Reckless Obsession (The Reckless Rockstar Series)

by Samantha Christy

  The audience has tripled in size since our first time here. In fact, they had to hire bouncers to keep the place from going overcapacity. Word definitely got out that the opening act for White Poison was playing. I’m sure the bar owner will try to negotiate additional gigs. I’m also sure that our asking price has probably doubled since signing our new manager.

  After a short break, Liam stops us before we go back onstage. “Let’s play it.”

  We all know what he’s referring to. We’ve been rehearsing one of my altered songs. “I’m not sure we’re ready.”

  “Liam’s right,” Brad says. “We should play it. After today we might not have as much control over our set list.”

  “This is true,” Garrett says, twirling a drumstick.

  Crew shrugs. All of them look at me. I’m not sure when I became the deciding vote. Maybe because it’s my song, only it’s not mine anymore. It’s ours.

  I glance at the crowd. “Let’s do it.”

  I’m both excited and nervous. This will be the first time I’ve ever sung one of my songs in public. What if they hate it? Crew must sense my anxiety, because he whispers in my ear, “I haven’t told you this yet—probably because I’ve always been the songwriter—but this might be the one that puts us on the charts.”

  I smile, more confident now. Garrett counts off with his drumsticks.

  My part is first. I sing to Crew. Not because I’m afraid to look at the audience, but because in some strange way, even though there is tension between us, he gives me strength. When it’s his turn, he sings to me. When we sing the chorus, we do it like we did it in the car, because his way is a thousand times better than mine.

  The rest of the set is just as good. The audience is on its feet, and the dance floor is packed with sweaty bodies. The energy is palpable, and the connection between Crew and me is indescribable. Sometimes it’s like we’re making love to each other with our words, our actions, our eyes. It’s hard not to be turned on by it, especially after knowing what his lips feel like on mine.

  I’ve had more than one fantasy about Crew since our kiss. Despite his insistence that it won’t happen again, I’ve seen the way he looks at me. He’s fighting it, just like I am.

  But he doesn’t fight it when we’re singing together. That’s when he feeds on it. He feeds on it like a starving man at a buffet.

  When our set is over, people storm the stage. They want a piece of us. They want to touch us, get our autograph, say they know us. It’s scary and exhilarating at the same time.

  I break away, needing to pee badly from my nervousness. I hurry to the bathroom, hoping I can get there without being accosted. Thankfully nobody is inside, but I hear someone enter the room while I’m in the stall. I wonder if it’s a fan who followed me in, or just some random girl who has to pee. I flush and then open the metal door to see it’s not a fan. It’s not even a girl. It’s Crew.

  He locks the bathroom door. Then he looks at me. His gaze slides casually down my body before rising to meet mine again. He lunges toward me and pins me to the wall. He kisses me. He kisses me like he sang to me, with passion and fire. It almost feels like we’re still singing to each other, because this is what it’s like. And even though I know how wrong it is, it makes what’s happening between us kind of make sense.

  Sensations I’ve never felt before run through me as his tongue strokes my lips with strong, sensual licks. He cups my face and then runs his hands through my hair. I pull him closer. His erection presses into me, and a ball of need forms in the pit of my stomach. His hands are unruly and untamed as they work their way over my body. I’m drowning in him—his taste, his feel, his scent. Then suddenly, I hear lyrics in my head. I’m afraid that if I don’t write them down, they’ll be lost.

  I don’t want to push him away, but the songwriter in me does it anyway. He backs off, breathing heavily. He shakes his head to clear it, like maybe what just happened wasn’t really what he wanted. His forehead creases, and he turns to unlock the door.

  “Crew,” I say, wanting to tell him it was nothing he did, but when inspiration strikes, you need to go with it.

  He looks at me, but it’s like he’s looking through me. Before I can explain, he’s out the door without uttering a single word.

  A girl walks in with a friend. “Oh my God, that was him!” She notices me. “And you’re her. You guys are so good. Are you dating? Of course you’re dating. You were practically humping each other on the stage. Is he good? Stupid question, right? I mean look at him. Are you playing here again? Are any of the other guys in the band single?”

  I ignore her ramblings because I have so much going on in my head right now. “Do either of you have a pen?”

  One of them checks her purse and hands me a ballpoint. I pump the paper towel dispenser until I have a good length and then I put it on the counter and write. By the time I leave the bathroom, I think I’ve written Reckless Alibi’s newest song.

  I walk toward my bandmates. Things have died down, but there’s still a crowd around them. Crew’s easy smile drops when he spots me. He scratches an eyebrow repeatedly as he eyes me, like he’s sorry about what happened. I weave my way through the crowd and shove the paper towel at him. He looks at me wondering why I’m giving him a paper towel. I nod at it. He notices my scribbling and the corner of his mouth turns up. Before he reads it, he locks eyes with me as if he now understands why I pushed him away.

  He walks away, reading my deepest innermost thoughts. I wrote about wanting him but not being able to have him. About not letting history repeat itself. About the incredible sensation of his hands on me. He brushes off a few fans that trail after him. He leans against the wall as he reads. I can tell he reads it more than once. He scrubs a hand across his face—the way guys do when they’re in a state of confusion.

  He looks at me from across the room. He’s fighting something. I wonder if it has anything to do with the issues Liam spoke of.

  He flags down a passing waitress. She pulls a pen from behind her ear and hands it to him. He lays the paper towel against the wall and writes. He shakes the pen and writes again. After a few minutes of this, he comes back over, gives me the paper towel, and walks out of the bar.

  I look at what he wrote. He marked out some of my lyrics and changed others. My mouth hangs open. With his modifications, I think we’ve just written one of the saddest love songs of our time.

  What happened to him that could invoke such loving yet painful words?

  I look at the empty doorway and wonder why he feels so much pain, even as I realize that pain may be about to make us a shitload of money.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Crew

  Seven years ago

  Abby and I stroll past store after store in the mall until I stop our progress and pin her to the wall with my stare. “What’s the matter?”

  She looks at the floor.

  “You’ve been acting strange for days. You love shopping, but we’ve yet to go into a single store. What gives? Are you sick?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “What does that mean?” I swallow and take a step back, fear crawling up my spine. “Is there someone else?”

  Her eyes snap to mine. “God, no.”

  Relief.

  “Then what is it?”

  A single tear falls from her lashes. “I … oh, Christopher.” She grabs her stomach. “I feel sick. I need a bathroom.”

  I rush her to the nearest restroom and wait outside for ten excruciating minutes, wondering what’s going on.

  When she finally emerges, her eyes are red and puffy, and she looks exhausted. I think of the past few days—the past week actually—and realize she hasn’t been acting strange per se, just tired.

  “You are sick,” I say, leading her to the nearest bench.

  She shakes her head. “I’m not.”

  She gives her belly a rub, and my heart falls.

  “Abbs, really?” I grab her hand. “Are you sure?”

  She sniffs
away more tears. “There’s nothing else it could be. I’m late. Really late. Three weeks or more. I lost track of time and didn’t think about it until I started feeling … funny.”

  “But it could be something else. You could be sick. Maybe you have the flu and that’s the reason you’re late.”

  She shrugs weakly.

  I stand and pull her to her feet. “Come on. We have to be sure.” I gesture to a drugstore.

  She holds me back. “Are you kidding? We can’t go in there. Look around. I see four people from school. And who knows how many people from church could be here. I can’t risk someone seeing us buying a test and telling my parents.”

  “Right. We’ll try the next town, and you can stay in the car while I buy one.”

  She’s still trying to hold back tears. “You’d do that?”

  I raise her hand to my mouth and kiss it. “I’d do anything for you.”

  “You’re not mad?”

  “I’m definitely not mad. Scared maybe. Surprised. But not mad. I’m just as much to blame as you are. More maybe, since I’m the one who buys the condoms.”

  We leave the mall, reach her car, and get in. “You wore one every time,” she says. “How could this be happening?”

  “We’re not sure it is. Your period has been whacky before.”

  “It’s different this time. It’s like I know.”

  “Or you’re scared and imagining the worst-case scenario.”

  “What would we do?”

  “Let’s not think about that yet, okay? One thing at a time.”

  I hold her hand for thirty minutes while I drive. Thirty minutes of silence, both of us surely contemplating what will happen if what she fears is true.

  “Stay here,” I say after pulling up to a drugstore.

  I reach in the backseat and put on a baseball cap I left in her car. Then I raise the collar of my jacket around my neck. I probably look like I’m going to rob the place, but I can’t risk anyone recognizing me and going to Abby’s father.

  I peruse the pregnancy tests and pick the most expensive one, thinking it must be the best. Then I grab a bag of M&M’s on the way to the register. I’m not sure why. I don’t even like them, and it’s stupid to think that because I’m buying candy, the lady behind the counter will fail to see the pregnancy test, but I do it anyway.

  Back in the car, I hand the bag to Abby. “What now?” I ask.

  “I want to do it now and find out for sure.”

  “There’s a bathroom inside. Go in there, but don’t look at the results. The box says to wait three minutes. Come back out. I want to be with you when we find out.”

  We lock eyes, both hoping this is all a bad dream. She takes the box and gets out of the car.

  I turn up the music, wanting to drown out the thoughts in my head. How can this be happening when everything is so perfect? We have so many plans. Abby has become an unofficial member of Naked Whale. Though her father refuses to let her sing with us, she comes to almost every rehearsal and even joined us last month for a gig in Jersey. Some high school hired us to play at their prom. It wasn’t exactly Radio City Music Hall, but it’s better than a stupid talent show.

  We’re good, and people are starting to notice. Liam’s uncle is kind of a bigwig. He lined up some local county fair performances for this summer. Abby turns eighteen in August. Her parents won’t be able to control her then. She says she wants what I want, to be part of a band, cut albums, and go on tour. Everyone else thinks it’s a pipe dream. Everyone but Abby and me.

  She gets in the car and hands me the test. “I can’t look.”

  I take a deep breath, deeper than any breath I’ve ever taken, and look at the clock on my phone while the minutes tick away. “It’s going to be okay.”

  She stares out the window.

  I look at the white stick. It’s not one of those tests where you have to figure out if it’s one line or two, crossed lines, or pink or blue. This test tells you flat out. PREGNANT.

  I try to think of anything but what our reality could be. I love her. I’ll never love anyone but her. I take her hand. “Let’s get married.”

  Her head falls back. “I knew it.” Her chin quivers.

  “Abby, this isn’t the end of the world.”

  “That’s easy for you to say. My dad will kill me. He will literally ground me for the rest of my life. I’ll never get to see you again. He’ll be so ashamed. He’ll say I’ve disgraced the family. He might even make us move away.”

  I pull her across the console and into my lap. “Then we won’t tell them.”

  “You mean get an abortion and pretend it never happened?”

  “We’re not getting rid of our baby, Abbs. I mean we won’t tell him until you’re eighteen. You can hide it. Wear big shirts and stuff. It’s not like you spend a lot of time with your parents anyway. You’re either with me or Janine or the band, and when you’re home, you stay in your room.”

  “What about church? I can’t exactly wear oversized frumpy clothes there.”

  “You’ll be eighteen in four months. How big do you think you’ll be by then?”

  She looks at me in surprise. “Do you really want to do this? Have a baby?”

  “It doesn’t look like we have a choice, does it?”

  “I have no idea about anything, Christopher. I mean, what do we do? Do we go to a doctor? And since I’m a minor, how do I do that? If we keep it, we have to make sure it’s okay, don’t we?”

  I do some quick internet searches on my phone. “What time do you have to be home?”

  “Not until dinner. I have all day.”

  “Good. We’re going to the city. We’re halfway there anyway. They have tons of free clinics. I don’t even think you have to give your real name.”

  “You mean like where the drug dealers go?”

  I raise my brows. “Babe, I doubt drug dealers go to doctors. I’m sure homeless people do, but also people without insurance. Lots of regular people don’t have insurance. I’m sure it will be fine. Unless you have a better idea.”

  “There is no better idea. It’s our only choice.”

  I program the address into my phone. “Call the guys. Tell them we’re missing practice today.”

  Two hours later, I’m staring at a black and white photo of the peanut that is our baby. Eight weeks, that’s how pregnant she is. By August, she’ll be almost six months along. The doctor said she’ll be showing, but with the right clothes, she may be able to hide it. He said to come back once a month to make sure everything is okay. He sent us on our way with the picture and a bottle of prenatal vitamins.

  Back in the car, I take her into my arms.

  “Did you really mean what you said?” she asks.

  “I’ve said a lot of things today.”

  “About getting married.”

  I wipe her tears and cup her face. “I’d marry you tomorrow if I could.”

  She nods over and over. “I’d marry you too.”

  “We’ll do it as soon as you turn eighteen, before the baby comes.”

  “What about school? What about my parents? I’ll still be living under their roof. How will it work? What about the band? What about—”

  I put my fingers over her mouth. “It’s going to be okay. Plenty of girls have babies in high school. You’ll take a few weeks off or something. I’ll help you with your studies. We’ll take the same classes. If we’re married, we’ll live together. I’m sure my mom will let you move in. Your parents won’t be able to say or do anything. As for the band, we’ve got paid gigs lined up for the summer. We’ll save every penny for the baby. I’ll get an extra job if I have to. And as for the kid—we’ll take him on tour with us. Maybe buy him his own little guitar.”

  For the first time in days, she smiles. “Him?”

  “Just a feeling.”

  She stares at the sonogram. “It doesn’t seem real.”

  I put my hand on her belly. “This may not have happened like we planned, but we’re goi
ng to be together forever, Abbs. This just made forever happen a little faster.”

  I reach into the glovebox and pull out a pen and paper.

  She laughs. “You’re writing a song? Now?”

  I scribble some lyrics. “Are you kidding? Of course I’m writing a song. Shh, let me think.”

  She looks over my shoulder as I write. “You won’t be able to sing this until we tell everyone.”

  “I know, but I have to write it down while I’m inspired.”

  “I love you.”

  “I love you too.” I touch her belly again. “Both of you.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Bria

  Nearly two months have gone by. Seven weeks to be exact. Seven weeks of insurmountable tension, stolen kisses, and forbidden gropes. Forbidden because we’re in the same band, and it could complicate things. I know why I’m fighting it. I don’t want this to end badly, like it did with Adam. Is that why Crew is fighting it?

  He hasn’t come right out and said that he is. Then again, he has. With his lyrics. The songs he’s written lately—they’re all about wanting something you can’t have. I’m just not sure if the songs are about me or someone else. Someone from his past. Someone who lives in the notebook he carries around with him like a Bible.

  It doesn’t happen after every gig, but sometimes, like right now, when neither of us can control the emotions we had onstage, he pulls me into a back hallway or storage closet, and we make out until we can no longer breathe. We don’t talk about it, we don’t plan it, we don’t apologize for it, it just happens. Afterward, though, it’s like it didn’t.

  He pulls away, clearly done with today’s make-out session. We’re in a closet this time. He opens the door. “You go first.”

  I walk into the hallway, trying to look like I just came from the bathroom. He’ll wait a minute and then follow. He doesn’t want anyone to think we’re together. Because we’re not. I tell myself this isn’t as bad as the Adam situation. Crew and I aren’t sleeping together. As far as I can tell, he’s not sleeping with anyone. I think back over the past few months and try to remember a time when he left a gig with someone. I can’t think of one, though the guys once told me it’s what he often did.