Moxie (Rock-Hard Beautiful Book 3)

by C. M. Stunich

  “You don't do things in half-measures do you, Mikey?” I ask as he slides his hands forward and rests them on my belly.

  “What's the point? If I'm going to do something, I'm going in full blast, all the fucking way. Then if it doesn't work out, at least I'll know I gave it the old college try.” He presses a firm kiss to the side of my neck and then nips gently at my skin. “Listen, you can sign a rental agreement, and I'll act like the typical a-hole dickhead landlord. I'll pretend I'm of noble blood, prance around like you owe me for the privilege of living on my property.”

  “I get the feeling you haven't had a good run of luck with renting and landlords?” I ask, giving Muse once last look and then turning in Michael's arms, so I can throw my own around his neck. My fingertips trace the rich jewel tones of the tattoos on his throat.

  Vanessa cheated on this guy? After he was celibate for a year waiting for her? She must seriously have a few loose screws. Michael is … well, fuck, he's tall and muscular and tattooed and beautiful. His eyes are that mysterious indigo color that the sky turns just before the last vestiges of day turn to night, a sunset within a sunset, that spark of purple where the navy blue of the sky meets the earth.

  “When my parents passed away, we were living in this cute little two bedroom place in Laurelhurst. We barely had time to process that they were dead before the asshole was handing us notice to get the fuck out. His uh, just cause for kicking us out was that our parents had been the ones to sign the lease and they were no longer living in the residence.” Michael scowls, twisting that handsome face of his into something a little darker than I'm used to seeing. He has so much anger inside of him. So, so, so, so much. “Piece of shit. Tim and I lived in our car for two weeks before we managed to find a family friend willing to rent us a room.”

  Michael pauses and runs his fingers through his long, dark hair.

  “Tim almost lost custody of me because of that fucker,” he continues, pausing to watch Paxton down another drink and then stare out the window with narrowed eyes and tight lips. “So yeah, not a big fan of renting or landlords. I mean, come the hell on. Landlord, like this is medieval Europe or some shit? No man is my goddamn lord. Everybody has the right to own a piece of property.”

  He adjusts that powerful gaze so that it's focused directly on my face, making my breath catch, forcing my heart to gallop to keep up.

  “This is really important to you, isn't it?” I ask, surprised by the vehemence of his reaction. He does have a point though. Still, I can't let the same thing that happened with Kevin happen with these guys. They might be my princes, but if I let them buy me a castle, then I'm not really forging my own way, am I? “I guess we can look at properties for sale. If it seems like a good investment for you guys, I'd be happy to rent from you.”

  Those perfect lips of his curve into a sharp smile.

  “Good. Muse and Cope are like, weirdly obsessed with real estate anyway. They'll probably cream their jeans helping you look for a house.”

  “It's the American Dream, isn't it?” Cope asks from behind me, and I glance over my shoulder to find him flipping through his book but not really reading any of the words. “What's wrong with getting excited about it?”

  “American Dream?” Paxton asks, turning around and hoisting himself up onto the surface of the bar. “Well, shit, I'm an Englishman. All I want is to smell honeysuckle and roses through my cottage window and have myself a nice cup of tea.” He digs a pack of cigarettes out and gets a weird look from Octavia as he slips one between his lips. Pax rolls his eyes and continues on in that dry, sarcastic tone of his. “Preferably after playing a local cricket game with my mates.”

  “Are you sure you should smoke in here?” Octavia asks, speaking directly to him for what's probably the first time since Jacksonville.

  “It's my parents' fucking plane, isn't it? I'll smoke in here if I damn well please,” he says, flicking open a lighter and pausing to exchange a long look with Michael. Slowly, Pax's eyes drift over to me. “Oh bloody hell,” he snaps, shoving the cigarette back in the pack and then tossing it against the opposite wall.

  He rubs a hand down his face and leans back against the curved wall of the plane.

  “Are you sure there's nothing you want to talk about with us, sweetheart?” Ransom asks, turning and draping his body along the length of the couch. “Because you look like you're falling apart in front of my face.”

  “What's the big deal? You did the same thing times a hundred already.” Pax jumps down from the bar and meets my eyes for one, long, searing moment. It's like I can feel him in my head, debating on what to say, mulling over all his options. Finally, he settles on one. “Lilith,” he says, his voice low and even, but his hands curled into tight fists, the ink on his knuckles straining with the motion. “I have a fiancée.”

  And then Pax turns and walks away, locking himself in the single bedroom at the back of the plane.

  Holy. Fucking. Shit.

  That was a shit thing to do, wasn't it? Drop a bomb like that on Lilith? Ransom, too, for that matter.

  I sit down on the edge of the bed in my hotel room, wondering if I'm making a mistake by skipping out on the Edinburgh Castle run that the others are taking Miss Lily on. But I've been here before, done the whole tourist bit.

  I take advantage of my moment alone to light up a cigarette and smoke it nice and slow, hold the tobacco in my lungs and tilt my head back. White-grey curls escape my parted lips as I look up at the intricate details in the ceiling, the white medallion surrounding the base of the small chandelier.

  Considering all the fucking bullshit I've been through in my life, you'd think I'd ride this one out with ease. I mean, what the hell can my parents do to me that they haven't already done? I don't want their bloody money or their upper-crust blessing, and I sure as shit don't want the girl they picked out for me when I was seven years old.

  Amelia Davies.

  I haven't seen her in years, not since my parents made their last play to get me to jump back across the pond. They brought Amelia over to the States with them after Harper died and tried to guilt-trip me into doing my familial duty, marrying one aristocratic English asshole to another.

  No fucking thank you.

  I told 'em no, and they cut me off financially. I haven't seen a single penny from them since the day they hopped on a plane—probably the exact goddamn plane we rode on last night—and left the US. They only give me a courtesy call every once in a while, just to twist my bollocks, remind me that it's essentially my fault that my sister's dead.

  If I hadn't moved to the States, hadn't dated Chloe, hadn't invited Harper to visit me in Washington.

  Maybe all this time I've been blaming Ransom because I've been afraid to blame myself?

  Or worse, maybe because I have to come to terms with the fact that there's nobody that I can blame? All of this anger and this pain that I carry around, I just have to fucking deal with it.

  I drop my chin and smoke my cigarette, glancing over at the glowing screen of my phone as it buzzes across the surface of the nightstand, one of my band's songs playing as my mother's ringtone. That one's just called Lickspittle. It's about silly old mommy and all the kowtowing she does to my father, her relatives, basically anyone that has more power or money than she does.

  Don't worry though, I've got a song for dear old dad, too. His is just titled Fucker. No clever euphemisms or synonyms for that asshole. Nope. Fucker just about sums it up.

  I ignore that phone call—and the three that follow after it; I'll be home soon enough.

  Chills claw their way down my spine as I rise to my feet, snubbing my cigarette out in a rubbish bin and dropping the butt inside. I have no clue if this is a smoking room or not, but I suppose I'll deal with the fine if I get one. For the first time in years, I'm on the same landmass as my parents and it's scaring the fucking shite out of me.

  My dad didn't rape me, not like Muse's, but he did beat and bloody me senseless, knock me around. Scream. S
hout. Belittle me. Make me feel less than human. He's still got that special little talent although I'll be damned if I let him lay a finger on me ever again. And my mom? Well, she just sat back and watched, played the devil's advocate and justified the man's erratic behavior. All that, though, well I could've dealt with that. It was only when he started hitting Harper, too, that I finally broke.

  “Jesus fucking Christ,” I growl, stripping myself down and climbing in the shower.

  But even the wash of scalding water can't strip away the feelings haunting inside my chest. For a long time now, whenever I've felt this old pain, I've simply lashed out at Ransom, dropped the weight on his shoulders and smirked my way through that. I can't do that anymore. Not to him, and not to myself.

  I miss Harper, but fuck … I really miss Chloe. I loved her like I've never loved another woman. Honestly, I never expected to fall in love again. That's a onetime thing, yeah? True love. But Miss Lilith Tempest Goode, the way she looks at the five of us makes me believe it can happen more than once. Fuck, the way I look at her … I know it can happen more than once.

  Bleeding hell.

  I think I'm in love with the curvy redheaded groupie.

  I should tell 'er before it's too late, before fate steals her away from me like it did Chloe Marquette.

  My fingers dig into my scalp as I lather my blonde hair up, claw my cheeks as I soap up my face, scar my chest as I wash my body. By the time I turn the water off, I feel like my outside's as scarred and bloodied as my insides.

  So I do what I always do, climb out and dry off, fix my hair and makeup and then grab one of the expensive tailored suits hanging in my hotel suite. I pick a charcoal grey one for tonight's show, one that matches the color of my eyes. A crisp bloodred dress shirt goes underneath the jacket, a black silk tie, a pair of real silver cuff links. For today's set, I choose silver bass clef hearts, mimicking the new tattoo that's resting on my chest, just over the thumping beat of my own heart. For shoes, I go with Barker Blacks like I always do, grabbing a pair of black velvet 'slippers' with the silver skull and crossbones logo of the brand embroidered on the front, a small crown resting above its head.

  When the others arrive back at the hotel, I'm sitting in a chair near the window, the lines of my suit sharp as knives, a smirk sliced across my lips to match.

  I don't think there's a damn person in that room that's fooled by the act.

  I miss Chloe; I'm afraid of my parents; I have a fiancée; I'm in love with Lilith; I might be in love with Ransom.

  I'm a fucking mess.

  Tonight's venue is an historic little gem on Victoria Street, this curving sweep of road made up of old grey bricks and lined with some of the best looking buildings in the city. Right now, we're walking through scores of tourists on the Royal Mile on our way over there, leaving the hotel on foot dressed in our concert best. I think Octavia about burst an artery when I announced our plans, but that bitch is hanging onto being our manager by the skin of her teeth; she's lucky Miss Lily has such a big heart. Lord knows I don't have much of one left.

  “This is fucking beautiful,” Lilith says, her head tilted back as she studies the old buildings soaring above us, most of which are probably crying tears of stone right now. There's a fucking Starbucks in that one over there. For the love of Christ … People have been living in this spot for thousands of years and now they're serving expensive coffee in paper cups to tourists from a building older than the country that Lily grew up in?

  Good God.

  I glance over at Lilith as we pass by several signs advertising ghost and cemetery tours; supposedly Edinburgh is haunted as fuck, but I've been here a million times and have yet to see a specter or spook of any kind. Still … I feel awful about all the jaded thoughts running through my brain when I see the wonder etched on my new girlfriend's face. The way her emerald green eyes take in the world around us, it makes it all seem fresh and wondrous, like we're goddamn lucky to be here.

  Closing the distance between us, I loop my arm through one of hers.

  “I'm really trying not to be the consummate arsehole here,” I say as we walk together, the heavy black and white folds of her dress swishing as she moves. It's got stripes of what look like piano keys overlaid in a random pattern across the fabric, but that's not what catches my attention. It's that strappy back, leaving most of her pale skin bare and begging to be touched. “Truly. But you haven't mentioned the fiancée thing once and I'm starting to get mildly concerned here.”

  “Do you want me to freak out?” she asks mildly, her lips colored with this sumptuous red that reminds me of pinot noir. Frankly, I'm this close to licking it all off. “Hey,” Lilith says, pausing next to a woman wearing a sandwich board. “Take a haunted tour with me tonight, right after the show. The flight to London is only about an hour and a half, right? We have time.”

  “A ghost tour?” I ask as Ransom steps up beside us and peers at the board draped over the woman's body, accepting a brochure when she hands it to him. “I've just revealed to you that I've got a fiancée and you want to go on a bloody ghost tour?”

  “Oh, it'll be bloody alright,” the tour guide says with an easy smile, “black as Satan's jammies. May I suggest the underground tour? Starts right here and takes you into the South Bridge Vaults. A haunting good time, guaranteed.”

  “Do we really need to go on a ghost tour?” I ask, glancing over at Ran and gesturing at him with one tattooed hand. “Ransom slinks around like a spook most of the time anyway.”

  “I'm totally down for this,” he says in that smooth as silk voice of his, “unless, you know, you two want to go on a date in the South Bridge Vaults alone?”

  Ran smacks me in the head with the brochure, and I snatch it from his hand as he gestures with spooky fingers at us and makes a total arse out of himself.

  “Actually, I'd appreciate that,” Lilith says, looking up at me from under curved, dark lashes. Her lids glitter with gold shadow, bringing out hidden flecks of color in her irises. My cock is already stiff as a fucking diamond from seeing her curvy form swathed in that dress, bare back and shoulders exposed, her new tattoo a spot of color on her wrist. But that look … it's that look that makes my heart pound. “Will you take me on a ghost tour date, Paxton Charles Blackwell?”

  “I suppose I could do that, Miss Lilith Tempest Goode,” I say as I dig in my pocket for my wallet, lips curving in a small smile. I might be a mess inside, but standing here with her, watching her take in the world with a child's excitement and a woman's intuition, I'm excited. Ecstatic, maybe. I can see a future unfolding behind those eyes of hers, blooming across her skin in a pink flush as she looks up at me.

  But first I have to survive this visit with my parents—and Amelia.

  I'm going to end it, this ridiculous engagement, this emotional torment. Fuck, when I originally asked Octavia to pencil in this personal time on the schedule, I had no idea what I was going to do with it. Pop in for a spot of tea and some fucking crumpets? Sit in the conservatory with dear ol' mummy and listen to her talk gossip about all the other rich idiots she hangs around with? Or maybe watch my father's face tighten when he looks at me, his disappointment of a son?

  Standing here with Lilith, it hits me.

  I'm not going there to endure my family; I'm going there to make peace with my past.

  My smile curves one corner of my mouth as I accept the two tickets from the guide and stuff them in my wallet.

  “Whoa, ghost tours,” Muse says, grabbing the brochure from me. “Fuck, I want to go on one of these.” He flips through the pages as Ransom tucks his hands in the front pocket of his hoodie.

  “Pax is taking Lilith on a date to the vaults,” he says, with this stupid little lilt to his voice that makes me raise my eyebrows. “We should take a different one. Nighttime cemetery tour anyone?”

  “Book that shit,” Muse says, slapping the pamphlet onto the palm of his other hand, glancing back to look at Michael and Copeland. “You guys in?”

&nbs
p; “You want to tour old gravestones?” Michael asks, wrinkling up his face. “I'm not into that emo shit.”

  “God, would you loosen up, Mikey?” I ask, taking Lilith's hand. Her fingers curl through mine, her hand just the right size to fit inside of my own. It's like we were made to be together. To banish that sappy little thought, I make sure to put a lot of cocky swagger into my step. “You're a rockstar; graveyards are right up your alley.”

  “One of my favorite books of all time has a pretty racy sex scene in a graveyard,” Cope adds as I grin and toss a wink in Lilith's direction.

  “Maybe we'll write our own scene together in the vaults?” I whisper as I pull her away from the tour guide and up the incline of the old street. For a second there, it's just us. Alone. A couple. It's been a long damn time since I was a part of a couple.

  “Your fiancée …” she starts finally, and I feel my smile get tight. This is what I was waiting for. “What's her name?”

  “Amelia Davies,” I reply carefully, thinking of the awkward, gangly girl I grew up with, the one that blossomed into a runway model with long legs and a svelte little body draped in designer dresses. “She's the daughter of some old family friends; our parents promised us to one another when we turned seven.”

  “Seven? Is that even legal?” Lilith asks, clearly horrified as she looks over at me, her heels clacking against the old stones beneath our feet. She looks so modern and sexy against the Royal Mile's opulent age and grandeur. But in a way, she fits in here, too. Her skin and hair and freckles promise that at least a few of her ancestors hailed from the UK.

  “Hell if I know. I booked it out of there when I turned sixteen, headed to Seattle for a summer holiday and never left. I met Ransom, fell in love with Chloe Marquette, and started a band. I've only seen my parents in person a half-dozen times since then, Amelia even less.”

  “What's she like?” Lilith asks, the long folds of her dress swaying rhythmically as we walk. There's something soothing about that, the movement of the fabric, the cadence of her heels, the slightly strained huff of her breath as we ascend the hill.