanging out, waiting around for something to happen. I'm not saying these guys don't work hard—they do—but then again, so did I. I worked really hard at cooking, cleaning, entertaining. I didn't dig deep and try to listen to my own music.

  I won't make that same mistake this time.

  First, I say goodbye to dad properly. Then, I embrace the gift I've been given.

  I start chasing my dream, even if right now all it looks like is an incorporeal cloud in the distance.

  As I watch the boys, it occurs to me that right now, they're my muses, the endless well pouring a creative fire into my blood. Halfway through their first song, I end up sprinting back to the bus to grab my tablet, taking it back to the balcony to sit in one of the theater chairs so I can draw.

  I draw them, their music, my own feelings.

  The concert winds to a close, but as it does, I realize that I have an idea.

  I know what I'm going to do with my art.

  I'm going to
paint my journey from self-appointed roadie to groupie to … the woman I want to be, someone with serious moxie. I'm going to paint my hurts and my struggles, the boys and theirs. And then I'm going to snag a fucking gallery.

  Even if I never make a cent, I want people to at least see my work. If I can do that, well, I'd consider that a success. We all have stories to tell and this, this is mine.

  Once my boys play their last notes, I've got a series of concept sketches and an idea. Clearly, I still have a lot of work ahead of me, but I feel like I've got direction now, someplace for that compass to point.

  When I meet the guys downstairs, I don't even speak, I just turn the screen over and show them the picture I sketched.

  “This is what your music looks like inside my head,” I tell them.

  The expressions on their faces tell me all I need to know.

  I'm on the right track.

  New York City isn't the easiest place to park a massive entourage of buses and trailers, especially when the venue the label booked has other acts pulling in at ungodly hours of the morning. So as soon as the show's done, the staff starts packing up and getting ready to make the seven hour drive into Canada.

  “There's no show tomorrow night,” Copeland says as he takes my hand and pulls me into the minivan to sit beside him, “so there's no rush, okay? We'll just take as much time as you need.”

  “I'm fine, really,” I say, still high from the rush of creation, from making art, from interpreting the things I feel for the guys and their music into something that can be seen and experienced by other people.

  But come on, my dad is fucking dead.

  I know that I'm going to feel something, and I'm sure it'll be awful. For right now though, I'm holding it together.

  Cope curls his long fingers through mine, bathing my skin with his heat, challenging my heart to a race, one that it'll never win because with him around, it refuses to pause that galloping beat, sprinting endless loops around the track.

  My eyes lift up to meet his, a cool aqua blue in the dark. His faux hawk is still perfect, even after rocking out hard enough to shake me up a little, light a fire under my ass.

  “I want to have a gallery show,” I confess to him as we wait for the others to change, gather whatever they might need for the car ride and pile in with us. I'm pretty sure Michael's driving again. I don't think anyone cares enough to challenge him on that one. I still think Paxton is slightly more dominant, but he's also a spoiled shit. I can't imagine him actually wanting to take the wheel. “And I don't want to rent out a place either. I want to earn a spot somewhere, get people talking.”

  “With the kind of work you started tonight, I don't think it'll be all that difficult,” Cope says, our thighs lined up, his jeans pressed up to my naked calf, half a naked thigh. I pick at the edge of the black dress with my other hand.

  “The chances of making money at that sort of thing are slim to none, but I think I care more about people seeing my work than I do about raking in a fortune.” I pause and suck on my lower lip for a second, playing with the charms on my bracelet. “Do you think that NDA I signed will affect my ability to paint you guys?”

  “No,” Cope says firmly. “You might not have read it, but Muse has.”

  “You're kidding me?” I ask, turning to look at Cope. I think I might be gaping. Copeland just grins at me.

  “Nope. It's pretty basic actually, very dry. It's mostly there to protect the label and their interests, not us. If you wanted to, you could snap a photo of you naked with all of us and post it on Facebook.”

  I grin back at him.

  “Why would I want to share that? You guys are mine. The social media buzzards can eat carrion for all I care.”

  Cope laughs and leans his shoulder into mine, resting our heads together.

  “When we get back to Seattle, I want you to meet my mom. It'll probably be an awful introduction. She might even scare the shit out of you. Fuck, she might even convince you to get as far away from me as possible.”

  “No,” I tell him as he squeezes my hand, “that won't happen. I'm dating you, not your mother. And you know, you were right that we should be taking care of each other. You can lean on me if you need to. I'm not going to break.”

  “You mean you'll take me on another bookstore date if I want one?”

  “I bet you need a lot of bookstore dates considering how much you read.”

  “I bet you're right. I'm used to going alone; it'll be nice to have somebody around to stack my purchases on.”

  “Hah, so I'm your romance novel mule now, am I?” I ask and Cope laughs, the sound as light and weightless as birds' wings. Obviously he's not just the carefree boy next door that he pretends to be, but I think he is inherently gentle, giving, a caretaker.

  “We're just about ready,” Muse says, surprising me by climbing into the driver's seat. He looks at me and Cope in the rearview mirror, his glasses perched on his nose. “Michael has shitty night vision,” he explains without my even having to ask. “And Paxton's usually at least partially buzzed at all times. It just makes sense for me to drive.”

  “I told you I'd do it,” Ran says, slipping into the van and climbing into the back row. He pauses briefly to give me a kiss on the forehead.

  “I thought you and Pax might want some snogging time in the backseat,” Muse says, timing his delivery perfectly with Paxton's arrival at the van's open door.

  “Be careful or I might just come for you next,” he says and I almost choke on my own breath when I turn to look at him … and find him wearing jeans and a t-shirt. “What?” he asks, like he's so damn innocent. But I see that mouth curving into an evil smile. “I can't dress down and look lazy and unkempt like the rest of these bastards?”

  The tight black Beauty in Lies tee stretches across Pax's muscles, leaving both his arms bare and dripping with tattoos. I hardly ever get to see those since they're always covered up. It's too dim with just the tiny overhead light on in the van to make out details, but the overall effect is stunning. Oh, and that ass in denim … I pinch it when he moves past me to sit with Ransom.

  For a few minutes there, it just feels like we're going on a road trip.

  I almost forget what's waiting at the end of it.

  Michael appears with Octavia, speaking briefly with her outside before he turns and shuts the back door for me, climbing into the front seat and buckling his belt.

  “As long as we're in Montréal for the show the day after tomorrow, we can do whatever we want.”

  “Are … your security guards coming with us?” I ask, almost dreading the answer. Having random strangers following us in a mall, at a club, or on a beach is one thing. But at my dad's house? I don't like the idea of it.

  “No, there's no need for them with what we're doing,” Mikey says as Muse starts the engine and the headlights flare to life. “It's just us, Lil.”

  He glances over his shoulder to meet my gaze as I breathe out a small sigh of relief.

  The van rolls forward, toward the already open gate, and onto a still busy New York street. For a while there nobody speaks. Me, because I'm checking out the shimmering lights of the city, the towering skyscrapers with a thousand winking eyes. Cope because he's watching me watch the city. Ran and Pax … I glance at them surreptitiously.

  There are definitely hands inside of pants back there.

  I bite my lip to hold back a girly giggle. I have no idea why watching them together excites me so much; it just does. I have an intense urge to crawl back there and get in on the action, but I don't want to let go of Cope's hand. That, and I also refuse to take my eyes off my pink leather purse, sitting on the seat next to me. Inside of it are my mother's ashes. I feel strangely protective of her tonight, maybe because I know I'm going to make the boys walk to the cemetery with me to spread her ashes.

  Jesus.

  I breathe out suddenly, my pulse racing.

  I still need to call the cemetery and see about getting my dad's name added to the Go
ode family mausoleum. I wonder briefly why I haven't done it already, but inside, I know. I wasn't ready to take that step, that final act that would seal his name in stone forever. Roy Goode.

  Deep breath, Lil.

  “I found the listing for the house,” Cope says quietly a while later. He shows me his phone, but I can't look at any of the pictures. No way. I just need to get there and say goodbye in person. “The listing price is pretty low.”

  “Gloversville isn't exactly hot ticket real estate,” I say, making my voice light. Or I try to anyway. It comes out sounding kind of … husky? “That's not surprising.”

  “You know,” Cope starts, scrolling through the listing details, “it wouldn't be that big of a purchase for the five of us to chip in on—”

  Before he can finish that sentence, I lean in and kiss him with everything I've got, a surge of feeling bursting up from my heart like a sea of butterflies.

  “Cope,” I say against his mouth as I pull back slightly, “that's one of the sweetest, most considerate offers I've ever heard in my life.” He smiles against my lips, but I don't think he knows what I'm going to say next. “But that house … I've decided that it's actually a good thing to let it go. I want some other family to move in there and enjoy the kind of life that we used to have in it. After losing everyone that called that place home with me, it just isn't home anymore, you know?”

  “Ah,” he says, his breath warm, inviting me to kiss him again. “Fuck, you're right.”

  “It's stupid and cliché, but home really is where the heart is. Right now, my heart is here with the five of you.”

  “Goddamn it, Lil,” Michael says, looking back at me again. “When you talk like that … It makes me fucking crazy.”

  “Well, it's true,” I say, sweeping back red hair with my right hand. “So if you guys live in Seattle, then that's where I'll make my home. Although I admit I'm a little sad that we won't all be together anymore.”

  There's a long stretch of silence that follows.

  I wonder what they're all thinking about, but by then, I'm starting to recognize the countryside and sweat begins to drip down the sides of my face.