Revue (18 page)

“Corinne, just let me say my shit. Please!”

Sighing, because I knew this would be painful for the both us, I gestured he go ahead and braced for my heart to break a little further.

“I can’t get you out of my head. Fuckin’ trust me, I’ve tried. I see your lips when I close my eyes, smell your skin when I lie awake at night. Fuck, I even hear your moans when I …” He trailed off before sitting upright. “I miss you, and it’s killing me.”

“Josh, I can’t.”

“Why?”

“Because you can’t.”

“I can’t what?”

“Keep your dick in your pants,” I yelled, standing up.

He scoffed angrily, more at himself than at me. “It’s my job to take it out. It’s what I’m paid for.”

“Why is everything a joke to you? This,” I said, gesturing between the two of us, “this isn’t funny. This hurts, Josh.”

He stood up and cupped my face, his beseeching eyes searching mine. God, he was stunning. His skin, his hair, his chiselled cheek bones … his parting lips.
No!

I pushed him back, breaking his hold on my face, and letting him have all the words I could not give him that morning in Sydney. “You asked for me so I gave you me. After everything I stood for, I gave you
me.
”

“I know,” he said, stepping forward to embrace me once again, “and I’m sorry. I should never have asked.”

The sound of my hand slapping his cheek, the sting vibrating through my skin—neither hurt as much as those last five words to have left his mouth.

I stepped back, tears dampening my face, my finger pointing and aiming as much hurt and anger at him as I could. “No, Josh, you should
never
have given me back.”

Done. I was done with relationships, love and all they stood for.

I. Was. Fucking. Done.

Josh tried to grab my hand and pull me to him, but I slapped it away. “No!” I said, shaking my head and wiping my tears. One simple word, that was all he was getting.

Bending down, I picked up my bag and camera then walked away, as fast as I possibly could. People were passing me by, double-taking, concern on their faces, but I didn’t care. I was gone … gone from Josh’s life and gone from my own. I’d warned him that if he hurt me, I’d be gone. And that wasn’t some immature threat or ploy to keep him in line. It was the truth. The old Cori couldn’t stay … couldn’t sustain any more hurt, for if she did she would break. And breaking was not an option. I’d been broken before because of a man, and I’d be damned if I was going to let that happen again.

Deep down I knew that I was the common denominator—that
my
expectation of love, or possible love, had always let
me
down. I was my own worst enemy because I wanted what didn’t exist.
Well, not anymore.
The new me will not be so stupid. The new me will take a leaf out of Josh’s book. The new me no longer gives a shit.
Why? Because it seemed that caring only rendered you pain, and I was done with being hurt.

I was fucking done with the expectation of love.

***

“Five, four, three, two, one … down!” Brad, Lucas and Noah cheered me on, tapping on the bar top as I knocked back my fifth? Or was it sixth tequila slammer?

Yummy.

“Elmer’s a tank,” Lucas said excitedly, ordering another round.

“Steady on. I think she’s had enough.”

I turned my head toward Josh and waited for the room to catch up to me.
Stupid, slow room
. “You!” I said, pointing at him. “You can shut the fuck up, Mr No More Yummy Drinks.”

“Sweetheart, you—”

“Go sweetheart someone else.” I flicked my hand at him. “Go. Shoo fly, don’t bother me.”

Brad, Noah and Lucas burst into laughter. “Dude, what did you do to her?” Noah asked.

“Nothing,” I said, staring straight ahead at the bottle of Kahlua that seemed to be multiplying before my eyes.
Wow! Kahlua is magic
. “Bugs Bunny. Did. Nothing.”

“Well, nothing or not, it’s good to see you havin’ a bit of fun.” Brad handed me another shot then sprinkled some salt on his hand. I watched in delight as the pretty little granules sat waiting for me to lick them, so I did … I leaned forward, grabbed his hand and licked the salt clean before downing my shot.

Too easy.

Oh, look … karaoke!

Slamming my glass down, I slid off my stool—
whee, that was a fun slide—
and made my way to the front of the stage where a man was seated in among big speakers and wires and stuff.

After the final Tamworth show, earlier in the evening, we’d all decided to have a couple of casual drinks at one of the local pubs. A couple of drinks turned into a few, which turned into more, which turned into tequila shots, which has now turned into me stepping up on stage with a microphone and Carrie Underwood’s “Before He Cheats” programmed and ready to play.

Men wolf whistled and called me
darlin’
. Stupid men. And white letters danced on the TV screen, but they were too dancey for reading. I giggled at the silly letters and started singing anyway. I had this. “Before He Cheats” had been my car song for many, many months. I loved it. It was bad-arse.

Closing my eyes, I sang about fucking up shit because some bastard had cheated on me. It made me smile—a distant memory floating across my blackened eyes. I swayed my hips and sang about slashing tyres, smashing headlights, and carving my name in leather seats. It was fun and sleepy … very sleepy, so much so, that I can’t even remember finishing my song.

I felt as if I were floating … through turbulence. It wasn’t nice smooth floating, like in a bubble. It was bumpy, and kinda cold. Maybe this was what economy floating felt like? Either way, I was floating on a bumpy air-road and angry man-voices were swimming in and out of my head.

“Have you got her?”

“Yes, I fuckin’ got her. You don’t have to chaperone.”

“Oh, I’m chaperoning. Who knows what you’ll do once you’re in her room, alone?”

“Fuck off. I wouldn’t do that.”

“Yeah, Bugs? I wouldn’t put it past you. That cock of yours has a mind of its own.”

“If I didn’t have Corinne in my arms right now, I’d kick your fuckin’ head in for that.”

“I’d like to see you try, tough guy, Mr I’m The Fuckin Shit.”

“Brad, I’m warning you, when Corinne is safely tucked in bed, you’re gonna meet my fists.”

Laughter swam into my head as well. It sounded like my laugh. I liked it. It made me feel nice.

“Is she waking up?”

“No. I don’t think so. How much did you guys give her?”

“What’s it to you? If you weren’t sucking face with that slapper you whispered to at the show, you’d have known exactly how much she drank. And anyway, she’s a big girl.”

“Are you serious? Look at her; she’s fucking tiny. Did she eat dinner?”

“Dunno.”

The angry man-voices were funny. I liked them. They seemed like fun voices to play with.

“Get the door for me.”

My economy floating upgraded to business class floating when the cold went away. Business class floating was much better. Not so bumpy, either.

“Okay, move her suitcase off the bed.”

“Holy shit! Is that a dildo?”

“Surfer! Leave it alone, and just move her bloody case.”

“All right. Fuck!”

Oh, now this is nice … first class floating. It doesn’t feel like I’m floating at all. Yes, I want this type of floating from now on. And they even remove your shoes for you … and your clothes.

“What are you doing?”

“She can’t sleep in her jeans.”

“Dude, you can’t take them off. That’s like pre-rape or somethin’.”

“Is not, you watchin’ is. Now turn around. It’s nothing I haven’t seen before. I’m just gonna remove her jeans and tuck her in. That’s all.”

First class floating was weird. And then I landed.

Vomit is just disgusting. The worst thing imaginable. Whoever invented vomit should be shot … with vomit.

“No more,” I groaned to myself. “There can’t possibly be any more.”

Barf.

Yuk.

I reluctantly peered into the toilet, and I swear that what was staring back at me were my stomach and intestines, not just the contents. Even my internal organs were jumping ship. “Yeah, that’s right, bail. Leave me, you treacherous bastards.”

Pressing the flush button, because
traitors be gone
, I bade them farewell and crawled into the shower, turning on the taps and hugging the tiled wall. I loved showers. The cool from the ceramic and warmth from the water was just divine. Showers were my friends.

What the hell happened last night?
I couldn’t remember anything past the third or fourth tequila shot. And what I could remember between then and the moment I watched Josh slip his tongue down some wench’s throat was kind of sketchy.

An aggressive gurgling bubbled in my stomach at the memory.
Ugh! Fucking, man-whore, arsehole, prick, cunt!
Yeah … he was all of those, especially the c before the unt one. Josh Adams had certainly showed his true colours.

I guess that was inevitable though, because true colours couldn’t be invariably concealed—they emerged eventually. And not everyone’s true colours were vibrant and beautiful. Clearly, Josh’s weren’t. His colours were varying shades of shit-brown. His colours were yuck.

Despite his icky hues, the guy just got under my skin. But I’d showed him last night. I’d showed him good … well, up until I could remember.

I remembered showing him that my tongue could also find someone else’s throat. A bit like finding things in
Where’s Wally
, except I played Where’s A Hot Guy To Swap Spit With. The hot guy I’d found was nice, too; a local cowboy with a five o’clock shadow, flannel shirt, tight-arse jeans and a chunky belt buckle. He’d also had nice, big, worker’s hands. Worker’s hands that kept rubbing my butt. Yeah, he was nice … until he disappeared. I remembered that part, because he’d just vanished. We were kissing then he was gone. Pity. If we weren’t leaving Tamworth today, I’d totally play Where’s The Hot Cowboy I Swapped Spit With again.

It was fun.

Eventually peeling myself from the floor, I washed my hair, stumbled out of the shower, ordered breakfast, and began packing my stuff.
Hang on a minute … why is BOB on the bedside table?
I twisted 180 degrees, checking to see if anything else was out of place. It wasn’t. Just BOB—BOB who doesn’t have legs.
What the crap?

I picked it up and rotated it, annoyed that I’d even brought it on tour with me in the first place. Yes, I was officially going to kill Em when I saw her on Monday. Then again, BOB had been put to good use.

The memory of my body buzzing gloriously when Josh had held the BOB to my clit while fingering me had my core clenching. Damn, it was sensational … the heat building in my head, the tingling heightening in my thighs, the sharp, short burst of heaven that zapped every nerve ending in my body when I’d climaxed. Fuck, I could practically feel his finger now, sliding in and out, pumping me vigorously as my pussy tightened and clamped hold of it.

I moaned, and not only because at some point during my recollection, I’d slid BOB into my underwear to try and relive the experience. No, I’d moaned at the memory of the arsehole with his pretty fucking glorious fingers.
“Oh … God!” That first wave of euphoria. “Yes!”

Bang. Bang. Bang.

“Cori, you in there?”

My eyes sprung open.
No! Fuck off.
“I’m … I’m coming, Brad,” I called out.

Truth. I was.

Panting, I removed my vibrator from my underwear and buried it in my suitcase, rifling for a pair of pants to wear before I zipped the case half way and scurried to the door. I paused at the mirror, my reflection contradictory: pale and sickly yet flushed and sated.

I was a hot mess.

Brad knocked again, so I opened the door, finding him standing there with my room service breakfast cloche.

“Food! Yes!” I crooned, snatching it from him. I was blessed with the smell of grease.

“I take it someone has after-grog munchies. And so you should. Shit, Cori, you were absolutely tanked last night.” He followed me into my room to the small dining table where I sat down, but I was more concerned with lining my stomach with all things protein and fried in butter.
Come at me, bacon.

“I know,” I hummed, biting down on the salty, crispy rash of love. “How’d I get back here? Please tell me you had something to do with it, but that I woke up and removed my own pants.”

His face scrunched, it screaming ‘negative’. It also made me choke on the bacon. “What?”  I coughed and grabbed my giant glass of orange juice, sculling a good half of it.

Brad’s smile boomed at my discomfort. “Yes, and no,” he explained, leaning over and pinching one of my bits of bacon. He quickly popped it in his mouth and went to help himself to my hash brown.

“Hey! Mine.” I slapped his hand and possessively covered my breakfast.

His hands went up in defence.
Smart boy.
Never steal a woman’s shoes, hair straightener, bacon, chocolate or wine.

“Josh carried you back here. I came along with him, you know, to make sure he didn’t try anything.”

I spooned some scrambled eggs into my mouth and nodded dubiously. “Who took off my pants?” I mumbled, cringing at the squishy, creamy, egg fluff I was attempting to swallow.
Ugh! Eggs post drunken night out? Not such a good idea.

“Me.”

“What?”

Egg fluff became airborne.

Egg fluff hit Brad on the face, among other places.

“I was kidding. But thanks for that,” he said through gritted teeth, slowly wiping his face clean.

I sighed and slumped in my seat. “Serves you right. So I take it Josh removed them then?”

“He did, but I was in the room … with my back turned,” he added quickly.

“Wow! I really was wasted, wasn’t I?”

“You were. But you were also very fucking funny. And you’re sexy as hell when you sing and dance.”

“I’m sorry, WHAT?” My heart was once again on the verge of an attack, when a knock sounded at my door. Brad chuckled, so I grabbed the last piece of bacon to chew while I went to answer it.

Stopping before I turned the handle, I spun around. “I really sang and danced?”

He nodded, deviously.
Shit!

Face palming, I pulled myself together and opened the door finding Josh looking absolutely delicious in a pair of low-cut jeans, a tight white tee, and a black zip jacket. “Morning, sweetheart.”

I glared at him. “Can I help you?”

“A thank you would be nice.”

“They are nice, aren’t they?” I said sarcastically in agreement, popping the entire bit of bacon in my mouth and making a point of sucking the salty goodness off each and every one of my fingers.

Josh’s eyes darkened, honing in on my digits, and before I knew it he’d stepped closer and grabbed my hand. My breathing hitched and I froze, powerless to stop him as he lifted my fingers to his lips and sucked one into his mouth.

“Better get a move on, Cori,” Brad yelled. “Bus is leaving soon and you still have all your shit to pack.”

At hearing Brad’s voice, Josh let go of my fingers, stepped back and ran his hand through his gorgeous damp hair. “Sorry,” he said, then turned and walked away.

I watched him stride down the hall, wanting desperately to go after him, jump into his arms and kiss the effin’ daylight out of him. And with each step he took in the opposite direction, my heart pounded rapidly at the loss. But I couldn’t go to him. I wouldn’t. My ears were not the only ones manipulated by his erotic tongue. And my heart was not the only one to be held by his tainted touch. Yet I went back for more, knowing that each time I did, he destroyed what little parts of me still remained. So no, I couldn’t go to him. I wouldn’t.

“Everything all right?”

Spinning around, I came face to face with Brad, which was when I realised I needed to inhale. “Yes, everything is fine. But you’re right. I do need to pack.” Stepping back against the wall, I made it obvious that I wanted him to leave me to it.

He nodded and went to walk past but paused.

Our eyes met.

Time stopped.

And for a split second I thought he was going to kiss me.
Oh God, no. Please, Brad, don’t.

Fortunately—but not—my stomach churned and my cheeks puffed. “I think I’m gonna be sick,” I blurted, taking off and only just making it to the toilet before I hurled the bacon and egg fluff I’d just consumed.

What a waste.

Such nice, perfectly fine food, wasted.

I hate vomit.

Wiping my mouth with some toilet paper, I spotted Brad from out of the corner of my eye, sliding a bottle of water beside me.

“Can I get you anything else?” he asked.

I shook my head at him, eyes full of grief for so many reasons. “No.”

He tipped his chin then turned and exited the bathroom.

“Thank you,” I called out, hoping he’d hear me before leaving. “And thanks for last night.”

I waited.

“No probs, Cori. See you on the bus.”

The sound of the door closing settled over me like a knife to the heart, a heart I no longer cared much for.

***

Not too long after saying goodbye to my grease-filled breakfast, I headed downstairs and we departed for Coffs Harbour. But before that happened, I had no choice but to perform what was known as the-walk-of-bus-shame: a tedious, head down, avoid all eye contact while your skin prickled with the gaze of onlookers, moment. Thankfully, it didn’t last too long, as I managed to snap up one of the front seats; therefore, the only person I walked my shame past had been Patsy. Still, it was awful and not something I wanted to repeat anytime soon.

As I sat down and shuffled along to inconspicuously hide by the window, Patsy turned in her seat and poked her head in between the two headrests. “So, you know Coffs Harbour wasn’t originally on our itinerary, right?”

“Right,” I groaned, my head pounding.

Baz handed me an apple and smiled sympathetically. The torturous green orb of woe was the last thing I fucking wanted, so I placed it on top of my handbag and continued to listen to Patsy.

“You also know that due to overwhelming popularity, an impromptu show has been arranged.”

“Yes, I do,” I said, arrowing my eyes behind my darkened lens. What she was getting at, I had no idea. This obviously wasn’t news to me.

“Well, this is great publicity for the guys, but it also means we were only allotted a limited amount of motel rooms,” she explained, her face screwing up with worried anticipation.

My eyes narrowed even further. “Yes … meaning?”

“Meaning we have to share.”

I shrugged and smiled. “No problems. I don’t snore and I sleep like a log.”

“Oh good, because neither do Josh and Brad,” she explained, her mention of Josh and Brad almost barely audible due to her turning back around before finishing her sentence.

“Hell no!” I said with a laugh, liking her not-so-funny joke.

She huffed and peaked through the seat again. “I know it’s not ideal, Cori. We tried other hotels and resorts, but there’s some kind of festival on this week, and this was all that was available … apart from a bed and breakfast with fewer rooms.”

I groaned. “But why am I with Brad and Josh?”

“Would you be more comfortable with Dimps and Slick?” she asked, her eyebrows nearly hitting the roof with mock surprise. “Because Matt won’t sleep in the same room as you for fear of pissing off Sophie, his girlfriend. And Baz and Larry are both married. And there’s me.” Patsy winked seductively at me.

The sincerity was a fail.

“I choose you!” I said, calling her bluff.

She laughed. “Nice try, Sweet Pea.”