Groupie (Rock-Hard Beautiful, #1)

by C.M. Stunich

I can't spend my bloody time worrying about some girl who blushes and cries when I fuck her; I have a show to think about.

“You're okay with this?” Michael asks, looking like he wants to punch somebody. Nothing new there; Michael always looks like he wants to punch somebody.

I might not have time to worry about that girl, but I'd take another shag or two or ten. I feel like her curves are tattooed across my body along with all the song lyrics. “My dad died yesterday.” Well, shit if that doesn't make me feel like a right arsehole. Maybe that's why I ran away from her, out into the fucking pouring Arizona rain? And she knew it, too, that I was running away. Wish she could explain to both of us why I panicked like that.

“Because what I said before still stands: if she's on the bus, no more groupies. You guys are not going to start collecting them like souvenir fucking postcards.” “Are you fucking serious?” I ask him in the hazy backstage darkness. Up ahead and to my right, there's a set of steps that lead to the stage. I can hear Rivers of Concrete playing their set now, hear the crowd getting warmed up and ready for us. This is probably my favorite part of the whole night, all the anticipation, the expectation, the excitement. “That's ridiculous. You're not punishing me for a decision that Muse, Cope, and Ransom made. If I want to fuck a girl on the bus, I damn well will.” “Where? With some redhead in Muse's baggy t-shirt walking around and sleeping in the Bat Cave? I will not have this shit turn into some sort of catfight-fuckfest.” “Because you can't have a bloody lick of fun doesn't mean you have the right to cut the bollocks off the rest of us,” I say as I turn and look my friend in the eyes.

“If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were just jealous. Maybe that curvy little redhead is tempting you more than you care to admit?” I smirk when I say that and watch as his hands curl into angry fists. “Like I'd want to touch some girl all four of you fucked. That's disgusting.” “Tell yourself whatever you want,” I say as my smirk gets deeper, darker, “I had her first.”

When I see the others clustered around her, my eyes narrow a bit. I did bloody have her first, didn't I? And what's she done to get those three panting at her heels like that?

“Looking for a replacement for Kortney?” I ask Ransom when he moves up next to me. Anger ripples through him, but he doesn't react. That's one of the things that drives me up the bleeding wall, watching him coil up inside of himself like that. He never fucking shouts, hardly gets visibly angry. And I want that, crave it really. It's his fault that my girlfriend, Chloe, and my sister, Harper are dead. His fault. We used to be friends; he's the reason I'm a musician after all. But I can barely look at him anymore. “Leave Lilith alone or I'll give you another concussion,” he says softly, voice hardly audible above the cheering of the crowd.

“Lilith,” I say as I smile wickedly at Ransom and he narrows his dark eyes, “doesn't belong to you, now does she? She's a free woman, and if she's going to be our houseguest for the next few weeks, I may as well have another go at her.” “She's not your whore, Pax,” Ransom says, his voice edgier but still no louder than a whisper. “Did I say she was? She's clearly into me is all. I wouldn't be surprised if she fell on my dick before the end of the night.” “I could slit your throat and not lose a single night of sleep,” he whispers back and I smile even bigger. “Didn't you already do that and get away with it once? I'd hate to see you try it a second time.” I pause as our manager, Octavia, listens in on her headset and then gives me a firm nod of her head. I've got a pretty good idea that she's in love with me, but I don't shag my bosses. Doesn't usually turn out well, that. “Oh, but wait, you didn't just slit his throat, did you? You stabbed him, what was it, a hundred and fourteen times?”

“Since I met you a year and yesterday, you've done nothing but take away my heartache and my pain. Without you, it's only darkness that I breathe. The sunshine never smiles down on me, and I'm left pining here; I bleed. Empty and broken. A mirror of shattered glass, in love with a razor's reflection, feeling my end coming on so fast. Oh, Chloe, sweet thing, you make me want to breathe again.”

“Hair like roses, smirking lips and beauty queen poses. Of all the stars in the night sky, you're the only one that makes it bright. Chloe, sweet thing, in your arms I breathe again. That shattered glass and silent moments, with you I feel the truth it poses.”

I raise my brows and catch Lilith's eyes yet again. Seems strangely impossible in a room full of two thousand people that I would keep looking at her, but it happens and I feel a slight frown crease my mouth.

Truth be bloody told, this is the last song I'd ever want to perform live, but our record label has spoken and so shall it be done.

I start playing, closing my eyes for a moment, letting myself fall into the music. If I don't, if I have to sit here and listen to Ransom play his bass guitar and sing alongside of me, I might just kill someone. The other boys sit this one out; it's just me and fucking Ransom Riggs.

he plays his instrument like he talks, quiet and sensual, like he's trying to seduce some poor chick into his fucking bed, to lay there all damn night and listen to his nightmares.

“Harper B., the night you said goodbye I cried, so loud the angels came to say goodnight. How can I live another day knowing you won't be there to hear me play? Why is the world so fucking cruel? Why did God take someone as beautiful as you? Remember that summer day we flew to Seattle just to stay? I wish I'd hugged her, kissed her, Dear God, how I miss my baby sister.”

“Harper B., please wait for me, I'll be coming to see you soon. Because in the end, it'll just be me and you the way we've always known. Baby sister, oh God how I miss her, please tell me why it had to be this way? Tell me why I should I even stay? Harper B., baby, just know that I love you more than I can ever say.”

I glance down into the shadowy space in front of the stage and catch Lilith's eyes. This time, she's crying again and when our gazes lock, she smiles softly. What the fuck is that supposed to mean?

I make it all the way to the bathroom before I slam the door, close it hard and slide to the floor, putting my fingers in my hair. And then I finally let out a scream I wasn't sure I was holding in until just now, until tonight. Fuck that girl who thinks it's okay to cry like that? Out in the open where everyone can see? There is no way in hell I'm letting her stay on my bloody bus.

I Googled Paxton's sister and found some vague news articles about a drunken car accident, but the details are few and far between. Somebody really didn't want the press digging too deeply into this. I wonder about it, wonder if that explains the pain and darkness and cruelty in Paxton's gaze, in his touch. It would make a certain awful sort of sense.

I've only been to a handful of concerts in my life, but the depth of emotion in Pax's voice when he was singing about his sister … I don't think I'll ever hear another sound as hauntingly beautiful as that in my entire life.

I shove red hair over one shoulder and move up the steps, finding Copeland sitting on the couch and reading a book. He looks to be near the end and he's bent over the pages like he's on a roller coaster. “No fucking way!” he says as he snaps the cover closed and tosses the book aside. “No fucking way did it end like that.”

“Did you like the show?” he asks, and I try not to think of Octavia's saccharine sweet smile when she asked me that same question. “It was incredible,” I tell him, moving around the end of the couch and sitting on the furthest cushion from him. “I love that, like rat-a-tat-tat thing that you do.” I imitate the furious flurry of Cope's arms as he pounded away at his drums, sitting above his friends on a raised platform. “Rat-a-tat-tat,” he says with a curved smile that sets my heart aflutter. “I like it. Very descriptive.”

“I don't know if you can tell, but I'm not very knowledgeable when it comes to music. The peak of my music career was during my fourth grade concert. I was playing a pink plastic recorder in the third row.”

When Cope talks, it's like a siren's song. It's not the actual pitch and tone of his voice that makes him so scary, but the way he talks, holds his face, smiles. He acts like that boyfriend I've always wanted but never had. Sweet, thoughtful, but also dangerously sexy, good in bed, skilled with his hands and … other things.

“I bet the line for admission was,” he lifts his hand and flicks it through the air in an arc, “out the door and down the block.” “Made you guys look like small potatoes,”

What is it with these boys? Is it just because they're rockstars? Because they're attractive? Because I'm so sad inside? I have no idea.

Cope sits back down, still smiling, but not like Muse. Muse just smiles with his whole face, like he knows who he is and has already accepted it. Cope … looks like he's smiling the way the person he wants to be would smile, like he wishes he could be something more but isn't sure how to get there.

“Is this about the sex?” he asks and I feel a slight flush color my cheeks. “I just wanted to explain—” “No explanation necessary,” he says as I try not to think about the things I said to him, to a complete freaking stranger. “I want to come.” Wow. Just wow. “I enjoyed myself, didn't you?” “Well, yeah, I …” “Then no harm done,” he says, sipping his beer, his arm muscles rippling with the simple movement. “If you liked it, then what does it matter?” “I've never fucked four guys in one night before,” I blurt and his brows go up. “Have you ever fucked four girls in one night?” “Oh, hell no,” he says with a laugh, putting one hand behind his head. “I don't think I could get it up fast enough to satisfy four girls in one night. You ladies are lucky; you can go...

“And if you ever need another hug, I've got extras.” “Are you hitting me on? Or just being nice?” I ask, smiling and finishing off my beer. I get up on my knees on the couch as his smile twists up in the corner, the slightest hint of a smirk hovering there. “Maybe a little bit of both?” he offers and without letting myself think too hard about it, I lean forward and let him wrap his arms around me, pulling me in against his chest. All the breath rushes out of me in an instant as Cope squeezes me tight in his strong arms. “You weren't kidding; you really are good at these.” “I've had to hug a lot of people through a lot of things,”

He's a damn good kisser, like he's taken a master class on it. He keeps his arms wrapped tightly around me, making me feel safe, wanted. I know how dangerous it is to give into a guy like this—especially for a second time—but I can't seem to help myself. Copeland likes to feel needed.

These two weeks that Muse has given me, these are mine, and Cope's touch, it does exactly what he wants it to do: it makes me feel better.

“I must be good at these,” he murmurs against my mouth, “if this is what I get in return.” “Oh, this?” I joke softly, touching the pendants on his chest with my fingers, “this isn't for the hug; this is for the forty bucks you gave me at the gas station.”

I'm not very experienced at giving blow jobs, so I improvise, trying to take my cues from the way Cope moans, breathes, from the way he shifts around on the couch. I'm so focused on trying to get this right that I don't hear the door to the bus open, don't hear the footsteps coming up behind me until I feel a pair of hands on my bare hips. “Hey there, sweetheart,” a soft syrupy voice says from behind me. Ransom. “What are you up to in here, baby doll?” His voice is thick with desire and his fingers burn hot trails against my skin as he touches me with a needy tentativeness that's clearly asking for an answer.

Um, is this really happening right now? I've never had a threesome, never even really thought about having a threesome, let alone one with two guys I just met. Fuck. Is this wrong?

“Holy shit, baby doll,”

“You guys do … this kind of thing a lot?” I whisper, curious but also scared to hear the answer. “No,” Cope says as Ransom sits down on the chair across from us to catch his breath. “Never.” I can't believe how much that answer pleases me.

I was not prepared to walk onto my bus and find those assholes engaged in a sweaty, groaning threesome.

I haven't had sex in months. No, more than months. Like a goddamn year almost. A year. A year. A fucking year. That's probably why I'm so wound up; it has nothing to do with that girl. Could've been any groupie on her knees like that and I would've flipped.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” I groan as I slide my hand down my shaft and grip hard enough to hurt. Doesn't help. All it makes me do is fantasize about driving my cock into the tight band of heat between that fucking girl's legs, shoving Ransom out of the way and taking his place behind her.

I take my dick in my hand again, hating myself for what I'm doing but unable to stop. This isn't cheating, right? Just thinking of the curvy redhead with her too small dress and her bright red heels and the giant burger she could barely hold between her long fingered hands … and I'm blowing my load hard, a small scream tearing from my throat that I hope to God nobody else can hear. But then, we are on a fucking bus.

Another fucking fight. Over the same girl. I'm about to go goddamn mental here. “Well, I've changed my bloody mind,” Paxton growls, inches away from Ransom's face. The two of them look like they're about to go batshit on each other. “I don't want her here,” he snarls, pointing at Lilith. To her credit, the girl's curled on the couch in Copeland's arms looking like she doesn't give a shit about Paxton and his angry yelling.

“He barreled in here shouting and screaming and obviously fucking drunk off his ass,” Ransom whispers, his voice dark as shadows within shadows, like what happens when night turns to something darker. When he's like this, it's not that hard to imagine that he killed somebody. “But if he doesn't back up and shut the hell up here soon, I'm going to get angry.” Ransom pauses to light a cigarette, the flicker of the lighter brightening up the inside of his hood for a moment. “You are properly fucking mental, you are,” Pax slurs, still wearing his suit, covered in sweat and swaying like crazy. He even has a bottle clutched in one hand, sloshing amber liquid across the wood floor. “Getting attached to some bitch you don't even know. Didn't you learn your lesson with Chloe? With Kortney?” “I don't want to talk about Chloe and Kortney,” Ransom says slowly, his voice coiling dark and wicked in the room. I move forward; this shit is about to come to a boiling point. “Pax,” I say as he stumbles away from Ransom, cursing and throwing open the fridge door like he knows what he's looking for inside the fluorescent depths. “Why don't you take a little break and have some water?” “Get the hell away from me,” he says and then he throws the full bottle of brandy into the sink where it cracks into pieces and splashes across the counter. “I don't like her,” he insists, throwing his hand out to point at Lilith. “She's always bloody crying. I wanted to bring one of those girls from the meet and...

“I'm fucking fine. More than fine. I'll have another drink and then I'll find myself a real groupie, one that doesn't start crying when I fuck her.” “It's okay to be sad,” Lilith says, and I look back to see her standing up in front of the couch, looking at Pax less like he's a drunken idiot and more like she feels sorry for him. “There's nothing wrong with crying.” “So you say only because you're always bloody doing it,” Pax says as he finally gets the top off his beer and turns to stare at her. He points at her with the drink, spilling more liquid across the floor. “Something's not right with you. It's just not. And I don't care to find out what that is.” “There is something wrong with me,” she says, reaching up and running her fingers through her red hair. Looking at her now, I feel a warm stirring inside of me, this primal feeling that makes me want to storm across the bus, grab her and fuck her over the kitchen counter. I need to call Vanessa. I need to deal with this shit, and then call her now. “But there's also something wrong with you, Pax. You're really sad.” She pauses and closes her eyes for a moment. “No, not just sad, but miserable.” “Are you a shrink then?” he asks, slugging back some beer, dropping his grey eyes to glare into her green ones. “You're an expert on me and my problems?” “Just one broken person looking at another as he scatters his pieces across the floor,” she states firmly, crossing her arms over her chest.

She exchanges a glance with Muse and he smiles. Apparently this is enough to really get Pax going. “Don't look at him,” he says. “Don't fucking look at him. This isn't between you and him; this is between you and me. I had you first.” Pax points to himself with a tattooed finger and looks like he's about three seconds from falling over. “I fucked you first.” He drops the beer on the floor and then takes a long, slow breath. “Bleeding hell,” he mumbles and then he's scrambling into the bathroom and leaning over the toilet, not even bothering to shut the damn door.

“I've got him,” Lilith says and I'm not the only one that blinks stupidly at her as she kicks off her red heels and leaves them next to our living room couch. Somehow, I like that, seeing a woman's shoes mixed in with Ransom's boots and Cope's blue Chucks. I scowl. What a stupid fucking thought. “You don't even know Pax,” I snap at her as she ties her hair back with a band she pulls out of her bra. I hate that my eyes track the movement of her fingers between her breasts. “No, but I know what it's like to feel the way he feels. I lost my sister, too.” “That was four years ago,” I snap and Lilith smiles sadly, tightly in my direction, her green eyes sparkling with emotion. “I lost my sister five and a half years ago; the hurt never stops. If you bottle it up, the way Pax clearly does, it starts to poison you from the inside out.”

Last night was a long fucking night. Pax was sick five times before he'd thrown up enough to down a glass of water and fall asleep. I kept waking him up to drink more, gave him a few ibuprofen so hopefully his hangover wouldn't sting as badly the next morning. At some point after I'd dragged Pax onto the bed in back, Ransom appeared and curled up next to me, like he didn't even care that Pax was sleeping in there, too. Between his nightmares and worrying that Paxton might have alcohol poisoning, I hardly got any sleep.

“I was a right proper fucking twat last night,” he tells me and I smile slightly. “Truth be told, I have a hard time remembering what happened between the meet and greet and you rubbing my back while I threw up.”

You're going to get yourself into trouble with this one, I think, but then, I've spent my whole life holding back and avoiding trouble. For the next two weeks, I'm leaping off the cliff with my wings spread wide and I'm not going think myself into a corner; I'm going to fly.

“You said you didn't like me and tried to kick me off the bus.” Pax snorts and nods his head briskly, like that's about what he expected. “Yeah, well,” he starts, lighting up a cigarette and watching me through a thin haze of white smoke. “I can't very well kick off a girl who wipes my sweaty face with a cold cloth and brings me a dozen glasses of water to drink, now can I?”

“I'll love you forever if you give me some more sugar and cream.” Paxton glances back at me, his cigarette stuck between his pretty lips, and raises a brow. Without saying a word, he pours some cream into my cup and then uses his sexy tattooed fingers to drop two sugar cubes in after it. He takes his cigarette in his other hand and exhales, giving me a spoon to stir with. “Sugar,” he says a few seconds later, leaning in and pressing a coffee and tobacco kiss against my mouth. “And if you want cream …” “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I say, even though my heart is beating in rapid-fire bursts, and my lips are tingling. “You can't tell me how much you hate me at night and then try to … whatever in the morning.” “No?” Pax asks, tossing his cig in a black glass ashtray and turning to face me fully, leaving his coffee on the counter behind him. “Why not? You fancy me, don't you?” I make a point to stir my coffee before I answer him, staring into the swirling liquid instead of at his face. Because, really, it is a beautiful face. “I'm not going to fuck someone that doesn't like me,” I say and Pax snorts.