Michael runs a thumb across my lower lip and draws my attention away from the toes of his black boots and up to his face. I hadn't even realized that I'd let my gaze drop.
“Lilith, I want this, too,” he promises. “Well, I mean, I won't lie and say there aren't moments that I wish I had you to myself, but fuck, I want you. I want Pax and Ran to … do whatever Pax and Ran want to do with each other. I want Cope and Muse to be happy. So if this is what it takes, this is what I'm signing up for. I just wanted to hear what you'd say if I asked.”
He gives a wry smile that sits perfectly on that bad boy exterior of his, like it, too was painted there by a god. But if Muse is God with a capital G's canvas, then Michael is a statue carved by the hands of a different deity, something ancient and feminine, something that knew what a perfect man should look like, be like. Yes, in his past Michael made mistakes, but don't we all? The important part is that he learned from them, that life isn't just a passthrough lane for him; everything he does affects him a visceral level.
“You guys got a map yet?” Muse asks, entering the conversation at just the right moment. I look over at him and Cope and smile.
“No, but I don't need one. I have one word for you,” I start as I back away toward the staircase, “mummies.”
And then I turn and run up the steps in white heels with black bats all over them, my mother's charm bracelet tinkling in time with the necklaces around my throat.
I don't stop until I'm looking at ancient corpses wrapped in gauze.
Now, how much more romantic could a date with five guys really get?
My fingers pluck the strings of the bass with careful intensity, every molecule of my being focused on the instrument clutched in my steady hands. Sweat pours down the muscles in my arms, coating the black and grey tattoos with a wet shine, my head moving in time with the music. On my left elbow, the new tattoo aches and pulls at my skin, reminding me how fresh it is, how pissed off it is to be there.
But me? I'm actually having a pretty damn good fucking time.
Cope's kick drum is the only other sound in the room, the audience going silent and still for the start of this song—my song. I mean, I've got a few interspersed into Beauty in Lies' collective catalogue, but this one … I've been waiting a long time to feel like I might actually believe in the lyrics.
Boom, boom, boom, boom.
Copeland carries me through my complicated solo with a steady beat, my heart slowing to match the rhythm of his foot against the pedal. And that feeling, the feeling that he's there for me, that he's got my back, it's more than just a musical relationship. Cope was my mentor in junior high and he took that shit seriously. Fuck, he's never stopped taking that shit seriously.
He saved my life, lied to the cops for me, kept me out of jail.
That was him.
So playing music with him? That's a damn privilege.
I let myself get carried away, fingers flying, my bass humming and buzzing like a quiet kiss, like a shouted whisper, a simmering rage. I let it sing the way I like to talk, quiet and reserved, holding back. Always, always holding back.
Ten seconds in, Michael joins me with his guitar, blending into the shadowed beauty of my Fender Precision like the two instruments were made to meet, fall in love, fuck each other's brains out in the quiet evening dark.
Cope lightens up on his kick drum, but attacks the rest of his kit, giving Michael and me this beautiful background noise for a little call and response, leading us into the opening lines of the song, inviting Muse and Pax to play.
“I'm trapped in my own prescribed hell,” he sings, voice low and even, foot tapping the floor in time to the sound of my bass. I repeat the same phrase over and over, this wicked little melody that mimics the sound of my own madness. Because when I attacked the guy that killed my mom, I really did go mad. “So many locks and keys, but I'm still waiting to be freed. Unfortunately I think the only person that can help me is me. Can't seem to find myself.”
“How can I start searching the deepest, darkest parts of me?” I breathe into the mic, backing Pax up, and for the first time in a long, long time, not resenting him at all for having to do it.
Fuck, I needed that apology.
I needed him to look me in the face and say he was sorry, that he was wrong.
I was dying for it. Bleeding for it. Desperate.
And now I have it. I think I have him. And we have Lilith.
“I've locked my own soul inside. I'd let myself out if only I didn't have to hide. How can I tame the beast that bleeds me dry at night?” Pax asks, using the same easy rhythm I set with my bass.
“THIS NIGHTMARE! THIS NIGHTMARE!” I scream, dragging out the second syllable of the last word, letting it ring throughout the venue, yet another historical gem. I think it used to be called Camden Theater? Camden Palace? I can't even remember what it's called now.
I realize then that I've closed my eyes against the crowd, against my bandmates.
I force myself to open them, standing there in front of thousands in a sleeveless hoodie and holey jeans, looking for all the world like death himself buried in shadows.
“I'm trapped in my own realized prison, so many locks and keys. But I'm still waiting to surpass this need. Unfortunately I think the only person that can help me is me. Can't seem to understand myself.”
Paxton and I join together to sing the chorus again. This time, we both scream the word nightmare into our mics, let it crack the skulls of the audience in half, spill their brains to the floor. That oughta give them something to think about.
I study my old friend from behind with a new eye, an eye that's seem him naked in ways I never thought I'd see … or experience. I definitely never would've believed I'd have his mouth or hand on my cock—or that I'd like it.
Jesus Christ.
“I want to tame the beast that writhes inside. Do I unlock the doors before or after he dies? I need to tame the beast that hides inside. Is that a bit of light I see behind those eyes? I will conquer and flay the hide of the beast that's me inside.”
“THIS NIGHTMARE! THIS NIGHTMARE! THIS NIGHTMARE IS ME!”
The song ends with my solo screams, and I finish to the sound of Paxton clapping in the mic. I let go of my bass, let it shine in the light like the color of a fresh bruise, this dark purple-blue of old blood beneath red skin.
“As if you didn't already know …” Pax schmoozes, breathing hard into the mic, his shirt open and chest exposed. I see the popped buttons from his dress shirt all over the damn stage. Fucking showboater. My lips curve into a dangerous smile. “That song's called The Beast That Lives Inside. London, it's been lovely to see old Blighty again, but we're Beauty in Lies and that”—Pax pauses to lift his arms up and over his head, dropping one back down to press the mic to his mouth—“that's a wrap.”
He steps back as the lights dim, handing his mic to a roadie as the others toss their picks 'n' sticks into the crowd. I hand my bass off to another roadie, heading toward stage left as a dark red curtain falls and cuts us off from our audience.
My beast. My nightmare.
Those are just euphemisms for the anger I felt toward my mother's killer, all of that craziness stirring around inside of me. I had no idea what to do with it, so … I let it get the best of me. I let it put a knife in my hand, let it drag me around the city as I stalked the man, let it slash and bleed him until it was over and I was left with fresh scars of my own.
Physical scars. Mental scars.
With a small sigh, I reach up and pull the clear plugs from my ears. I make sure to tuck them into the case in my pocket—these are custom made and they cost me four hundred bucks and a visit to a doctor to get them fitted. There's no way in hell I'm losing them; they're designed to let me hear everything that's going on onstage while still knocking off quite a few decibels.
“You were fucking smashing,” Pax says, slapping his sweaty palms together and giving me a look that says a million things he hasn't put into words yet. “T
here's something different about the way you're playing.”
“Maybe you just think that, honey?” I ask quietly, my voice stolen away by the crowd's desperate cries for an encore. “You've finally given yourself license to stop hating me. That might be skewing the sound.”
“No, that's not it,” Paxton says, and I should know better than to argue with him when it comes to music. He's got a composer's ear. “You are different. It's fucking you …”
Pax trails off as we make our way down three flights of stairs to where Lilith's waiting. Our poor fucking roadies, having to drag all our shit up these steps. I do not fucking envy them, especially because most of the folks working tonight are local, hired for a single night, not a whole tour.
That's backbreaking part-time work right there.
“You're starting to freak,” I whisper and watch as Paxton grits his teeth at me. Sweat streaks the sides of his face, runs over the tattoos on his neck, his chest, right over the matching ink above his heart. “Don't. You almost lost it there in Dublin, but you pulled yourself together. You've got this.”
“Hey!” Lilith says, breathless and bright-eyed. The sight of her does all sorts of crazy things to my body—but primarily to my heart and my dick. My pulse picks up, making me feel momentarily dizzy, and my heart beats so hard that for a few seconds, that's the only sound I can hear past the slight ringing in my ears.
Yeah, well, shit, I'm kind of prone to romantic notions. I fell in love with Chloe, with Kortney, with … fucking Lilith. And maybe Paxton. I don't know about that last one. Anyway, I feel things with Lilith that I never fucking felt with Chloe or Kortney and that makes me ten times sappier than usual.
“Ransom,” she says, and the way my name rolls across her lips … that really gets me. She says it like she's excited to see me. My mom would've loved Lilith. She's upbeat, but not painfully so. She's aware that life throws hard curveballs, ones that hurt when they hit, that bloom bright bruises on the skin and leave their marks. She even knows that sometimes, those marks become scars.
I lean down to kiss her, grabbing her up in my arms and briefly lifting her from the floor.
The heat of our mouths meeting sparks the ember of my emotions into a flame, teasing with flickering orange and yellow heat, begging me closer, deeper, harder, more.
Without realizing it, I've pressed Lilith's back into the wall. One of her legs is wrapped around both of mine, her fingers laced behind my neck. We're completely melted together, just one person, one mouth, one desperate basic need.
“It was the Egyptian Death and Afterlife exhibit that did it, wasn't it?” she whispers playfully in my ear, letting me grind the hard bulge in my jeans against her heat. Lilith's wearing the same flirty white dress she wore to the museum, and to tell you the truth, when pressed like this, it doesn't offer much coverage.
“That did what, wonderful?” I whisper back, struggling to contain the surge of need in me. But hell, this is a different kind of beast that's roaring, less like a monster and more like, well an animal. The animal's needs, its motivations, those are easy to understand; they make sense. Plus, they're a goddamn pleasure to slake.
“Turned you on,” she jokes, reaching up and rubbing a bit of dark liner away from my eyes. Her thumb comes away smudged with black. Lilith flicks her hunter green gaze to mine. “That was a romantic date, wasn't it?”
“Oh so romantic, darling,” I whisper back, and the way I say it … hell, even I like the sound of my own voice. Or maybe I'm just laying it on so thick I can't tell the difference? “There's nothing that turns me on quite like looking at four thousand year old dead guys.”
“I knew it,” she whispers, and that's just fucking it. Her lips are the color of peonies and her body is all curves all over the place. Her skin's like fresh cream and it's soft as hell on my sweaty, calloused hands. And that smell … roses drift in the air around us, mixing with fresh sweat and violets.
“Come with me.”
I step back and grab Lilith's hand.
“Are you stealing her away already?” Pax mumbles, sliding a pack of smokes from his pocket and lighting up before any of the venue staff or Octavia can comment on it. The guys and I … we sort of don't give a lot of shits about smoking laws. We pretty much light up whenever, wherever we want. But I'm trying. Seriously, I'm really trying. “Didn't even get a damn kiss.”
Lilith smiles and leans toward Pax, keeping hold of my hand as he drags her in for a kiss that's about two steps above the erotic level of the one I just laid on her. Figures. We might be friends … or lovers or something, but that rivalry still has a ways to go before it's dead and buried.
As soon as the two of them come up for air, I steal Lil away from the group, the crowd, tug her toward the door of a small office. I have no idea whose office it is, but there's nobody in there and we just rocked the house down with a killer show, so I figure I have a right to borrow it.
“I hear you were once a party boy,” Lilith whispers, and I smile because I like the way that she matches my tones when she's with me, lowers her pitch to meet mine. We spend a lot of nights whispering in the dark together. “I think it's showing a little.”
“Party boy?” I ask, my tone low and cool as I push Lilith gently into the office and shut the door behind us. “Is that what you think I was, sweetie?”
“That's what the rumors say,” she replies haughtily, backing up a few steps until she bumps into a small counter serving as a desk. A few papers flutter to the floor, and Lilith reaches down to pick them up. I stop her with a few fingertips under her chin, lifting her gaze back to mine.
It's dark in here, the only light coming in from beneath the door and from the few weak beams that manage to penetrate the piece of brown paper that's taped over the single window, probably for privacy reasons. If I happen to run into whoever put it there on my way out, I might thank them. Maybe. I mean, Lilith is sort of right. That is what the old Ransom would do.
But that Ransom, he died the day his mother did. And then whatever monster was born from that tragedy was killed by a rapist's knife. Whoever I'm becoming now, it's not that guy.
Stepping between Lilith's spread thighs, I touch a hand to her face, close my eyes as she leans into my touch.
“Your skin is like starlight,” I whisper, and I mean that. It's not a line. I feel like even in here, with barely any real light to see by, that this woman glows. Or maybe that's just me being corny again?
“Fuck, Ran,” she whispers back, digging her fingertips into the back of my neck, slanting our lips together for a kiss. “You can't say things like that to me.”
“Why not?” I ask, just before our mouths clash like swords. I swear, I can almost hear a metallic clang as we come together with the heat of battle in our tongues, lips, in our grasping hands and rocking hips. Lilith's cunt is hot and eager; I can feel her wetness all the way through the denim.
It makes my cock fucking furious.
On either of Lilith's shoulders, there's a thin white strap tied into a bow. I tear the knots apart with overeager fingers, dropping the fabric down to her waist in an instant. I know this is supposed to be a quickie, but there are just some ways I don't like to compromise. My hands knead the softness of her breasts, tease the cups out of my way and bare that round lusciousness to my touch.
Lil's moans are sweet and soft against my lips, at odds with the sudden, franticness of the moment.
“Skin like starlight, floral lips,” I start as she locks her ankles behind my back and tears at the button on my jeans. “Hair like rubies, eyes like emeralds.”
“Seriously, shut the fuck up,” she says, but the words come out in a fervent whisper as she frees the heavy length of my cock and holds it in her hand, squeezing me, stroking me, drawing much less sweet and much less soft moans from my own mouth.
“Do you have trouble with the truth?” I tease as she kisses me like I'm the only man in her life, the only one that matters. It doesn't bother me that I have to share her, but it does fee
l nice to know I'm fucking wanted by this woman, this old Hollywood goddess, all plump flesh and curves in my arms.
“I have trouble with flattery,” Lilith whispers back, her words less sound and more touch. I can feel them against my own mouth, each syllable an agonizing tease as she drags her nails down the length of my shaft.
“Flattery? Sweetheart, that's just poetry. I could write a song about you.” I pause as she takes the initiative, reaching between us and pushing her panties aside. “Maybe I will?” I add, just before she draws me close and I adjust my grip to her hips, sheathing myself in the molten desire between her thighs.
I'm barely three thrusts in before the door opens behind me.
My teeth clench, and I swear the muscles in my neck are hard as rocks.
“Mikey,” Lilith breathes, and the anger leaks out of me.
I glance over my shoulder as Michael closes the door and plunges us all back into blackness laced with shadows. I'm comfortable here; I live in shadows after all. It's why I always keep my hood up, so I can have the easy simplicity of darkness around me at all times. But damn, the glow of Lilith's skin, the way her smile can light up a room, that's the kind of shit that inspires me to pull my hoods down, to take a few steps into sunshine.
“Mind if I join?” he asks, but not like he expects to be told no. Jesus, him and Pax. They're both such alpha male dicks. I should tell him to screw off, but what the hell?
I leave the decision up to Lilith.
“Not at all,” she says, her voice a throaty, husky sound that curls around me the same way her cunt's curled around my cock. It's warm, soothing; it obliterates my senses until all I can think, smell, see, hear, or touch is her.
Carefully, we untangle our bodies and she slides off the counter, drawing my attention around with her until she's facing Michael and I'm staring at the glowing lines of her pale form from behind.
Moxie (Rock-Hard Beautiful Book 3) Page 6