Bad Beats: A Rock-Star Step-Brother Romance (2 page)

Cadie O’Shea

Two Days Earlier

“Girls have got balls. They’re just a little higher up that’s all.”

– Joan Jett

“But it’s Crude Element!” Robin pleads, unable to hide her desperation.

I don’t say what I’m thinking, but the words play through my mind anyway.
Why would I waste my first Friday off in a month at some punk rock concert?

I’ve been struggling to juggle classes and keep up with my hectic work schedule for way too long. I want to stay home, lounge in my PJ’s, and enjoy my post graduation bliss rather than ending up squished between a bunch of hot sweaty bodies, all fighting to get closer to their idols.

Robin is into this particular band in a major way. She forces me to listen to their music when we clean our shared apartment, and it was our background theme for numerous all-night study sessions while we finished up our degrees at PSU. In other words, we listen to Crude Element more than anything else.

I’ll admit their unique brand of old school punk, Ramones’ style, fused with rock and pop is definitely danceable, but I hate large crowds and don’t appreciate the lead singer’s arrogant, angry-at-the-world attitude. Plus I think the only words he knows how to say are variations of ‘fuck.’ He takes the ‘swears like a sailor’ stereotype to new heights, but his potty mouth has in no way hurt his popularity.

Entertainment news sites are bloated with scandalous headlines involving Shag Steal, making him difficult to ignore. I mean his name says it all. The guy can’t keep it in his pants. He’s a groupie’s wet dream, all muscles, tattoos, and piercings. And he makes no secret that ‘shagging’ is his off-stage-specialty.
What a prick.

After an appalling, drunken confession―on live TV―where he admitted to screwing a political princess, he incited another, now infamous uproar, by pulling a male version of Britney Spears. He chopped off his long locks and went completely bald, sending his fans into a frenzy. The debate rages on, even now, a month later, over which look is better.

Personally, I find his smooth scalp sexy as hell, but I’ll never shed my good girl image long enough to make my opinion known, not even to my best friend who is obsessed with Shag and his band mates. She was a fan of his long, wild hair. I can just imagine the whirlpool of unpleasant emotions my opposing view would stir up.

Taking my silence as a possible sign of surrender, her eyes grow big and she clasps her hands together. “Please…? I need you. Two tickets…front row. A meet and greet backstage.
And
we might even win a cruise.”

I can’t help but perk up at the idea of a cruise, but I try not to show too much enthusiasm. “Fine. Tell me how we can snag a vacation.”

Taking a long breath, she launches into a rundown of the band’s big promotion.

Apparently, two ‘lucky’ winners, chosen from a group of ten, at pre-selected stops on Crude Element’s tour, will be awarded an all-expense paid cruise aboard the luxury vessel, Starlight Sea Queen.

Robin actually called in sick so she could compulsively text the radio station hosting the contest. Her efforts paid off, and she’d planned to take our mutual friend, Josh, to the concert. Sadly, Josh had an unexpected family emergency that derailed their plans, leaving me as the last minute, go-to alternative. Robin failed to mention the whole cruise angle, until now.

As exciting as the trip sounds, I doubt we’ll win, and if by chance we do, explaining to my father why I want to go on a sea voyage will be a challenge. All the times he’s tried to coax, bribe, and almost blackmail me into going deep sea fishing, and failed, will make things uncomfortable between us, especially because I used the excuse I was scared to be on a boat, in the middle of the ocean, to get out of his invitations.

Since my mom’s tragic death, a constant feeling of discomfort is pretty much the norm in our relationship. I try to minimize the damage as often as possible, but haven’t been very successful. At least now, after five years of self-imposed penance, he’s dating someone seriously. I’m supposed to meet the mystery woman soon. I don’t know how I feel about the whole situation, but at least my father seems happier.

Copying Superwoman’s stance, Robin’s fists find her hips, and she plants her enviable size six’s a good two feet apart, reminding me of my boat-like, size-ten, foot size. “Are you even listening to me?” she snips.

Caught with my mind wandering and not wanting to endure a minute more of her begging, I cave. When it comes to my BFF, giving in is inevitable. I’m not sure why I held out for so long, but I decide to add a condition to my surrender.

“Fine! If I go, you can cook tonight.” I hate cooking, especially dinner.

She relaxes her stance and claps, her enthusiasm contagious. “I’ll cook for a week! And just think; if we win that trip, neither of us will have to cook on the ship.”

I hadn’t thought of that. Free food is always an enticement I can live with. Besides, with school done, I will no longer be able to count on student loan money, and I’ve heard cruise food is divine. This whole concert thing is sounding better and better.

To celebrate her victory, Robin dances over to her fancy duel IPod station and boots up Crude Element’s latest album. Drums, bass, and guitars are a prelude to the song’s main attraction…Shag Steal’s sometimes velvety sometimes growling voice. Despite his bad boy behavior, the man can sing. At the thought of watching the sexy singer strut his rock-hard body across the Moda Center’s stage, a twinge of unexpected excitement zings through me, before being replaced with horror.

We will be meeting the band backstage.

That is part of the prize package, and there is no way Robin will let me skip out on it, which means I’ll be forced to face the famous sex god and his gorgeous band members, something that makes me want to recant my promise to go. Men in general make me nervous, inhumanly handsome ones make me want to puke.

“What?” Robin asks, concern flipping her smile into a frown.

I stammer something unintelligible, remembering Mitch’s never ceasing spew of criticism.

You are so fucking fat, Cadie. No one but me will ever put up with your overeating and those thunder thighs. For God’s sake, Cadie, if I wanted to spend my life reading, I’d date a book. Cadie, why can’t you at least fake an orgasm? A fish would be better in bed than you are.

It takes a second, but Robin recognizes my haunted expression.

“Stop that crazy thinking right now. You are so not letting that asshole highjack our happy dance. It’s been almost two years now.  Let. Him. Go.” She grabs my hand and forces me to meet her gaze. “Cadie Cat, Mitch was and still is a jerk. You are way too good for him. He knew it. That’s why he spent so much time making you feel like shit. He was afraid you’d see the
real
Mitch and leave. The good news: you did see it and you did leave. It took a while, but you dumped him. Don’t let him keep dumping on you.”

Grateful for her timely reminder, I squeeze her hand before letting go and moving to my corner of the couch, where I plop, releasing a long sigh. “You’re right. He’s a dick, jerk, asshat, fuck face…”

The look on Robin’s face is priceless. I’m not prone to cussing fits, so this mini outburst has her jaw dropping and her eyes widening. “Did you just say, ‘fuck face’?”

“Your ears must be in perfect working order, because I definitely said
fuck face
.”

She moves to turn down the music, shaking her head. “I’m serious, you know. You can joke all you want, but that guy is a piece of work. I’m guessing an untreated diagnosis of narcissistic personality disorder would fit him like a snug glove.”

I giggle at her description. My friend has a way with words. She should be a writer not a drug and alcohol counselor slash social worker in the making.

“You keep laughing. I’m gonna cook us the best frozen pizza ever, and then we’re going to shop for concert clothes.”

My mood plummets again. I hate shopping almost as much as I hate the fact I gave my virginity to a schmuck like Mitch Waters.

I’m not a size four like Robin, not even close. Add a one in front of the four and that’s me. Now don’t get me wrong, even though Mitch whittled away at my self-esteem, for almost two years too long, I know I’m pretty…just not
conventionally
pretty.

It’s no secret, I’m curvy; my tummy isn’t flat and my abs don’t make an appearance, but I have a nice round butt and full breasts that are way more than a handful. I deal with the fact my thighs rub and my butt jiggles.

It could be worse, right?

On a positive note, I’ve been told my eyes are like emeralds and my lips are what Robin calls pouty. Supposedly that’s a good thing. However, my cheeks are splattered with light-colored freckles, and, if I’m in the sun more than a minute, I turn into a lobster, thanks to my Irish ancestry. That same ancestry has provided me with a mane of unmanageable red hair that spirals down my back in a riot of loose curls that can’t be tamed. I’ve spent a fortune on expensive hair products and straighteners, only to discover, none work. I finally gave up a few months ago and started embracing my unique appearance, but that newly discovered self-acceptance extends only so far.

According to Robin and Josh, the third person in our BFF equation, the problem is I don’t dress to enhance my assets. They accuse me of hiding under baggy clothes and get frustrated when I refuse to trade my comfortable glasses for irritating contacts. I just can’t seem to master the whole removal process. Why spend thirty minutes poking and prodding at my eyes when I can just set my glasses on the bedside table and go to sleep?

“Stop over thinking everything!” Robin scolds, interrupting my mental gymnastics. “You have to pick out something fun and a little flashy for the show. Come on, Cadie Cat, for me?”

I shake my head. “Feed me first.”

Did I mention Robin calls me Cadie Cat? Something I no longer complain about.

She squeals, celebrating her victory, and makes a mad dash for our tiny kitchen, ready to whip up her microwavable masterpiece.

I can’t wait for this whole concert chaos to be over, so I can return to my normal, predictable life, where rock-stars stay where they belong―in a digital world―far away from the safe reality I’ve created as a buffer around me.

Even if we somehow manage to win the cruise, I’ll only have to deal with Shag Steal and his band of rockers for a week or so, and it’s doubtful they’ll even socialize with us. Maybe Robin, she’s more their type…me, not so much. I’ll just do what I always do; curl up with good book and enjoy watching everyone else take risks that might crush their hearts. 

* * *

Cadie

Present Day

The girl behind me jostles my shoulder, for what feels like the zillionth time. I glance over the same shoulder and glare up at her. I shouldn’t have bothered; her feverish gaze is fixated on the man with the microphone, following his form as he prances, poses, and thrusts his pelvis at the audience, demanding us to take notice of the bulge between his impressive, muscular thighs.

How could anyone not notice ‘the bulge?’

Robin has pointed it out several times already, as if I’d somehow missed the sizable appendage, straining beneath the leather pants he traded his jeans for halfway through the show.

Considering I am the only one sitting and staring at my phone, I can understand her concern. She’s afraid I might be missing an opportunity to ogle Shag’s massive manhood. What she doesn’t realize…I’ve been secretly ogling Crude Element’s lead singer since he strutted onto the stage, almost two hours ago. I might not be jumping and screaming with everyone else, but my heart is sure leaping, and his voice is sending what feels like a honing signal to my lady parts.

I squirm in my seat―something I’ve already done more times than I can count —and fight the urge to add my own beige bra to the colorful lingerie that litters the stage. At the very least, I’m tempted to stand and stare brazenly at the man who has stolen the show and a piece of me with his one-of-a-kind magnetism. I’ve never thought of a man as alluring, but Shag Steal fits the description.

The one time I was brave enough to look up, I found him staring right back. His lips bowed into a wicked grin and his eyes flashed with diabolical mischief. I was the one to put a stop to the staring session and have avoided looking directly at him ever since.

Robin, ever the mind reader, leans over and yells in my ear, “Why won’t you get up? You know Shag has been watching you all night. Every girl in this place wants to be you.”

That’s a first.

Most women my age look to magazine covers and red carpets for their inspiration. Overweight, frumpy, just-graduated-from-college girls who work at bookstores, even cool bookstores, aren’t typically poster girls for a generation that thrives on body image and beauty above brains and brilliance.

Yes, I said it. I’m smart. I’m what my parents’ generation would have called ‘nerdy’ and my grandparents before them might have referred to as ‘square.’

How I managed to snag and keep Robin and Josh as best friends remains a mystery. Both look like they should be posing for photographs next to their own stars on Hollywood Boulevard. They ooze confidence the same way others―like me―spill sweat at the very idea of walking down that famous sidewalk. Even more amazing, they unselfishly spend time in my little world when they could be out owning the universe.