Having Hope (The Blow Hole Boys Book 4) (4 page)

What could I say about Chet Rhodes that every woman in the world wasn’t already thinking?

He was ridiculously gorgeous in an annoying I-really-want-to-ride-his-face-but-also-stab-him-in-the-eye kind of way. His tall, lean frame towered over most women, and his dark, knowing eyes could somehow see right through you. I was convinced he always knew what I was thinking, and I fucking hated that since more often than not I was imagining his hands all over me.

He shaved the sides of his head but left long, unmanageable strands on the top. It was a Mohawk, but it wasn’t. All I knew was it hung in his eyes a lot, giving him a sexy, mysterious look, and every time I looked at him, I longed to push my fingers through it.

Every inch of his body was tattooed … at least the parts you could see, which if you’d ever been to a Blow Hole concert was a lot. Chet had no shame and was quick to strip naked behind his drums if he got overheated. I didn’t blame him there. Being on stage beneath the beaming lights was hot as fuck. Add in the constant jamming on the drums, and you had yourself a hell of a workout.

He had piercings. His left eyebrow had a hoop, and he had silver snake bites beneath his bottom lip that drew your attention straight to his luscious mouth. His ears were gauged, but not too much, which I could appreciate, and his tongue piercing instantly made me wonder what the little silver ball would feel like against my clit.

Constance had once hinted that his dick was pierced, too, which I didn’t doubt, but that was one piercing I’d never see, and that was fine by me.

Basically, Chet was fucking sexy. Sadly, he was aware of this, and much to my dismay, every woman I could think of agreed with that assumption. But none of that mattered to me because I could say without batting an eye that I hated Chet Rhodes with a passion that burned hotter than the fires of hell.

I’d never hated anyone before with the exception of a few assholes I’d gone to high school with who told the entire school I was a good lay. But with Chet, it was unavoidable. I had to hate him because not only was he annoyingly sexy and the biggest dog I’d ever had the unfortunate chance to meet, but also because the motherfucker didn’t remember me.

I realized he didn’t remember me the first time I saw him again at the beginning of the Rock Across America tour. He looked right over me without even a drop of familiarity. He looked through me like I was fucking invisible—like I wasn’t breath, blood, and bones before his eyes—like he hadn’t given me the best night of my life when I was younger.

I was at a loss.

For years, I’d conditioned myself not to feel anything. I’d taught myself to ignore the strange aches that formed in the pit of my stomach, or the sadness that laced everything in life, but the second his eyes passed over me, and I realized he didn’t recognize me at all, my heart imploded, sucking away all my oxygen with it.

At that moment, my hatred for Chet Rhodes began.

The fucked-up part was I hadn’t really changed all that much over the years. I was still the same girl he’d entered slowly. The same girl he’d spent the night with, whispering sweet nothings in my ear in his sleep. I was the same fucking girl. With the exception of a different hair color and less provocative clothing, I was essentially unchanged.

I was older and wiser—more mature—more aware of how stupid I used to be. I was no longer the young girl dressing in revealing clothes in the hopes of catching the attention of the sexy drummer. That girl died years ago, and she was never coming back.

He looked me over. His eyes passed over my sleeveless T-shirt and ripped jeans before settling on Mia, our bass player, with her thick thighs and large, overflowing tits.

I’d never felt so inconsequential. I’d never felt so minuscule, which said a lot since I’d been placed on the metaphorical back burner most of my life—left to simmer and burn until nothing was left of me.

I wasn’t surprised. I’d always known nothing was special about me. I knew nothing made me stand out among the hordes of other women in the world.

But knowing our night together had changed me so irrevocably and hadn’t affected him at all sucked. Knowing that our night together had altered the girl I’d once been so completely, yet he obviously had no memory of me and our time together whatsoever burned in the place where my heart and soul had once settled.

All the time I’d wasted stressing once we received our invite to join the Rock Across America tour. All the nights I’d spent awake worried about us seeing each other again once the Rock Across America tour started. All the replaying possible explanations for my sudden disappearance in case he asked.

It was all for nothing.

Nothing.

None of it mattered because I was just another wet hole for him to lose himself in and never think about again.

It was ignorant of me to assume he still thought about me. It was dumb to think he spent the last five years wondering why I’d left without saying good-bye.

Did he even care if he ever saw my face again?

How could he not fucking remember me?

Then again, we’re talking about Chet Rhodes. The famed drummer for Blow Hole, he was the biggest man whore in America. But he was also the man who stripped me bare emotionally and took the innocence I so readily gave to him.

I didn’t know the kind of man he was back when I’d dressed provocatively in hopes of gaining his attention. I didn’t know he was a hit-it-and-quit-it kind of guy, even though everyone else knew—even though he made it clear to all his conquests—I didn’t know. I was too young and stupid to understand.

All I cared about was his playing, and how amazing his happy smile was. All I thought about was getting to know him better and maybe learning a few of his drumming techniques. I didn’t realize I’d developed feelings until it was all said and done.

If I had known who he really was, I would have never let him climb between my virgin thighs. If I had known what I was walking into and the consequences that would follow, I would have never let myself fall and become so attached.

But I had, and I’d spent every day since regretting it. I spent every moment since in a constant state of sadness and anger. Always trying to forget but never being able to. 

So when I saw him again, and his eyes moved over me without even an ounce of acknowledgment, my hatred formed. Every day, it deepened. Every day, I despised everything about him even more.

His smiles—the way he eyed the women in the crowd—I hated every fucking thing about him. By the time the Rock Across America tour was over, I was barely able to contain myself and my obvious disgust for Chet.

Some days, I wanted to go to him and explode like a fucking grenade, taking him down with me. When the girls would force me to go around the boys of Blow Hole, I would drink until my face went numb. I’d hope that my anger would consume me, and I’d grow the balls to put my fist through his perfect face.

I didn’t do any of those things, though. Instead, I kept it all in—never telling a single soul about my past—letting it slowly fester until I knew any good left within me had rotted to black. Ash and soot that weighed me down.

It was the strangest thing. Spending two months on tour with Blow Hole and some of the biggest bands in the industry should have been the best thing that ever happened to me, but it wasn’t. It was the hardest thing. It was soul crushing, and I found myself overthinking everything and slacking on my drums.

It fucking sucked.

Still, I couldn’t complain too much. Other than the craziness with my past and Chet, life was good.

Red Room Sirens, the all-girl band I played drums for, had two top ten hits, a third album in the works, and performed in part of the biggest rock tour in America. We’d come together—all girls with different backgrounds—and we made music that kicked ass. We rocked harder than the men we toured with—giving it our all at every show—and earned the respect of the other bands. 

For the first time in my life, I wasn’t living for the day. I wasn’t worried about finding food or a place to lay my head at night. Growing up was rough. Having parents who cared more about their high than their child made me tougher than most, but I’d lived hard. I’d cried harder. And I’d survived some of the biggest losses a person could go through.

Thanks to my love of the drums, I’d made a career for myself. All I could do was hope that my lucky streak would continue, but I wasn’t foolish enough to think that everything couldn’t get sucked away just as quickly as it came into my life.

I had money.

I had food.

And I had clothes to keep me warm.

I’d gotten all of that without my abusive piece of shit father. I’d climbed to the top without my alcoholic mother. I’d gotten it all on my own with the help of my new family … the Sirens.

Still, being around Chet Rhodes had been pure torture.

So every day, I stewed. Every day, my resentment for everything he’d stripped from me grew. And every day, I lived in miserable silence, hoping and praying that he wouldn’t remember me. It hurt, him not remembering, but at the same time, it made me less anxious. I stayed away from him, and after a few weeks, he learned to stay away from me.

It was easier that way.

“I can’t believe Constance is married,” Lena said as she climbed into the back of the limo.

She was a California girl. They all were. I was the outsider—the Easterner—the Southerner. I’d taken seven buses to get to California all those years ago, and I’d slept on every bench in Los Angeles until Gary Steele found me tapping my drumsticks on a statue at a local park.

That was how I was discovered.

Dirty.

Hungry.

Angry.

And beating the shit out of a rhythm on a statue that reminded me of my father.

“I know. Shit’s crazy,” I agreed.

I scratched at the silky fabric of my bridesmaid’s dress. I couldn’t wait to get home and rip it from my body. I wasn’t the kind of girl to wear such things. I was a ripped jeans and hoodie kind of girl. I was a sweats and tank girl. The girlie dresses and heels bullshit was for the birds. Give me my boots and Converse any day.

I tapped my drumsticks against my thigh to the rhythm of our latest song. Album number three was proving to be my favorite so far. I could hear our growth when we played, and the drum solos let me expand on the sound. I’d even put down some lyrics with Constance—letting out some steam lyrically and secretly ripping Chet and everything he stood for apart.

“Hopefully, things don’t change too much. We just stepped on the scene. Things are just now starting to look up for us,” Mia said with closed eyes as she rested her head against the back of the seat.

“That won’t happen. Tiny lives this life, too, which means touring and all the shit that comes with our career won’t get in the way. Constance and Tiny work. We shouldn’t think about anything else. We should be happy for them,” Twiggy said.

We all agreed.

Let Constance enjoy her two-week honeymoon because when she got back, it was time to go to work. Let her enjoy the life I knew I’d never let myself live.

Settling down wasn’t an option. I couldn’t give someone something I didn’t have. I could never hand over my heart and love to someone the way they deserved. I’d given my heart away years before. I’d set it the hands of a virtual stranger and watched as he walked away with it.

Now, my life mirrored Chet’s sadly. Except where he fucked anything that moved because I didn’t sleep around. The girls thought I did. At times, I’d purposely go off with a guy and leave him once we were away from the girls. They thought I was wild, sleeping with any man or woman I wanted, but the truth was, I was afraid.

I knew the consequences of such actions, and I would die alone if it meant protecting myself against everything, including heartbreak. It was the only way I could imagine living. Any other way wasn’t safe. Any other way hurt too much.  

The girls dropped me at my apartment after the reception. I went into the lonely space that I’d made my home, showered, and crashed. I slept for shit, and once the sun burst through my sheers, I gave up and climbed from my bed.

My apartment was spacious. Only two bedrooms, it was plenty for me. I didn’t have much when I rented the place—just a single bag full of my personal belongings—but over the last year, I’d added furniture and even hung a few pictures of the girls and me.