She fought my hold. “Okay, I get it.”
Not the reaction I was expecting. I let her go. “What’s wrong? I’m confused.”
She stepped away from me. “Nothing’s wrong. I just don’t like being held like that, so I can’t get away. Please don’t do it again.”
I watched her closely—her body language spoke of something buried way deep, even as she made it sound like a simple preference, something she just didn’t care for. I guess I’d been aware and had gotten hints of this for a while now, but this was the first time she had ever said anything. “Lex. Be real for me, yeah?”
She spun around, glaring up at me. “What, Myles? What do you want from me?”
“I’m not sure how we got here, honestly. We were talking about handjobs and now you’re acting like…” I wasn’t sure how she was acting, which meant I wasn’t sure how to finish that statement.
She clearly didn’t like whatever implication she heard in that ellipsis, however. “Like what, Myles? How am I acting? Like I don’t appreciate being restrained?”
I felt this building into a blowup, and figured I’d take the easy, if cowardly way out. “I’m sorry, Lex. I won’t do that again.” I knew I’d just let her avoid something much deeper, but had no clue what or how to unearth it from beneath the miles of wall and layers of defenses I’d just witnessed. “I’m gonna shower.”
I went into the bathroom and took a shower, taking my time.
When I got out, Lexie was dressed in a minuscule denim skirt with an aged, frayed hem, so short and so tight the bottom curve of her ass cheeks slid out from under the hem when she moved, revealing occasional glimpses of the lacy purple of her thong. Above the skirt, a white button-down shirt was tied up underneath her breasts, all the buttons open to leave her breasts spilling out—only somewhat shielded from being completely exposed by a gauzy, lacy, sort-of-translucent but not quite opaque…camisole, I think it was called. The camisole did nothing to support or constrain, and only served to highlight the size and natural movement of her cleavage with every step.
Her hair was swept to the left, messy and artfully tangled. No makeup except a hint of shiny pale pink stuff on her lips. Oh my—and some sparkles all over her cleavage.
“Fuckin’ hell, Lex.”
She smiled at me brightly. “You like?”
“The skirt, the cleavage, or the titty sparkles?”
She shook her chest at me. “You noticed, huh?”
“You realize I’m going to try to lick that off, later?”
This made her frown. “I wonder if they make edible titty glitter?”
I laughed. “If they do, I volunteer to try it.”
“Feed me, then we can discuss the logistics of edible titty glitter.”
And it was as if nothing had happened.
But down in the pit of my stomach, something was unsettled. I’d gotten a glimpse of something dark in her evasiveness and fight picking. The girl had secrets.
I already knew about her affair with the professor, and her subsequent expulsion from the university, revocation of her scholarship, and the abortion.
Which just begged the question…what else could she be hiding?
Lexie
Myles had really rolled out the red carpet for me, for this trip to Ketchikan. I’d have been fine with plain old first-class commercial from Dallas to Seattle and a pond-hopper prop plane to Ketchikan. But, no. Not Myles. He wanted to butter me up so I’d make cozy with my mom and Charlie and Cassie. It was, clearly, very important to him. He had no family, so he was going out of his way to make sure I preserved mine. I got that. But I resented the interference.
What I didn’t resent was the Mercedes S-Class with a tuxedo-clad driver to take us to the airport, where we parked right on the tarmac next to a sleek, low-slung black jet—like I was a movie star or some shit. This was out of a fucking movie. No one really did this. Yet here I was, my chunky, calf-high combat boots clomping up the movable staircase, wind whipping my hair around and tugging at the open front of my button-down.
Up, into the interior of Myles’s private jet, which he’d literally just purchased. For this trip. For me. An eight-million-dollar jet.
My head spun.
If it was spinning already, when my eyes adjusted to the darkened interior of the jet, it damn well popped right off my neck when I took a look around. Whereas the exterior was glossy black with tinted windows, the interior was all soft gray and muted ivory shades, with a pop of crimson in certain bits of trim. A deep leather couch ran the entire length of one side, and a row of deep leather captain’s chairs, in pairs, that faced the built-in tables. The rear wall was entirely dominated by a massive flat screen TV, and I saw evidence throughout the cabin of surround sound speakers. A bar occupied the front wall near the entrance to the cockpit, and it featured bottles of top-shelf alcohol, mostly expensive scotches and whiskeys. Underneath the front of the bar was a cooler with sliding glass doors, revealing rows of beer arranged by brand—clearly preselected based on band member preferences. Behind the bar, rocks glasses for whiskey and pint glasses for beer, a select assortment of wines along with appropriate wineglasses. There were cabinets along the wall perpendicular to the bar that probably contained various snacks and other supplies.
The carpet underfoot was deep and plush, vacuumed in neat lines—I felt an urge to take off my boots and socks and dig my toes into the carpet. Each pair of chairs with their attendant table framed a window. The whole interior was elegant, yet comfortable and understated…just like Myles.
I boggled. “And I thought your tour bus was luxurious. This is insane, Myles.”
He moved in beside me, whistled as he took in the interior. “Damn, no kidding.” He went to the nearest chair and sat down, leaned back—the chair went all the way back, a footrest extended so the chair turned into a small cot. The table folded down and out of the way as needed. “Not quite the same as my suite on the bus, but I guess the idea is the time we save driving gets us to the next city sooner, and we just stay in a real hotel.”
I plopped down on the couch and took off my boots and socks, dug my toes in, and it felt every bit as good as I’d imagined. “Worth eight million dollars?”
“For what will be my home away from home? No stops for gas, no nosy fans peeking in the windows at stoplights? Yeah, I’d say so.”
“No private suite where you can take groupies after the show.” I eyed him, watching his reaction.
“I’m done with that phase of my life,” he said, smiling at me. “Got other plans for after shows than random groupies with backstage passes whose names I’ll never know.”
I didn’t touch that inference. “What do you think the guys will think?”
He mused. “Hmmm. I suppose I should probably let them know what’s going on, huh?”
“I mean, you guys are a band, so I think it would be a good idea to fill them in. I’ll bet money they won’t complain.”
He shrugged. Yanked out his phone. Brought up a FaceTime group call with the other members of his band—Jupiter, the drummer; Brand, the bassist, and Zan, the other lead guitarist.
They all picked up, and Myles kept the phone tilted down and close so all they could see was him. “What’s up, guys?”
“Calling to cancel the tour?” Jupiter said, a note of laughter in his voice.
Myles snorted. “Fuck no. We have twenty-two shows lined up, each one sold out, several of those back-to-back shows in the same city. We’ve got three dates sold out in London, two in Dublin, two in Paris. And Mick is saying he’s getting requests from venues in Rio, Johannesburg, and Sydney to see if we can add dates because they’re getting so many calls asking about more tickets.”
“So what’s up?” Jupiter pressed. “You never call all of us at once like this, not on breaks, unless it’s big news.”
“It is big news.” He grinned. “I leased the bus out.”
They didn’t pick up on the inference right away. There was a long beat of stunned si
lence.
“You…leased the bus?” Zan said, sounding stoned out of his mind. “So we’re sharing the bus with another band?”
Myles laughed. “Lay off the pot for ten seconds, bud. No, we’re not sharing.”
Jupiter caught on, partway. “You got a new bus?”
“Nope.”
Brand went in for the win. “No fucking way, dude. No way.” He laughed. “You did fucking not.”
“Did what?” Zan asked. “Man, why’d you have to call right after I took a massive toke? I’m not following.”
“A jet?” Jupiter offered. “You bought a jet?”
Myles stood up and touched the button to rotate the screen. “Get your first look at our new ride, gentlemen.” He panned around to take in the exit, showed them the stairs, the bar, then around to the couch; he paused on me. “No, she doesn’t come with the bus, so don’t get any ideas.”
There was a chorus of voices: “Hey, Lex.”
“Hi, guys.” I smirked. “I don’t come with the bus, but I do come with Myles.”
“We know,” Jupiter drawled, his voice droll. “We’ve heard. Multiple times.”
I gave a cutesy little shrug. “Oops.”
Myles winked at me, and kept moving down the length of the jet with the phone, highlighting the individual charging stations complete with ports for wired internet access, the changeable LED lighting running around the ceiling and floor of the entire cabin, how the seats folded into beds, the bathroom at the back complete with a rainfall showerhead and nozzles in the wall, heated towel rack, a separate smaller room with a closable door for the toilet and its own sink and mirror. He knocked on the cockpit door, peeked his head in, and introduced the pilots—all I heard was a faint buzz of voices, one male, one female, and the tinny sound of the guys saying hello; then he was outside and down the steps, panning the camera to take in the exterior, walking around the nose—he had to shout to be heard, since the jet engines were idling, and even then they were loud.
Back inside, he settled onto the couch beside me, slung an arm over my shoulder. “So. Thoughts?”
“You know, I’m stoned out of my gourd, so I may not make sense. But. Um. We sleep on the bus? I know the chairs fold out, but I don’t know if I could sleep on that, like, for the night.”
Myles just laughed. “No, you won’t have to. When we finish a show, we’ll stay the night at a hotel. Big suites for everyone, my dudes. Then, whenever we feel like rolling our fat asses out of bed, we take a car to the airport, fly to the next city, check into a hotel. Do it all over again.”
“So, no more bus, at all?” Zan was still puzzled. “Only hotels?”
“Tony and Mick are putting together our hotel itinerary for the overseas tour. The bus was paid for, including the conversions and upgrades I did, so the lease makes us money. When we’re not touring, I plan on using the jet as a private charter so I’ll make back money there. The expense of the hotel rooms and the cars to and from will come out of our take-home pay. Tony says we’re spending a bit more this way, but with the way the tours are selling out, it’s gonna be fine, and a lot easier on us travel-wise. Tony’s been after us to fly for a while.”
Brand—short reddish-blond hair and a thick beard, tattoos all over his hands and forearms and biceps in patchwork which didn’t quite yet make a sleeve—tapped his chin, the sparrow on the back of his left hand fluttering as he dragged his fingers through his beard. “Question—this is your jet, or is this the band’s jet?”
Myles shrugged. “I mean, it’s mine. But if we’re not touring and you need it, let me know. Better yet, I’ll make sure the charter schedule is shared with you guys so you can schedule your use of it. Tony is setting up a separate LLC for the charter, and I’m funding and expense accounting the operating costs. You’ll have to make official requests to use it so the schedule doesn’t get jacked up, but the jet is yours to use as much as you want. Just, you know, there’s only one jet and four of us, so we gotta just be respectful of that, you know?”
Brand nodded. “Nah, it’s cool, just wondering.”
“So when do we get a ride on it?” Jupiter asked.
“Well, I’m taking Lex to Alaska to see her family before we take off on the overseas leg. We got two weeks before the first date in Tokyo, so we’ll fly there together for the inaugural band flight. We’ll fly out of LAX and I’ll get you the schedule as soon as its fixed, but I figure we’ll hit up Tokyo for some fun for a few days before the show.”
Zan, then. “I got a question.” His eyes were closed, and I saw a tendril of smoke wafting across his square of screen. “We ain’t, like, gonna end up like…like fuckin’—like Ritchie Valens and Buddy Holly, or John Denver, or Stevie Ray Vaughn? Are we? ’Cause all of them died in plane crashes.”
There was a chorus of groans from everyone else. “Jesus, Zan, way to kill the celebration, dude,” Brand said.
“No, we’re not,” Myles said. “I hired two of the best, most experienced, most overqualified pilots anywhere in the world. They’re dedicated entirely to this plane and to us. They rotate shifts so neither of them is ever flying more than the regulation number of hours. They’re assuring me they personally check the aircraft before every flight, and I’m paying extra to have mechanics at every stop go over it, wingtip to wingtip, nose to tail. Because, fuck that, I am not dying in a goddamn plane crash, Zan, and neither are you or any of us. But it’s a good question.”
Their conversation wandered after that, the way a conversation between four men who spend every waking minute together for months at a time tends to do.
Then a silence fell over the conversation.
“Man, can I just say it’s fuckin’ weird, not having Crow in on this?” Jupiter said. “I miss his cranky ass.”
Myles’s face shuttered. “I do, too. It won’t be the same without him, but he’s got a good thing going up in Alaska. I know he misses you guys, and if he hasn’t said it, I’ll say it for him—go up and visit him.” He rubbed the back of his head. “Matter of fact, executive decision—from here on out, every tour leg ends in Alaska, so we spend a good week or so with Crow and Charlie. I guess the crew up there is huge, and from what Crow says, they know how to fuckin’ party.”
“Crew?” Zan again. “What crew?”
I laughed and said, “This is going to sound a bit crazy, but my sister Cassie is dating a guy up there who’s…shit. I don’t know, honestly. It’s complicated, and I don’t know any of them. I just know my mom is dating this guy who has triplet sons, and those triplets have cousins who own a pretty famous bar in Ketchikan, and there’s eight superhot brothers who all have these superhot girlfriends and wives…it’s this whole thing. There’s a Facebook page about them, and one of the brothers is dating or married to Harlow Grace, and there’s a pair of twins dating twins, and one of the twin couples is the music group Canary, and…” I sighed. “Cassie is all, like, ‘you are part of the family’ now, and Charlie and my mom are saying the same thing.”
“You sound annoyed,” Jupiter said.
Damn his observant ass.
I shrugged. “Not annoyed, just weirded out. Like, my mother and two of my four sisters are all ensconced in this new ‘clan’ whom I’ve never met. It’s just weird and I don’t know what to expect.”
“A whole big family to click into,” Myles said, eying me. “Sounds like a good thing from where I’m sitting.”
“Canary? I love Canary,” Zan piped up. “Bishop’s Pawn was the shit, too. I know those guys. I played in this band in San Francisco before I joined you guys, and I played at this dive bar with Canaan and Corin. Those dudes are wicked talented.”
I threw up my hands and laughed. “Everybody knows them except me! It’s crazy.”
Jupiter was chewing on something. “You’re talking about the Badd family. Baxter Badd used to…” he trailed off. “Well, that’s a different story.”
Myles seized on that. “What? What aren’t you saying?”
Jupiter was uncomfor
table. “Years ago, before I was in the IFBB, I was just this aspiring bodybuilder. Broke as shit, is what I was. So, to make ends meet, I’d do underground fights. I was big and I grew up rough, so fistfights were daily for me, and I came across this guy who told me I could make a grand in one night whether I won or lost.” He shrugged. “Turns out I was good, damn good. Won most of my fights.”
Myles blinked. “Holy shit, Jupe. Why the hell is this the first I’m hearing of this?”
Jupiter shrugged again. “I’m not ashamed of it, but it’s not something I advertise. For one, they’re illegal as fuck. Two, I’m already kind of a scary guy, and if folks find out I used to beat the shit out of other guys for money in underground bareknuckle boxing matches they’ll probably end up making assumptions. I just don’t advertise it.”
“Holy shit.” Zan was laughing. “No wonder I’m scared of you, Jupe.”
“You’re scared of me because you weigh a buck-fifty soaking wet, and I could break your arm with one hand.”
Zan nodded seriously. “No shit. You could. I thought Bax played football, though?”
“He did that too, but had to quit or something. I don’t know the story.” Jupiter paused. “I just know I demolished everybody I ever fought…except Baxter Badd. That motherfucker was faster than lightning and hit like a fuckin’ freight train. He tore me a new asshole and wasn’t even sweating. I fought him six rounds, but by the end of that fight I was just…a bloody wreck. Couldn’t see, lip was busted, missing a tooth, and then he broke one of my ribs and that was it. Worst pain I’ve ever felt in my life was when he went in for a second hit on my broken rib—didn’t know it was broken, either of us. Until he hit me again and I fuckin’…I went down like a sack of bricks. No chance of getting up. I’d done him pretty good, but he was the clear winner. And I’m just saying this to you guys, but he’s the only person on the planet you couldn’t pay me any amount of money to ever, fucking ever step into a ring with again.”
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