Moxie (Rock-Hard Beautiful, #3)

by C.M. Stunich

Yes, in his past Michael made mistakes, but don't we all? The important part is that he learned from them, that life isn't just a passthrough lane for him; everything he does affects him a visceral level.

“You guys got a map yet?” Muse asks, entering the conversation at just the right moment. I look over at him and Cope and smile. “No, but I don't need one. I have one word for you,” I start as I back away toward the staircase, “mummies.” And then I turn and run up the steps in white heels with black bats all over them, my mother's charm bracelet tinkling in time with the necklaces around my throat. I don't stop until I'm looking at ancient corpses wrapped in gauze. Now, how much more romantic could a date with five guys really get?

On my left elbow, the new tattoo aches and pulls at my skin, reminding me how fresh it is, how pissed off it is to be there. But me? I'm actually having a pretty damn good fucking time.

Cope's kick drum is the only other sound in the room, the audience going silent and still for the start of this song—my song. I mean, I've got a few interspersed into Beauty in Lies' collective catalogue, but this one … I've been waiting a long time to feel like I might actually believe in the lyrics. Boom, boom, boom, boom. Copeland carries me through my complicated solo with a steady beat, my heart slowing to match the rhythm of his foot against the pedal. And that feeling, the feeling that he's there for me, that he's got my back, it's more than just a musical relationship. Cope was my mentor in junior high and he took that shit seriously. Fuck, he's never stopped taking that shit seriously. He saved my life, lied to the cops for me, kept me out of jail. That was him. So playing music with him? That's a damn privilege.

Ten seconds in, Michael joins me with his guitar, blending into the shadowed beauty of my Fender Precision like the two instruments were made to meet, fall in love, fuck each other's brains out in the quiet evening dark.

Fuck, I needed that apology. I needed him to look me in the face and say he was sorry, that he was wrong. I was dying for it. Bleeding for it. Desperate. And now I have it. I think I have him. And we have Lilith.

I study my old friend from behind with a new eye, an eye that's seem him naked in ways I never thought I'd see … or experience. I definitely never would've believed I'd have his mouth or hand on my cock—or that I'd like it. Jesus Christ.

“As if you didn't already know …” Pax schmoozes, breathing hard into the mic, his shirt open and chest exposed. I see the popped buttons from his dress shirt all over the damn stage. Fucking showboater.

My beast. My nightmare. Those are just euphemisms for the anger I felt toward my mother's killer, all of that craziness stirring around inside of me. I had no idea what to do with it, so … I let it get the best of me. I let it put a knife in my hand, let it drag me around the city as I stalked the man, let it slash and bleed him until it was over and I was left with fresh scars of my own. Physical scars. Mental scars.

“You were fucking smashing,” Pax says, slapping his sweaty palms together and giving me a look that says a million things he hasn't put into words yet. “There's something different about the way you're playing.” “Maybe you just think that, honey?” I ask quietly, my voice stolen away by the crowd's desperate cries for an encore. “You've finally given yourself license to stop hating me. That might be skewing the sound.” “No, that's not it,” Paxton says, and I should know better than to argue with him when it comes to music. He's got a composer's ear. “You are different. It's fucking you …”

“You're starting to freak,” I whisper and watch as Paxton grits his teeth at me. Sweat streaks the sides of his face, runs over the tattoos on his neck, his chest, right over the matching ink above his heart. “Don't. You almost lost it there in Dublin, but you pulled yourself together. You've got this.”

Yeah, well, shit, I'm kind of prone to romantic notions. I fell in love with Chloe, with Kortney, with … fucking Lilith. And maybe Paxton. I don't know about that last one. Anyway, I feel things with Lilith that I never fucking felt with Chloe or Kortney and that makes me ten times sappier than usual.

“It was the Egyptian Death and Afterlife exhibit that did it, wasn't it?” she whispers playfully in my ear, letting me grind the hard bulge in my jeans against her heat. Lilith's wearing the same flirty white dress she wore to the museum, and to tell you the truth, when pressed like this, it doesn't offer much coverage. “That did what, wonderful?” I whisper back, struggling to contain the surge of need in me. But hell, this is a different kind of beast that's roaring, less like a monster and more like, well an animal. The animal's needs, its motivations, those are easy to understand; they make sense. Plus, they're a goddamn pleasure to slake. “Turned you on,” she jokes, reaching up and rubbing a bit of dark liner away from my eyes. Her thumb comes away smudged with black. Lilith flicks her hunter green gaze to mine. “That was a romantic date, wasn't it?” “Oh so romantic, darling,” I whisper back, and the way I say it … hell, even I like the sound of my own voice. Or maybe I'm just laying it on so thick I can't tell the difference? “There's nothing that turns me on quite like looking at four thousand year old dead guys.” “I knew it,”

“Come with me.” I step back and grab Lilith's hand. “Are you stealing her away already?” Pax mumbles, sliding a pack of smokes from his pocket and lighting up before any of the venue staff or Octavia can comment on it. The guys and I … we sort of don't give a lot of shits about smoking laws. We pretty much light up whenever, wherever we want. But I'm trying. Seriously, I'm really trying. “Didn't even get a damn kiss.” Lilith smiles and leans toward Pax, keeping hold of my hand as he drags her in for a kiss that's about two steps above the erotic level of the one I just laid on her. Figures. We might be friends … or lovers or something, but that rivalry still has a ways to go before it's dead and buried.

I mean, Lilith is sort of right. That is what the old Ransom would do. But that Ransom, he died the day his mother did. And then whatever monster was born from that tragedy was killed by a rapist's knife. Whoever I'm becoming now, it's not that guy.

“Your skin is like starlight,” I whisper, and I mean that. It's not a line. I feel like even in here, with barely any real light to see by, that this woman glows. Or maybe that's just me being corny again? “Fuck, Ran,” she whispers back, digging her fingertips into the back of my neck, slanting our lips together for a kiss. “You can't say things like that to me.” “Why not?”

“Skin like starlight, floral lips,” I start as she locks her ankles behind my back and tears at the button on my jeans. “Hair like rubies, eyes like emeralds.” “Seriously, shut the fuck up,” she says, but the words come out in a fervent whisper as she frees the heavy length of my cock and holds it in her hand, squeezing me, stroking me, drawing much less sweet and much less soft moans from my own mouth. “Do you have trouble with the truth?” I tease as she kisses me like I'm the only man in her life, the only one that matters. It doesn't bother me that I have to share her, but it does feel nice to know I'm fucking wanted by this woman, this old Hollywood goddess, all plump flesh and curves in my arms. “I have trouble with flattery,” Lilith whispers back, her words less sound and more touch.

“Flattery? Sweetheart, that's just poetry. I could write a song about you.” I pause as she takes the initiative, reaching between us and pushing her panties aside. “Maybe I will?”

I'm barely three thrusts in before the door opens behind me. My teeth clench, and I swear the muscles in my neck are hard as rocks. “Mikey,” Lilith breathes, and the anger leaks out of me. I glance over my shoulder as Michael closes the door and plunges us all back into blackness laced with shadows. I'm comfortable here; I live in shadows after all. It's why I always keep my hood up, so I can have the easy simplicity of darkness around me at all times. But damn, the glow of Lilith's skin, the way her smile can light up a room, that's the kind of shit that inspires me to pull my hoods down, to take a few steps into sunshine. “Mind if I join?” he asks, but not like he expects to be told no. Jesus, him and Pax. They're both such alpha male dicks. I should tell him to screw off, but what the hell? I leave the decision up to Lilith. “Not at all,”

Lilith pulls her skirts up, letting them bunch around her hips, and then focuses her fingers on undoing Michael's belt, pulling the silver skull and crossbones buckle apart until she can get to the fly on his black jeans. Me, I don't need any instruction to know what my honey wants me to do.

She's fucking mine, is what my instincts say, but fuck, he's my friend and the noises he's making … they say she's fucking his. So … ours. Ours.

I know I have a tendency to get lost in love … but this time, it actually feels right. There's no lurking ghost of guilt in my belly, no sick sense of dread when she's alone with my friends, no pang of promised heartache. With Lilith, it just feels … easy.

“I hope this doesn't sound trite,” Lilith starts, mesmerizing me with the careful way she tucks her breasts back into her bra, “and I don't want you to think that if I say this, you owe me anything—” “I love you, too,” I tell her, because I'm not fucking ashamed of that shit. Who would be? Just like there are all kinds of relationships in this world, so too are there ways to fall in love. Slow burn is nice—for some people. And friendship that morphs into passion is great—for everyone else. This, this instant attraction, this desperate need to fill each other's dark places, this is us. And it's just as fucking valid as anything else. “I …” “Well, fuck, honey, I've stumped you,” I whisper, kissing her forehead and reaching down to help her tie her dress back up. I do the left shoulder while Michael takes care of the right. “You stole my thunder,” she tells me and I do my best not to smile like an idiot. “Well, okay, so I already told Pax and Muse, but … I want you all to know. I'm … shit, I think it happened all at once, when Michael came to me in the kitchen, like you guys were a package deal.” Truth be told, I almost expect Michael to get pissed off, to throw some sort of fit like he always does. “You don't have to say that to me if you're not ready,” he tells her in this soft, low voice that I haven't heard since the early days of Vanessa. “It's not a checklist. Just because you told Pax and Muse—” “I love you, Michael,” Lilith says, also completely unashamed. See. She's ...

I'm sure he'll get Lilith alone somewhere in the next few days and spill his heart out. He acts like such a badass, but when he looks at her, there's something different in his gaze, something softer that I'm not used to seeing.

“You look beautiful,” Copeland whispers as I sigh and lay my head against his shoulder.

She knew how she felt about him; nothing could change that. But the world was cruel, and the world was awful, and all she wanted was to make things easier for him, better. No, it didn't matter what anyone else thought about them, not really, but if she could ease his torment just a little, why not play along?

“You think so?” I ask with a small sigh. I'm not fishing for compliments or anything, but I could use some serious moral support. The way Paxton's jaw is wired shut, the muscles in his neck and cheeks twitching with tension, I can tell the next few days aren't exactly going to be a cakewalk. I imagine that he won't be the only person under scrutiny; he's already told me he's going to introduce me as his girlfriend. “Prettiest girl I've ever seen,” Copeland says, the expression too serious to question the validity of his words.

Telling Ransom and Michael that I was in love with them felt good. Hell, it felt fucking great. But it also left this big, gaping hole where my confession to Copeland should sit. It's actually bothering the hell out of me that there's just one boy left who holds a piece of my heart, but that I haven't told that to yet.

“Holy fucking shit,” Michael curses, sitting on Pax's left and gaping out the window with me and Muse. “Is that … is that a fucking castle turret or something?” He points out a round stone tower, artfully crumbling at the end of a cobblestone path. “It's a Victorian folly,” Pax says with absolutely zero emotion, still leaning over with this head in his hands. “What the hell is a Victorian folly?” Michael asks as the limo eases around the circular drive and comes to a stop next to the front steps. “Come on, man,” he says when Pax doesn't answer, reaching out and giving his shoulder a small shake. “Wake the fuck up.” “A folly is a decorative building erected for the simple pleasure of suiting an extravagant taste,” Paxton says, sounding the part of a highborn British royal. When he lifts his chin, his expression is dripping disdain. But … I don't think that contempt in his grey eyes is for Michael. I think it's for the folly itself, the house, his parents, their lifestyle. “That's a replica of a medieval tower built by my idiot ancestors during the Victorian era.” “The Victorian era?” Michael asks, scrubbing his hand through his long, dark hair. “Fuckin' A, man. When was the damn house built?” “In 1681,” Paxton says with a voice entirely devoid of emotion. He smirks at us, but that, that is definitely just his mask. “A century before your country was even born, yes.”