by Mia Storm
Our show was pretty rough. Shit just wasn’t jelling like it usually does. It wasn’t really Grim, and I don’t think I was fucking up either. It was just that we weren’t pulling together as a unit the way we usually do. We weren’t feeling each other. It was strained, and I’m pretty sure the crowd heard it in our music.
So, I’m in Lucky’s bus after the show because I don’t want to go back to the suite. Billie was in bed when I got here, which is probably good, because I’m still pretty pissed that she sabotaged Lucky’s best shot at being able to do her stuff. Freddie called me last week. Said he’d gotten a call from Billie.
“She wants me to stay the hell away from her clients,” he said. “Especially Shiloh.”
Billie is Lucky’s safety net. She trusts her, and I know trust doesn’t come easy for Lucky. I don’t want to be the person to pull that out from under her, so I haven’t said anything.
Lucky and I are in the back lounge, and she’s working her fingers over the strings as we play with chord progressions.
“Why do you lie to everyone about your father?” she asks, as if she’s asking if I want a Coke. But when her eyes flash to mine, I know she’s been holding onto that one for a while, waiting for her chance to ask.
I press into the cushions of the couch. “He was a lowlife drunk. Swore he’d kill me for what I did, and I believed him. I changed my name so he couldn’t track me down. Never occurred to me then we’d get big enough that anyone would ever care where I’d come from or who my parents were.”
“But you got huge,” she says, “and everyone wants to know. How have you kept it hidden this long?”
“I don’t do interviews. And I give them plenty to talk about that has nothing to do with then and everything to do with now.” I lower my gaze as I say it and rub the back of my neck, for the first time feeling a little uncomfortable about my diversion tactics.
Lucky lets it slide, thankfully. Her eyes scrunch. “So, the thing about your mom dying when you were three…?”
“That part’s true.”
“And your father raised you,” she says, putting the pieces together.
I nod.
“What do you think would happen if he found you now?” she asks, her fingers still working absently through progressions on the strings.
“I don’t know.”
Her eyes lift to mine, and I’m so close to telling her he already found me. Something deep in my core wants to. But I grind a heel into it. Crush it. I’m not ready to go there, even with Lucky.
“Maybe you could talk to him,” she says. “He might have cooled down by now.”
I blow out a humorless laugh. “Not likely.”
“So you won’t even try,” she says, irritation bleeding into her words.
I get where it’s coming from. Here’s a kid who’s never had any family. “Listen, Lucky. I get how this probably looks from your perspective. But there are some people, family or not, who are just fucking toxic. You just have to walk away.”
She shakes her head and her focus shifts to her fingers again. “So what if we extend the bridge into the third chorus and add a solo there.”
I can tell she’s not buying it, but I’m happy for the change of topic, so I don’t press my point. “Yeah…that could work.”
#
I wake to bright sun in my face. When I open my eyes, I find I’m still in Lucky’s bus. I’m stretched on the couch and she’s thrown a blanket over me. But she’s nowhere.
I rub my eyes, then sit up and fish my phone out of my pocket. It’s totally blown up, with text and call notifications all up the screen. And when I look at the time, I get why.
Our flight to Miami leaves in twenty minutes.
“Fuck!” I hiss, springing to my feet. “Fuck!”
I scan through the most recent texts. There are a few from our tour manager, but most of them are from Jamie. This isn’t the first time one of us hasn’t been at the hotel when we were supposed to leave, so we’ve worked out a contingency plan. Jamie has all my shit. Says just to meet them at the airport.
That isn’t going to happen, but at least I don’t have to go back to the hotel.
I grab my hoodie off the coffee table and am tugging it on just as the door to the lounge slides open. I’m hoping for Lucky, but it’s Billie who’s standing there, all bristle and sharp edges. Her mouth is pursed into a small circle and her gaze is hard.
It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to surmise that she’s not happy I’m here.
“I’m glad you’re awake,” she says, stepping through the door and closing it behind her. “Shiloh’s sleeping, so this is my chance to tell you to stop thinking you know what’s best for her career. She has a professional who’s taking care of that.”
I raise my hands in surrender. “I just thought she might be happier with—”
“See…” she says, pointing a sharpened finger at me, “that’s exactly what I’m talking about. It’s not your place to ‘think’ anything about Shiloh or what would make her happy.” She gives me the once over. “As a matter of fact, you don’t have any place at all when it comes to Shiloh. She may not seem young, but she is.”
This woman has been fawning over me since we met at Rockefeller Center at the beginning of all this, handing me business cards and giving me her pitch. I guess she’s pretty pissed I gave Lucky Freddie’s number.
I nod. “I get that, and I haven’t touched her.” I scoop the paper with our notes on it and hold it up for her to see. “We’ve just been working on some things.”
Her eyes narrow slightly, but before she can say anything else, the door behind her slides open and Lucky steps through, rubbing the sleep out of one eye. Her copper hair sticks up at every angle and there’s a sudden rush in my groin at the image of waking up next to this in my bed.
Through the sleep haze, her eyes flash bright when she sees I’m still here. “Hey.”
“Hey,” I say and try to keep the flood of sparks I feel in my chest from bleeding into the word.
“What’s going on?” she asks, her eyes moving between me and her manager.
I glance at my phone again. “I just missed my flight.” I zip my hoodie. “Gotta get to the airport and see if they can get me on something else today before our tour manager blows a gasket.”
“You should just ride with us,” Lucky says.
But where Lucky’s face lights at the idea, Billie’s does the opposite.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Shiloh,” she says, her sharp gaze daring me to contradict her.
Lucky looks at Billie like she has two heads. “Why not? We’re going to the same place.”
“He’s got his things at the hotel, and he’s already paid airfare.” Billie’s excuse is lame, and it’s obvious she knows it by the look on her face, but she just keeps going. “He’s got until tomorrow afternoon to get to Miami. The airline will be able to rebook him before that.”
“You’re coming with us.” Lucky’s words are clipped and decisive. She says them to me, but they’re clearly meant for Billie.
“Okay,” I say with a nod. “Thanks.”
Billie turns and heads up front, clearly not happy at being vetoed.
“Maybe pissing her off wasn’t a great idea,” I say, settling back onto the couch.
Lucky goes to the cupboard and pulls down a box of cereal. “Want some?”
A laugh erupts out of me at the sight of Lucky holding up the box of Lucky Charms.
“What?” she says, smoothing down her hair self-consciously, as if she wasn’t perfect.
“Just…” I shake my head as my smile fades. “Nothing.”
God, she really is perfect. My eyes skim over the body under the oversized black T-shirt that hangs to mid-thigh, all firm curves and contours. They follow lower, along the lines of a pair of legs I’ve pictured wrapped around my waist (or my head) in every fantasy I’ve had for the last two months. She’s fucking killing me.
“Yes or no?” she ask, irritation
creasing her forehead.
“Yeah, thanks.”
She pulls down two paper bowls and fills them, then unearths a small carton of milk from the fridge in the bar.
“When’s the bus scheduled to pull out?” I ask as she hands me a bowl and spoon.
“No clue,” she says, setting her bowl on the table and dropping onto the couch. “But when we start moving, you’ll know.”
We eat and sometime later, as Lucky’s putting Ironman 2 in the DVD player, the bus starts moving.
“It’s been a while since I’ve done this,” I say, looking out the window as we leave Atlanta behind.
“Billie says this is a lot cheaper than flying,” she says, stabbing her thumb into the remote and zipping past the previews. She looks at me. “I never realized the artists have to pay their tour expenses. What the fuck is that all about?”
I shrug. “Just the way it’s always been. But the label does most of the promotion.”
“Still.” She sets the remote down and slouches into the corner of the couch, propping one leg on the coffee table. “I know what I get for royalties and they’re making a shit-ton of money off me. The least they could do is pay for my fucking bus.”
“You can negotiate some of that shit,” I say, unable to keep my eyes off the lines of her legs. “We get a flat rate for each appearance versus a percentage of ticket sales.”
“Because you’re you,” she says, her voice full of sarcasm.
“And you’re you.”
It takes me a second to realize the conversation’s stalled, and when I lift my gaze to her face, expecting to see it facing the TV, it’s facing me instead.
“See something you like?” she asks with a sultry smirk that’s begging to be kissed off her face.
“I’ve always liked everything I’ve seen,” I answer honestly, my eyes taking a sweep of her body. “I’ve never pretended I didn’t.”
Her nipples pebble under the thin cotton of her T-shirt and my dick notices, responding in kind.
But the last few weeks, Lucky and I have gotten close. We’ve spent most of our free time together and it hasn’t been about sex. I can’t speak for her, but for me it’s been about finding what I love in this business again.
The way Lucky loses herself when we’re working, her pure love of what we’re creating, has made me remember what playing onstage meant to me before it turned into a three-headed snake. There are so many distractions that it’s easy to forget that it’s really all about the music.
But here, with Lucky, I remember.
Chapter 18
Shiloh
The movie’s playing, but Tro’s eyes haven’t left me in the last hour. Every time I glance his way, he seems to be studying me. Usually it’s my face his eyes are glued to, but I’ve caught him other places too.
I’ll admit to teasing him a little—letting my T-shirt slide up my thigh so the trim of my blue lace thong shows at the side of my leg; pulling the thin cotton a little tighter across my chest when I feel his gaze on my nipples, which have been tight for the last hour with his gaze.
I will also admit to liking the attention. I’ll admit to the heavy ache low between my legs, and the bubbles in my chest, and the fact that my panties are becoming increasingly wet.
I will admit to wanting him.
Just not out loud.
I remember thinking Tro was the enemy when we started on this journey. Now I realize so much of what he does is to hide the parts of himself he doesn’t want anyone to see. But some of those parts are pretty damn incredible. I know who he is, so I have no fantasies that he wants anything other than sex from me, but I’ve decided I want to give it to him anyway.
I’ve never been the kind of girl who expects a fairy-tale romance. I don’t need to be swept off my feet. I don’t need promises or declarations. I don’t even need tomorrow. But I need to be in control of where and when it happens.
So, tonight, if it goes there, I will fuck Tro Gunnison on my terms.
When I look at him this time, his eyes are on mine. I hold them for a second before letting mine trace the lines of his neck tattoos until they disappear under the brushed cotton of his T-shirt. His nipples tighten at my perusal as my eyes trail lower, over tight pecs, and I feel mine pull into stiff peaks in response. The ridges of his eight-pack abs crease his shirt and I want to run my tongue along them. And, lower, a substantial erection strains against his jeans.
If Billie wasn’t likely to walk in here unannounced at any second, when and where would be here and now.
“How many women have you fucked?” I ask him, my eyes still on the bulge of his jeans.
“A lot.”
I lift my eyes to his face and fire burns out of those dark eyes into mine. “Put a number on a lot. Best guess.”
He shakes his head and he’s unable to hold my gaze as he answers. “Maybe five hundred.”
“When did you lose your virginity?”
His eyes lift to mine again. “You already know that story.”
“Your father’s girlfriend,” I say, figuring that must be what he means. “When you were seventeen.”
He nods, but then his gaze grows curious. “What about you?”
“Virginity? Or how many?” I ask.
He tips his head. “Both.”
“I lost my virginity when I was thirteen.”
His eyes widen a little.
I shrug it off. “Self-preservation. You do what you have to do sometimes. There was just that one for two years, then one more last year, during The Voice.”
“So…two,” he confirms.
I nod slowly and send him every watt of my stare. “So far. But I’m planning on changing that very soon.”
I’ve shocked him silent. He just stares at me for a long moment before saying, “Lucky guy.”
“You bet your sweet ass he is,” I reply, turning back to the TV.
And if I felt his hot gaze on me before, now it’s a fucking blow torch.
Chapter 19
Tro
When the bus pulls up to the venue in Miami, I say goodbye to Lucky and get the fuck off. Where Lucky’s gaze has always been a flame thrower, warning me off, today it was still flaming, but in a whole different way. Something major shifted in her between last night and this morning, and I’ve spent the last eight hours trying to see past her skin to what’s going on inside. I’ve also spent the last eight hours trying to tame my raging boner. It’s not working. Lucky sends that fuck-me look my way, you damn well better believe my cock is going to obey.
I’ve got the worst fucking case of blue balls I’ve ever had.
Instead of taking a cab to the hotel in South Beach where I know the band is, I walk to the Intercontinental that’s only a few blocks from the venue and check in. I send a messenger service to South Beach for my stuff and text Jamie to tell him they’re coming.
I have nowhere to be until sound check twenty hours from now. I’m going to spend that time talking my cock down and keeping some perspective. I’ve made it nine weeks without touching Lucky. That’s not because I haven’t wanted to, but because I decided weeks ago that when something finally happened with her, it wasn’t going to be a onetime thing.
I call room service for a burger, planning on laying low until tomorrow. If I only see Lucky at the arena, surrounded by people, then I’ll be able to head to Europe after the show with a clean conscience.
At least that’s my plan until I get the text.
Where are you? she wants to know.
I think about ignoring it, but in my gut, I know it will eat me alive all night if I do.
Two blocks down Biscayne at the Intercontinental, I text back.
There’s a pause, then, Room number?
Fuck. If she comes here, and I have her alone in this room, I can’t be held accountable for what I’ll do to her if she gives me that look.
Planning on a low key night, I say, hoping that might be enough to her put her off.
I want to finish the solo ri
ff before you go.
The song. Christ. It’s good, much better than anything I could pull together on my own, but I’d forgotten all about it. I trust you to work that out on your own. Or maybe Lilah can help.
I want you.
Those three words go right to my dick.
2217, I type on the jolt of adrenaline flooding my bloodstream.
On my way.
I jump in the shower, because I stink, then hate that I don’t have anything clean to put on. I pull on my jeans commando and am just toweling dry my hair when there’s a knock.
I look out the peephole and find a big black guy in a red vest and white shirt.
“Room service,” he says.
I pull open my door and he wheels the cart through…just as Lucky steps off the elevator. She’s cleaned up too, and dressed to fucking slay in a tight button-up blouse and a short white skirt. Not her typical loose T-shirt and shorts.
I take a deep breath and sign the tab. The guy passes Lucky on his way up the hall, and his head turns to catch the back of her as he passes.
She stops in my door. “I get the hotels,” she says, looking past me into my room. “This is nice.”
I step aside and as she passes, her typical scent of soap now mingles with vanilla and something earthier that grabs at my balls.
“What’s for dinner?” she says, lifting the lid off the plate.
“You hungry? We can split that,” I say, gesturing at the burger, “or I can order up something else.”
In answer, she picks the burger up off the plate and takes an enormous bite. She wipes the back of her hand across her chin to catch the drip of mustard, and fuck, that’s hot.
She sets the burger down and goes to the window that looks back toward the arena where we’ll play our final show tomorrow. “So, this is it,” she says. “The end of the road.”
I move to her side and follow her gaze. “Not for you, Lucky. This is just your rocket launcher. Everything from here is going to be straight up, so I hope you’re not afraid of heights.”
She presses a palm to the glass and just stands there for a long minute before turning and gazing at me with eyes full of…everything. I see determination and vulnerability, longing and lust, hope and fear. “Then why does it feel like the end.”