by Mia Storm
Billie takes all the papers and we stand. The principal gives us a brief tour on the way back to the front doors and assures us that celebrity will not be an issue, but then as we’re leaving asks if she can take a picture with me.
We load into Billie’s car. “I’d be fine with public school,” I say as we pull away.
She lets out a strained laugh. “Maybe once we find a place in Beverly Hills, but you don’t want to mess with the public schools in L.A. They’re dangerous.”
“Can’t be any worse than where I come from,” I mutter, slouching into my seat.
She glances at me, then back to the road. “This is your opportunity to leave all that behind, build a better life for yourself. You need to invest in your future, Shiloh.”
There’s a moment of sudden, overpowering home sickness, even though I never had an actual home. I look at Billie and remind myself that through everything, she’s had my back. It’s been nine months and so far, she’s never steered me wrong. “Okay.”
She navigates us through city traffic to the Neiman Marcus, but I don’t really find much I can wear. Billie models a few new dresses for me and picks two. We check out and head home.
“I know this is going to take some adjustment, Shiloh,” Billie says on the way up the elevators, “but I really believe it’s going to be awesome. She shifts the shopping bag into her other hand and takes mine. “You are so good for me. I think we will be really good for each other.”
“I know, Billie. I know everything you’ve done for me and I don’t mean to seem ungrateful.”
She pulls me into a hug. “You don’t, honey. I’m just so glad we’re doing this.”
“So am I.” I think.
Chapter 21
Tro
It’s the end of the first week of our European leg and I let Jamie talk me into doing Paris after the show. It’s a closed party at a bar in one of the seedier neighborhoods, but you’d never know it looking around. All the beautiful people are here.
Including Amilia Beauchene.
“Hello, Tro,” she says in the accent that grabbed onto my balls and didn’t let go the first time I heard it two years ago.
We met on Roadkill’s first European tour that summer. We had two shows in Paris and when I wasn’t on stage, I was in Amilia’s bed. I thought I heard something about her getting married last summer to some director, but when she glues herself to my back and whispers, “I’ve missed you,” in my ear, I’m thinking maybe I heard wrong.
“How have you been?” I ask, making some space between us.
She pouts her full red lips. “So so. Mostly bored.”
“Sorry to hear that,” I say, realizing the accent does nothing for me now.
She presses against me again and her eyes spark as her hand slips to my package. “But I have a feeling things are about to get exciting.”
I close my eyes and try to remember what it was about her, other than the accent, that drove me so crazy. But all I see are Lucky’s big, whiskey eyes set in flawless skin the color of caramel. And all I feel is a sick pit in my stomach, knowing it’s not her hands on me.
“Listen, Amilia,” I say, drawing away. “I’m not really feeling this tonight. But, I think you should hang out and have fun, get to know some of the other guys or whatever.”
I leave her standing there and head to the bar, intending to get another beer. Instead, I just keep moving, right out the door onto the sidewalk. I walk for a few blocks before a cab happens by. I wave it down and head back to the hotel.
On the way, I pull out my phone. I open Skype and stare at the status circle next to Lucky’s name. I’ve watched it alternate between yellow and green night after night as the party raged in the suite outside my room. Every time it’s turned green, telling me she’s right here, right now, I’ve wanted to reach through the cyber and grab onto her.
And right now, it’s green.
I start to type before I can change my mind. There’s no doubt that I’m that girl’s worst nightmare, whether she knows it or not, but she’s woven herself into the fabric of my mind. She’s part of every thought I have—the first thing on my mind when I wake up and the last thing before I go to sleep.
But that’s not what I say. I also decide not to say anything about Amilia. Keeping it on the professional side is less likely to scare her away or piss her off right now. So I just say that, since Freddie didn’t work out, I’ve got a few more producers’ names and numbers if she wants to talk to them.
But I want to say so much more.
I want to say that, totally against my will, I’ve fallen hard for her. I want to say I miss her smile and her frown, her sass and her fire, her voice and her talent. And her touch. God, I miss that most of all.
There’s not a day that I don’t relive every kiss, every caress, from that night in my hotel room. But I don’t regret not going the extra step. I didn’t handle it as well as I probably should have, but I was right to stop her. She thought she wanted what I give everyone else, but what I said was true. I give them nothing. I want Lucky to have an actual piece of me—a part of me I’ve never given anyone before. If it happens between us, it’s going to be because she gets that she’s not just another fuck. She’s going to know how much I care about her.
And the only way she’ll know that is if I spend the next two months showing her.
I hit the send icon and wait. Her status circle is still green. She’s there. But as much as I might want to, I can’t make her reply.
The driver drops me at my hotel, and when I get to the room, there’s still no reply. I check again and her circle’s gone yellow, indicating she’s let the app go dormant.
So I guess I have my answer. She doesn’t want to talk to me.
I drop onto the bed and only realize I’ve dozed off when the sound of people in the next room filters through my door. Sounds like Grim and Jess have brought the party home with them.
I drag myself up and shuck off my jeans, pulling my phone from my pocket to check again for Lucky. Still no reply. I crawl back onto the bed and bury my face in the pillow just as the door clicks opens. I sit up as a pair of scantily clad bottle blondes slip through.
“Grim want us for you,” the shorter one with enormous tits says in a heavy French accent, unbuttoning her top. “He say…” She trails off and looks to the other one for help.
“He want you get the dick from pantalon,” she says, pointing at my package, “and make some French pussy before go too long.”
“Before go too late,” the shorter one corrects. She comes closer, dropping her shirt to the floor. There’s no bra. “He say we come here to fuck you. He say we no can go if we no fucking.”
I haul myself up from the bed. “Go out there and tell Grim that I’m sending you back to him with my compliments.”
The taller one follows her friend closer, a deep crease forming between her brows. “You no want?”
“Not tonight, doll,” I say, taking one of each of their arms in my grasp and escorting them back to the door. “If you want to fuck someone, you can fuck Grim.”
“He get fucking,” the shorter one says, and when I get them to the door, I see she’s right. He’s got his head lolled against the back of the couch with both hands twisted into the hair of the curvy black woman whose head’s bobbing between his legs. Grim’s always been into public displays, so this is pretty normal for him.
“Thanks for the offer,” I say, depositing the girls outside my door. I scoop up the shirt from my floor and hand it to the half naked one. “I’m just not feeling it tonight.”
Grim’s head lifts at the sound of my voice and he cuts me a look. “Get your fucking rocks off, Gunner. Your fucking cock’s screwed on too tight.”
I give him a shake of my head.
The girl between his knees continues to work it as he glowers at me.
“That’s it, baby!” Jamie calls over the music.
I tear my eyes away from Grim’s and find Jamie headed toward the door of hi
s adjoining room, toting a giggling Amilia under his arm like a ragdoll.
So, at least that worked out.
I close my door and head to the corner of my room for my guitar. There’s been some new lyrics threading between my brain cells the last few days and they finally feel like they’re ready for a tune.
As I jot down the bones of what I have in my head onto the hotel notepad near the phone, it starts to take shape. I play the notes and listen, then make some tweaks. That electric current starts in my chest and soon I’m buzzing all over with it. I lose myself in the process and the noise from the suite fades away until it’s just me and the music. Finally, as the first light of morning begins to streak through my window and paint the wall yellow, I lay back and doze with notes and words braiding themselves into patterns in my dreams.
#
It’s after noon by the time I pull myself out of bed. When I head out into the suite to brew a cup of coffee, there are still a few stragglers passed out on the couch. Just as the coffee maker sputters out the last of my cup, Jamie’s door opens and Amilia comes out, smoothing last night’s dress over her hips. She detours when she sees me and swipes the coffee cup from my hand, then turns and slams out the door without a word.
Jamie comes out as I’m brewing another cup. He grins ear to ear when he sees me. “It’s always better with a fucking movie star,” he says, then gives his balls a scratch through is boxers. “You don’t know what you’re fucking missing, dude.”
But I do. I know exactly what I’m missing. And the truth?
I don’t miss it at all.
Chapter 22
Shiloh
Billie was a little frustrated that the first time the lawyer was able to meet with us is over a week after we visited McCall. School started Monday and she’s spent every day since muttering about how far behind I’m going to be.
“Have a seat,” she says when she shows the guy into the family room, where I’m on the couch watching TV. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“Water would be perfect,” the lawyer, a fairly hot Hispanic guy about Billie’s age, says as he takes the chair across the coffee table from me. “You must be Shiloh,” he says to me as Billie turns for the kitchen.
I click off the TV and nod.
“I’m Christian,” he says, reaching across the table for my hand.
I shake it.
He looks at me curiously for a second. “This must all seem pretty overwhelming to you, after living your whole life in the system. But it should go smoothly as long as you’re sure this is what you want.”
Billie sets Christian’s water on a coaster in front of him and sits next to me. “We’ve talked about it and I think we’re both excited for this,” she says, then squeezes my knee. “Right, Shiloh?”
I nod again. The truth is, I’m way more nervous than I thought I’d be. I don’t even know why except so much has changed in the last year, and now it feels like the only thread connecting me to who I really am is about to snap.
Christian reaches for his briefcase and opens it in his lap. “There’s paperwork, of course, because anytime you’re dealing with the courts, that’s the case,” he says, as he thumbs through the folders inside. He pulls one from the stack, then closes his briefcase in his lap and uses it like a desk. “We have the guardianship petition, and the guardian consent form…” He reels off several other names as he lifts forms one by one from the folder and sets them in a pile on the coffee table. He looks up at Billie. “Because Shiloh has substantial monetary holdings, you’ll actually need to file for guardianship of an estate, which takes a little more paperwork. Most of these are for you, as the adult, but there are a few places Shiloh needs to fill in information too. Where we need your information is marked with yellow sticky tabs, and Shiloh’s is marked with pink.”
I’ve always hated pink.
“How long will it take for all of this to go through?” Billie asks.
“The part that often holds things up in cases like these is the court requirement of giving notice to all relatives or agencies involved. In Shiloh’s case, where there are no known relatives, that should go quickly. Once the papers are filed with the court, they’ll set a date for a hearing. Depending on how busy family court is, that could take anywhere from a few days to a few weeks.”
“Then how long until we hear?” Billie presses.
“In an uncontested case, if the minor agrees to the guardian, the judge will often make his determination at the time of the hearing.”
Billie’s nodding the whole time Christian is explaining. “So it may only take a few weeks?”
“It’s possible.” He quirks his head at Billie. “Is there a hurry?”
“We need to get her registered for school at McCall Academy, and we can’t do that until I’m her legal guardian.”
“McCall,” he says, raising his eyebrows and turning toward me. “Aiming high.”
“There’s no reason Shiloh shouldn’t have the best,” Billie says a little defensively. “And I’ll feel better to have my guardianship official as soon as possible so there aren’t any problems with the Department of Health and Human Services.”
Christian sorts through the forms he’s pulled. “Unless a foster family complains, there shouldn’t be an issue, as long as we’re working toward getting the paperwork filed.” He turns to me. “My understanding is that your last residence was in a group home in San Francisco?”
I nod.
He scrutinizes me for a moment, his eyes narrowing slightly. “You seem very quiet, Shiloh. Is everything okay?”
I need to actually open my mouth and say something. “I’m just nervous, I guess.”
“But this is what she wants,” Billie interjects with an exuberant nod. “We’ve talked about it several times,” she repeats.
Christian keeps me pinned in his gaze. “I’d like to hear that from Shiloh, if I could.”
I nod again. “Billie’s great.”
“And you want her to be your guardian?”
“Yes.”
He looks at me a second longer before laying the papers in front of Billie. “When you have all of this completed, bring it by my office. I’ll get it filed with family court as soon as I have it back.”
He talks her through the process and I feel myself getting smaller and smaller every time he uses the word “minor.” I’ve never felt so much like a kid in my life.
Which makes me wonder what the hell I thought I was doing with Tro. He’s no kid. He’s six feet, two-hundred pounds of pure sex. And unlike the conversation happening across the coffee table, he makes me feel all woman.
But I’m not. I can’t sign my own contracts, I can’t register myself for school, I can’t rent my own apartment. Hell, I can’t even rent a car. The whole world looks at me and sees a kid. Everyone but Tro.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I know it’s probably Lilah responding to my text, but my hand’s shaking as pull it out of my pocket. Billie and Christian wrap up their conversation and Billie gets up and sees him to the door as I flip my phone and look at the screen.
Any progress on that solo?
The reason I gave for going to Tro’s hotel room three weeks ago. My heart slams against my ribs as I read his text again.
Heat rises in my face and I close my messages. I don’t even want to think about that night. Tro Gunnison, who sleeps with anything with a vagina, turned me down. He’s probably texting me from some German woman’s bed.
I set my phone down, but then pick it up again and do what I’ve been forcing myself not to for the last week—type his name into my browser. It opens a list of links. The news feed at the top has the most recent stories. I click on the first link and am hit in the face with a picture of a devastating redhead sitting on Tro’s lap in a Belgian night club, her face in his neck.
I click to the next article down, which has a picture of the guys onstage in Madrid last night, pyrotechnics lighting the stage behind them.
The next article
has another picture of him and a woman, this time groping each other in a dark corner of another night club. This article’s in English, so I read the first paragraph. Princess Silvia of Bulgaria.
My intestines wind their way around my stomach and tie themselves in a knot as I close the browser. He knew he had French movie stars and Bulgarian princesses waiting for him in Europe. No wonder he didn’t want me.
But I hate that I hate he’s fucking Europe when he wouldn’t fuck me. I don’t want to care.
I watch Billie come back from the door, and from the smile she gives me, I’m surprised she doesn’t offer me a cookie and pat my head.
I’ve never felt younger than I do right now.
Chapter 23
Tro
“Thank you, Barcelona!” I shout into the mic after our second encore.
The stage lights dim and I jog off the stage. We hit the wings and Jamie gets both Grim and me in a headlock and jams us together. “Let’s fucking burn this city down!” he yells over the dying applause. “Spanish booze, Spanish pussy, all fucking night!”
I don’t say anything, but just like every other night in the month and a half since I left Lucky behind, I’m really not feeling it. I’ve let Jamie drag me along a few times to keep the peace with Grim, but I always bag out early and head back to the hotel alone.
We leave the roadies to their work and head back to the dressing room.
“I’m gonna shower,” I say, tugging off my sweat-soaked T-shirt and pulling another one from my duffel. “You guys go ahead. I’ll catch up to you.”
What I’m really going to do is go back to the hotel and work on the song that’s been eating my brain over the last six weeks. Had a chunk of lyrics come to me while we were onstage tonight and I want to get it down before I forget.
Grim cracks the top of a new bottle of Jack. “We’ll wait.” He doesn’t add the “you fucking pussy” but it’s clear in his expression as he drops into a chair and takes a swig.