Groupie (Rock-Hard Beautiful, #1)

by C.M. Stunich

One text. That's it. All it takes to change the whole world. In ten words, my stepmother has literally destroyed the last little piece of me. Lilith, I'm sorry but your father passed away this morning.

Whoever could've predicted he'd be one of the five … one of my five. Lily and her five rockstars. I'd give them my body, my heart, and my soul. I'd descend into their darkness as they embraced my own … and our connections would be pure poetry. I'd become Lilith Tempest Goode, the ultimate groupie for Beauty in Lies. In my own way, I would join their band, and sex … that would be my instrument.

I'm twenty-one years old and all alone. No family, no friends, no boyfriend. I'm literally … nothing and nobody.

The background on my phone is a picture of Dad and me when he was young and healthy, when I was young and small enough to sit on his knee. This picture was taken before my mom died, before my sister was murdered, before I fell in love with a rich asshole that promised to give me everything, dragged me across the country, and left me with nothing.

“My mom died last year,” he tells me, digging out a cigarette and lighting up, even though I'm pretty sure it's illegal to smoke in here. This guy with his quiet, careful voice doesn't seem to care. “Some guy broke into her house, raped her and shot her in the face.”

This is a gentle man tempered like steel in the hellfire of reality. He was born and raised sweet and gentle; the world has hardened him. I don't know how I know that or even if I'm completely full of shit, but it feels true when I think it.

Suicide … doesn't sound like the worst thing in the world. And I mean, it's not like there'd be anyone to miss me, right?

“Steady there,” a voice says as a hand wraps around my arm and helps me to my feet. When I glance over, I find the Caribbean Sea gleaming in a pair of turquoise blue eyes. It's the boy from the gas station. Tears prick then and spill over onto my cheeks. “Actually,” I say, and I feel stupid when my voice stirs, “I do want a hug.”

The connection … it's electric. I swear, even though it shouldn't be possible, it's like he's looking right at me.

Lead Vocals, Keyboards, Pianos—Paxton Blackwell Lead Guitar—Michael Luxe Rhythm Guitar—Derek “Muse” Muser Bass Guitar, Backing Vocals—Ransom Riggs Drums, Percussion—Copeland Park

“You aren't above it all, just say hello, descend into the darkness of this hellhole. So now I'm feeling like you came just to say I told you so, but down here, deep below, you're the kind of girl I'd rather told me no. You're the kind of girl that drowns hearts and leaves them in a deep blue sea, a siren, a songstress, always calling back to me.”

If I'd known then that their beauty hid so much darkness, would I have run? If I'd known that they were as broken—maybe more so—than me, would I have climbed the steps to that bus? I have no way of answering that. Now, covered in the blood of their wounds, hindsight's twenty-twenty vision doesn't seem quite so clear.

I could've been killed trying to hand out that damn VIP badge. And now I have to serenade the damn winner? Bleeding hell.

That VIP contest was not my idea, sending all the fangirls on a bloody race around the stadium to see who could spot me first. The record label came up with it, but they never specified I had to be inside the venue. So I sat outside and some girl with purple-red hair and eyes like emeralds had the audacity to stop in and act like she didn't have a damn clue about who I am.

The first night of our new tour, leaving all the bullshit of my past behind me in the dust, grinding it to soot beneath the soles of my Barker Blacks, the world feels like it belongs to fucking me.

“Alright, now,” I say as I tuck the microphone back in the stand and play with my tie. They like it when I do that, run my inked fingers up the slick black silk like it's the inside of their thigh, when I curl my fingertips under my collar like I'm dipping inside their hot, wet core. “Would you like another song, then?”

The cacophony is fucking deafening, but it drowns the quiet, whispering voices inside my head, stills and silences them. I'm not bloody mad, but I do have a past as dark as pitch. Its gaping mouth yawns so ...

“Come on up here, love,” I say as I kneel down and reach out a hand to the girl with the purple-red hair. She's got a red plastic cup in one hand, her feet bare as she looks up at me from down below. And goddamn. Goddamn, she's fucking stunning.

I don't do drama; I left it far behind me. Yeah, sure, right. Repeat that until it's true, Pax. I'm a goddamn liar, even to myself.

Her mouth … it's like this swollen bud, begging to be parted by my lips. I'd like to tear it apart with teeth and tongue, kiss her until those bright green eyes shutter closed and she melts into me.

“It's time to get onstage.” When the girl still doesn't move, this strange glimmering shine to her eyes, I reach down and hoist her over my shoulder. She gasps, but that's it, the only sound I get out of her. She's curvy as hell, her body soft and enticing as it rubs against mine. I carry her straight up the steps and deposit her onstage quick as I can. Holy hell.

“Well, Lilith,” I say as I kneel down next to her and get ready to sing, “tonight, this song is dedicated to you.”

What the fuck, Pax? You took two or three of these blushing virgins to bed every night during the last tour. Lost your nerve now, have you? Just because this girl has eyes the same color as Chloe's? But I really don't see that many girls with green eyes like this.

I won't let my fucking dead girlfriend ruin another concert, another day, another second of my life.

“I knew from the first moment I met you, held your hand and saw you through, behind the locked door of your bedroom, felt your heartbeat flutter and bloom,” I sing the words as gentle as I can, resting my tattooed fingers on the girl's holey knee, feeling her warm skin beneath me. I rest my chin on my hand and hold the mic close to my lips. “Forever in my arms, I'll hold you close to my heart, protect your smile and keep it from harm, give our love an honest fresh new start.” What a load of bullshit. The girl I wrote this song for, well, let's just say that didn't exactly work out.

I can't just sit still, and I can't look back at that girl, so I spin and twirl and swing my mic until sweat plasters my dirty blonde hair to my forehead.

She looked like trouble to me anyway.

I'm turning and running … right into the chest of the bassist. What was his name? Something weird and edgy. Ransom? His hands take hold of my shoulders and hold me in place as I blink up at him, rubbing my face with the heel of my hand. His chest is … muscular as fuck and that hurt. “Whoa there, baby doll,” he says in that thick syrupy voice of his.

“FUCK!” I curse as I pound through puddles in bare feet. Like an idiot, I left my red heels behind. Now, I have no shoes. No shoes, no dad, no mom, no sister. Nothing at fucking all.

And here I am, with a dead dad and two hundred dollars to my name, no car insurance, no apartment, no job.

“I was coming out here to give you your shoes, but holy shit.” The silver-haired guy leans down next to me, his eyes on the chaos of my car, all my stuff tossed in tempest waves across the rapidly flooding parking lot. I think I'm sitting in about half an inch of water already, like a flash flood.

“This is your car?” he asks, but I can tell he already knows. He almost has to shout to be heard above the storm. “Come on, let's get you out of the rain.”

She's shaking and her eyes have that glossy, vacant look that I recognize so well.

He gets a stack of white towels from a roadie and drops them on the leather seat next to us, grabbing one and tossing it over the girl's red hair. In typical Muse fashion, he doesn't give a crap about personal space or boundaries and starts scrubbing at her head, drying her off with skillful caresses of his fingers, like he's giving her a scalp massage or something.

In her eyes, I see that she wants to be strong but really, all she feels is weak. That, too, I recognize, that feeling. Fuck. “I …”

Seeing her vulnerable like that, it makes me want to … no. It doesn't make me want to do anything.

I'm wearing my hoodie again, and it takes a lot of effort not to throw the hood up and hide myself away from the world.

I don't have to go to bed alone tonight; I never have to go to bed alone. Just the thought of it makes me shiver with dread.

“Don't cry, sweetheart. We'll figure this out.”

I slide down the arm of the chair until I'm sitting next to her, and then I pull her wet body onto my lap. It's a stupid thing to do because it attracts Pax's attention, rivets his grey eyes on the girl's shivering body. Now he's interested. Whoever I look at, he fucks, just to prove that he can do it. Again, and again, and again.

I move my hand so she can sit up and lean over to grab the bourbon Pax ordered for her. When she does, her wet jeans drag low and her top rides up; I can see the enticing line of her ass crack. I want to run my finger down it, especially with her legs slightly spread, her warm cunt balanced precariously on my knee. I suck in a breath and look away, noticing that Pax is smirking at me. Jesus.

Without saying anything, she moves to an empty chair as the punks from the love seat next to me start to check her out like crazy. Fuck, I hate teenage boys.

“Listen, baby, do you want me to call you a cab?” I ask as the girl sweeps red hair from her face and looks over at me. She's ridiculously gorgeous in this old school pinup sort of a way. Curvy and feminine, with a large chest, white skin, big eyes and this crazy red-purple hair that I can't tell is real or not. I want her then. Just like that. Instantly.

“My name isn't baby or honey or doll,” she tells me firmly, “it's Lilith.” “Ignore him,” Pax says, his accent slurred with alcohol, “he never uses people's names. It's always sweetie or gorgeous or something of the like.” I don't know why I do that, but he's right. I never use people's names. “Shut the fuck up, asshole,” I say quietly, hoping he can hear the hidden menace in my words. The last time Pax and I got in a fight, I gave him ten stitches in his beautiful face and he broke my wrist. That was years ago, but still.

“Are you sure there's nobody I can call for you, sweetheart?” I ask Lilith one more time, but she just shakes her head and looks up at me with this defeated expression in her eyes that gives me the chills.

I really, really don't like sleeping alone.

I slam the burning alcohol down my throat and try to wash all the pain away. Of course, pain isn't like dirt, something you can just scrub off. It's like a fishing lure, all those sharp barbs stuck inside your skin. The more you slap and pull and tug, the deeper it gets embedded until eventually … you just bleed to death. I think I'm bleeding to death now.

I have nowhere to go, but how can I tell these people that? They won't care. They're rich; they're rockstars. And I'm just … a girl with no daddy.

The asshole gave me syphilis. Fucking syphilis. Luckily I caught it early enough, but it can literally kill people, cause brain or heart damage. That's how I knew he was cheating—because I got sick. I'm completely cured now—a single dose of penicillin will take care of it if you catch it early—but that kind of betrayal … it's bone deep. Bone fucking deep. I trusted him and loved him and all he gave me was disease.

Even intoxicated, he has this apathetic look, like he just doesn't give a fuck about anything. Right now, that sort of expression's appealing to me.