Bad Rules (A Wild Minds Novel)

by Charlotte West

  His scowl could’ve lit me on fire. “You going to let her talk to me like that, your own brother?” Asher asked Warren.

  “Jesus,” Warren said, swiping a hand down his scruffy face. “You guys going to be at each other’s throats the whole tour?”

  Addy brightened. “You’re coming on tour with us?”

  “Surprise!” I shouted, then we hugged some more and jumped around each other in a fangirly sort of way.

  “Fuck,” Asher drawled out. “Now we’re never going to get rid of her. She’s like a bad case of herpes, that shit never goes away.”

  I ceased my jumping and hugging. “You would know, wouldn’t you?” He could take his hate boner and shove it up his ass.

  He turned away, lips pinned shut. Had I hurt his feelings? A small seed of remorse planted in my stomach and began to grow. How had we come to this? We’d fought before, but we’d never been outright mean.

  “Addy, why don’t you show Lily the guest room?” Warren cut in. “Ash, you need a shower and a shit ton of deodorant.”

  Asher cringed, lifting an arm to sniff a pit. Addy hooked her arm through mine, drawing me away.

  “I can’t believe you’re taking her side,” Ash grouched to Warren.

  As we turned a corner Warren replied, “You mean my pregnant wife’s side? She needs her best friend right now.” Pause. “Christ. You’re a moody little bitch when you’re not getting any.”

  “I’ve been getting plenty.” Why did it hurt so much to hear Ash say that?

  “Your hand doesn’t count.”

  “Hardy har har.”

  Addy began to chatter about the tour. Warren and Ash’s voices drowned out. I interrupted Addy, “Why is he here anyway?”

  “Oh,” Addy stopped, surprised. “He practically lives here. I think he’s lonely.” She stuck out her lower lip in a faux pout.

  I snorted. “Typical vagrant behavior.”

  Addy rolled her eyes, took my arm, and began leading me again. I blinked and saw Ash’s beautiful, tortured face on the back of my eyelids. Once upon a time, we’d burned so bright together. How did it all go so wrong?

  Then

  Things move fast when you’re living life on the edge.

  Example, one day you’re hooking up in a club bathroom and going on an all-night sex bender, and the next you’re shacking up with your temporary fling. It wasn’t serious, I told myself. I was living in the moment, nothing more. Plus, I was saving a butt load. Sharing a room with Ash was purely economics.

  We were in Warsaw. I’d left Ash sleeping, sneaking away at the break of dawn to the National Museum. I’d lost myself in fifteenth century Dutch and Italian artists like Botticelli. Minutes turned to hours. Day turned to evening. Hunger led me to Old Town: beautiful pastel-colored buildings constructed in the twelfth century. I’d found a small café and ordered a beer, a zapiekanka, and rose ice cream. Most of being a woman is convincing yourself yogurt is a treat. Excitement fizzled through me. I loved local cuisine almost as much as old paintings.

  My parents thought art history an impractical major choice. Their disapproval kept me from diving in. But like all great loves, some things can’t be denied. Museums, cathedrals, and castles were my bread and butter, the breath to my life. Asher didn’t care for this. Not my love for art history, but my disappearing act. Many days I returned to a grouchy rocker. I didn’t mind. Especially since he took his anger out on me in the most tantalizing ways. Riling Ash was my new favorite hobby.

  “Will you take our picture?” A cute guy with a smile as huge as mine handed me a camera. Behind him, an equally cute girl waited. I took the camera from him, our hands brushed, totally innocent.

  I didn’t hear Asher approaching, didn’t see him until he was shoving his way between the tourist and me. The camera fell from my hand, lens shattering on the cobblestone. Asher’s arms flew up, pushing the tourist. The tourist stumbled back. A cobblestone caught his foot and he fell down.

  “Asher!” My mouth locked in gaping horror. Expression tight, Asher’s fist drew back. I scrambled from my sitting position and inserted myself between my angry rocker lover and the kind tourist. At the last second, Asher redirected, his fist slammed into a wooden column.

  “Lily,” Asher bellowed, hands flexing, knuckles dripping blood. “Get the fuck out of the way.”

  Goddamn mother fucking asshole.

  Most rockers were famous for their tempers, and Asher was no exception. I imagined it had something to do with ego, that and alcohol. I noted wafts of liquor on Ash’s breath. We partied hard, maybe too much. I knelt by the tourist. His girlfriend hesitated, then stepped closer. Together, we helped him up.

  “Is this what you’ve been doing? Getting cozy with some douche and drinking?” Apparently Asher hadn’t spied the worried girlfriend nearby.

  I leveled him with a look. “You mean taking pictures of a couple on vacation? Yes, that’s exactly what I’ve been doing.”

  Asher glared at me. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere!” he roared.

  We were making a scene. Soon we’d draw the attention of the policja. The tourist stood, a little dazed and a lot scared. I poked Ash in the chest. “Apologize.” I gestured to the tourist, who was carefully backing away.

  The anger was still a live wire within him. Ash jerked his chin. “Just a misunderstanding. No hard feelings, yeah?”

  He and his girlfriend scrambled off.

  I pinched the bridge of my nose, embarrassed and riled beyond belief. When that did nothing to calm me, I released a heavy breath and took off, leaving my half-eaten Zapiekanka and rose ice cream behind. It was sad, really. I speed walked all the way back to our cheap hotel, Asher stalking behind me.

  I slammed into the hotel room. The door bounced off the wall leaving a hole. I hoped he didn’t think I would be paying for that. Asher stood at the threshold, eyes aglow with hellfire.

  I struggled to find calm. I pictured oceans, sandy beaches, palm trees. Nothing brought sanctuary. All I saw was red. Finally, I hissed, “What were you thinking?” My fingernails dug into the palms of my hands.

  His mouth was a harsh, unapologetic line. “Wake up and you’re nowhere to be found. Then you’re gone all day. You left your phone.” My cell sat on the nightstand. It was a flaw of mine, forgetting things, leaving them behind. Nothing mattered when I was on the hunt for great art history or a good book.

  I sighed heavily. “I don’t think this is going to work.” I paused, searching for the right words. “I’m a feminist.” I thought that would explain it all. Despite our deep connection, I wasn’t used to answering to anyone. I didn’t want to answer to anyone. I needed to be free.

  A muscle bounced in Ash’s cheek. “Well, shit,” he spat out, voice incredulous. “I wish you would’ve told me that sooner.”

  The dreaded f-word always spooked men. I should’ve known it would come to this. I started giving a little of myself, the tiniest slice, and I was too much to handle. Too opinionated. Too independent. Just too much. Most dudes had a white-knight complex. They wanted to save you, needed to feel needed. Mentally I packed my suitcases and checked into my own room. This was fun while it lasted. Alas, all things must come to an end. I tried to keep my heart from hurting, from falling clean out of my chest. He went on, “You’re right, this isn’t going to work.” He sighed, placing his hands on his fine hips. “Because I’m a menninist.”

  My gaze flew to his. “A what—”

  “You heard me. I am a man’s activist. I believe men are sorely underrepresented in the world, especially in the areas of music, art, sports, and business.”

  I sputtered. He was joking. He had to be joking.

  He put a hand to his chest, all sincere and serious. His knuckles were bloody and bruised. “It’s worse for white men like me. Let’s go get a drink, and we can discuss our diverging agendas.”

  I scowled at him. “You’re a rotten asshole, Asher Price.”

  He nodded once. “I’ve been called worse.”
<
br />   I stared at the ceiling trying to contain my smile. A menninist. Funny. I wasn’t aware Ash had a sense of humor. His emotions ranged from angry to less angry. Still, I couldn’t let him get away with what he’d done. “Don’t do that again,” I reprimanded softly.

  “Do what?” he asked, as if he didn’t know.

  “Don’t go off half-cocked and threaten to punch defenseless tourists in foreign countries. That’s the last time that happens or this,” I gestured between the two of us, “isn’t happening.”

  “Got it,” he said, voice completely devoid of emotion.

  “I don’t do jealousy,” I explained further.

  “Not going to apologize for who I am. I got feelings. I express them, no shame in that.” I admired and hated that about him, how he owned his emotions, was able to accept himself—the good, the bad, and the downright ugly.

  “It’s obnoxious, what you just did.” I paused. “You embarrassed me.” My voice was small.

  Contrition dawned on his beautiful, scruffy face. “Ah, shit. Now that, I am sorry about.” I turned my cheek, lest he see how much his apology touched me. “I do dumb shit sometimes. I know. Fuck, I’m glad you didn’t meet me in high school. I was even more stupid then.” My mouth parted. The way Asher spoke indicated something deeper, an insecurity perhaps. Before I could question him further, he went on. “Don’t hate me, sweetheart.”

  I sighed, completely unraveled by his vulnerability. “How’s your hand?”

  He gravitated closer to me. I drifted his way too—some unseen force pulled us together. We were like magnets, opposites attracting. He shook out his digits. “I eased up on the punch. It’s not so bad.”

  His breath fanned my face. I clutched his injured hand, caressing the bruised knuckles with my thumbs. “How are you going to play tonight?”

  “It’s not broken. I’ll manage. It’s not like anyone is coming to see us play anyway.” Poor Asher. Wild Minds was making a comeback, but it was slow. They were opening for Miss Americana, a band that had three opening acts. They were number one on the roster.

  “Tell me you forgive me,” he demanded. He cupped my cheek with his good hand, then proceeded to trail hot kisses down my neck. My affectionate wolf.

  Physical persuasion was my favorite. “I forgive you.”

  “Tell me you don’t hate me,” he murmured against the papery-thin skin of my neck.

  “I don’t hate you,” I said, and it was true. I found his turbulent temper frustrating. But I wouldn’t trade our worst day together for my best day alone. I was falling hard and way too fast. I whispered, “I could never hate you.”

  Now

  My mouth parted. The tiniest bit of drool collected in the corner. “He’s Scottish, you say?”

  Addy smiled in confirmation, rubbing her belly. My nose was practically pressed against the glass. She’d brought me upstairs to check out the nursery, but my attention had been diverted. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed a sandy beach and the bright blue Pacific. Below, there was an expansive patio with a turquoise pool. And in that pool? One of the finest male specimens I’d ever seen. Granted, I couldn’t see his face, as he was swimming laps. But I could see his body, long, lean, and well-muscled.

  Addy stretched and collapsed into a plush rocking chair. “Kelly has agreed to come on tour with us. I hired him behind Warren’s back.” My friend’s smile was smug. She’d been playing her husband since day one of the pregnancy. Using the little bun in her oven to get whatever the hell she wanted. Warren, the baby wants peppermint ice cream. Warren, the baby needs you to massage my back. Warren, the baby can’t sleep, we need a new bed. Kelly had been Addy’s personal murse (man plus nurse) slash bodyguard when she’d been injured on tour with Billy’s band a year ago. He’d become a pseudo-member of their weird, rock-star family. Warren and Asher hated him. Which meant I immediately adored him. The enemy of my enemy is my friend.

  A sniffle drew me away from the window. A single, lonely tear tracked down Addy’s cheek. I knelt at her side, clasping her swollen fingers in mine. “What’s the matter, slugger?”

  “I’m not ready to have this baby.”

  Boxes littered the nursery. A mirrored dresser and matching changing table lined the walls, a white wooden crib suitable for princes and princesses sat in the middle of the floor. Everything looked put together or well on its way. But isn’t that how it always is? Perfect on the outside, slowly unraveling on the inside. Luckily for my bestie, I’d dabbled in becoming a doula once. I was totally, partially qualified (I didn’t quite finish all my coursework) to see her through this delicate time.

  I squeezed her hands. My thighs were beginning to shake from holding the squatting position so long. This was to be expected, since I liked cake more than I liked running. “Trust me, you’re ready. You’ve got Warren, your dad, Daisy, and me. You’re going to be an awesome mom.” It struck me then how different our lives were now. Addy had a house, a husband, and a baby on the way. Not so long ago, I’d used a piece of garlic bread as a napkin. “Plus, just think, someday you’ll be rocking in this room, your little baby girl in your arms, Warren close by, and you’ll think, ‘Wow! Everyone here has been inside my vagina.’”

  Ah, a laugh. That was what I was going for.

  “I don’t have any newborn onesies,” she stated. The way she said it was as if she thought I might draw and quarter her for the revelation.

  I drew a deep breath. My tone matched the seriousness on her face. “Okay. That’s no problem. Let’s get one of Warren’s many minions to run out and buy some. Or better yet, let’s Amazon Prime that shit.”

  “No.” Addy’s denial was swift and instantly took the wind out of my sails.

  I blinked. “Come again?”

  “I need you to go to the store and buy some.” She was up out of her seat. Damn, for a pregnant woman she sure moved fast. I followed her down a sun-drenched hallway. It really was unfair how awesome Addy’s house was. She took a sharp right and walked through a set of massive wooden double doors.

  Addy’s master bedroom smelled faintly of her perfume. She’d worn the scent for years: roses and lemons. I found her digging through her purse. She withdrew a hundred-dollar bill. “Think that’s enough?” she pressed the cash into my palm.

  “I don’t know. Onesies can’t cost that much, can they?”

  “I don’t know.” Addy’s eyes scrunched in confusion. Adorable worry lines furrowed her brow.

  “How many onesies do you want?”

  This question further distressed her. Addy’s eyes immediately welled with tears. “I don’t know that either!”

  I hurried to calm her. “No reason you should know yet.” I crunched the bill in my hand and began to slowly back from the room, stepping out of the line of fire. “I’m going to get you just the right number of onesies.”

  I cleared the room and hightailed it down the hall. A yell from Addy startled me and I paused. She appeared at the doors, cheeks flushed. “Take Ash with you.”

  My mouth formed a single, mutinous line. I don’t think so.

  “Don’t you give me that look, Lily Phillips-Thomas. You don’t know the area, and you don’t have a car here. Take Asher with you. I’m not asking you, I’m telling you.”

  My nose scrunched up of its own accord. Addy didn’t need to worry about becoming a mother. She had it down pat.

  “Tell me again why we’re here among the masses.”

  I turned to the bassist of Wild Minds. I’d discovered the blond behemoth in Addy’s kitchen munching away on leftover Chipotle. He’d begged me not to tell Addy I’d caught him red-handed eating her food. I’d sworn myself to secrecy in exchange for an escort to the nearest store. He’d begrudgingly obliged. I wasn’t above extortion. “Wow,” I deadpanned. “Glad you haven’t lost touch with your roots.”

  Lix flicked his hand. “Puhlease.”

  “Just follow me. We’ll be quick. And don’t touch anything.” The sexy bassist had wandering hands. That, coupled with a bad
case of OCD and a semidisorganized store, had the poor guy nearly crawling out of his skin. Lix’s only answer was to lower the brim of his baseball hat, a flimsy disguise. He kept his head down as I marched through the aisles. “So how long do you think it’ll take before you and Ash are boning again?”

  “I’d like to add ‘don’t speak’ to the list of rules.” I waited for Lix’s smart-assed reply. None came. I’d lost his attention. Felix had drifted into an aisle of dolls. He began straightening the display. I gazed at the unblinking plastic faces. Literally objectified women trapped in pink boxes. So sad. So wrong. I shuddered. “Dolls teach girls very unrealistic body standards.”

  Lix continued to nudge the boxes. “I agree. Take those Russian dolls.”

  “You mean matryoshkas?”

  “Yeah. A Russian doesn’t have to have many tiny Russians inside of her to be beautiful.”

  I made a sound of much displeasure. “Why did I bring you with me?”

  Lix finished lining up the boxes. I didn’t have the heart to tell him a little girl with huge green eyes who looked like she’d been dipped in chocolate was creeping up behind him. Her itchy hands were ready to ruin all of Lix’s hard work.

  “Because you needed a ride and aside from me Ash was your only option.” Along with OCD, Lix also couldn’t recognize a rhetorical question.

  “Just stay with me and try not to touch anything else.”

  “Got it. I’ll keep my hands to myself.” His palm swung out. I jumped, narrowly avoiding a slap on the ass.

  “Your whole band is a bunch of pigs,” I snapped.

  Lix gave me a smirk along with a well-what-the-fuck-do-you-expect look. I countered with a middle finger.

  We wandered farther into the store. Once again, our onesie mission was compromised. This time by me. I stopped short at the children’s clothing. The girls’ section was a veritable quandary of pink confections—glittery unicorns, rainbows, shirts emblazoned with words and phrases like cute like mommy, daddy’s princess, and fierce. On the other hand, the boys’ clothes were a sea of blue. NASA, superhero, and band tees dotted the racks. My response was instant and involuntary. I grabbed the NASA tees and placed them on top of a stack of mermaid tops. Mermaids were awesome, but so were astronauts.