Groupie (Rock-Hard Beautiful, #1)

by C.M. Stunich

“What's the matter, honey?” Ransom murmurs from behind me. The sound of his voice is dark and sensual and soothing. I get the impression that he's broken and sad inside, but he does a good job of hiding it.

“Who decided to just take me along for the ride?” I ask as Ransom yawns again and scratches at the front of his hoodie with lazy fingers. “Probably Muse,” he says in that soft, velvety voice of his. “He overreaches a lot, makes assumptions, acts like he knows people when he has no fucking clue. Need me to hold his arms back for you, baby?”

I glance back at him and see that he has his hand out again. “Sleep with me a little longer?”

Four strangers, four weird encounters in one night. Five if you count that asshole Michael guy staring at me like he wanted to jump my bones and then storming off.

I wake up when I hear Ransom make a sharp, terrible gasping sound. Snapping to, I sit up and look down at him, finding his legs tangled in the sheets, his breathing hard and uneven, sweat soaking his forehead. Immediately, I drop my hand to his face and brush sticky wet strands of his hair back. “It's okay, baby,” I say, and realize stupidly that I'm imitating his weird pet name habit. “It's okay, wake up.” I stroke his face until his eyes flutter and he flicks them up in my direction, meeting my gaze. Before I can stop myself, I'm leaning down and kissing his mouth. It's full and warm and his response is priceless. He makes this sound that turns my body to liquid, makes my sex clench in anticipation of feeling him inside of me. Ransom pulls me on top of him, wrapping me up like he did last night, kissing me with a mouth that tastes like shadow and heartbreak; I can't explain it. That's just what he tastes like.

Feeling him hold back like that makes me want to shake him loose, so I pull away and slide down, my entire body on fire, my skin so sensitive that the touch of my clothing feels painful. I catch the grey waistband of Ransom's sweats and start to tug them down. He stops me with a hand on his waistband. “Wait,” he whispers, voice still delicious and decadent, but laced with need. “There are scars all over me, down there, too.”

I kiss my way down his shaft, fondle his balls with my hand, feel his tension leaking out little by little. And the sounds that escape his throat, those are like foreplay in and of themselves. I've never heard noises like that, these velvety little kisses of sound that get stuck in my head, travel through my blood, and wet my borrowed sweatpants with desire. “Too much, sweetheart,” he gasps when I slide as much of him between my lips as I can. “Too much.”

Ransom is different from the other boys, restrained and desperate, and sad, so sad. He's got this dark, twisted soul that I can feel through the connection of our bodies. It makes me want him at the same time it scares me enough that I wonder if I should stay away from him. Doesn't matter, I tell myself as I put a palm up against the shiny black lacquered surface of the wooden bat headboard. This won't happen again. Just this one time. One time.

Ransom leans over me, puts his mouth to my ear and whispers something. “I wish I could see your face.”

It's so weird to do this with a stranger watching, but something about Ransom … his pain calls to mine. We could be twins.

“When your—” I start, intending to ask about his mom again, but the door to the bedroom opens and I turn to find Paxton Blackwell standing in it, smoking a cigarette and staring at me with his steel grey eyes. “Get the fuck out, Pax,” Ransom growls, and even though his voice is quiet and dark, it's terrifying. Clearly these two have a history,

“You left a girl tied up with your belt,” Ransom says, and I close my eyes. I do not need him to defend me, but I have the sense that this is about a lot more than just last night. These two are letting some old hurts boil up. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Look into her eyes and say goodbye; never let another day go by; don't miss the quiet moments in between; never love and never leave again.”

“None of your goddamn business,” Ransom says quietly, grabbing his hoodie and putting it back on, like it's a security blanket or something. No, maybe more like it's a costume, as much a shield for his emotions as Pax's wicked mouth and steely glare. “How does that sound?” “It sounds,” Pax starts, glancing down at the trash can on the floor by his feet. My cheeks light up with red and I make a groaning sound, putting my head in my palms to hide my face. There are four condoms in there … from four different guys. From last night and this morning. Oh. My. God. “Like you're getting awfully defensive of something that doesn't belong to you.” “That would be your specialty, not mine,” Ransom breathes, his voice so low and dangerous that I have to lift my head up.

“What's your story, Lilith Tempest Goode? You follow me onto my bus and then fuck all my bandmates? I didn't peg you for such a naughty girl.”

“Why the fuck is that girl still on our bus?” I demand as I watch Pax let himself out of the hallway with a disturbed sort of a look on his face. I know that look; I'm just not sure why I'm seeing it right now. “Are you okay, man?” I ask, changing my tone suddenly. My friend looks like he's just seen a ghost or something. “Why does it matter if she's on the bus?” Muse asks from behind me, drawing my attention around and finding him standing in front of the counter, making himself a cup of tea. Tea. Like he's not already weird enough. “It's not really your business, is it?” “Who is this chick that all four of you would fight over each other's backs to stick your dick in her? She have some kind of special vagina magic or something?” “Hey, watch your mouth, Michael,” Cope says, slamming his book on the table next to the sofa.

“How long is this chick going to be here?” I ask, knowing I'm being a hard-ass and not caring. I don't want her on my bus, stirring up shit from day one. Last night's gig was the first of this tour—a world tour—that starts in the states and takes us everywhere: Montréal, Dublin, London, Sydney. One little hiccup on this tour and everything could go to shit. And I for one have plans: tour, new album, marriage proposal, kids. My longtime girlfriend, Vanessa, is waiting for me back in Seattle. I won't let anything fuck that up—not even a curvy redheaded groupie with dark green eyes.

“Why are you in here so early in the morning bitching about some poor, lost girl? Does that make you feel good about yourself?” “I just don't want some random fucking groupie digging her nails into all frigging four of you and causing drama. The last time you fought over a girl, bones got broken and people got sent to the hospital.” Ransom tosses his hood back and stands up, getting in my face. Sometimes I forget how fucking big he is, since he's always swimming in sweatshirts and talking in low voices, calling everybody sweetie and honey and darling. I slide away from the counter and take a step back from him. “What happened with Kortney is hardly the same as what's happening now,” he says. I expect him to yell, but he doesn't. He never does—unless he's onstage. “Why would you even bring that up?” Paxton keeps his back to the situation, but Ransom doesn't miss the smirk that crawls across his lips. “I swear to fucking god, I will kill you if you don't wipe that look off your face.” “What bloody look?” Pax asks, turning around and challenging Ransom with a stare. “I haven't the faintest idea what you're fucking talking about.”

I watch her sit in the chair next to Ransom's. He swivels his own to watch her playing with Muse's phone, shoving his hood back up to cover his hair. “Having any luck, darling?” he asks after a few moments, and I notice the way Pax's eyes watch their interaction, the fingers of his left hand curling into a tight fist. It's been like this between the two of them for years now, ever since Pax fucked Ransom's ex-girlfriend, Kortney. No, before that maybe, when Ransom was crushing on Chloe.

“There's a flight that leaves around ten tomorrow morning, from Denver to Syracuse,” she says, her voice detached and empty, but then she cringes. “But it's almost six hundred bucks for an economy ticket.” “Book it,” Muse says, sipping his tea, looking at her over the tops of his glasses. “I don't want to impose on you for another night—” she starts to say. “I'll pay for a hotel room,” I say and five sets of eyes swing my direction. “For fuck's sake,” Copeland scoffs as I meet the girl's eyes dead-on. “Would you lay off, Michael? She can stay with us if she wants.” “Maybe she doesn't want to stay here?” I say, standing up and taking a drag on my cigarette. “Have you ever thought of that? Maybe she'd like a hotel room?” “She is named Lilith,” the girl says, standing up and turning to face me. “And I appreciate your offer. After last night, I can understand why you might not want me on this bus. I shouldn't have said what I said to you; I'm sorry.” I blink at her, wrinkling up my nose. This is the first time a groupie's ever apologized for hitting on me. I'm seriously fucking confused. “Whatever; I just have a girlfriend. It's not like I really give a fuck. I just don't like groupies spending the night on my bus.” “A girlfriend that you whored around on and got caught by,” Pax says from beside me, turning and lifting his coffee cup to his smirking mouth. Without thinking, I toss my cigarette into his mug and he curses, sloshing hot coffee all down his bare chest. “You fuckin...

I cheated on my girl before; I won't make that same mistake again.

Unlike the rest of us, Cope refuses to convert to modern technology and read shit on his phone or an eReader. He can barely even get into his bunk anymore because he has paperback and hardcover books stacked on three sides. Sometimes at night, I hear them topple off the bed and onto the floor—usually followed by a bout of heavy cursing.

That girl, there's just something about her that I like. I liked her as soon as I saw Pax pull her onstage for that song. She's a real cutie, that's for sure, but there's something else … Obviously I can't be the only one that sees it or she wouldn't have the four of us scrambling after her like she's the second coming of Jesus.

Man, I hate being so … empathetic. I swear, I have to feel everything everybody else is feeling all the time. Sometimes I even forget how it is that I'm supposed to be feeling. Maybe like anything else, I use it to protect myself from my own emotions? That wouldn't surprise me much.

I kick my boots off and scoot up the bed until I'm sitting next to her, close enough to touch but with a careful cushion of distance between us. If she chooses to close it, that's her business. I won't touch her unless she wants me to. But if she does … God help her, I will be all the fuck over her.

Seeing her curled up, knees tucked to the side, dressed in my clothes … it's beyond sexy. I mimic her motion and swipe a hand over my own face, glancing away to get a reign on my crazy hormones. I've always had a seriously healthy libido, but damn, this chick, she's something else entirely.

I remember what Ransom was like when his mother died. It's been a year and I'm not sure he's really ever recovered from that.

If this girl is sad enough to cuddle up to a stranger, then she must really be alone. Truly and completely and utterly alone. But that's okay, because so am I. In the end … aren't we all?

I can't seem to stop myself from falling into oblivion every chance I get—alcohol, sex sleep. And Dad's only been gone for a night and half a day. Will the pain get better as time passes? It did with Mom, with my sister, Yasmine, but that's because I had Dad to hold me, hug me, tell me everything was going to be okay. Now, he's gone, too, and all I have is a bus full of rockstars that I slept with last night.

“I was about to come in and wake you up. You sleep okay, honey?”

“Last year, when my mom died, I slept for a week straight. So, in my scorebook, you're doing a fuck of a lot better than I did.”

When our fingers brush, I get this wild tingle that shoots up my wrist, my arm, straight into my chest. I can't even believe that I sucked this guy off this morning, that he fucked me from behind, that he used a toy on me.

In his darkness, I see my face reflected a thousand times over. We could be … either perfect soul mates or terrible toxins for one another.

“You going to stay the night, then?” Pax asks against my right cheek, the feel of his mouth on my skin sending goose bumps up across my arms. Wow. He's a serious prick, but he oozes sexuality. Maybe it's his only redeeming quality? “I … I don't know,” I say, because the thought of walking down the metal steps and leaving this bus behind makes me feel queasy. I know I don't know any of these guys, but I feel like I have a connection with a few of them: Muse, Cope, and Ransom. And then there's this sex thing with Pax … “Well, if you are, I'm up for another shag,” he says, standing up straight, tucking his fingers into the pockets of his black slacks. His button-up, tie, and jacket are also all black today, making him look sinister but irresistible at the same time. “After you left her tied up last night?” Ransom asks softly and Pax's grey eyes drift over to him. His look switches from cocky but bored to disgusted but triumph. Um. I watch their interaction play out with undisguised curiosity. Clearly, these guys have issues of their own to deal with. “Why the fuck would she want to screw you again?” “Because I'm bloody brilliant,” Paxton says, looking back at me, like he's waiting for some sort of confirmation from me. “Why did you run away like that?” I ask him and he raises both of his blonde brows. “Run away? Oh, love, I didn't run away. I was just done with you.” Ransom tenses up beside me, like he plans on kicking Pax's ass, but I stand up off the couch instead, looking ...

I have no idea what the fuck happened to me last night. It's like … like my grief broke something open inside of me, killed my inhibitions, and thrust me into the midst of a wild sexual awakening. I just … I want one of these boys to fuck me again. And then I also feel awful about it because I'm supposed to be grieving …

“Burgers and fries?” I ask with a smile as Muse hands me a brown paper bag and I peek inside. “I'm ridiculously excited about this.” “Um, now that I've seen you wearing that dress, so am I.”

“You're still here?” he asks, and I feel my stomach drop. Suddenly the burger clutched in my fingers doesn't look all that appetizing. “I'll get out of your hair as soon as I can,” I say, keeping his gaze, refusing to look away first. He challenges me for a long moment and then shakes his head. “Whatever. I don't care.” “Bugger off, Mikey,” Paxton says, swaggering back into the room and snatching another bag from the cardboard box. He peers inside and makes a happy sounding sigh. “If the girl wants to stay, let her stay.” He gives me a measuring look and lets his mouth quirk in a seductive smile. But if he thinks I'll stay just to fuck him again, he's wrong. This guy has a serious attitude problem. “Don't call me Mikey,” Michael growls at Pax. “I fucking hate it; you know that.” “I just want to know why you're shitting in your fucking knickers over a beautiful girl? Are you tempted, Mikey? Is that what it is?”

“After all the shit Vanessa and I have been through, why wouldn't we last? We've invested years into this fucking relationship.” “If that's your reason for staying in it, then you won't last much longer,” I tell him seriously. I know this is none of my business, but I can't help myself. The words seem to just pop out of my mouth. “I just broke up with my boyfriend of five years and honestly, even though it broke my heart, it was also kind of a relief.” Michael stares at me like he wants to stab me in the eye with his French fry.

“What the fuck, Michael?” Ransom asks, his voice never raising above a low half-whisper. “This isn't just your bus.” He rises to his feet and manages to catch my arm before I pull away. I'm not just going to run off into the night. I want to ask Muse maybe if I can buy that ticket to Phoenix, but the tightness of Ransom's grip on my arm makes me want to look at him. “I'm inviting you to stay,” he says, looking me in the eyes. “Me. I know what it's like to lose your parent, and I know what it's like to be alone. If you want to stay the night again, you can have the Bat Cave all to yourself.” “Jesus Christ,” Michael curses from behind him as I stand there and stare at Ransom Riggs for a long, aching moment. “We have a rule: groupies on the bus for one night only.” “Yeah, well, special circumstances and all that,” Muse adds, drawing that violet eyed glared over to his face. “What's it matter to you? It's not like you use the Bat Cave anyway.” “It matters to me because I have to live here, too, you fucking asshole.” Michael shoves his wrapper back in his bag and tosses the whole thing back into the box. “Because all four of you fucked one chick last night and you're all staring at her like you want to be in her polygamist collection of husbands.” “Polyandrous,” Muse says, lifting a finger up. “When it's one wife with several husbands, it's called polyandry.” “Fuck you,” Michael says, storming around the swivel chairs and through the kitchen. He pauses at the hallway door and g...

“I had your car towed to an auto body shop. It should be ready by next week. It's my number they've got on file, so if you want to plug yours into my phone, I'll give you a call when they call me about it.” My heart jumps and skitters a little with anxiety. “That's really nice of you, but I can't afford—” Muse leans his forearm against the doorframe and gives me a sad half-smile. “I told you I was loaded; don't worry about it.”

All those awards for Beauty in Lies. Looking at their accomplishments, I feel sick. What the hell have I done with my life? The answer is heartbreaking. Nothing. I've done nothing.

“You don't owe me anything,” he says suddenly, holding up his palm. “I came in here to talk.” “What if I don't want to talk?” I ask and he smiles again, reaching out the hand with the bat tattoos all over it, running his heated palm up my exposed thigh. I close my eyes and feel my breath rush out of me. Holy shit. My heart and soul feel dead … my body feels almost desperately alive. Like, if she can get all these touches and sensations inside of me, maybe they'll jump-start my heart? “I'm more than happy to fuck you,” Muse says, “but I want it to be mutual.” “It's mutual,”

“Oh, Derek,” I moan and he stops kissing me for a moment, letting out this long, sharp breath against my ear. “I like hearing you say that,” he whispers, kissing the side of my neck, making my body go pliant in his hands. “Nobody calls me Derek anymore.”

Dad is dead; who gives a fuck what Octavia thinks.

Hours later, when the door opens, I see Ransom standing in the darkness in his hoodie and set my phone aside. “Hey, doll,” he says, his voice warming up all the cold places inside of me. “I'm not looking for sex or anything, but could I sleep with you? I just … fucking hate sleeping by myself.”

It feels almost impossible to crawl away from the comfort and warmth of Ransom's arms—especially when I had to wake him up and soothe him back to sleep no less than six times last night. How does he manage without someone by his side? I get a stab of jealousy as I realize how easily he cuddled up to me. He probably just picks girls at random and brings them back to the bus. If he could do it with me, there's a good chance he does it with lots of others, too. I wonder if it ever scares them away? He gets pretty violent in his sleep, although he didn't hurt me at all.

“I've been where you are right now,” Muse tells me as I sip my drink, and the sweet clove-orange spice of the liquid reminds me of his hot mouth on mine. He leans back in his chair, looking impossibly young and hopeful, the four black piercings above his brow catching my attention. “I don't have any family left either. When I auditioned for Pax's band, all I had was my guitar and a gun with three bullets in it.” I raise my own eyebrows, but all Muse does is stare into his cup. “I'd tried out for a lot of spots in a lot of bands, even tried starting my own. It was,” he pauses to laugh and drink some of his tea, still not looking at me, “it was a clusterfuck, let's just leave it at that. I had no place to live, no job, and no family. I figured if I didn't make Paxton's band, I had two more bullets than I needed to make it all stop.” “Derek,” I start and he shivers a little, glancing back at me, the green in his shirt bringing out the flecks of emerald in his eyes. “My point is, why are you going back there? What are you going to do when you get there? I see too much of myself in you to just let you go without asking.” “I'm not going to kill myself,” I say because I don't feel suicidal. If anything, beneath the icy cold numbness inside of me, all I want is to fucking live. I look away sharply, but I can feel Muse's eyes on me still. “What else am I supposed to do? There's nowhere for me to go.” “Stay here,”

“When …” he takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. “When you see another lonely traveler walking the same sad, strange path you almost fell off before … it's only right to see if you can guide them down a different road.” Muse opens his copper-emerald-sapphire flecked eyes and looks back at me with a half-smile that matches his words: sad and strange. “If Pax hadn't brought me into Beauty in Lies, I'd be dead right now.” He chuckles and sits up, the pins on his coat rustling with the movement. “And let's be honest, when I joined, I was shit at the guitar. I had no clue what I was doing. But he didn't hire me because I could or couldn't play music, he hired me because he recognized the same thing in me that he had in himself.” Muse stands up and looks down at me. “It's not technical skills or schooling or even passion that makes good music: it's pain. Pax has it; Ransom has it; Cope has it; Michael has it. He picked me because he knew I had it, too. He could teach me to play guitar; he couldn't teach me what it's like to suffer and survive.”

“Don't ask why,” he tells me and I smile beneath the heat of his palm, “just say yes or no.” “It sounds like you're asking me to marry you,” I joke when he drops his hand and grins a little. “Who knows? I'm definitely into you. Maybe by the end of all this, I will be?”

“Who knew a stupid one-night stand would get me on your fancy bus for two weeks?” “It wasn't the sex; it was your eyes,”