Roadie (Rock-Hard Beautiful, #2)

by C.M. Stunich

It's over. It's over already and I just got started. I just claimed my boys, just pulled Michael into the group. I feel like Cope is chiseling a chunk of my heart off, chipping it away and making me bleed.

“What the fuck is going on in here?” he asks, his ire dissipating slightly at the sight of us tangled hot and wet together. “You need to be at the meet and greet,” he says, voice trailing off as his violet eyes take in my face. Something about my expression must give the moment away. “And what's this about you having some kind of problem with Lilith?” Copeland sets me down so reluctantly, I swear he believes this is the last time we'll ever touch. “I'll …” Cope looks back at me and our gazes lock tight, emotions traveling through the connection like lightning. “Shit.” “Shit, what?” Michael asks, angry and panting, his arousal obvious by the bulge in his dark jeans. But his rage, that's also obvious, written all over his face. I almost smile, seeing Michael turn that ire of his on its head, using it on my behalf instead of against me. “Shit, what, Cope?” “I can't be a boyfriend right now, Michael,”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” he growls, stalking forward and grabbing his friend by the arm. “Do you realize that I just broke up with Vanessa yesterday? That I just ended a five year relationship and found out that the baby I've been mourning all this time was probably my niece or nephew instead of my kid?” He's panting with the force of his frustration, flicking those blue-purple eyes my way and then back towards Cope. “You don't screw up an opportunity like this because you're not ready, you stupid shit. None of us were ready for this, but it bit us in the ass and so here we are. Life doesn't wait for you to get ready, Copeland.” “I …” He leans back against the wall for a moment, breathing almost as hard as his friend. “Fuck,” Michael says, raking his fingers through his dark hair. “Take a second and get your shit together. Stop being such a fucking ball sack and grow some ovaries,”

“Do you like me?” I ask him as his turquoise eyes catch on my lips and lift back up to find my gaze hard and steely. “More than any girl I've met since Cara or …” He doesn't finish that sentence, but it feels like a loaded gun, so I decide to leave it for later. “I'm not sick like Cara, Copeland.” “It shouldn't matter, even if you were,” he says with a long sigh, putting his forehead against mine. I'm hyperaware of the fact that Michael is standing just inches away, tucked into the second bathroom, listening. But it doesn't feel like an invasion. No, he's got just as much right to be here as I do. “Lilith, I'm just … I think I'm fucking scared to try again—especially with someone like you.” “Someone like me?” I ask as he adjusts his mouth, puts it precariously close to mine. I can feel his warm breath feathering against my lips, smell the clean sharp scent of bar soap, the slight mineral tang of the water. “Someone I like as much as you,” he corrects, and then he's kissing me again and I don't have the resolve to resist, not when he kisses me like that, uses his whole mouth, his lips, his teeth, his tongue.

I'm standing there panting, wearing nothing but my pink Docs and my bra when Cope glances at Michael for a moment and then back to me, his expression impossible to read. What is happening right now? Is he changing his mind? Am I? Are we still together? Copeland picks me up with his hands under my ass, the same way he just did in the bathroom, picking up right where we left off. But this time, instead of my back hitting the wall, I feel myself press against Michael's hard, warm body. He's so strong, so immovable, he may as well be a fucking wall.

I feel like one of the guys when they're onstage, confident, sure of myself. Michael and Copeland are mine to play, the notes escaping their throats a song of my own design.

My whole life, I've taken care of women, not pulled them into hot steamy bathrooms and tried to fuck them after I just told them there was no future with me. Maybe my mom and grandma's shitty genes are finally driving me crazy? Or maybe it's those asshole genes I inherited from my grandpa and my dad?

“Michael, for nine years—check it, nine years—I've avoided any real relationships.” “Exactly my point,” he says, violet eyes accusatory as he pulls out a cigarette and lights up, his leather jacket slung over his shoulders, looking the part of the classic bad boy with his tattoos, long razored hair, and eyeliner. I know who I'm supposed to be—the nice one, the boy next door, the good guy—but all I feel like right now is the dick. “Nine years. That's a long time to punish yourself, Park.” I breathe out, long and low, and run my fingers through my hair. Man, I'm almost thirty years old. Thirty. I feel a million years older than any of the other guys, than Lilith. She's eight years younger than me. God, that's a lot, isn't it? Especially at this age. “She doesn't need my baggage,” I say and Michael just throws his hands up like I'm crazy. “Jesus, I can't believe I just fucked you,”

My mind is too preoccupied with Lilith to think about anything else, much less care what a reporter wants.

He knew she was the right girl for him. Knew it in his head, his gut, his soul. Knew it in the blood that his heart pumped, in the veins and arteries that decorated his wrists and his cock, in his pulse that thundered when he saw her, in his eyes that fell lidded and heavy at the sight of her naked body in his bed. He knew all of those things and yet … for whatever reason, he wouldn't let himself go to her.

books speak the truth our mouths are too afraid to voice, our minds too cluttered to parse out.

Really, Lilith is the perfect girlfriend for each one of us. Hurting, but still holding onto that burning desire to live, to fight through, to grieve properly but move on. Why can't I take my goddamn cues from her and let nine years of pain just go? I've had more than enough chances to grieve Cara. I don't have to stop missing her, but why am I letting her loss mess up the first really good thing to happen to me since then?

“I was hoping I might be able to do a brief interview with you? I've already cleared it with my fellow VIP guests and your manager, so—” “Oh, but she won't be our manager for long, will you, Octavia?” Pax smiles cruelly in Octavia's direction. Her face tightens, but she doesn't look directly at him. I want to feel sorry for her, but I just … don't. Not after what she did to Lilith.

“Recently, a photo was published online of you in a bookstore with a redheaded young woman. May I ask if she's someone special to you?” “You're asking if I have a girlfriend?” I say as I cap the pen in my hand and lean back, knocking the messed up t-shirt to the floor. I lean down to pick it up, dragging it into my lap and rubbing my thumb over the name in black ink. My body's still wired up and hot from our threesome in the hallway, my cock half-hard again, my nipples pebbled beneath the pale pink t-shirt I've got on. “We're all dying to know,” Bridget says, grinning excitedly when Michael finishes with her shirt and record, passing them to Pax to hand over to her. Three other girls sit next to the blonde reporter, but none of them speak. They're all young, pretty, probably looking to be groupies. I recognize the licking of lips, the tucking of shiny hair behind ears, the coquettish smiles. But we already have a groupie. A girlfriend.

I can't leave this shit hanging, not even for a second. I'm supposed to take care of girls, not treat them like shit. It goes against everything that I am. And this girl, this time, she needs me for more than a single night. Even if it scares the crap out of me, I have to step up.

Octavia steps back in for a second, acting like the manager she was before last night, but Paxton doesn't let her forget for even an instant that she's done something wrong. The way he's treating her, it's not entirely unwarranted, but it does make me think of the way he treats Ransom. That … there's nothing warranted about that.

“We should all take care of each other, I think. It's something we should've been doing all along. But … it got messed up somewhere along the way. Ran and Pax are a mess; Michael's withdrawn. Muse has always been a little distant.”

Pax is mean; Michael is self-absorbed; Muse is closed-off. What's your sin, Copeland?” “Fear,” I say, my breathing still coming in rapid-fire bursts as I look at this redheaded girl with all the right curves and the biggest green eyes I've ever seen in my life. “I've been living in fear. I've been living only in books. Which is fine, but … I don't want to just read about romance anymore, Lilith. I want to try living it.”

Trust me, the last thing I thought I needed after breaking up with Kevin was another boyfriend … was five new boyfriends.”

“I panicked last night … this morning. But if you give me a chance, I'll do what I can to make it up to you. I want to see what it feels like to really belong to someone. Not just for sex, not just for a night, but … indefinitely.” I pause and listen to the sound of Lil's breathing. I'm not sure if it's intentional or not, but it seems to mimic the heartbeat of the ocean. “What do you think? Can I have another chance?” “I wasn't going to let you run away,” she says, finally turning her head to look at me. I might not be able to see her eyes in the shadows of the Bat Cave, but at least I can feel her breath on my mouth. “I don't think Michael was either. Did you see how pissed he was?” “Michael's always pissed,” I say, but then I lean forward and close that small distance between our mouths, cupping the side of her face, letting myself kiss my girlfriend.

“Right after you left, I started getting messages from both my stepmom and Kevin.” “What the hell does he want?” I ask, feeling strangely possessive. Or maybe it's not strange at all. Last night, when I heard what he'd done … I wanted to fucking kill the guy. What kind of loser treats a woman he used to be in love with like that? “Look,” she says, passing me the phone. I take it and scan through Kevin's barrage of hatred. Lilith hasn't responded to him, but that hasn't kept him from texting her almost nonstop for the last hour or so. I see all the typical insults: whore, bitch, cunt … groupie. But he can't have that last one. We're keeping that for ourselves.

Lilith, Kevin is worried about you. He says you're selling your body to a rock band. I frown, too, and keep scrolling, watching as her stepmother gets angrier and angrier, even though Lilith doesn't respond. Or maybe because she doesn't. I can't support this kind of disgusting behavior from you. Call me now, Lilith, or I'll have to assume it's all true. Fine then. Just remember your father is looking down on you from heaven. Is this the kind of thing you want him to see you doing? And then lastly, I'll leave your share of the ashes in the living room with your things. Hopefully you get the chance to get them before the first showing with the realtor.

“Jesus Christ,” I say as Lilith sighs and leans forward to put her head on her knees. “Are you okay? And it's alright if you're not,” I add, trying to smile as I lift up a hand and rub her back in small circles. “Don't edit yourself just because I was a dick earlier. It's not you that I'm afraid of. It's me.”

“What the fuck is this about you two breaking up?” Pax snarls, shoving the door to the Bat Cave open and startling us both. He points a sharp finger at me. “You better be taking the bloody piss, mate.” “Relax,” I say, trying not to smile. “I didn't know you cared so damn much.” “Yeah, well,” he says, looking slightly chagrined at the sight of us sitting cuddled on the bed together. “I didn't agree to this shite only to have it fucked-up in less than twenty-four hours.” “It's not fucked-up,” Lilith promises, glancing back at me, and then turning to Paxton again. “Cope and I worked it out.” Pax leans his back against one side of the doorframe and digs out a cigarette, lighting it up as he watches us for a long moment and then nods briskly. “Good. Because I was about to kick your skinny arse halfway back to Seattle. Get up then and let's hit that bar on the beach, the one we had drinks at this afternoon. Maybe if you're not moping around this time, you'll actually enjoy yourself.”

“Anyway, I finally blocked her number. We have nothing to say to each other. The texts and voicemails she's leaving me are all bullshit, just her flinging insults my way.” “Kevin started doing the same to me last night,” I tell him, drawing his attention back to me. He's kind of scary when he's pissed like that, Michael is. “Are you fucking serious?” he asks, looking shocked and incensed on my behalf. “Why?” “He called my stepmom and told her I was whoring myself out to Beauty in Lies.” There's a long pause and then, “give me the phone.” I blink up at him, at those long lashes over eyes the color of aubergine. “Why?” Michael holds out a hand covered in tattoos and gestures at me, the phoenix on his chest brilliant in the early afternoon light leaking through the curtains. “Because I'll verbally fuck him up, that's why.”

I smile and turn to face him, dressed in that baggy shirt Copeland gave me last night. Michael looks at me and then down at it. “You're missing my signature,” he says, reaching out and running a finger over Cope's handwriting. I still don't know why he wrote my name on it; I didn't think to ask. “It's not missing,” I tell him as I stand up and grab my purse, digging a pink Sharpie out of an inner pocket. I grab my phone, too. “It's the last one to be added, a little behind the curve.” He smiles at me, this razor-sharp version of the expression that leaves my heart in my throat and my body in a state of heated bliss, remembering the thickness of his cock inside of me last night, the strength of his arms as he held me up. “But I wouldn't have wanted you if you'd cheated on Vanessa, so …” “So give me the damn pen,” he says, and I reach out and drop it into his palm. Michael grabs a handful of my t-shirt and tugs me toward him, pulling me into his lap. He pulls the cap off the pen with his teeth and yanks the fabric taut, scrawling his name in swirling pink letters diagonally across my belly. “You still smell like my fucking shampoo,” he whispers, his voice a little ragged, a little hoarse. “Goddamn it.”

“There.” I unblock the number and hand my cell back to Michael, waiting with nervous butterflies in my stomach as he hits the screen with his thumb and makes the call. “No,” is how he answers the phone, his voice this low, dangerous razor of sound, “this isn't the quote crazy bitch on the phone, it's her fucking man.” Her man. I have to smile at that. “Yeah, motherfucker, you heard me. It's Michael Luxe.” Michael Luxe. I love his name, the way it rolls off my tongue. His first name's so ordinary, so plain, but paired with the unusual last name, it sounds … well, kind of like a rockstar's name. “I'll bet you do, you son of a bitch.” I glance back as Paxton steps out of the hallway in black sweats and nothing else, looking stupidly sexy with his hair tangled and wild on top of his head. “Who the fuck is he talking to?” he asks on the edge of a yawn. “And where the hell's my coffee? That little bastard over there knows to make me a pot if he gets up first.” “Listen to me: you give me that goddamn password to Lilith's cloud drive and I won't get on the next plane out of here to come and kick your sorry ass to next Sunday.” Pax's brows go up and he walks over, staring at his friend with a vaguely amused expression on that devilishly handsome face of his. Michael sits up, his jaw tightening, his purple eyes darkening with anger. “You think I give a shit about lawyers? Will a restraining order keep my foot out of your ass? Give me the password or I'll make good on my threats. I c...

Michael watches him for a moment and then turns back to me, taking my phone and unbuttoning his jeans again. “What are you doing?” I ask, a slight flush coloring my cheeks. “Giving you the upper hand,” he says, snapping a picture of his junk and passing the phone back to me. He looks so fucking confident when he does it, like there's not a thing in the world that could sway him from this path. From me. Our third official day together and he's so goddamn intense. I love it. “I don't think I could use this to blackmail you the way I could've used Kevin's,” I say and he laughs, the sound so different than it was a few days ago. “But thank you anyway. I'll keep it close.” I lift the picture up in salute and then set the phone back on the coffee table.

“I just called one of the local art museums and guess what? They rent that shit out.” “An art museum?” Pax asks, turning and leaning back against the counter, his mouth in this sideways smirk that I find intriguing. “For our little artiste over there?” “Exactly,” Muse says, an unzipped sleeveless hoodie over his bare chest and a pair of long black cargo shorts over combat boots. Unlike the other two boys in the room, I don't think he's just lounging; I think he's already dressed for the day. “What do you say, Lilith? You want to visit an art museum after hours?”

“If we're going to spend all of our post-show evening in a dreary old museum, then I want fucking sushi beforehand,” Pax says, pouring two cups of coffee … and bringing one over to me, complete with cream and sugar. My cheeks flush and I almost squeal as he sits down right in my fucking lap. “You like fish, Lilith? Because I know I do.” “You're so fucking crude,”

“I can't take all the credit for the museum thing though,” Muse continues as he starts water boiling for his usual cup of tea. “Cope and I came up with it together.” I share a secret smile with Copeland as he carries his shirtless butt into the room and takes one of the chairs across from me, putting his feet up and propping his head on his hand. “He damn well better have,” Ransom whispers, “after that shit he pulled last night.” “Eh, that was nothing compared to your sins though, now was it?” Pax asks and the room goes quiet.

“What's this about a museum?” Ran asks instead, eyes heavy-lidded and dark as he turns back to the room with his coffee. “Big family date at the art museum,” Muse says, slipping one hand into his pocket and observing his friend carefully, studying his mood. “You want to see some, uh, American Art created from the Colonial Era through the Second World War?” “I have no fucking clue what that means,” Ransom says with a husky bedroom laugh, “but I'll look and pretend like I have an opinion that matters. I'm sure Pax'll be good at this, what with his expensive education and all that.”

“You guys look … fucking amazing,” I say as Ransom slides an arm around my waist, dressed in a red mesh hoodie over a black tank with a white cross on it. I think he wears it ironically since I doubt he's in any way religious. “It's not just us that look good tonight, sweetheart,” he says softly, stirring my hair with his breath, the wicked sexy press of his lips against my forehead almost enough to drop me to my knees. “You look goddamn edible.”

“Scrumptious,” Muse agrees,

“So basically you all want to eat me?”

“Eat you out,”

Poor fucking Muse. Whatever it is that's eating away at him, I want to know about it.

“What do you guys normally do right before a show? Since I've been here, you've just sort of been hanging out with me.” “A huge improvement over the usual, I assure you,” Muse says, pushing off the wall and coming over to stand in front of me in his torn tank and low-slung jeans, penning me in against the bricks. Even out here, with a storm brewing and the wind dragging strands of red hair across my face, I can smell Muse's smoky tea/incense scent. “And the usual was …” I start, my eyes drawn to the fullness of Derek's mouth, the way it parts slightly as he looks down at me, still smiling. “Getting fluffed by groupies,” Pax says and ends up with an elbow in the ribs from Michael. “Yeah, sure. Like when did that ever fucking happen?” “Oh, please, I remember a good dozen times I caught you with a groupie before a show, your pants around your ankles—” Pax starts, interrupted by a growl from Michael. “That was a long goddamn time ago. Why do you have to bring that shit up?” “It was two years ago,” Paxton corrects, giving me this scalding look over Michael's shoulder. “And I just think Miss Lily oughta know what she's getting into with you.”

“Pax, you sure like to stir the pot, don't you?” I ask him as Muse steps back and leans against the wall next to me, pressing our arms together as Michael does the same on the other side, crossing his arms over his chest, sleeves still pushed up. “Me? No, never,” he says, but his voice is low and dangerous, edgy.

“I was an awful human being,” Michael continues as I stand there squashed between him and Muse, looking across the way at Ransom and Copeland. “But I got a second chance, and I'm trying to use it right.”

They're mine, I think as I look at them, one by one, dirty thoughts ticking past inside my head. “What the bloody fuck are you up to over there, Miss Lilith Tempest Goode?” Paxton asks as he kicks one of his expensive loafers up against the wall. “You look like you're ready to go on the hunt or something.” “So … you've never had a groupie take care of you before a show?” I ask, and I almost don't recognize my own voice. It's thready, husky, low and dripping. I sound a little like Ransom in that moment. “Did I say that?”

“You're on in about a half hour,” Octavia says just after I hear the door swing open. There's a long pause, like maybe she's watching me and Muse, but then she disappears and the vibrating rhythm of the music from inside the building disappears, cut off and leaving us in the eerie quiet of the coming storm. “Thirty minutes,” I say as I pull away from Muse and bite my lower lip gently, looking up at him from under my lashes. “That's about … six minutes each.”

The rough brick teases my thighs as Derek slides his warm hands up and under my shirt-dress, finding the lacy black panties he bought me at the mall, when he snuck away from me and Michael. They have a slit down the center of the crotch, making them quite convenient for … times like this. “Oh, god,” he groans, closing his eyes and leaning his forehead against mine for a second. “You didn't. I thought I was totally grasping at straws when I bought these.” “Well, you grasped the right straw then I guess,”

That's what Muse is like, like the weather. In some ways, it's predictable, but only if you really know what you're looking for. And yet, sometimes, it can throw you completely off-balance.

The sex … is just a stepping-stone on our way to healing, an easy and obvious way to connect with another human being. Right now, with Muse buried inside of me, I can feel his heartbeat against my chest, taste his breath on my lips, know that he's alive. No, more than just alive—awake.

Muse glances away, thrusting a few last times and finishing with this pained, quiet sort of sound. “You're breaking me up, Lilith,” he whispers in my ear, just before he puts me down and steps away.

I briefly catch sight of Paxton over Michael's shoulder and he looks … jealous? It's a surprising emotion to see on his face, especially after all the things we've been through this past week, but I can't stop. No, the torrid whisper of Michael's hands moving over my body is too mesmerizing, drawing my attention back to the wild expression on his face. Paxton is an alpha; Michael is an alpha. I wonder if they're going to be able to deal with each other?

Because Michael is jagged and broken. Those two years he fought to stay faithful to Vanessa, he was only melting the tip of the iceberg of his problems, that small obvious piece that the whole world could see. But there's enough floating beneath the surface to sink a ship. Michael is angry, and he's been alone for a long time. There are so many different kinds of loneliness, but his breed, the monster that was born the day his parents died, it's been feeding off of him for a while.

For days, I had to watch him at a distance, feel this thing between us stretch and twist and trip us both up. And now we get to throw ourselves into it headfirst, see where it takes us. I imagine places high.

“I'm supposed to be impressed by that?” he calls over my shoulder and I glance back just in time to see the angry expression flash across Michael's face. “I was,” I say, looking back at Pax as he stares down at me from that too perfect face of his. Eventually, it's going to crack and I'm going to see all the things inside of him that he doesn't want anyone else to see. It's fucking inevitable. “Well, well, then let's see what I can do to change that?” I start to back up against the wall on the opposite side of the alley when he spins me around and pushes my cheek to the bricks, my head turned toward Ransom. I can see him watching from those dark eyes of his, the scent of violets in the air, even with the few feet separating us. That smell surrounds me like a hug, competes with the sharp glaze of Pax's cologne. “You alright, sweetheart?” he asks, ready to protect me, beat the shit out of Paxton if need be. I believe he could do it, too, if he really wanted to. That's one of the things I don't understand about their relationship, why Ransom lets Paxton treat him like crap. “I'm perfect,”