Punishing Me (Shaft on Tour #6) (10 page)

Strut Your Butt

Ireland

It
is loud and chaotic, but not in a bad way. I have to admit I have enjoyed every
minute I have spent here, for the most part. Everything about the enormous
mansion my bandmates call home is warm and inviting. It’s always full of laughter,
a place you could never bored or lonely. Someone is always up to something.
Shenanigans and pranks are a constant. It’s nothing like my house when I was
growing up, that’s for sure.

It
definitely beats an empty hotel room, but I’ll be damned if I tell Dominick
that.

As
if he needs another reason for his conceited ass head to swell any bigger than it
already is…

Even
though I could be mad at Dominick for the tactics he used to get me here, I
haven’t had much time to dwell on it. Having been here two days now, I have
spent most of my time writing lyrics or switching up some of the harmonies with
Chase and the guys on some of their older songs. The second Jasmine comes in
from school, she has to tell me, and everyone else, all about her day while
double fisting cookies and downing tiny jugs of chocolate milk with some rabbit
on it.

Just
as I begin to feel cabin fever start to sneak up on me, and the urge to get out
and go has my fingers itching to grab a set of keys and just drive, I am told
to be ready to leave. Once I pinch myself to make sure I am not dreaming or
hallucinating, I throw on my shoes, grab my stuff, and am out the door to the
car so fast I guarantee I have set land and speed records.

Not
that I had places I needed to be or pressing stuff to do, I didn’t. But, when
you’re used to coming and going as you please, and you’re told to stay put, you
suddenly have a mile long to do list that has you working a traffic pattern
into the rug while you pace the room.

At
this rate, by the time we leave on the bus, I’ll have worked my initials into
the rug in front of my bed.

“Come
on,” Dominick says, climbing out of the car. “Henry and Cam are right. The
media heat on you must’ve died down. We haven’t been followed.”

I
haven’t heard a word from my parents. Though, after the argument I had with my
mother, and her cold dismissal, I can’t say I expected to. I ruined her chances
at drawing worldwide attention to her cause, and that, in her mind, is an
unforgivable betrayal. The media storm has calmed to a dull roar a lot quicker
than any of us thought it would. Only a few pictures, repeat articles that grasp
at straws remain on stalker media sites, and a few sleazy tabloids, that spout
bullshit anyway, are all that really remain.

That’s
how it works. One bad move can put you on everyone’s front page, but there’s
always someone waiting in the wings to replace you with their own fuck up. My
dinner fiasco was quickly replaced by a frontman rehab scandal.

His
heroin induced meltdown at a brothel turned out to be my lucky break from the
headline hounds.

“What
are we doing here anyway?” I ask, stepping onto the curb in front of a shop
called Retroradical.

“Camaron
gives the orders,” Dominick shrugs, stepping onto the curb beside me. “All I do
is carry them out. But,” he smirks, “I’ll bet it has something to do with
shopping…”

“Hmm,”
I say, rolling my eyes. “She couldn’t get you a new personality on Amazon,
huh?”

“Smart
ass woman,” he mutters under his breath. “You’re a bassist, not a comedian.”

The
double doors fly open, out steps a man with brown hair that is all swept to the
right side of his face. The pale pink v-neck shirt he has on is tucked into his
perfectly fitted dark gray jeans. The black Fedora on his head perfectly matching
the watch on his wrist and leather boots on his feet. “I’m Trey, I’ll bet every
tube of Decay Revolution lip gloss in my bag that you’re Ireland,” he says,
smiling at me. “Girl, I’m gonna turn that flunk rock princess look you’re
workin’ with into something show stopping.”

“Wait,
what” I ask, staring blankly at Trey. “Camaron sent us here for a makeover?”

“Uhh,”
Trey says, before his eyes move to Dominick. “You? Yes. Him? Honey, I may be
the gay goddess of all things glam and gorgeous,” he says, scrunching his nose
at Dominick and shaking his head. “But, I do magic, not miracles.”

Dominick
shakes his head, only looking mildly insulted, but says nothing. Trey hooks my
arm with his and leads me through the door of the shop. Racks and shelves are
all lined with clothes, shoes, and accessories. In the far corner, there is a
gold chaise lounge alongside full-length mirrors and a brightly lit vanity
lined with containers of makeup brushes. The entire place looks like old school
Hollywood Glam. There’s even a strip of red carpet that runs the length of the
store.

“I
cannot tell you how happy I was to see Shaft in my appointment book today,” he
says, scooping up things without even checking the sizes. “It’s times like
those that’ll put an extra bit of butt in your strut, honey.”

“Do
you do a lot of work for the band?” I ask, following him back toward the
dressing rooms.

Yanking
open a long black curtain, Trey hangs clothes on a hook, then places more on
the red leather bench seat inside. His eyes meet mine, and he grins, arching a
brow at me. “No. So far, it’s just been the girls,” rubbing his hands together,
his grin turns into wicked smile. “If I ever get those delicious men in here,
I’ll burn everything they own and not sell them one goddamn thing,” he winks,
yanking the curtain closed.

Shifting
the hangers, I look through the dresses, shirts, and pants hanging in front of
me, trying to decide what I like and want to try first. “Rule one, don’t judge
clothes on their hanger. Put it on, strut it out in front of the mirrors, then
decide.”

“Why
isn’t there a mirror in here?” I ask, glancing at the bare three walls of the
dressing room.

“Because
this isn’t a solo project,” Trey responds, yanking open the curtain. “The
average woman can see a dress on a hanger, love it enough to max out her Visa,
then dismisses it in the dressing room before it’s even all the way on her
body.” Rolling his eyes, he smacks his lips. “All because of a single piece of
reflective glass.”

“Okay…”

“It
took more than one person to build the pyramids.,” he explains, adjusting his
hat. “Takes nine, perfectly beautiful slices to make a large pizza, and took
two people in a bed one night back in the seventies to create the delicious
creature that is Matt Bomer, honey,” he says, fanning himself with one hand.
“Trust me on this, nothing beautiful or fabulous is a solo job.”

Winking
at me, Trey yanks the curtain closed again. Shoving off my clothes, I change
into the first dress hanging on the hook. The black and red strapless, satin
number clings to every inch of me until it fans out at my hips. The red skirt,
covered in black skulls flares out, puffed out with layers of fluffy black tulle.

Opening
the curtain, I am met instantly by Trey. “Put these on,” he says, placing a
pair of black Christian Louboutin’s, covered in silver spikes, on the carpet in
front of me.

“You’re
the boss.”

Slipping
my feet into the shoes, I make my way down the red carpet, heading for the lit
up mirrors. “Move those hips, and ass, girl. “Yessssss!” Trey shouts, like he
is head cheerleader at the Super Bowl. “Work that mirror like it’s gonna buy
you dinner!” Trey shouts, making me jump.

My
eyes snap straight ahead, taking in my reflection. With each step, my smile
grows. The dress moves with me, the skirt swishing with each sway of my hips.
“Wow,” I breathe, turning to take it in from every angle.

“And
then some,” Trey says, dropping to his knees and fluffing out the bottom of the
skirt. His eyes meet mine in the mirror. Springing to his feet again, he
gathers my hair in his hands and holds it up off my neck. “Flawless. Oh girl,
you’re a dime. A perfect ten.”

“You
think so?” I ask, but whether Trey answers me or not, I couldn’t say.

My
eyes wander down the mirror, landing on Dominick’s reflection. Leaning against
the wall beside the gold chaise lounge, his eyes are locked on me. His chest
rises and falls, calmly, but the look in his eyes is anything but. The hunger in
his eyes as he watches me has butterflies flapping in my stomach. A feeling
that I haven’t felt in a very long time.

Not
since I was seventeen.

I
am far from innocent, and it’s no secret that I have had my fair share of
sexual exploits, but that’s where it always ended. Fuck, get off, part ways.
The system is simple and yet it has been effective. No one has ever made me
feel the way Dominick ever did. I made sure of that.

All
these years, it has been easier to hate him. I balled up all the hurt and pain,
locked it in a box, refusing to let it out. Sadly, it seems, being this close
to him has made it harder to keep that box safely latched. If only getting him
out was as easy as letting him in had been. I wish he was capable of feeling
even a fraction of how much he hurt me, or could see any of the damage he had
caused.

Instead,
I’m sure he’d dismiss it now, just as he did then.

His
mouth opens just enough for his tongue peek out and run across his lips. Lips
that I know feel shockingly sweet and soft across my skin. I have dreamt of
that mouth more times that I care to admit. Even now, I can’t escape the
memories of how I felt the first time he kissed me.

However,
nothing is sweet about the way he is currently staring down every inch of me
like a ravenous predator.

Squaring
my shoulders, I shake off the butterflies and memories. Smiling at Trey, I nod.
“I guess this one is a yes.” Turning, I head back for the dressing room to
change into another of the outfits he picked for me. Slipping out of the dress
and placing it back on the hanger, I remind myself that Dominick Bradford
doesn’t exist to me.
Mack
is just a man doing his job.

Nothing
more.

Digging
through the items hanging in front of me, I smile at the jet-black fabric on
the hanger. Slippng it over my head, I pull it down my body. Closing my eyes, I
take a breath to get myself together and step out.

A
growl that I know has to have come from Dominick has my eyes flying open. I
stumble in my heels, shuddering at the animalistic noise. Luckily, Trey is right
there, grabbing my arm to steady me. My focus goes to the mirror, and I nearly
stop breathing. The tight, black mini dress barely covers my ass and fits like
a glove. An oval cut out on each hip shows off the music note tattoos I got on
my eighteenth birthday.

“Not
happening,” Dominick says, clearing his throat.

Meeting
his eyes, I bat my lashes innocently. “You don’t like this one, huh?”

He
shakes his head. Smoothing down the front of the dress, I turn to the side and
stare into the mirror. “Hmm. Guess it’s a good thing I didn’t ask for your
opinion. Isn’t it?” I ask, my fingers running along the cut out in the fabric,
skimming over my ink. “This is a yes. Don’t wrap it up either, I’m wearing it
out,” I tell Trey, but my eyes never leave Dominick’s in the mirror.

After
nearly three hours, and varying degrees of annoyed and broody Dominick, all my
other outfits are being packed up in gold tissue paper and red boxes. By the
time Trey had paired up shoes and accessories to go with each outfit, I was
feeling like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman.

Minus
the whole being a hooker thing…

“It
was so much fun working with you today, Ireland,” Trey says, hugging me at the
door. “You come back again soon. Oh,” leaning in, he plants a kiss on each of
my cheeks. “Tell those gorgeous bandmates of yours I’ll be waiting for them to
come see me too. With open arms, open legs, and if need be, an open mouth,” he
says, with a wink. “Mmm,” he purrs, fanning himself dramatically. “That Hunter,
mmm, he makes me thirsty.”

In
the car, tension hangs thick and heavy between Dominick and I. He says nothing
to me, but I can tell by his jerky movements, and how tightly he squeezes the
steering wheel with his left hand as he drives, that he is angry. His jaw ticks
as he stares out the windshield, everything about his body language is closed
off and unapproachable.

Crossing
my leg over the other, I turn toward the window, figuring the scenery flying by
is better than the broody ass man beside me. Though, every second I spent in
front of the mirror he was watching me like a hawk. However, he didn’t say
another word after the dress comment. Part of me wonders if he was afraid of
what I would do, had he kept criticizing my clothing choices.

That
doesn’t mean I couldn’t see what affected him…

And
I was more than happy to let the asshole look his fill and eat his heart out.

Each
time I caught him watching me, his breathing changed and everything about his
body stance shifted. With every hard, uncomfortable swallow he made, my smile
got bigger. My face damn near split in two when I caught him adjusting himself.
Guess my knee shot to the cock, the other day, didn’t fully put him out of
commission.

Dominick
weaves the Mustang in and out of the early afternoon traffic. Slamming on the
gas, he passes an eighteen wheeler before skirting around a Greyhound bus and a
minivan. “What the hell is your problem?” I ask, tightening my seatbelt. “Slow
down.”