Moxie (Rock-Hard Beautiful, #3)

by C.M. Stunich

No way am I drinking anything on my first official night outside of North America. I'm in Dublin! my mind shouts, but it's hard to enjoy it when my boyfriend is drinking himself into a stupor—while my four other boyfriends hang out upstairs in a hotel room. “The bar is closing,” I whisper as I reach out and brush some blonde hair from his forehead. Last night, on the plane, Pax was … not himself. It was a six plus hour flight and he barely spoke a word. “I love you, Pax.”

Yes. Yep. That was me, saying that … to Paxton Charles Blackwell, lead singer of Beauty in Lies, rock god, and distant British royalty. And then I covered his mouth and didn't let him say it back. Now, of course, I can't stop wondering what he would've said if I'd let him.

If you're anything like me, then you're jet-lagged, and you're tired, and you need to come upstairs and get some sleep.” “I slept on the plane,” he says, sitting up, his suit wrinkled, his tie loose, one of his cuff links missing from his jacket. “I'm fine. I don't need any bloody sleep.” He moves to stand up, stumbles a little, and then catches himself on the bar. Before I can even register what he's doing, he's grabbed the drink from me and tossed it back. “Oh, honey, what the fuck?” Goose bumps break out across my skin at the sound of Ransom's voice, and I turn to find him standing there in a loose tank with a hood. The fabric's thrown up over his chocolate brown hair as he crosses his big, muscular arms over his chest and sighs. “I'm pissed outta my skull, I think,” Paxton says, turning around and putting his elbows on the bar's surface. “No shit,” Ransom says with a sigh, walking over and giving me a sly smile before he grabs Pax around the waist and tosses him over his shoulder. “Come on, sweet thing.” I follow after him, the yellow fabric of my dress swishing around my legs as we pass by Octavia and I give her an apologetic half-smile. “Sorry,” I mouth as we head across the polished floors of the lobby and into the elevator. “Not the fucking lift,” Paxton says as Ransom sets him down, and I press the button for our floor. “I might chunder all over the damn place.” “You're a mess, man,” Ransom says as he tries to steady his friend with a pair of hands on Pax's should...

“You found Paxton,” Cope says and I get a little chill down my spine. Those are some of the first words Ransom ever said to me, back in Phoenix. I have to hold back a small smile. “Yes, I did,” I say as Pax throws back the handful of pills and downs the glass of water. “Sitting in the pub, drinking himself into a stupor.” “Yeah, well, once you meet the Blackwells, you'll understand—and then maybe I won't have to get drunk all by my fuckin' lonesome.” “You're the one that snuck out without telling anyone, sweetheart,” Ransom says, his voice warm molasses over pancakes.

I told him I loved him … and I meant it.

“Do you talk to yourself a lot when you're alone?” Muse asks, startling me. I glance over my shoulder and find him leaning against the bathroom door. “Sorry, I knocked but I don't think you could hear me. Do you mind if I join you?” His glasses fog up in the steamy air and he pauses to pull them off his face, setting them on the counter and then sweeping strands of silver-white-black hair off of his forehead. “As long as you promise that we'll actually get clean during this shower. Usually when I let you guys in, I end up dirtier.”

“You promised I'd get clean during this shower,” I say as Muse stands back up and kisses along the freckles tracing my shoulders. “Actually, I just smiled at you and said nothing. You assumed that was me agreeing to your proposition.”

“Cope said—” The words trying to escape my lips are obliterated by the careful teasing of Muse's hand, slicking my body's own lube up from my opening and using it to massage my clit. “Cope said what?” he asks, with a healthy dose of amusement coloring his words, the chuckle that escapes his throat distinctly male, distinctly satisfied with the direction this is going. “That you're the only nice guy in the group.”

“Maybe I am an okay guy?” he says, nibbling my ear, managing to keep me on my feet with that muscular arm wrapped around my waist. “Because I might just get you dirty, but I'll make sure to clean you up after.” “How considerate,” I whisper in a breathy, quivering voice.

“Where are you off to?” I ask, sitting up slowly, white sheets tangled around my legs and a man or two on either side of me. Cope and Muse are on my left while Ransom sleeps curled inside his hoodie on my right. Michael's sprawled across the pull-out sofa bed, but only because there's literally no more room on the one the rest of us are lying on. I don't know exactly what's going to happen back in Seattle, but I imagine that in my new place, I'll be getting a king size bed. “To have myself a fag,” Pax says, pulling the smoke from his lips and wiggling it at me. He gives me a tight smile as I crawl from the covers and grab Michael's black leather jacket, shrugging it over the silky pink fabric of my pj's. “You're comin' downstairs in that?” Pax asks, giving me a look and then parking the unlit cigarette between his lips. He steps over to me and reaches down, buttoning up the top few buttons on my shirt. “Seriously?” I respond with a raised brow, but Pax just grins, takes the cigarette from his mouth and then presses a tobacco scented kiss to my lips. “Come along then,” he says, curling his fingers around mine when I reach to take his hand.

“Don't look so desperate, love.” He puts a hand on the top of my head and ruffles up my red hair with his fingertips. “This isn't your first, last, and only chance for travel.” “Says who?” I ask as I lean in close to Pax's chest and feel his right arm slide around my waist. “Life likes to throw curveballs; I just want to enjoy every moment like it is my last.” “Well, that's bloody morbid. I say, grab life by the bollocks but try not to be so damn dreary.”

“Speaking of dreary …” I start and his mouth twitches, his eyes dropping down to my face. “Can't say I have sole claim on that emotion. Tell me what's going on with your parents, Pax.” “You should head upstairs and get dressed, wake those other arseholes up. Takes them longer to get ready than it does you.” “You're avoiding the question,” I say, but Pax is already slipping away from me, pulling his arms out from underneath Michael's leather jacket and stepping back.

“I meant what I said,” I call out as he walks away and then pauses, holding a side door open for me. People brush past us, in and out of the revolving glass doors as I stand there with a resolute expression on my face. “Are you coming or not?” Pax drawls, leaning across the door and waiting for me, one arm outstretched. I march right up to him and grab the zipper on Michael's jacket, dragging the pull slowly up the metal teeth. “I meant what I said,” I repeat, noticing that Pax doesn't look away from me, keeping his gaze locked on my face, almost like he's daring me to say it again. I have no problem with that. “I love you, Paxton Blackwell.”

“Why did you stop me from replying on the jet?” he asks, pausing us in the middle of the buzzing lobby. “Because you were afraid of what I might say?” I suck on my lower lip for a moment; Paxton continues before I get a chance to respond. “You shouldn't be.”

“We're all going to make an effort to quit,” Michael announces with a tight smile that he directs at his friends. I feel my heart skip a beat. He might play the angry bad boy card well, but Mikey genuinely listens when I talk; I appreciate that. I mentioned both my parents having cancer, and now he's ready to get all the guys to quit smoking.

trying not to stress over Paxton's drinking. He seemed to recover some today, punctuating my journey around Dublin with snarky commentary and wickedly curved smirks of his lips. And fuck, he trashed that stage tonight, dressed in a sharp, sexy suit and a layer of wild tattoos to protect against the world. But now that we're back on his parents' plane … he seems to be regressing.

Paxton doesn't even wait for the all clear from the crew before he takes his seat belt off, standing up and revisiting the bar as I tighten my mouth and watch him shrug out of his suit jacket. I'm not sure that I'd say Pax is a full-blown alcoholic, but he definitely has a slight drinking problem.

“Have you put anymore thought into your living situation?” “I want my own place,” I say firmly, realizing that Muse has already fallen asleep on my shoulder. I release his hand and unbuckle my seat belt, gently adjusting him so that he flops down on the pillows to his left. “I spent years making Kevin's place just right, putting all my love and effort into somebody else's space. I want to make a go of it on my own.” I toss the black afghan we stole off the bus over the gentle rise and fall of Muse's chest, standing up straight and slicking the rich purple-red strands of my hair into a ponytail. “The months I lived alone after we broke up were pretty bleak, so those hardly count. And anyway, Phoenix never felt like home.” “How do you know Seattle will?” Cope asks, letting the pages of his book flutter closed as he looks up at me. “Because you guys will be there,” I say and receive a smile in return, the movement of Copeland's lips accented by the single silver ring pierced through the bottom. “I want to dig in, put down roots, make a fresh start. With the sale of the Matador, I'll have plenty of cash to rent something nice.” Michael makes a sound under his breath, standing up and grabbing me by the hips, putting his mouth to my neck and conjuring up all sorts of ideas about what we could be doing in the small bedroom at the back of the plane. “Eh, in the Seattle Metro Area, that money might get you the first month's rent and security deposit for some shithole in a questiona...

Vanessa cheated on this guy? After he was celibate for a year waiting for her? She must seriously have a few loose screws. Michael is … well, fuck, he's tall and muscular and tattooed and beautiful. His eyes are that mysterious indigo color that the sky turns just before the last vestiges of day turn to night, a sunset within a sunset, that spark of purple where the navy blue of the sky meets the earth.

“When my parents passed away, we were living in this cute little two bedroom place in Laurelhurst. We barely had time to process that they were dead before the asshole was handing us notice to get the fuck out. His uh, just cause for kicking us out was that our parents had been the ones to sign the lease and they were no longer living in the residence.” Michael scowls, twisting that handsome face of his into something a little darker than I'm used to seeing. He has so much anger inside of him. So, so, so, so much. “Piece of shit. Tim and I lived in our car for two weeks before we managed to find a family friend willing to rent us a room.”

“This is really important to you, isn't it?” I ask, surprised by the vehemence of his reaction. He does have a point though. Still, I can't let the same thing that happened with Kevin happen with these guys. They might be my princes, but if I let them buy me a castle, then I'm not really forging my own way, am I? “I guess we can look at properties for sale. If it seems like a good investment for you guys, I'd be happy to rent from you.” Those perfect lips of his curve into a sharp smile. “Good. Muse and Cope are like, weirdly obsessed with real estate anyway. They'll probably cream their jeans helping you look for a house.”

“It's the American Dream, isn't it?” Cope asks from behind me, and I glance over my shoulder to find him flipping through his book but not really reading any of the words. “What's wrong with getting excited about it?” “American Dream?” Paxton asks, turning around and hoisting himself up onto the surface of the bar. “Well, shit, I'm an Englishman. All I want is to smell honeysuckle and roses through my cottage window and have myself a nice cup of tea.” He digs a pack of cigarettes out and gets a weird look from Octavia as he slips one between his lips. Pax rolls his eyes and continues on in that dry, sarcastic tone of his. “Preferably after playing a local cricket game with my mates.”

“Are you sure you should smoke in here?” Octavia asks, speaking directly to him for what's probably the first time since Jacksonville. “It's my parents' fucking plane, isn't it? I'll smoke in here if I damn well please,” he says, flicking open a lighter and pausing to exchange a long look with Michael. Slowly, Pax's eyes drift over to me. “Oh bloody hell,” h...

“Are you sure there's nothing you want to talk about with us, sweetheart?” Ransom asks, turning and draping his body along the length of the couch. “Because you look like you're falling apart in front of my face.” “What's the big deal? You did the same thing times a hundred already.” Pax jumps down from the bar and meets my eyes for one, long, searing moment. It's like I can feel him in my head, debating on what to say, mulling over all his options. Finally, he settles on one. “Lilith,” he says, his voice low and even, but his hands curled into tight fists, the ink on his knuckles straining with the motion. “I have a fiancée.”

Amelia Davies. I haven't seen her in years, not since my parents made their last play to get me to jump back across the pond. They brought Amelia over to the States with them after Harper died and tried to guilt-trip me into doing my familial duty, marrying one aristocratic English asshole to another. No fucking thank you. I told 'em no, and they cut me off financially. I haven't seen a single penny from them since the day they hopped on a plane—probably the exact goddamn plane we rode on last night—and left the US. They only give me a courtesy call every once in a while, just to twist my bollocks, remind me that it's essentially my fault that my sister's dead. If I hadn't moved to the States, hadn't dated Chloe, hadn't invited Harper to visit me in Washington. Maybe all this time I've been blaming Ransom because I've been afraid to blame myself? Or worse, maybe because I have to come to terms with the fact that there's nobody that I can blame?

My dad didn't rape me, not like Muse's, but he did beat and bloody me senseless, knock me around. Scream. Shout. Belittle me. Make me feel less than human. He's still got that special little talent although I'll be damned if I let him lay a finger on me ever again. And my mom? Well, she just sat back and watched, played the devil's advocate and justified the man's erratic behavior. All that, though, well I could've dealt with that. It was only when he started hitting Harper, too, that I finally broke.

I miss Harper, but fuck … I really miss Chloe. I loved her like I've never loved another woman. Honestly, I never expected to fall in love again. That's a onetime thing, yeah? True love. But Miss Lilith Tempest Goode, the way she looks at the five of us makes me believe it can happen more than once. Fuck, the way I look at her … I know it can happen more than once. Bleeding hell. I think I'm in love with the curvy redheaded groupie.

When the others arrive back at the hotel, I'm sitting in a chair near the window, the lines of my suit sharp as knives, a smirk sliced across my lips to match. I don't think there's a damn person in that room that's fooled by the act. I miss Chloe; I'm afraid of my parents; I have a fiancée; I'm in love with Lilith; I might be in love with Ransom. I'm a fucking mess.

Right now, we're walking through scores of tourists on the Royal Mile on our way over there, leaving the hotel on foot dressed in our concert best. I think Octavia about burst an artery when I announced our plans, but that bitch is hanging onto being our manager by the skin of her teeth; she's lucky Miss Lily has such a big heart. Lord knows I don't have much of one left.

“I'm really trying not to be the consummate arsehole here,” I say as we walk together, the heavy black and white folds of her dress swishing as she moves. It's got stripes of what look like piano keys overlaid in a random pattern across the fabric, but that's not what catches my attention. It's that strappy back, leaving most of her pale skin bare and begging to be touched. “Truly. But you haven't mentioned the fiancée thing once and I'm starting to get mildly concerned here.” “Do you want me to freak out?” she asks mildly, her lips colored with this sumptuous red that reminds me of pinot noir. Frankly, I'm this close to licking it all off. “Hey,” Lilith says, pausing next to a woman wearing a sandwich board. “Take a haunted tour with me tonight, right after the show. The flight to London is only about an hour and a half, right? We have time.” “A ghost tour?” I ask as Ransom steps up beside us and peers at the board draped over the woman's body, accepting a brochure when she hands it to him. “I've just revealed to you that I've got a fiancée and you want to go on a bloody ghost tour?” “Oh, it'll be bloody alright,” the tour guide says with an easy smile, “black as Satan's jammies. May I suggest the underground tour? Starts right here and takes you into the South Bridge Vaults. A haunting good time, guaranteed.” “Do we really need to go on a ghost tour?” I ask, glancing over at Ran and gesturing at him with one tattooed hand. “Ransom slinks around like a spook most of the t...

I have to survive this visit with my parents—and Amelia. I'm going to end it, this ridiculous engagement, this emotional torment. Fuck, when I originally asked Octavia to pencil in this personal time on the schedule, I had no idea what I was going to do with it. Pop in for a spot of tea and some fucking crumpets? Sit in the conservatory with dear ol' mummy and listen to her talk gossip about all the other rich idiots she hangs around with? Or maybe watch my father's face tighten when he looks at me, his disappointment of a son? Standing here with Lilith, it hits me. I'm not going there to endure my family; I'm going there to make peace with my past.

“Whoa, ghost tours,” Muse says, grabbing the brochure from me. “Fuck, I want to go on one of these.” He flips through the pages as Ransom tucks his hands in the front pocket of his hoodie. “Pax is taking Lilith on a date to the vaults,” he says, with this stupid little lilt to his voice that makes me raise my eyebrows. “We should take a different one. Nighttime cemetery tour anyone?” “Book that shit,” Muse says, slapping the pamphlet onto the palm of his other hand, glancing back to look at Michael and Copeland. “You guys in?” “You want to tour old gravestones?” Michael asks, wrinkling up his face. “I'm not into that emo shit.” “God, would you loosen up, Mikey?” I ask, taking Lilith's hand. Her fingers curl through mine, her hand just the right size to fit inside of my own. It's like we were made to be together. To banish that sappy little thought, I make sure to put a lot of cocky swagger into my step. “You're a rockstar; graveyards are right up your alley.” “One of my favorite books of all time has a pretty racy sex scene in a graveyard,” Cope adds as I grin and toss a wink in Lilith's direction. “Maybe we'll write our own scene together in the vaults?” I whisper as I pull her away from the tour guide and up the incline of the old street.

“You'll get through this. It might be like walking through fire; it might fucking burn. But once you get to the other side, the ashes of your past will fall away and you'll be cleansed, ready to start fresh.” “You're just full of worldly wisdom, aren't you, love?” I ask just before Lilith lifts herself up on her heels and presses her mouth to mine. Unlike the others, I don't give two flying shites whether or not I'm in public. I wrap my arms around the curvy warmth of her body and tug her close, sliding my tongue between lips tinted the color of fine wine. Tastes better, too. “Will you draw me tonight?” I add, pulling my mouth back just a fraction of an inch. “Why?” she asks, not like she's judging, more like she's curious. “Because,” I say, stepping back as the others rejoin us, “I want to see what my pain looks like through your eyes.”

“First of all,” Octavia begins, reaching up to adjust her ponytail, “we really should get going. I didn't plan for—” “Don't be such a wet blanket,” Paxton says, his tie hanging loose around his neck, the front of his shirt dark with sweat from the show. He's shed his jacket, and his sleeves are rolled up, showing off the sea of tattoos on his forearms. There's not a single spot of bare skin to be seen from the tips of his fingers to his elbows. That skyline on his right hand drifts down to the trees beneath the moon, their roots digging in and around Pax's wrists, carrying coffins and skeletons into deep, dark earth and then back to roots again, trees, another nighttime skyline that I can't see right now but that I know rests on his shoulder. “Live a little, Miss Warris,” he whispers in her ear, making her face flush. “The tour's only about an hour and a half,” I add, a sketchbook and pencils tucked into the purse hanging at my side. I decided to mix things up tonight, make some art with charcoal instead of a stylus. It felt good, smudging the black and white color across the textured pages, staining the side of my hand as I blended shadows and light and music and pain. “And second,” I say, taking the ghost tour ticket from Ransom's hand and pressing it into Octavia's, “you promised you'd try to have some fun.” “I'm afraid of ghosts,” she blurts suddenly and then turns an even funnier shade of red as Muse chuckles. “Well, would you look at that? I guess we all have our pho...

Neither of us speaks the rest of the way, pausing at the edge of the small group gathered around the sign for our ghost tour. “I'm totally going to shag you on this thing,” Pax growls into my ear as our tour guide—the woman that was wearing the sandwich board before the show—lays out some basic rules and then launches into a colorful story about the area's history. “Oh, please,” I say, but I can't lie. The idea's a little thrilling, deliciously naughty, a tad scary. Like a flower, my sexual awakening is in full bloom, as brilliant as the red, red rose. Doing it against a cold stone wall in Old Town Edinburgh is an enticing idea. I can feel my pulse thumping hard against the side of my neck as Paxton and I follow the group, listening to our guide weave tales of witch burnings, poverty, and the questionable public hygiene habits of medieval people who threw their, um, chamber pots and slop out into the middle of the street. I read once that that latter bit is just an urban legend, but who knows? Our guide puts on a great show of shouting gardyloo at the top of her lungs, encouraging the rest of us to do the same. “So not the sort of foreplay I was looking forward to,” Pax says as he cups his tattooed hands around his mouth and shouts along with the rest of the group, making me laugh so hard that I have to cling to his arm to keep from falling on the cobblestones in my heels. “Gardyloo? Chamber pots? What the hell kind of tour is this? Where are the bleeding ghosts?”

I've got a good feeling about our longterm prospects, too. Paxton is a one-night stand sort of guy, not a casual relationship guy. Being here with me, that means a lot.

“Did you have any idea that you were interested in Ran back then?” I ask and Pax just shrugs. “Not really. Then again, I've spent so long hating on him that it's sort of blurred the past a little. I haven't a fucking clue how our relationship used to work. I guess all we can do now is start a new one, yeah?”

“And there I was, the jaded fucker thinking this ghost tour would be boring. You've certainly proven me wrong,” he drawls as I reach out to slap him playfully on the shoulder. Pax helps me to my feet, even fixes my panties for me—although he cops several feels as he does it. Asshole. But he's revved my body into a sinuous, purring creature that just wants to be touch-touch-touched again. I wish he'd keep going. “You're a professional fucking lothario, aren't you?” I ask slyly, but Paxton just curls his arm around my waist and yanks me close, putting his lips right up against my ear. “Just a man in love,” he says, making my heart stutter, stop, start up again. “I love you, Miss Lilith Tempest Goode.” And then he yanks me away to rejoin the ghost hunting group.

Oh, and at the end of the tour, the guide tells us all as we exit the vaults that tiny red scratches sometimes appear on visitors that've been teased by spirits. The little pinkish cuts on my back from the stone scare three young teens to tears themselves. Guess I'm just paying it forward.

“Is there ice cream cake in York?” I ask, sitting across from Ran, Pax, and Cope at a restaurant near the British Museum. The boys told me to expect the world portion of the tour to flash by at a much quicker pace than the Stateside leg; they were right. It feels like we're sprinting from one fabulous city to another, places that I could spend weeks in and I get only hours. It's a cruel little taste of a world I never thought I'd get to see. Wish you could be here, Mom. “You're properly mental, you are,” Paxton says, shaking his head and leaning back in his chair, sunlight streaming across his blonde hair, turning it this burnished gold color that makes my heart flutter. “It's York, not some Podunk little craphole in the midwest. Of course there's ice cream cake, you nutter.” “Fucker,” I mumble, resisting the urge to flick some of my chicken souvlaki in his direction. We're at some tiny little Greek eatery—I've literally never eaten Greek food before this—sitting outside in the sunlit courtyard. For days, it's been pouring rain in London, but just after we landed, the weather cleared up and now, it's bright and cheerful and clear out. “Ice cream cake,” Copeland says, picking over the spicy lamb meatballs he ordered. He lifts his turquoise eyes to meet mine. “Is that your weakness? Mine's cream puffs. I'm starting to get withdrawals it's been so long since I had any.”

I say with a smile when Michael puts a comforting hand on my thigh. Okay, so it travels up a bit farther than comfort, delving into slightly dangerous territory. Bad boy.

“So, another goddamn museum today?” Paxton says, breathing out a long sigh. “You sure you don't want to hit an even bigger tourist trap and go watch the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace? We can book a tour that includes afternoon fuckin' tea.” “You liked the ghost tour last night. Who's to say you won't enjoy this, too?” I ask and watch as his smile takes on a much darker tint. “You think we could get away with shagging in the Egyptian wing? Because that really would make this an experience to remember.” “I think it's Ransom's turn to entertain you publicly, if you know what I mean.” “Hey, doll face, I don't think we're there yet,” Ran says quietly, his full lips in a sly smile as he pushes his hood off and reveals that perfect face. I wish he'd do it more often, take his hood off. He seems to be getting better about it; it's a good sign. Slowly, slowly, slowly our little group is healing together, one scar, one wound, one bloody broken heart at a time. “Says who?” Pax drawls lazily, leaning back in his chair. I swear, every time he does that, I feel like he's going to topple backward and crack his head open. “We could get there, quite easily I think.” “You just want to fuck me before we see your parents so you can rub it in their faces,” Ransom says as the two of them exchange a long, lingering look over Copeland's lap. “Whoa, guys, I am seriously fucking moving if you keep tossing love gazes at each other.” “Love gazes?” Ransom asks, leaning away from the cente...

“Why does the tour move so quickly?” I'm sure there's a legitimate reason behind it, but I have to ask. And I have to start keeping some sort of journal or log of all the things I want to do in each city but don't have time for. That way, if—no, no, no, when—I take another trip, I can start checking things off my list. “I mean, this pacing is brutal.” “Told you we usually end up sleeping every spare second away by the end of it,” Ransom inserts as he walks by and also decides to light up a cigarette. “I'm trying to quit,” he promises, holding it up for me to look at. “By the time we get home, I swear it, sweet girl.”

Ran and Pax try to finish their cigarettes. And then maybe have a talk and decide if they're going to actually go all the way and officially fuck each other. I think they should, but then again, apparently I'm a huge fan of anal sex. I'm not sure how much either of them is interested in actually having another dude back there.

“You know,” Michael says as we continue walking, “I haven't seen a single one of the movies you just brought up. Be honest: are they complete shit?” I grin at him—I seem to be finding myself grinning a lot more lately—and let him guide me across the street behind Pax and Ran, a sea of other museumgoers swelling and parting around us like the tide around a rock. “They're all … unique in their own way,” I say cautiously and this time it's Michael that laughs at me. “Unique. A euphemism for shit. I get it.” “No, no, they're all good—for the right crowd. I'm just not sure that you are going to like them.” “Whatever,” he says, adjusting his arm and putting it around my shoulders instead, leaning down to press a kiss against my forehead. “I'll watch them with you and pig out on ice cream cake anyway—even if I am bored shitless.”

I shiver and Michael mistakes it for me being cold, taking his jacket off and slipping it over the shift silhouette of my dress. The gesture's too cute for me to correct him, tell him that I'm loving the feel of the sun on my shoulders and legs, the shimmer of the light against his dark hair. And this is the man that told me he wasn't romantic? Romance really is in the little things. It's the way he smiles at me, the way he says he'll watch movies that I know he's going to hate, the way he takes my purse from me and slings it over his own shoulder—even though he's a fucking rockstar and he looks ridiculous with a black sequined purse dangling off his tattooed arm.

“You know,” I continue as we head inside the museum—admission is fucking free, can you believe that?—and I have to bite my lip to hold back my excitement. Deep breath, Lilith, you're such a dork. “I miss my sister like crazy. If there was a way for me to speak to her again, I'd pay any price. I'd cut my own arm off to see her one last time.” Michael sighs dramatically and gives me a look like there's no way he's buying what I'm selling. “Point taken, Lil. But Timothy didn't die; he fucked my girlfriend. Worse, he'd been fucking my girlfriend for years, let me believe all along that it was my kid that died, instead of his. And honestly, that's just the tip of the iceberg. Yeah, he took care of me when I was a kid and I'm beyond fucking grateful for that, but he also kicked me out when I was eighteen—the day I turned eighteen when I was still in high school. He knew I had an addiction and he let me rot, even after I specifically asked for his help.”

In a different world, my five true loves would probably be spread across the earth, the distance between them as vast as the cities we've traveled to on this tour. I would've met one first and that would've been it; I'd have picked him. Instead, fate threw me on a bus with five perfect princes in one place, all of them lonely in some way, pained in some way, their darkness twin to my own. They love each other. It's obvious that it's been that way for a long time. Who was I to break up that perfect union?

I can't lose him. I just fucking can't. I already had to watch Cope panic, try to run. I won't let Michael do the same.

“Lilith, I want this, too,” he promises. “Well, I mean, I won't lie and say there aren't moments that I wish I had you to myself, but fuck, I want you. I want Pax and Ran to … do whatever Pax and Ran want to do with each other. I want Cope and Muse to be happy. So if this is what it takes, this is what I'm signing up for. I just wanted to hear what you'd say if I asked.”