by Mia Storm
“So, you’re doing a little better in the income department now,” he says with a grin.
I roll my eyes in self-disgust. “And making you pay.”
He shrugs. “No biggie. You can get the next one.”
The next one. Great.
“What about you?” I ask. “How long have you been playing bass?”
“Ever since I can remember.” He settles deeper into the seat. “I come from a rock and roll family. My dad played bass for Metallica and Suicidal Tendencies.”
“Have you had any gigs before this?”
He shakes his head. “I’ve done a lot of studio work, but no touring.”
“So I’m your first.” The second it’s out of my mouth, I wish I could hit delete. The last thing I need is for him to think I’m sending signals.
But when I see his smile, a blend of coy and hopeful, I know I fucked up. “I saved myself for you.”
I turn and look out the window again, trying to think of how to save this. “What about the other guys?” I ask, trying to move the conversation into something less personal.
“Chipper’s the only one who’s been on the road with a major act. He’s toured with Bigfoot and Gangrene.”
“How’s the bus working out for you guys?”
“It’s pretty descent. There’s an empty bunk for you.” His eyebrows rise as he grins. “Just sayin’.”
I turn back to the window. “Yeah…I think Billie’s made us other arrangements.”
The driver slams on the brakes and honks at a horse drawn carriage. Max watches it go by and grins. “Totally that.”
“You want to go on a horse?” I ask as we pull to the curb.
“After I get one of those,” he says, pointing to the hot dog cart the driver pulls up next to.
We get out and he pays the cabbie, then orders two Cokes and four hot dogs from the vendor.
“I can’t eat two,” I protest as he pays.
“Oh, shit!” His eyes go wide in feigned surprise. “You wanted one too?”
I cut him my best glare as the vendor hands a foil-wrapped hot dog to me.
“I’m starving,” he says, taking the other three in one hand.
I try to give him the hot dog in my hand but he waves me off. “I’m joking. That’s yours.”
We each grab a Coke, then squirt mustard and relish on our dogs, and I realize I really am having a good time. It’s been so long since I’ve had a day where I could just kick back with someone sort of my age.
Which makes me wonder how old he is. I’m sure he’s older than me, but maybe only by a few years?
He wraps his hot dogs and makes a beeline for where the horse drawn carriages are lined up on the curb. He negotiates with the driver and they must come to an agreement, because he turns to me and gestures that I should climb up.
“He’s going to need your autograph for his daughter,” he says once we’re settled.
“Why?” I ask, and can’t keep the bemusement out of my voice. I never understand autographs. Pictures, maybe, but anyone can scribble anything and say it’s anyone’s autograph.
“He recognized you from the poster in his daughter’s bedroom. She’s a fan. He cut the price nearly in half to get it.”
“Fine,” I say with a roll of my eyes, but I’m actually a little relieved. I’ve made a financial contribution to this outing. It’s that much less that I feel like I owe Max.
It’s turned out to be a really nice day. The air is heavy from the humidity after the rain, but it’s not too hot. We scarf down our food as the driver takes us through the park, past all the sites, and tells us what we’re looking at. Max finishes his three hot dogs in, like, two bites each and is done before I am.
“That’s a little disgusting,” I tell him as he wipes mustard from his chin with the back of his hand.
He grins and pats his stomach. “Growing boy.”
As I’m watching ducks floating lazily on one of the lakes, Max’s arm settles over my shoulder.
I want to shake him off, but I don’t want to piss him off. I knew this was a bad idea. I struggle for a few minutes, trying to decide how to handle this, but when he starts to nuzzle my neck, I know I have to say something.
I slip out from under his arm. “Max, I think you’re cool and all, but I’m not hooking up with anyone on this tour. We have to work together for the next nine weeks and I don’t want things to get awkward between any of us.”
He just stares at me blankly for a second before tipping his head in a question. “You think I’m angling for sex?”
“No…I mean…” Fuck. I knew I’d screw this up.
He grins. “Okay, I am, but not how you think. I’m not looking for one night, Shiloh. You’re totally fucking amazing and there’s nothing I want more than to get to know you better, so I’m going to make you love me.”
All I can do is blink like an idiot.
“Do I want to sleep with you?” His dark gaze glosses over my body before coming back to my eyes. “More than anything. But I’m not expecting you to drop your shorts here and now. I’m in this for the long haul and I guarantee you before the end of this tour, you’re going to want me.”
“Really?” I say, crossing my arms tightly and killing him with my glare.
“I’m a great guy, Shiloh,” he says with a presenting-the-obvious raise of his eyebrows. “Everybody loves me. It’s only a matter of time before you do too.”
My phone buzzes in my pocket and I realize I never texted Billie. I pull it out and read her, Where are you? then start typing, because I can’t think of a single thing to say to Max other than You’re out of your mind. I tell her we’re in a carriage in Central Park and she sends me back a smiley face. On the heels of that comes another text.
You should try to be back in about an hour. Have to be at the Garden in two and you need time to change and get over there.
I tell her I will, then turn back to Max. “She wants me back at the hotel in an hour.”
He nods, but there’s still something in his eyes that makes me nervous.
Chapter 7
Tro
My grip on the balcony rail could bend steel as I watch that fucking bass player put his paws all over Lucky. I shove off the rail and rake the hair off my face. I swore to myself I was going to protect her from all the fucking douches in this business. Thought laying claim in public would do that. But that little prick’s not backing off.
I pull another Marlboro from the pack and light it off the butt in my hand, then crush out the old one with my bare heel.
“Fuck,” I hiss under my breath as I watch them disappear under my balcony toward the front door of the hotel.
I drop back into the chair I’d been sitting in when I saw Lucky and Max climb out of the cab and cross the street a minute ago and set my smoke in the ashtray, scooping up my guitar. My fingers play absently over the strings as I imagine what’s going on downstairs right now.
“Fuck,” I snarl, slamming my guitar onto the table and standing up.
I need to hit something.
Or someone.
When I push through the door into my room, the naked brunette in my bed opens her eyes and blinks at me sleepily. I storm toward her and she gives me the smile that caught my attention from the pit last night, then pushes the sheets aside.
I’m already hard. I have been since I saw Lucky in the street. Hell, I have been since I first saw her backstage at The Tonight Show two days ago.
The brunette lays back and runs her fingertips down her curves.
I kick my jeans off as I go and climb on.
#
I’m backstage again.
I swore to myself I wasn’t going to be, but here the fuck I am. And tonight, I’m not hiding. I’m standing at the soundboard with the stage monitor engineer. Where there’s no way Lucky can miss me.
And I’m so fucked up I can barely stand.
I lean against the scaffolding and watch Lucky do her thing. She’s even better tonight th
an she was last night, looser and more comfortable now that she’s got a night under her belt. I watch her and Max, trying to read the body language, because I’ve got to know if he fucked her. He’s still all up on her, but tonight she doesn’t seem to be shrugging him off the way she did last night. And every time he touches her, my guts turn to lead.
They finish their set and Lucky’s eyes lock on mine as they come off the stage. She’s hot in more ways than one and the sheen of sweat on her face and neck makes her glow. As she passes me, a bead trickles from the hollow of her neck down her chest and funnels into her cleavage.
And fuck, I want to lick it out.
She stops in front of me, challenging me with her hard gaze as the roadies rush past. When Max comes up behind her a second later and snakes his arm around her waist, Lucky’s eyes don’t budge from mine, but a smug smile ticks at the corners of her mouth.
But tonight, her manager’s here with a TV crew to run interference. “Shiloh!” she calls from deeper backstage. “Over here.”
Lucky gives me one last glare then pulls free of Max. “Gotta go,” she tells him.
“Come party in our bus when you’re done,” he calls as Lucky’s manager pulls her over to where the TV crew is setting up for an interview.
I lift my water bottle to my mouth, but it ain’t water. The satisfying burn of the vodka grounds me. When I sway on my feet, I know I should lay off, but I can’t. My head is more fucked up when I’m sober, trying to figure out what the fuck I’m supposed to be feeling for Lucky.
She glances over her shoulder at me, gives me a scowl that makes me want to rip her fucking clothes off and take her right here and now. So I down the rest of the bottle and toss it to the side.
When they wrap up taping, Lucky smiles and shakes everyone’s hands. She and her manager break away from the group, and her manager says something to her before moving back to the woman who was interviewing Lucky. They leave together and Lucky’s eyes lift to mine once she’s alone. When she finds me watching her, she glares.
I’m getting ready to go to her, but she starts toward me instead. “You’re drunk.”
I crack a smile. “I’m always drunk.”
Her head shakes slowly as she scrutinizes me. “Not like this. Can you even stand up?”
I only realize how heavily I’m leaning on the scaffolding when she says it. I push away and try to gain my balance, but the stage feels like it’s floating on heavy waves, lurching in all directions. I grab the scaffolding before I go down.
“How are you going to perform?” she asks, her eyes narrowing in disgust.
“I always fucking perform, Lucky,” I say through my best smirk. “You’re gonna find that out one of these days.”
The last of the roadies sweeps past us as she rolls her eyes at me, and then I hear Grim’s growl from behind me. He and Jamie grab me and huddle up, saving me from my fucking self.
Or more accurately, saving Lucky from my fucked up self.
“Let’s rip this motherfucker open!” Jamie shouts.
“Fucking kill it!” I yell as the stage lights go down.
We take the stage and I rip my guitar off the stand. With the first flash of the lights, we launch into our set. I find my feet after a few minutes and when the stage stops spinning, I glance into the wings and find Lucky’s gone.
Which is good, because I’m a fucking shitty protector. The only person she needs protection from is me.
#
After New York, I know I can’t be trusted to protect Lucky, so I decide my best strategy is to just steer clear. For the next two weeks I avoid being anywhere I know she will be, but by Toronto, pictures of Lucky and Max start to surface: cozy in the back of a Central Park carriage; standing shoulder to shoulder at the rail of the Boston Tea Party ship; laughing together at a pizza place in Pittsburg; with their heads together onstage in Montreal.
I decide I need to stick around and talk to the sound guys after our sound check in Toronto. When Lucky and her band walk in for theirs, everything inside me seizes.
I’ve never had this kind of reaction to a woman in my life. Especially one I’ve vowed to keep safe from dicks like me. I watch them go through a few songs while the front of house and stage sound guys make their adjustments, then follow her to where she racks her guitar near the stringer.
“Hey.”
She looks up at me and blinks in feigned surprise. “You’re sober.”
I shrug. “For the moment. How’s the tour going so far?”
She looks out at the arena. “Pretty good. No one’s thrown rotten fruit at me or booed me off the stage yet.”
I laugh at her modesty. “You crushed them in New York. I’m sure the same has happened in Cleveland, and last night in Buffalo, and will happen everywhere else we stop.”
My plan is to segue into telling her I’ve seen pictures of her with Max and ask her what’s going on, but her manager comes over from where she’s talking to a local news crew.
“Hi,” she says, holding her hand out toward me. “I’m Shiloh’s manager, Billie. We met in New York?”
“I remember,” I say, taking her hand and shaking.
“Shiloh’s got an interview,” she tells me but then there’s a shift in her expression, as if something just dawned on her. “Any chance you’d be willing to join her?”
I glance at Lucky and her eyes widen as she gives me a nearly imperceptible shake of her head.
“Sure,” I say with a grin. “Why the hell not?”
Lucky’s jaw tightens as she spins for where the news crew is waiting for her.
“Special treat!” Billie tells the crew. “Tro Gunnison is still here after his sound check and has agreed to join the interview if that’s okay with everyone.”
The reporter gives an enthusiastic yes and introduces herself to Shiloh and me.
“So, Shiloh,” she says as her cameraman gives the signal he’s rolling. “What’s it like touring with one of the hottest bands worldwide right now?”
I can see Lucky really wants to roll her eyes, but restrains herself. “We really don’t see much of each other,” she says with a dismissive flick of her wrist at me, “but I hope we’re bringing the fans what they’re coming out to see.”
“Reviews have been stellar,” the reporter answers with an enthusiastic nod. She asks several more generic questions about our music and fans and what’s next from us, then turns to me. “Since I have you here, Tro, I have to ask. You caused a little bit of a stir in New York when you implied on stage that there was something…physical between you and Shiloh. Is there any truth to that?”
I let the shit-eating grin spread and look at Lucky. “I never kiss and tell.”
Now Lucky can’t suppress the eye roll. “What he meant to say is, no.”
“Yet,” I shoot back.
“Ever,” she counters, and if looks could kill, I’d be fried by a million megawatts of hate.
And with that look, I see my new strategy.
“You are aware that Shiloh’s only sixteen?” the reporter interjects, her expression deadly serious now.
I grin and raise an eyebrow at Lucky, egging her on. “Lucky for me that’s the age of legal consent in Canada.”
“So, you don’t think that would be taking advantage of the situation?” the reporter counters, the claws of her inner feminist coming out.
I shake my head. “Hell—”
Lucky’s voice is all venom when she cuts me off. “How many octaves do you think his voice would raise if I tore his balls off?”
He reporter’s eyebrows shoot up.
“Because that’s what will happen if he tries to touch me,” Lucky adds with a smirk that goes straight to my dick. “Thinking that might not be good for his singing career.”
The reporter glances at the cameraman to make sure he’s getting all this just as Billie steps in.
“Let’s call that a wrap,” she says, holding a hand over the lens of the camera. “I think everyone’s under a lot of
pressure and very tired. If you could just disregard that last exchange…?”
But that’s the last thing I want. I want everyone to see Lucky has teeth. They might think twice about fucking with her if they think she’ll rip off their balls.
“I’m not sure I can do that,” the reporter says. “This is a huge human interest story that started weeks ago. Fans want to know the real story.”
Billie’s stance is stone. “This is just sensationalistic journalism. No credible outlet would air that footage.”
The reporter’s eyes widen. “Every credible outlet would run it. Asking us to do anything else is censorship.”
I tug Lucky’s elbow as Billie continues to argue her point, trying to get her attention.
She yanks it away. “Don’t touch me.”
I tip my head toward the stage as I turn that direction, hoping she’ll be curious enough to follow.
She does, but I find out it’s because she’s not done with me when she catches up to me. “That the fuck was that?” she asks, flinging her arm at where her manager is still arguing her case with the reporter.
“You showing the world that you’re not some soft, pathetic girl that they can take advantage of.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” she spits, bunching her hands on her hips.
“Every guy in your band, every backline guy, your producer, your manager,” I say with a flip of my hand at Billie, “they’re all out for themselves. Some of them want to fuck you figuratively and the others want to fuck you literally, but if they know you’ve got a pair of balls, they’re less likely to.”
The heat of her glare scouring my face leaves me feeling sunburned. “You are drunk.”
I shake my head. “All guy musicians are whores, Lucky. Every fucking one of us. Max, me. You need to stay the hell away from all of us.”
Her whiskey eyes widen in understanding at the same time as they darken with rage. “You’re jealous of Max. That’s what this is.”
She’s right, so I can’t argue that point. Instead, I argue the bigger point. “He wants his fifteen minutes of fame. That’s all you are to him, like Mark Anthony to JLo.”