Hard Rock Roots Box Set (133 page)

Wish I could remember her name. After this, I better grab it, write it down so I don't forget. This is absolutely something I could use a second round on. Fuck, I will return the favor to her ten times over as payback.

“You like that?” she asks me, but she doesn't actually sound like she needs an answer to that question. I think it's pretty obvious to us both that I do.

I don't say anything, leaning my head back into the darkness, glad that I'm forcibly blinded by the lack of light. It's making the sensation of her mouth against my dick that much more powerful. I sigh, lids fluttering as I close my eyes.

The girl licks my shaft like a lollipop, up and down with long, sure strokes, cupping my balls with her hand and massaging them with gentle, rolling movements of her fingers.

“God, you're good,” I moan, the sound escaping almost against my own will. I don't get worked up over stuff, not even sex. Nothing's worth it now that Asuka's gone, but right now, I can't seem to help myself. It just feels too goddamn good.

“Studied cock psychology at the uni,” she chuckles, which is obviously a joke, but I'm too damn drunk to figure that shit out. Her laughter makes me buck my hips when the sound flutters against my skin, just a split second before she slides her entire mouth over the head of my cock, taking me deep, all of that wet hot heat overwhelming in its suddenness.

The girl adjusts herself and brings her other hand up, wrapping warm, wet fingers around my shaft.
Wet? Why are they wet?
It takes me a second longer than it should to figure it out. Oh, fuck yes. She was touching herself. That's her, all the fuck over me.

She moves her hand like a corkscrew, twisting around my cock instead of pumping me, sucking the tip of my dick with hungry, wet lips. It's a sensation I've seriously never felt in all my frigging life, and it doesn't take long to draw a final groan from my throat, make my breath hitch as I spill myself into her mouth, all over that skillful little tongue.

The girl swallows hard with my cock still trapped between her lips, and then she stands up and reaches for the door handle before I can get a damn word out. I want her name, damn it. More than that. I want to fuck her hard, flip her over, return the favor. But I'm having trouble functioning, my body still leaning against the wall, washed through with pleasure and poison.

“That was fun, mate. Thanks a lot.”

In a flash and flicker of light from the venue, she throws the door open and disappears before I can glimpse more than a flutter of dark hair.

The door swings shut and clicks into place behind her.

If I'd ever been a betting man, I would've put my money on the chance we'd meet again.

I might not have seen her face, but you don't fucking forget a mouth—or an attitude—as hot as that.

"Real Ugly", earlier on that fateful first day …

I don't try to be a bitch. Like, seriously, I don't. It's just, when I look at other people, all I see is an ocean of scowling faces ready to judge, quick to condemn, so completely and utterly wrapped up in their own shit that they can't see how bad I'm hurting. They look at me and they think I'm some shallow cunt with zero fucking brains and a bad attitude.

Maybe that's true? Whatever. I don't know.

But what I do know is that they can't understand how much I hurt, how much I ache for something simple and easy. I hold the photo in front of my face, a picture of a smiling girl that's mine but isn't mine. I gave birth to her, but … but that's it. I can't lay a claim to her heart, can't tell her how sorry I am, or how I wish I could take it all back. If I could, I'd rewind time and clutch my baby daughter to my chest, live a different life.

Thing is, time doesn't flow in that direction, doesn't take us back to our favorite places, let us linger in the gentle currents of a beautiful memory. Instead, it rushes towards the edge of a raging waterfall, determined to bury us below in the white and the foam and the waves.

I suck in a deep breath and jam the photo under my pillow. I keep it there with my other one, that
other
one that shows just a tiny slice of the screwed up shit that plagues my every waking second.

“You up?” It's Dax, standing outside the curtain that guards my bunk. Just the sound of his voice makes me happy. He's … Dax is real. Dax is the kind of man I've always wanted, but have always been too scared to go after. I pick men like Turner Campbell, sexy and arrogant and cocky and rude. They're great, for a night or two, but after that? That kind of man makes me feel even emptier, even more alone when he leaves.

“I'm up,” I say with a cheerful lilt that I don't feel. It's a defensive mechanism, I know, but I can't help myself. I try to smile and dance and shake my shit so everyone will look at me because … if everyone's looking then I can't disappear, right? If they're all looking, then even if I feel alone, even if my heart aches so bad I want to scream, I can pretend it's all a dream.

Oh, I like that. It'd make a nice song. Scream. Dream.

I sigh and flick my hair over my shoulder, sliding a leg forward and pushing the curtain away, giving Dax a deliciously naughty view of my pink panties. He raises his dark brows and crosses his arms over his chest. He always sees through my shit, tries to be a friend to me. I know I should let him in, but I … I
can't.
I don't know how. All I know how to do is this.

“How's the view from up there?” I croon, but Dax doesn't say anything, just shakes his head at me. His eyes are so gorgeous, this swirl of purple gray that I wish I could dive into. I'd drown there. Like, seriously. I would fucking dive in and die.

“You should get up and get ready. We're on in an hour, Lee.”

“But I'm still tired from last night,” I whine as Dax leans over and makes my heart thump painfully in my chest. I want to taste his mouth. I bet his lips could soothe this burn in my heart, cool my pain, make me smile again.

“You wouldn't be if you hadn't spent all night fucking some nasty ass roadie,” Naomi murmurs, sliding past with a cigarette in her mouth.
God, I fucking hate her.
I hate her so freaking much that I can't let her go, that I hold onto her secrets with an ironclad grip. She's everything I want to be and more: strong, fierce, beautiful, sexy, talented. She's too perfect to be real, and she doesn't even know it.

Like that isn't enough to make me sick to my stomach. On top of it all, Dax's eyes follow her like she's his salvation as much as I think he is mine. What a love triangle. Naomi, though, she doesn't see it. Not even a little bit. If she were interested in Dax, he'd have been hers by now.

“At least I got laid,” I snap, standing up as Dax moves respectfully out of my way. He's the only one, you know, the only one that respects me. “What'd you do? Spend all night listening to somebody else's fucking music? I'd rather spend a night with a warm somebody than one with a cold iPod and a bitchy attitude.”

“Whatever,” Naomi drawls, parking her ass at the table and opening up that magical little notebook of hers. She gets all artistic with it, digs deep down and scratches at the page like it owes her money. I hate her for that, too. She thinks she's so deep, but fuck her.

I want to cry.

Instead I smirk and get in real close, leaning over the table and at least appreciating the fact that Wren is probably checking out my ass. I'm not wearing anything
but
these tiny lacy panties and a baggy Amatory Riot shirt.

“Somebody has a real attitude problem this morning. You on the rag or something?”

“You're a disgusting waste of femininity, a misogynistic woman wrapped in new age slut. Get the hell away from me.”

“Girls,” America warns, coming up the steps of the bus and pausing with her no-nonsense glare leveled at the both of us. I smile at her, but I don't really care
what
she has to say. Naomi is mine, and there's nothing she can goddamn do about that.

“You better watch your mouth,” I croon, swiping blonde hair away from her ear. She ignores me, but I know she's listening. “One of these nights when I'm onstage, something might accidentally slip out. You wouldn't want that, would you?”

I stand up straight and cross my arms over my chest. I want a reaction from her, something to acknowledge that I'm here, that I'm speaking, that I have power over her. Sometimes I feel guilty about it. Mostly I don't. It's just … I don't have a lot in life, so why give this up? Her pain can't even remotely compare to my own. Nobody's can.

“I'm so going to kill it tonight,” I say, loving the fact that Naomi's eyes narrow. She might not want to admit it, but I think she's jealous of me, jealous that
I
sing her songs, that the crowd worships me for her words, her feelings, her music. Too bad. Only one of us can be the star and that's me. “I think I'm gonna wear that little red number with the sequins,” I say, but already, they're drawing away from me, refocusing on more important things. America, Naomi, Wren, even Dax starts to drift away like leaves in the wind.

But I need. I want. I'm a person and I matter. I have feelings and they count. Why doesn't anyone care? Why? Why? Why?

“I hate that fucking dress,” Naomi grumbles, and my heart constricts not with joy, but with … something. She doesn't know who I am really, nobody does. Inside, I'm just a mess of random thoughts and feelings, too scared to dig deep and discover who I really am. Sometimes I just think it'd be easier if I ended it all.

But then I think about Cassie, my daughter, my only true love in life.

It might not be today, but one day, we'll be together again. I know it. I can feel it.

“Maybe I'll wear those white jeans, the ones with the silver sparkles? I could pair it with a corset, something that makes my tits
pop.
” I snap that word off the end of my tongue, glancing over to see if Naomi's still listening.

She is.

Good for me.

“Wear whatever the fuck you want,” she growls, and I smile. “Just make sure you're on that stage and you're ready to do your thing. This tour is everything for us. Don't screw it up.”

“Whatever you say,
Mi,
” I murmur, pouting my lips. I shouldn't be so mean to Naomi, I know. Like, maybe if I tried we could be friends like we used to be, friends that were so close she let me in on her deepest, darkest secret.
The one that I exploited, that I continue to exploit.

I reach up and fluff my hair, pretend that I don't give a fuck.

The sad thing is, I do. I really, really do.

I wish I was a pop star.

It's not that I don't
like
rock, but it's just not my thing. Why does our music have to sound so rough, so angry? I think I'd rather spread joy, bouncy pop bullshit for people to dance to, grind to, something that gets stuck in your head the first time you hear it.

To talk to the rest of my band members, you'd think we cast spells or something, spun the dark arts into some spiny purple tentacles and wrapped them around the mass of the crowd. It's like everyone's hypnotized, like they're flocking to us for the sole purpose of feeling pain and suffering, desperate to be mesmerized and controlled, brought under and destroyed.