by Elle Greco
Once the fans were happy, Jett slung her arm around my shoulders, and we made our way to the lot. On our walk over, Presley gave a blow-by-blow of my performance, which was unusual, since her preferred topic of conversation was… well… Presley.
But as we came up on the bus, Presley stopped mid-sentence, her mouth hanging open.
“Pres? What’s up?” Jett asked.
Presley lifted her hand and pointed. Red spray paint covered the side of the bus, and my face burned as I read the words scrawled in a poor imitation of graffiti print.
Cunts can’t drum.
Gashes belong ass up, not onstage.
Whore on tour.
“Lovely,” Presley said, wrinkling her nose.
“Well, cunts can’t drum. You do need arms for that,” Jett sighed, trying to lighten the mood.
“Rick Allen didn’t,” I said, referencing the drummer from Def Leppard who lost his arm in a car accident. I tried to shrug it off, but I was shaking.
“We better find Devlin,” Jett said. Her arm circled my shoulders, and she gave me a supportive squeeze.
“This should not have happened.” Presley tossed her hair and fumed. “Vince needs to get security on this tour.” Presley may be a lot of annoying things, but she took her big sister role very seriously.
Rafe and Dion’s loud laughter carried over from the other side of the bus. Presley stepped around the bus and yelled to them, “You two better come see this.”
The boys jogged over, coming to a dead stop when they rounded the front of the bus and saw its graffiti-covered side. Rafe let out a low whistle.
“Devlin see this yet?” Dion asked, his lips tight.
“Nope,” Presley responded, crossing her arms. “Any idea who could have done this? Come clean now, and we’ll keep this bullshit between us.”
Rafe glared at her. “What exactly are you saying there, sis?”
“She’s saying that you guys weren’t exactly happy about us being on this tour. Or about Nikki joining the Nation,” Jett said, her eyes narrowing to slits. “So we’re all wondering if you had something to do with it.”
“That’s a shitty accusation,” Rafe said. He took a step toward her, expecting her to back down. Instead, she took two steps toward him and got right in his face.
She pressed a finger into his chest. “That accusation is not exactly unfounded.”
“We didn’t have anything to do with this,” Rafe said, his voice sharp. “Nik’s on this tour, she played a solid set. Hell, she saved our opener.”
“Damn straight. No one recognized the song, your rhythm was so off,” Jett said to needle him.
“Aw, hell, Jett, you wound me,” Rafe ribbed back.
“I’ll wound you with a drumstick through the heart for pulling this stunt,” I snapped at him. The graffitied words dug under my skin and festered. So far, everything about this tour sucked. It dawned on me that maybe the whole tour idea was a colossal mistake.
Rafe raised his hands in surrender. “I swear. I had nothing to do with this.”
Four sets of eyes swung in Dion’s direction.
“This is some bullshit,” Dion exploded.
Rafe swung around to face his brother. “What’s up with you?”
“Well, it’s not like whoever did it is wrong,” Dion continued.
Rafe grabbed his arm. “Come on, man.” Dion shook his arm free. “Shit. You didn’t, right?”
Dion gave him a hard look.
Rafe’s fingers dug into his scalp, and he pulled at his dreads. “Fuck, brother. Tell me you didn’t.”
Dion’s response was to storm back toward the tents.
“Son of a bitch,” Rafe muttered, turning on his heel and chasing after Dion.
“You both are assholes, you know that, right?” Jett shouted after them.
Rafe stopped and turned to face her, his face pained. “Jett, you gotta believe me, I had nothing—”
She interrupted him with a middle finger salute and then turned her back on him. He looked to the ground, his head shaking, before going after his brother.
“Jesus,” she said, her normally ghost-white face red with anger. “I wish we could kick their stupid asses straight back to LA.”
“Jett,” I said, shaking my head at her, exhaustion seeping deep into my bones and mixing with disappointment and hurt. “Let’s just call Devlin and get this fixed. After that, you guys go to the party. I just want to go to bed.”
Jett pulled me into a tight hug. Presley held up her phone. “I just sent him a text. He’s on his way.”
The three of us stared at the bus in silence. Then Jett pointed to the back wheel.
“He’s not only an asshole, he’s a litterbug too.” Just behind the wheel were a bunch of discarded spray paint cans.
Jett picked one up. She shook it, then did the same with a few others. “These cans are still pretty full.”
“You know what that means?” Presley asked, a devious smile spreading across her face. She started snapping pictures of the vandalized bus.
“Jesus, Presley. This is not the time for Instagram selfies,” I grumbled at her. “Especially not of that.”
“Please,” she said, waving a manicured hand at me. “I’m taking pictures of the evidence, and then we’re going to cover this shit up.”
“You can’t cover up the evidence!” I argued. “The cops need to come and look at it.”
“Cops?” Presley asked with a snort. “You’re going to call the cops on Dion?”
“Well…” I glanced back at Jett. “What do you think?”
Jett sighed. “As much as I would love to sling his ass in jail for the night, it’ll screw up the tour schedule.”
“But—”
“Hurting someone’s feelings is not a felony,” she said, giving my shoulder a squeeze. “It’s Dion being the spoiled pissant you know how he is.”
I didn’t like it, but she was right. I could call the cops. I could bitch to Grimm. But Vince would swoop in and fix everything, empowering Dion to do it again. Vince’s MO with his kids stemmed from his guilty conscience. The rest of us had to suffer their bad behavior.
“It doesn’t mean I forgive him,” I muttered.
Presley snatched up one of the cans and gave it a shake. “So let’s have a painting party!”
“Right on,” Jett said. “I’ll grab some beers off the bus.”
She opened the door, cued up Led Zeppelin on the sound system, and returned with three beers. We cracked open the brews, and with “Misty Mountain Hop” blaring, we got to work camouflaging the graffiti with various homemade Satan’s Sisters band logos.
Exhausted from the gig, and without any food in my belly, I had a small buzz going by the time Devlin showed up. He was carrying a bag full of burritos for all of us.
“Well, I’m going to have some explaining to do to Grimm,” Devlin said, as he took in the graffitied side panel. “It looks like your band puked on my bus.”
Presley whipped out her phone and caught him up with the pictures. As she flipped through them, Devlin’s face went hard.
“That spoiled little fucker,” Devlin said. “I should kick his ass from here to Sunday. Christ knows Vince won’t do it.”
“Leave it,” I said.
“Leave it?” he asked, cocking his head. “You want me to just leave it?”
I jutted my chin at the bus. “When the tour’s done, let Grimm know why we did this. I don’t want this coming out of our tour payment.”
“You better believe Grimm will get an earful from me,” Devlin said. “That boy will pay for this. Literally.”
While Devlin continued to mutter oaths about Dion, Presley crept up behind Jett and spray-painted a bull’s-eye on her ass. Jett shrieked then chased Presley halfway across the parking lot, finally countering with a huge orange X across Presley’s chest.
“You bitch,” Presley shrieked. “This is a Balenciaga.”
Jett’s hands slapped against her thighs. “And these were Gap
.”
“This shirt was four hundred dollars.”
“Girl, if you spent four hundred dollars on a T-shirt, we got bigger shit to talk about, like money management and fiscal responsibility,” Devlin chided her.
“But, Devlin—” Presley started.
“Settle down and eat something,” he barked, tossing burritos to us from the bag. “Swear to Christ, it was easier when y’all were little shits.”
Devlin left to read Dion the riot act. The three of us settled onto the ground and dug into our dinner while the sun set over the Golden Gate Bridge.
“What about the party?” Presley asked, picking at her food. Always on a diet, she ate only the chicken out of the overstuffed tortilla.
“I’m done, you guys go without me,” I said, taking a big bite of my burrito. I never worried about carb loading, since I burned so many during gigs. Any excess calories went straight to my boobs.
“No way,” Jett said. “After that mess, we stay together.”
Rafe and Dion ambled back, looking sufficiently chided by Devlin, who walked behind them.
“You can come with us if you don’t cramp our style,” Dion said.
“Do you really think I cramp anyone’s style?” Presley asked, glancing up at him through her thick eyelashes.
“Yes,” Dion said. “I’m serious. If you cockblock tonight, you’re off the tour.”
My heart dropped to my stomach.
“You can’t kick us off the tour for that,” I said, tossing the rest of my burrito aside. The thought of Dion hooking up with some random groupie made me lose my appetite.
“No? Watch me,” he said. “You don’t mess with a horny man’s lay.”
“You could always…” Presley made a jerk off motion with her hands, and Jett burst out laughing.
“Rogue Nation gets plenty of action,” Rafe boasted. “We haven’t had to do that in at least a year.”
“More like three,” Dion said, one-upping his brother.
“You’re both full of shit,” Jett said.
“I need to change,” Presley said, jumping up.
“We want to get there sometime tonight,” Dion yelled after her.
Rafe looked at Jett. “You coming?”
She snorted. “As appealing as that party sounds, I’ll be getting spray paint out of my jeans this evening. Seems like a smarter use of my time.” She turned and climbed into the bus after Presley.
“Aw, hell, Jett,” Rafe yelled, jumping up and following her. “There’s more to life than smarts, you know.”
“Jesus, do I have to get changed with a fucking audience?” Presley shrieked when Rafe walked onto the bus.
“Chill, would you? I’ve seen ta-tas before.”
“Not my ta-tas,” she hollered back.
Devlin snickered. “Tight quarters.” Presley loosed a stream of expletives, which was followed by the sound of glass shattering.
Then it was Devlin’s turn to climb onto the bus and begin his fatherly yelling at both Rafe and Presley, leaving me staring at the side of the bus.
Dion cleared his throat and motioned to the graffiti. “So, I messed up.”
“You sure did,” I said, still angry at the sentiment on display earlier and, though I was loathe to admit it, the thought of Dion hooking up.
“And I’m sorry,” he said, coming to sit beside me. “I behaved like a thirteen-year-old brat, and you didn’t deserve it. Truthfully, I’m pissed at Vince, and I took it out on you.”
“Well, thanks for that, I guess,” I said, unwilling to let him off the hook. I crushed my beer can and scrambled to my feet. “Guess I’ll see what’s up on the bus.”
Dion grabbed my wrist as I moved to walk past. “You played good tonight. Really good.”
“Thanks,” I said. He caressed the inside of my wrist with his thumb, and I swallowed hard. I liked his touch too much. He pulled me back down beside him. I winced when the skin on my knee stretched against the adhesive.
“You saved Rafe’s ass out there too,” he continued. “But if you tell him I said that, I’ll deny it.”
“I’ll keep that between us,” I murmured, thinking of the other things we were keeping between us, like the night at my apartment, like the hookup in the rehearsal room.
He held my eyes as he tipped his beer up to his lips. I watched his throat move as he swallowed. When he pulled the bottle away, he licked his lips. The whole thing was hot as hell, and my anger melted. I was practically a puddle beside him.
“You look good behind the kit,” he said, his voice still low. “Strong. Sexy. Hot.” It was my turn to swallow. Like an idiot, I leaned into him. Heat blossomed where our bodies connected. I tipped my face up, his lips close to mine. Kissably close. I held my breath, waiting for—wishing for—his mouth to press to mine.
“You are such an asshole,” Presley screamed, snapping me out of Dion’s seduction. Devlin was shouting something, but his words were hard to make out. Obviously, Presley and Rafe were still at each other’s throats.
“Bandmates,” I muttered, peeling my body away from his. “We’re bandmates.”
Taking a deep breath, I pushed to my feet. I turned my back to him to head to the bus, aware of his eyes follow me the entire way.
7
A low moaned jolted me awake.
“Oh, yeah. Yes. Exactly. Right there.” Dion’s husky whisper carried from the bunk below me.
My eyes snapped open.
“Exactly. Exactly like that,” he said. A feminine giggle followed his voice.
Breath held, eyes squeezed closed, I willed it to be a bad dream.
“Hang on, push. Deeper. Yes, that’s it. Don’t stop,” he said with a groan. “Oh yeah, speed it up. Yes. Yes.”
More feminine giggling.
Nope, not a bad dream. Didn’t Presley say this only happened if you took the bottom bunk? I did not take the bottom bunk. I took the middle bunk. I rolled to face the wall and pulled the pillow over my exposed ear.
But Dion’s voice traveled through the hypoallergenic feathers. “Damn, babe, you’re so good at that.”
Then the rhythmic thumping started. It differed from the gentle roll of the bus, which ebbed like a tide and helped rock me to sleep. No, this thwacking was just under me, vibrating my bunk.
“Oh, it’s so hard!” a female voice gasped.
That did it.
“Are you kidding me?” I yelled and rolled out of my bunk. In my rush to get out of the bed, I lost my balance and crashed to the floor.
The curtains to Dion’s bunk—the bunk situated just under mine—flung open, and the barely legal intern that had shown us to the stage was sitting astride Dion’s ass, her elbow pressed into his deltoid.
“Oh my God,” she shrieked.
She pushed off his back and curled against the far wall. Wearing only a bra and lace panties that left zero to the imagination, she struggled to pull the sheet that was tucked under Dion to cover herself.
Dion climbed out of the bunk. Clad only in jersey athletic shorts, his hard-on was evident. She yanked the sheet up to her chest to cover herself. “Relax, Missy. I’ll handle this.”
“What the hell are you doing?” I asked, scrambling to my feet. I felt downright frumpy in my oversized T-shirt and cotton pajama bottoms.
“You really need me to explain this to you?” he responded. The smirk on his face said everything.
Jett popped her head out from behind the curtains to her bunk. “What the hell… whoa!” she yelped when she got an eyeful of Dion and his erection. She covered her eyes with her hands. “Jesus. I will never unsee that!”
A groggy Rafe pushed aside his bunk curtains. A crumpled sheet was below his torso, and based on the bit of hip peeking out, that was all that kept him decent. “Is it my turn, man?”
“Turn?” I squeaked. “Your turn? You guys are sharing?”
“Brothers share everything,” Rafe said around a yawn.
Jett removed her hands from her eyes and wrinkled her nose.
“That’s disgusting. You are disgusting. Both of you are disgusting.”
My voice went up another octave. “Is she even legal?”
“I’m eighteen,” Missy sniffed from her hidey-hole.
“Calm down, little prude,” Dion said to me, leaning against the bunks. “She’s a massage therapy student. She was just practicing.”
“In her underwear?” I hissed. I glared at his dick, still poking at the fabric of his own underwear. “Looks like there was a happy ending in your future.”
A smile spread across his face, like the cat that ate the canary. Or in Dion’s case, the rock star that ate the pussy. “Who doesn’t want a happy ending?”
Presley poked her head out between her curtains. Her sleeping mask was pulled up from one eye. “Can you guys keep it down? What’s going on?”
“The boys were getting a happy ending. On the tour bus,” I growled.
That one eye went huge when she realized she was face-to-face with Dion’s junk. “I knew it, I knew it, I freaking knew it,” she cried, yanking the mask off and scrambling out of her bunk. She turned to Dion, jabbing a finger into his chest. “You guys just can’t help yourselves, can you? Bringing any female with wide open legs onto the damn tour bus.”
“Hey!” Missy’s protest came from the corner of Dion’s bunk. “I did not have my legs wide open. Much.” She hiccupped. Then I noticed a bottle of rum tucked beside Dion’s pillow.
“Booze helps wedge those legs open,” I said.
“Jesus fuck,” Jett bit out before she scrambled out of her bunk. She snatched up the bottle. “Are you two that freaking stupid? She’s under twenty-one, and she’s lit. Consent, motherfuckers. Con-fucking-sent.”
“Nothing happened,” Dion said before he ducked down and looked into his bunk. “You wanted to give us a massage, right, babe?”
“I’m wearing underwear,” she said with a giggle.
“This is just fucking great,” I muttered.
Jett lifted a hand to shush me. “Her response was not a yes, Dion. Missy, are you comfortable having sex with both Dion and Rafe?”
“Jesus, beanpole, you sure know how to kill the mood,” Rafe said, leaning back in his bunk.