Limelight

by Alyson Santos

  “Dude, you’re the best.”

  I manage not to laugh. “You got it, man. Mila Taylor is on my shitlist too.”

  “Wait, did she go after you too?”

  Ha.

  “Eh, we’ll talk about it another time. Let’s just say, right now your sister’s wedding might be our biggest show this spring.”

  “Fuck. I’m sorry, Jess. You guys are legit.”

  “Whatever.” A knock at the door precedes a muffled you okay? “Hey, I’ve gotta run, but it’s been good catching up. Send me the details.”

  “You got it.”

  Maybe this night isn’t a disaster after all.

  “Omigod! Should I call for help? Are you sick?” The tap becomes pounding. “Jesse! Talk to me, baby!”

  I run a hand over my face.

  “All good,” I mutter, and drown her out with the water.

  ∞∞∞

  A hot shower and booking a high-profile gig do wonders for my mood. I shake the water from my hair and wrap a towel around my waist. I feel somewhat guilty about my harsh appraisal of Becca as I pull open the door, especially when she no longer hovers right outside. Maybe she’s not as clingy as I feared. Clingy ones are the worst. Another hard-learned truth that required Luke’s intervention on tour.

  I cross into the main area of the room and…

  “Uh, hi,” I say to the four additional girls in my room. My room. My crowded, invaded room.

  “Oh hey, babe! These are my sisters: Rachel, Liz, Elisa, and Lara.” They look nothing alike, as in: “Sorority sisters!” she shrieks for the sake of my confusion.

  They all laugh at that and—shit.

  “I hope it’s okay. When I told them about us, they just really wanted to meet you. They were at the show too.”

  Us?

  “We love your music. We play your stuff at the house all the time,” the redhead says.

  “All the time,” Becca clarifies with an emphatic nod.

  “That’s great. Uh, you mind if I get dressed?”

  “What if we said yes?” The Blonde’s lashes flutter with mischief straight out of a ‘50s movie. A six-some? Is that even logistically possible?

  I force a tight smile, and open my suitcase.

  Whispers and giggles scatter behind me like I’m back in middle school. It’s not attractive and not at all how I planned for this night to go. No, I’m a pair of jeans and a t-shirt away from returning to the green room with the guys. Maybe they’ll be more interested in a college orgy.

  “Hey, I’ve got to get back to help pack up our gear. You ladies want to hang down in the green room?”

  “We’d rather hang here.”

  Becca is right there when she says it, and I take a step back.

  For two seconds I hesitate. They’re cute. I’m horny… and then I remember my track record.

  1. DEA Girl

  2. Regret and Bolt Girl

  3. Assault Girl

  4. Omigod Girl who’s now multiplied into five Stalker Girls

  Shoulder-Luke screams: Is it worth five Stalker Girls?

  Is anything worth five Stalker Girls?

  Then again, they’re cute and I’m horny.

  I suck in a breath and grab a change of clothes. “Thanks for the offer, but as I said, we’ve gotta pack up. You’re welcome to join us.”

  “Aww, you sure?” Becca asks. “We don’t mind waiting.” Her fingers trail up my arm, and I don’t know why I’m surprised by her boldness. She’s done nothing but overstep boundaries since the moment we met. I was okay with that until she multiplied.

  “Sorry,” I say with a shrug, and back out of reach. “I’ll meet you down there.”

  A chorus of whining reinforces my decision, and I’m relieved when they take the hint and file toward the door. I smile apologetically through a veil of disappointed looks as it clears out.

  What the fuck?

  I lower myself to the bed and run a hand through my hair. I’m twenty-three years old. A musician. Single. Why the hell can’t I find a sane girl? Not asking for a soulmate here, just a girl who won’t freaking try to kill me or invite an entire sorority house to intrude on our night together. Am I being unreasonable?

  As if on cue, my phone buzzes with an update from the Queen of Kingdom Crazy.

  Mila: Can I give you a ring?

  My heart pounds as I stare at the message. It’s a strange reaction, but not as strange as the part of me screaming why the hell not? That part types “sure” before the rest catches up.

  My phone erupts seconds after I give her my number.

  “Hiya, BP. Thanks for the chinwag.”

  “The chinwag?”

  My lips curve up. The accent, the slang, the sweet tone, who knew this is how the feared Mila Taylor would sound? Confident. Human. Sexy as hell, actually.

  Did I just think that?

  “You’ve never had a chinwag before?”

  “I honestly don’t know. I can guess from the context and etymology that the answer is yes.”

  “Etymology?”

  Is she impressed?

  “I’m not the dumb rocker you were expecting, huh?”

  “I never said you were dumb.”

  “No, just overrated and wasted talent.”

  “Which implies that you have talent to waste.”

  “I’m flattered.” I’m not.

  I can almost hear her smile through the phone, and my own grows. It fades when she draws in a long breath.

  “I’ve been doing more research.”

  Fuck, here we go.

  “Yeah?”

  “NEC was shut down three years ago for abusive practices.”

  The blow lands right in my gut. I close my eyes and lean forward.

  “I read reports of children being locked in the basement for days. No food, water, facilities. Beatings, restraints, god it was dreadful what they reported.”

  Tears push against my eyelids, and I fight them back.

  “I… It made me think. I went back and listened to your early songs again.”

  I refuse the opening she leaves for me. She’ll hear the pain in my voice if I speak.

  “When I got to ‘Candlelight’…”

  Thump. Thump. Thump.

  “God, Jesse. I just…”

  She’s choking up, and my dam fails.

  “What do you want, Mila? More of my soul to feed to the masses?”

  “What? No! I just—”

  “You, what?” The anger in my voice doesn’t do enough to mask the tears. I scrub at my eyes, blood burning hot through my veins.

  “I—”

  “Go ahead. Don’t be shy now!”

  “I’m ringing to say I’m sorry.”

  The air… what air? Her words float through my brain and out into the space around me. I almost see them drifting in wafts around the room.

  Sorry. Sorry.

  Everyone’s sorry. No one’s really sorry. Sorry is a tool. Sorry makes you think you won’t be thrown down a flight of stairs into a dark basement again. It makes you believe your father isn’t selling you to a record label for his own gain.

  “Jesse? You still there?”

  “What do you want from me? Wasn’t destroying my career, my life, enough for you?”

  “I…”

  She what? What?!

  “I can’t stop thinking about you.”

  The phone freezes in my hand.

  “What?”

  “Ah! I know, it’s just—”

  “Is this a joke? Another trick to humiliate me?”

  My hand is shaking. From anger? Fear? Hope? Desire? I have no clue and force my fingers into a fist.

  “I deserve that. Look, I’m not wrong about people very often, but when I am, I’ll admit it.”

  “That’s so nice for you.” Why am I so pissed? I knew who and what she was before she knew who and what I am.

  “Jesse, please—”

  “Hey, thanks for the chinwag, but I’ve got to help the guys pack up from our s
how.”

  I hang up before my heavy breathing gives anything else away. My face is slick from a few lingering tears when I run a hand over it and push up from the bed. I shuffle to the bathroom and do my best to wash away the conversation with a few splashes of cold water.

  But I’m too angry. Too charged. Too fucking alive for the first time in a long time.

  My phone rings on the bed in the other room, and I scream a curse.

  ∞∞∞

  I wake up to a strange ceiling. Not my comfortable blue one. This one is sterile. It’s… shit. I groan and reach for my phone. Messages from Natasha? I delete those. Also, from Parker who’s freaking out. Of course he is because it’s past checkout, and I never returned to them last night. I dial his number.

  “Jess! Where the fuck are you?”

  “In my room.”

  “What? No, I tried that about ten times last night.”

  “Yeah, must have been asleep.”

  “Wait, did you get high?”

  “Smoke weed in a hotel room? No.”

  “You know what I mean!”

  “Sorry I missed checkout. I’ll cover the fee.”

  “Fuck, Jess! Seriously?”

  “Just letting you know I’m on my way.”

  I hang up and toss my phone back on the pillow. He’s not going to make it to forty if he doesn’t chill. Then again, I don’t expect to make it to thirty.

  Getting high is so… relative. I squint toward the window and do my best to adjust to the bright light. Packing my suitcase requires more effort, and I end up cramming shit in until I can close it. A quick scan of the room and I’m headed to the lobby.

  I have more than Angry Parker waiting for me. Derrick doesn’t say a word, only marches toward our van parked out front. The trailer is attached which means it’s loaded and I’m the last item on the checklist.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Reece says, also avoiding my gaze as he moves toward the exit.

  So I messed up again, and they hate me. What else is new?

  “Sorry, guys,” I mutter as I climb into the van.

  I strap into the backseat by myself. Parker’s up front with Reece and throws on some music while Derrick leans between them from the seat behind.

  I dare another look at my phone. Mila called back after I hung up last night. Also sent a message I haven’t opened. Why should I? So she can tell me more about the shit history I’ve lived? Boohoo, my father was a junkie. Boohoo, my childhood was Hell. No one cares about your shit past. I’m not an idiot; I’m a good story. My pulse is already racing and I haven’t even opened the damn thing.

  Jesse,

  I’m sorry. Honestly, I am. I get why you don’t trust me. I’m in New York for a bit, can we meet up for a bevvy?

  Mila

  What? Fuck no! So why’s my blood pounding? Why is my heart suddenly deciding to do more than push oxygen through my body?

  And why the hell do I tap out: can you come down to Philly?

  13: JANE

  I don’t tell the guys what I’m doing. They’re still pissed about the Crystal Casino thing, and I still don’t understand why I’m even here.

  If I’d never seen a photo of Mila Taylor, I would’ve picked her out of the crowd at Benson’s. I almost smirk at the polished, or should I say posh, raven-haired stunner seated at a booth in our favorite dive bar. I could have suggested a trendy spot like Estates, but why? She can be cryptic and confusing on my own turf.

  Her back straightens when she sees me, exposing the figure I’ve admired on my laptop screen. Damn. I really should’ve taken her to Estates. I swallow and remember that I’m getting hard for Mila Taylor. I hate this woman. Hate her. She’s ruined my life, everything I’ve worked for. I hate her so much she’s re-lit fuses I thought were dead.

  “Jesse?”

  That accent though.

  “Hey.” I slide in across from her. Shit, there’s no avoiding her gaze now. It’s full-on lightning and supernova explosions shooting from those icy blue irises. I feel her stare deep in a place no one is allowed. And her scent. Scarlet, almost purple. It flows at me in waves I haven’t experienced since my ceiling orgy.

  This was a huge mistake.

  “Thanks for meeting me.”

  “For a bevvy?” Crap. I’m flirting, aren’t I?

  Her smile is something I won’t forget. “I believe you call it ‘a drink.’”

  “Right. What can I get you?”

  “Nowt. I’m buying.”

  I raise my brows, eyes drawn to shiny full lips. She scans me slowly as I adjust my position on the bench. When her attention freezes on my mouth, my body rebels. I don’t think I’ve ever experienced anything like this woman.

  “Whatever IPA they have on draft, then.”

  “A beer man, eh?”

  I shrug. “Alcohol isn’t my vice.”

  “Not your main one anyway.” She adds enough humor to force my inhale.

  I’m charged with her. Tension threads through my back, infusing into primed muscle straining for release. At this second, I could handle a sorority house after all.

  “What’s your drink?” I ask. “Let me guess, margarita? Cosmo?”

  “Hmm… you’ll see.”

  She slips from the booth, giving me a full view for the first time. Whoa. She’s a ten. An eleven. The daughter of a British rock legend and supermodel who’s had all the advantages and enjoys all of life’s luxuries. And here she is, crunching through peanut shells at Benson’s to buy me a beer. Because? Guess we haven’t gotten to that part yet.

  I watch Marcus, tonight’s bartender, fumble through a rare misstep in his come-ons. Even he’s intimidated. Damn.

  I can’t help the grin on my face when she returns with our drinks. There’s my pint and her… is that a jack and coke?

  Of course it is.

  “Nice choice,” I say as she slides the glass to me.

  “Shift up.”

  And I obey.

  Her heat is tangible when she climbs up next to me on the bench. Her smell, intoxicating. Deep scarlet throbs in a halo around her as she shifts until our thighs touch.

  I have to stop this before my brain completely fails.

  “Why are we here, Mila?”

  “I told you.”

  “A truce?”

  “A cleansing. I can’t get you out of my head.”

  This comes with a penetrating stare that smashes through me.

  I take a hard swallow of my beer. “Really? I’m so captivating?”

  “I had to see you in person to make sense of it all.”

  “Make sense of what?”

  Her gaze traces my features, lands on my mouth again.

  “This. You.”

  She leans in. I’m already there.

  Her lips are soft and demanding. They dig into mine, hunting, until I groan. I reach into those gorgeous tresses. Lace and satin on my fingers, I tug to release a whimper from her. She tastes like angels’ breath and rainbows and all the things she’s not. Her hand threads into my own messy hair and locks us together. I part her lips to find her tongue, so damn ravenous we are. When her palm slides up my thigh and grips me hard, I’m done for.

  “Fuck,” I let out as she massages to the rhythm of her own breaths.

  “God, I wanted this.” She attacks my mouth again, shoving me into the wall of the booth this time. Her hand slides into my jeans and time just… stops. The room, the noise, everything is gone. Just a pulsating connection, heavy, thunderous.

  Sparks rush through the black space around us, pinging my skin and slicing through to my blood. When I reach under her shirt, she gasps out the most delicious response. I’m starving for the rest.

  I run my finger under the wire of her bra, enjoying the way dark lashes respond to the brush of tender skin.

  “Going for another headline?” I mean it too. I know this isn’t real. I know… I don’t know. No, I don’t, and I hate this woman for making me desperate for her poison. My brain is already re
ading tomorrow’s post but my body doesn’t care. It’s experiencing a connection that’s worth the pain.

  “No! No.” She pulls back. Her palms lock on my cheeks and direct me to her eyes. I’m jolted awake with a view of the entire bar staring at us. I still don’t care.

  “I’m sorry, Jesse. This isn’t why I came.”

  “To seduce me?”

  “For a headline.”

  “So you were trying to seduce me?”

  She returns my smile, lips hovering just a breath away from mine. I still feel the heat of her embers, even pinker after our collision. I run my tongue over them and draw her in again. She softens into me, her hands running up my back and curving around my shoulders.

  “Do you live close by?” she whispers.

  “Two blocks.”

  “Can we go to yours?”

  “I live with the band.”

  “So?”

  “So they hate you.”

  “More than you do?”

  She does it again. Draws that smile people don’t earn anymore.

  “Nobody hates you more than I do. Let’s go.”

  ∞∞∞

  “This is Jane,” I announce as we brush past the guys sprawled out in front of the TV.

  A few mumbled hellos drift over, but it’s game-time so my roommates barely look up from the screen as I pull her toward my room.

  Her sexy smile is back when I close the door. “What’s so funny?” I ask.

  “This.” She waves her hand in the air.

  “My room?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s a mess, sorry.”

  She shakes her head. “This is exactly how I pictured it.” She moves from pile to pile, stopping at the desk for a closer inspection.

  “You pictured me as a slob.”

  She chuckles and holds up my notebook. “No, I pictured you as a mad genius. This is Einstein’s lair if he were a musician instead of a scientist.”

  My amusement fades as her gaze moves over me again before resting on the bed. At least my sheets are clean. Parker has his neuroses; I have mine. Pristine bed: another relic of my NEC days.

  “So, is this it?” She holds up my notebook and lowers herself to the mattress when I nod.

  She shouldn’t be touching that. No one gets to touch that. Even Parker knows better, but here I am watching a stranger I hate rummage through my fucked-up head. She stops on the last page, and my stomach constricts. Her expression, so confident a moment ago shatters before my eyes.