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ISBN: 978-1-915735-46-1
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1. Resa
2. Beckett
3. Resa
Beckett 5. Resa 6. Beckett
7. Resa
8. Beckett
9. Resa
10. Beckett
Teaser: Rock God
The Galentine’s Groupies series
About the Author
One Resa
The evening sun is shining,the crowd is buzzing,and tonight,I’llsee my favorite band ofalltime.The venue looms aboveusaswepackclosetogether,chatteringandsquealingandhuggingcompletestrangers;it’sastadium,sparkly silverandround,likeaUFOabouttotakeoff.Pinklightsstripethedomewalls,andtonightfeelsunearthlyalready. Thisisreal!
Thebandis here.InNewOrleans.Ohmygod.
Atleastthree fans have already fainted from excitement,then been ushered tothe side for bottled water and a medic check.Onegirlisugly-crying,raccoon-eyed,withglossysnotonherupperlip,andyouknowwhat? Iknowhowshefeels.
Because it’s Soul Obsession The band I sang along to every day after middle school, bouncing around our tiny living room ThebandInursedmyfirstcrusheson,daydreamingaboutalltheguysonebyonewithindiscriminatepassion The bandwhoselyricsIdoodledaroundtheedgeofmyschoolpapers
This band is soimportanttome.Don’tcareiftheirsongs arecheesy;don’tcareifit’s not edgy tosing along,loud and proud,andknoweverysingleline.Cutmeopen,andyou’llfindSoulObsessionlyricstattooedonmyribcage.
Eeeee!
“They’rehere,”agirlsaysnexttome,clutchingatmyelbow.“They’reactuallyhere!Inourcity!”Shesoundsdazed,and her grip is painfully tight but I don’t mind. We beam at each other, perfect strangers with so much in common, before topplingintoahug.
I’m sojittery my teeth are chattering,never mind the hot,sticky evening The sound ofthe crowd presses on my ear drums and hey,I’m used tothe press ofpeople,used tojostling and caterwauling,because I pour drinks in the French QuarteronFridayandSaturdaynights,andI’veseenexactlyhowmessyhumanitycanbe ButevenIfindmyselffanning mycheeks,edgingawayfromtheworstcrushofthecrowd,andprayingthatthedoorswillopensoon
My lanyard scrapes my bare skin under my cropped band t-shirt It’s a VIP pass, arranged by my girl Shelby who’s workingonthetour mygoldentickettothebackstageexperience
Every single fan here would tear me apart to get their hands on this pass. We’re talking limb. From. Limb. They’d stranglemewithmyownlanyard,apologizingbetweentheirthrilledscreams,andIwouldn’tevenblamethem. Nah.I’mnotriskingit.
I’mgetting in.
Whippingmyphoneout,Icheckourgrouptexttoseeifanyoftheothergirlsarehereyet,butthere’snothing.Signal’s winked outfor some reason; zero bars.Nothing butold messages to scroll back through, and the slew ofcrazy gifs and emojisthathavebeennonstopsincethevideochatthatchangedeverything.
The Soul Obsession reunion tour is a go, Shelbyhadsaid,grinningaswefriedourmicrophoneswithoursqueals. But try not to completely embarrass yourselves meeting them, okay?
No.Freaking.Promises.
I’llfindthegirlsinside forthebestnightofmylife.
Twenty minutes later, I’m flagging, draped over the crowd barrier with the hot metal burning into my bare arms. Sunglasses perch on my nose, protecting me from the worst of the evening sunshine, and I’m slathered top-to-toe in sunscreen. Two empty water bottles are already stuffed in my yellow backpack, drained through the day, and I’ve done everythingrightbutI’mstillthirsty.
Sohot.
Sotired.
Whenohwhenwillitfinallygetdark?
No!Thisisn’thowit’ssupposed tobe.I’msupposed tobounceintothatstadiumlookingand feelingmybest,readyto sing along tothe soundtrack ofmy tween years.I’m supposed tolook cute as hell,my pixie cutstylishly ruffled,my Soul Obsessiont-shirtcutwith jagged scissorslashes intoacroptop,ready tocatch oneoftheband members’eyes and fallin loveatfirstsight.
Instead,I’mroadkill
“Bleurgh,”Igroan,rockingmyforeheadonmyfoldedarms
Not Cool
Aremyfriendsallwiltingintheheatsomewhereheretoo?
A throat clears beside my shoulder “Miss?” Squinting one eye open, I find a pair of black leather brogues on the crackedconcretebeneathme Bigshoes Manlyshoes
The man stands outside the crush,hands tucked in his pockets.He’s an island ofdisdainfulcalm; a patch offroston this hot,humid evening.Unlike the buzzing crowd in our brightcolors and pale denim,he’s in a gray suitwith a white shirtandblacktie.
“I wonder ifyou can helpme,” the man says Is thata British accent?Wait,itdoesn’tmatter Pulling a face,I jerk my thumbovermyshoulder
“Thelinestartsbackthere,bud”
AndIdidn’tstandouthereforhoursandhours,dehydratingmyself,toletsomesuitedhottiejumptheline No,sir He doesn’t even look like a Soul Obsession fan! He’s older than most of us, in his mid thirties probably, and he’s all buttonedup Nocreasesinhisshirt;notasingledarkhairoutofplace He’sgotasmoothlyshavenjaw,andpiercingblue eyesthatnarrowdownatme.
My stiffback eases,and I scratch the side ofmy neck.Someone shoves upclose behind me,and we allshuffle a few inchesforward,crushingclosertothedoors.“Forthepaper?”
Blue eyes bore intome,urging me totrusthim,and I swear for a splitsecond,everything goes still.The crowd stops pushing;thedistantcarsstophonking;eventhesuneasesoffandletsacoolbreezedanceovermycheeks.There’snothing elseintheworldexceptthoseicyblueeyes.
“Sorry!”Tuggingmyclothesstraight,Istepbackandofferashakysmile andlet’spretendthatmycheeksareburning because of the sun. Yeah. That’s why. Not because I just lost my mind and snuggled a stranger. “It felt like a hugging moment.So,we’regoinginside?”
The man shakes his head, but not like he’s disagreeing Like he’s dazed, and he needs to jumble his thoughts back together He’snottheonlyone
I don’teven know this guy ’ s name,and he’s suddenly taken the topspotin my brain,even above my all-time favorite band Whatonearth?
Itwas an obvious choice.My life in London has feltsosmalllately,constricting and airless,with the walls ofmy flat closinginonallsides.Everythinginthecapitalisgrayanddampandjoyless.Everydaytherefeelsthesame.AssoonasI gotthatcall,somethinginsidemesungtolife,demandingIpackupmybagsandtakeoffonthistour.
Butthen city aftercity onthoseblack tourbuses Endlessgreenroomsand sound checksand dusty flightcases An ocean crossed, and somany late nights and early mornings,and only occasionaldrama These guys are older and wiser thantheirfirsttimewiththeband,andthegrippingstorylineIhopedforhasnotyetemerged It’sthesameoldboredom,butnowwithmorestampsinmypassport
“Wecantalkinthegreenroom.”Securityguardsnodatmeaswepass,thebeefymendottedatintervalsalongtheouter wall They’re alldressed in black suits,arms folded overtheirchests,radios crackling attheirhips Lots ofshaved heads andtattooednecks “Itwon’ttakelong Ijustneedafan’sperspective”
And tounderstand why Resa loves SoulObsession somuch;why there are thousands and thousands ofadoring fans backthere,queuingupforhoursinthemercilessheat,alldressedinmerch
“Sure!Ofcourse.” Resa draws a cross over her heart,beaming upatme.Those dimples,good lord.This girl’s smile is wideand brightand heart-stoppingly genuine,and thetiny gapbetweenherfrontteeth makes mewanttoscrubmy face andgroan.“Icanbenormal,Iswear.”
It’scoolerinhere,dimandempty.Soundscracklethroughhiddenspeakers:thrummingguitarnotesandthewhineof microphones. The shiver of cymbals, and the distant thump of equipment dropped onstage. The roadies are setting up, runningsoundcheckandgettingreadyfortonight,andtheirfar-offtinnedchatterfloatsthroughthespeakersystem. They curse a lot,always cracking dirty jokes on stage,and it’s never bothered me before butnow Resa’s listening,I
Everythingisdarkanddingybackhere,especiallyaftertheblindingsunshine,butRenaisashockofbrightcolorwith her yellow backpack, those pink canvas sneakers, and a sky blue band shirt cut short above a tanned, soft navel. Not to mentionherbleacheddenimskirtandthoseeyes,thoseeyes,thoseeyes.
Brown,withlittleflecksofgold.Likehoneycomb.
“This way.”I’ve gotnoexcuse totouch her,notreally,butI take Resa’s elbow anyway,steering her toward the green roomdoorfurtherdownthecorridor.Thebuzzofchatterinsidegetslouderasweapproach,and my stomach sinks.The bandmembers arethere.Issheinlovewithoneofthem?Idon’twanttoseethat.“Andremember ” “Be normal Aye,cap’n” Resa salutes me with her free arm,making noefforttodislodge my hand on her elbow Her goldenbrownskinisbutter-softundermypalm,lightlysheenedwithsweatandsunscreen I’d like to lick her all over
Bloodyhell Wheredid that thoughtcomefrom?Shakingmyhead,IleadResaintothegreenroom
With crowded tables and vending machines around the walls, it’s not just the band in here: there are off duty crew members, assistants, and visiting friends A tired photographer sits at a table alone, flicking through the images on her camera,andthetourmanagerShelbybustlespast,talkingamileaminuteintoherradio.
“Eep!”
Thattinynoisemakesmestiffen.IfResafreaksoutnow,ifsherushesoneofthebandmembers,ifshecrossesaline Butit’snottheSoulObsessionguysResaslipsoutofmygripfor.It’s Shelby,ourno-nonsensetourmanager andnow they’rehuggingandgigglingandmakingenoughnoisethateverysinglepersonintheroomglancesover. “What?” My voice is clipped,carrying over the clamor.This makes nosense,itdoes notcompute,and itdoesn’thelp thatthey’rechatteringatapitchthatonlydogscanhear.“Youtwoknoweachother?”
Afteronefinalsqueeze,Resaturnsbacktome,hercheekspinkwithexcitement. “Yeah,we goway back.Shelby gotme my VIPpass,see?”My sun-struck fan tugs a laminated pass on a lanyard from beneath her top, jiggling it in front of her chest. “So I didn’t even need you to get backstage, Mr Bond although I appreciatetheearlyshade,that’sforsure”
My heartpounds like crazy as I lead him between the green room tables,over toan empty one by the wall.Someone whistles,butI’mnotsurewho.AndtheSoulObsessionguysare right there,eatingtakeoutpizzasoutofboxesandcracking jokes and scrolling on their phones,alllarge as life,but I don’tcare Every ounce ofmy awareness is fixed on the man walkingbehindme Themanwhosehandiswrappedaroundmine DoesBeckettfeelittoo?Thispull?Allthisrawenergycracklingbetweenus?
My nerve endings tingle, shivering in sympathy for my overloaded hand Because the feel of him the warmth, the strength,thesensationofbeingtuckedupsafeinhisdrypalm it’stoomuch Overwhelming Stomachinknots,Iletgo
“Niceplace,”Icomment,pullingoutachair,becauseit’sreallynot.Thisgreenroomisasunglamorousasthecorridor outside, all bare white walls and cheap metal chairs with dangerously splayed legs, the air scented with hot cheese and men ’sdeodorant.
And this is weird Everything was so natural between us until now, easy and flowing and right, butwith thatlittle recordereavesdropping,Isuddenlyfeelsilly Likeagrownwomanwhoshouldknowbetterthantolineupforhoursinthe heattoseeaboyband Likesomeonewhoshould’veoutgrownthisstuffbynow IsthathowBeckettseesme?Anuttyfan,andnothingmore?
“TeresaCastillo.”MynamesoundsweirdinhisBritishaccent kindastiff,butinagoodway.Myanklescrossbeneath my chair, one sneaker jiggling with nerves, and the unstable chair slumps an inch lower, legs creeping in opposite directions.“Tellmeaboutyourrelationshipwiththisband.TellmewhyyouloveSoulObsessionsomuch.” Hoo,boy.
Comingoutwiththebigguns,then.
My eyes flick to where the band members sittogether, bickering lazily abouttheir song list butthey’re far enough awaythattheyshouldn’tbeabletohearthis.Okay,that’sgood.It’slessembarrassing.
Um.
“Iguess…Imean…”
Shoot,why has my mind gone blank?One hundred percentblank.Every single word in my vocabulary,every smart thoughtandcoherentsentenceI’veeverhad,hasflownoutofmyears.IblinkatBeckett,stupidandsilent,ashewaitsfor metospeak
Beckett watches me drink for a long moment, then disappears again. This time, he comes back with two bottles of chilled water.“These are both yours. ” The bottles thud againstthe table.“Are you hungry, by the way? Thatpizza is for everyone. ”
Ishakemyhead,stilldowningmycreamsodainonego Beckettgrunts,unconvinced,butsettlesback intohischair And hemustbecooking inthatsuit it’snotexactlycool here,evenindoors butthere’s stillnotasingledark hairoutofplaceonhis handsomehead Notabead ofsweatonhis paleforehead Themanisflawless,unruffled,anisland ofcalmand sophisticationinthemiddleofthisgrotty,loud green room,andmeanwhileI’m
The green room is still loud, thank god, buzzing with ten different conversations. Someone gets a drink from the vending machine, the bulky machine grumbling, while someone else plays a dumb prank video on full volume on their phone.Mycompletehumiliationisdrownedout.
It helps that Beckett hasn’t laughed at me He’s nodding along, interested, one arm outstretched with the fingers tappinglightlyonthetable “Goon”
First,anothersipofcreamsoda I’mdowntothelastsloshyinchatthebottomofthecan “Okay” I stifle a tiny burp, horrified, and Beckett’s mouth twitches with humor, buthe doesn’tsay anything “Oops Sorry Okay,soIgotmyperiodprettyearly I’djustturnedeleven And,um,Iwasthisgangly,awkwardkidwithgapteeth andpricklylegsbecausemymomwouldn’tletmeshaveuntilIwasthirteen.Shesaiditwouldbebadformyselfesteem.” SowasbeingcalledHairyMaryinGym,butwhatever IliketopretendthatI’vemovedon.Forgiveandforgetandall that.
“Then my hips gotwiderbutmy boobs didn’tgrow,and the acne started,and I just,I feltlike… like a strangerin my ownbody.Likeanalienamongthehumans.SoulObsessionhelpedmewiththat.”
Becketttilts his head,considering.Hehasn’tscoffed once,thank god,notevenaboutmy period oracneorhairy legs. AndIguessthat’sbecausehe’saman,amatureadult soyeah,it’salowbarforhimtoclear,butIstillwanttocrawlinto hislapandneverleave.TohavehimstrokemyhairandtellmeI’mnotrepulsive.I’mnormal.
“Because ofthe lyrics?” he asks.“Some fans have said thatSoulObsession songs are empowering. Girl, You Shine, for example.”
“No. I mean they are empowering, sure, but that’s not why they helped. For me, it was because I suddenly had somethingincommonwiththeothergirls Aneasywaytomakefriends Wewereallmisfitsinourownway,butwehad thissharedlove”
“Wecould allsing along together,read fanfiction,take onlinequizzes aboutwhich SoulObsessionguy would be our soulmate”
A muscle flexes in Beckett’s jaw, but he nods encouragingly. “And you still love these men? You still have that… passion?You’reherefortheirreuniontourafterall,withaVIPpass.”
Yes,thisisn’tthemostromanticstoponourtour ButIcouldn’tresist,andit’sallworthitwhenResapunchesmyarm then drags me away,laughing Our voices bounce around us as we chat,butthe crowds are inside the venue now,their cheersbleedingthroughthewalls,andthere’snoriskofusdisturbinganyone
“That’s a lotofcases,”Resa says when I lead hertothe loading bay: a cavernous room with a whole wallmissing,the equipmenttrucks standing empty beyond.The silver flightcases are stacked in huge clumps around us,five or six deep, whilethreeroadiessitoutontheloadingdockandsmoketogether.
The air is warm and damp, and moths flutter around the loading bay floodlights high above, headbutting the glass bulbs.Nothingforthecrewtodoouthereexceptwaituntiltheshow’sover.
“Comeon.”Can’tstoptouching her.Can’tstopholding herhand.Now thatI’vefeltit,now thatI’vetasted having her close, I don’t want things any other way. If I could tie us together without seeming completely unhinged, I’d do it in a heartbeat.“There’smoretosee.”
Likedressing roomsscattered with abandoned jackets,half-drunk waterbottles,and openpacketsofM&Ms.Iwatch Resaoutofthecornerofmyeye,butshedoesn’tseemoverlyfascinatedbythebandmembers’stuff,andsheneveroncelets goofmyhand.WhenIpullheraway,shecomeshappilyalong.
We visit the merch stands next, set up ready near the exits, the tables stacked high with special ten-year reunion tshirts.IletgoofResabriefly,butonly toslidesomemoney beneath thelocked cash boxand fish outat-shirtinhersize. ShehugsittoherchestandgazesupatmelikeI’mherknightinshiningarmor. Fuck.
“Make sure you cut this one in half too,” I tell her. Resa giggles as she strokes the lilac fabric, then tucks the t-shirt lovinglyinherbackpack
Thiswholenightissurreal.
Then there’s the lighting booth,atthe very topofthe stadium as high as we can humanly climb.My thighs burn by thetimewereachthetopofthestairs,andResa’sbreathinghard,butsheshootsmeahappygrinwhenIcheckonher.The gigisstillmuffled,butseepingthroughthethickwalls.
“Here.” I tug Resa to the lighting booth door. It’s not locked, and when I shoulder it open, the follow-spot operators glanceovertheirshouldersandnodatusbeforeturningbacktotheshow.
The spots are used tome crashing their glass-fronted booth.I’ve watched this gig from every angle,tried a bunch of locations,alwayssearchingforanewinsight.Forthesparkofinspirationthatwillhelpmewritemybook.
Resa’s happy chatter echoes in my ears as I lead her back down the stairs,down intothe belly ofthe building.There isn’tmuchtimeleft.Prettysoon,SoulObsessionwillstarttheirset,andResawon’twanttomissasinglesecondofit.Our timeisnearlyup.
“Um.”Pausing in the stairwell,Resa fumbles her phone outofher back pocketand taps atthe screen.Itlights up,the rectangleoflightcastingapaleglowoverherbeautifulface.“Door5E.Whereverthatis.”
God,whatifI’mtheonly onefeeling this?WhatifI’mcrazy and Idon’tevenrealizeit?Therearetruecrimepodcasts aboutmenlikeme!Okay,soI’llwalkResatodoor5EandthenI’lllethergolikeasaneperson Fine
Resabites herbottomlip,gazing upatmeas thewarmupact’s powerballad bleeds through thewalls.Thenshepuffs outabreath,rocksupontohertoes,and and kisses me.
Bloodyhell.
Myhandsdartup,cuppinghercheeks.Mylipsmoveoftheirownaccord,kissingResaback.Kissingherhard. And whenItiltherhead,coaxing herlipstopart,Resasighsagainstmy mouth and slidesourtonguestogether.She’s meltingagainstme,hersoftbodysealedagainstmyfront.
I’ m hardly the firstgirltokiss a man backstage ata gig,buttellmy bright-red cheeks that.They don’tcooldown for a single second not while Beckett chats with the roadie, not while he walks me silently to door 5E, and not even ten minuteslaterwhenI’mshoulder-to-shoulderwithmyfellowfans,staringdry-eyedatthelit-upstage.
Thefirstactiswrappingup,soakinguptheirlastfewminutesofborrowedglory,andthefansaregame,whoopingand cheering along.It’s hotas hell in this crush of bodies, and I keep getting elbows in my back, feetstepping on mine, and othergirls’longhairsinmymouth.
Bleurgh.
And thisisn’tme.Thissinkingstoneinmybelly;thisacheinmychest;this misery seepingoutofmypores.Itfeelsall wrong
TheSoulObsessionguysaremorethanadecadeolderthanwhenIsawthemliveasateenager,singingalongwithmy friendsuntilwewerehoarse Buttheylook good outtheretonight:strong and lithe,alittlebroader,alittleharsher,falling intotheiroldrhythmtogetheraseasilyasbreathing
TheSoulObsessionguysarehere,breathingthesameoxygenasusinthisstadium,sweatalreadyslickingtheirskinas their music vibrates the air.And I should be floating uptothe clouds,should be stamping and screaming myselfhoarse withtheotherfans,butallIcanthinkaboutisBeckett.
Myinsidesarealltangled uplikelinguine,and mylipsarestilltingling TheghostofBeckettsighsagainstmycheek And suddenly I can’t stand another second in this crowd, under these lights, in this heat, so I turn and fight my way throughthewalloflimbs
Face scrunched with the effortof keeping those questions atbay, I fightmy way to the exit.The corridor outside is emptyandstill.Myearsringasmybreathsawsinandoutofmylungs.Thatcrowdwassointense,andnowmythighsare tremblinglikejelly,barelyholdingmeup.Clearingmythroat,Ifingercombmypixieandtugmycroptopstraight. Right,let’sdothis.
With Soul Obsession’s top hits rattling through the speakers, I march to the stairwell, back the way we came. Every timeIroundacornerorpushthroughasetofdoors,afreshwaveofdisappointmenthitswhenBeckett’snotthere. Thecorridorisempty.Thestairwellistoo.
Shoot Wheredid hego?WhatifIcan’tfind himagain?My heartthrobsinmychest,dragging my tired legsforward
Butthis stadium is a rabbitwarren, all the corridors exactly the same white and gray, and I definitely walk pastthe samescuffmarktwiceinthenexttenminutes.
Thegreenroomis emptierthanearlier,with only afew folks hunched overthetables A groupofroadies areplaying poker, shooting each other faux-evil eyes, and two older women in business suits drink coffee together, speaking in hushedtones Thevendingmachineshumagainstthewalls,rattlingtheirwarestogether
Hisearlobeissoftand squishy.Rolling itbetweenmyfingerand thumb,Imarvelathow intimate this is.How Ididn’t evenknowthismanafewhoursago,andnowI’mcarriedinhisarmsacrossadarkparkinglot,pokingandproddingathis body like I have an all-access pass,hoping againsthope thathe’lltake advantage ofme tonight Thathe won’tbe a perfect gentleman
“And yet I came looking for you.Are you sure you even wanttohang outwith me more?Or are you humoring me?” FlippingBeckett’sshirtcollarupanddown,IstareathischinwhileIwaitforananswer. Becauseifthisisallinmyhead,ifI’vemagicked upsomecrazyconnectionbetweenusoutofsheerwishfulthinking, I’mgoingtoleapoutofhisarmsandsprinthomerightnow,bloodiedfeetorno.
Beckettheavesoutasigh.
MyinsidesquiverasIwait.
Then: “I already got your phone number from Shelby,” the writer confesses quietly His voice is taut with consternation “SeemsIcouldn’tletyougoeither”
Six Beckett
Resa ’ s questions echoin my head as I carry her ontothe tour bus,the door hissing shutbehind us.The doubtin her sweetvoiceback theresentarrowsthrough mygut,and Ihatethatshewouldn’tmeetmyeye.Likeshewasbracing forrejection,notsureifIwantheraround.
ButwhatelsecouldIdoearlierexceptlethergo?
Grabthe bubbly fan girlI chose for an interview and stealher away?Abducther ontothis glossy black tour bus and keepherwithmeforever?Slidearingontoherfingerbeforedawn?
That’s911territory,andI’mnofantasist.
“Itlooksevenbiggerontheinside,”Resamurmurs,craninghernecktopeeraroundusatthebus.Everythingislitby softlightsdottedoverhead Wepassthekitchenareawithitsbreak-outtable,boltedtothefloorandsurroundedbybench seats; the closed doors of other crew members’ bedrooms; a shower room that smells like the battling scents of three differentshampoos
The cramped hallway is carpeted and silent,and Resa’s sneakers scuffgently againstthe wallas I carry her through Theshowerdrips
ButIdon’treallymind.Iwantedanadventure,andthistourhasgivenmeone andnowit’sbroughtmetoResa. Christ.Resa. How willI ever lether go?Every time her breath mists againstmy neck, my heartthumps a little faster.My cock is harderthansinwithherbodythisclosetomine,andnowwe’realoneonthisdimlylittourbus. …Alone.
Forhours,probably.
Focus, you prick.
“There’s a first aid kit,” I say as I deposit her on my bed in the last room on the bus, determined not to notice how rumpled and flushed Resa looks already like we ’ ve been rolling around together in those sheets.“Stay here.I’llbe right back.”
“Oh, sure ” She flops back, empty bottles crunching in that backpack beneath her, and starfishes on my double bed “WakemeupifIfallasleep”
Somuchtrust Somuchitmakesmedizzy
Overinthesilentkitchen,Iscrubmyfaceandsigh Thetirednessofseveralweeksontheroadwasalreadymakingmy days woozy,butnow with Resa here,everything feels dreamlike and off-kilter Whatis real?Whatdoes she want?What canwedothatshewon’tregret?
“Resa.” Her eyes flick open she’s not sleeping, then. Just lying flat on my bed, soft breaths stirring the air, her face slackwithfatigue.I’mnottheonlyonehavingalong,weirdday.“I’mgoingtotakeyourshoesoff,okay?”
“Sorry.” A whole sad, bloodied pile of socks and shoes grows next to my knee as I strip her left foot too. Bare toes wriggleintheair,andIcan’tresistcatchingheranklesinmyhands.Can’tresistrubbingthoseankleboneswiththepads ofmythumbs,feelingthedelicatestructureofher.Thearchitecturebeneathhersatinskin.
Frustration chokes me, even as I spread the first aid supplies out on the mattress in easy reach: antiseptic wipes, numbingcream,andaselectionofdifferent-sizedbandaids.
Resashouldn’ttrustsoeasily.WhatifIwereabadman?
Hell,whatifI am abadman?Whatifhavingherhere,exactlywhereIwanther,soothingtheemptinessinmychest… breakssomethinginsideme?WhatifIneverletherleaveafterall?
“Haveyoutoldanyoneyou’rehere?”Iaskmildly.
Resa hums and shakes her head,then wriggles her backpack off.She digs for her phone,the screen lighting upsoit reflectstworectanglesinhereyes,andtapsoutamessage.
“I’ve got no signal right now, ” she says Trust, too much trust “But I’ve told the girls where I am It’ll send in the morning Noonewillworryaboutmeinthemeantime,Beckett,it’sfine”
“We had cats in my house” Another packet tears open “My parents were away a lot, and they didn’t want the responsibilityofadog Theydidn’tparticularlywanttheresponsibilityofachild,either”
Thatlastbitslipsout,unguarded,andIstiffenonceIhearmyownwords butResasimplynods,encouragingmetogo on There’snopityinhereyes justcompassionandcuriosity
“There was this one cat,” I say, testing her interest She doesn’t seem bored “My favorite one A silver tabby He was bad-temperedandmoth-eatenandenormous,andhewouldn’tsitonanylapsexceptmine Helivedtobetwentyyearsold, andforthelastfewofthemhewashalf-bald.”
Beckettiltsmy head and kissesmehard,kissesme deep,sliding his tonguepastmy lips plundering my mouth likea sexypirateratherthanamaninasuit.Andhe’ssowarmandhard,musclesshiftingbeneathhisshirt.WhenItracebeneath hisjaw,hisracingpulsetapsagainstmyfingertips.
Though he’s notsweaty Notruffled atall or atleast,he wasn’tuntilthirty seconds ago Butnow thatwe’re kissing again, now that I’m tugging him up onto the bed, scrambling back on the mattress as he crawls on top of me, there’s a telltaleflushonBeckett’svampire-palecheeks Hisdarkhairisrumpled
“We don’t have to do anything.” Even as he mutters those words, Beckett buries his face in my throat, licking and nippingattheskin.Andthebedrocksbeneathusasweshiftaround,mybackpackslidingtothefloorwithaclatter,butI don’tcare.
No. Can’t let myself think about that. Can’t think about morning coming, and this bus driving off to another city, leavingmebehindintheparkinglotinyesterday’sclothes.Everytimemybraingoesthere,mychestcavesinonitselfand tearsburnmyeyes.
Heloses thejacketand tie,and leans back overme,shirthalf-buttoned Thatsliverofhis pale,toned chest that’s my handiwork Wanttolickhim,soIdo “Ngh” Beckettgrunts,cupping the back ofmy head as I kiss and nibble athis chest,his thumbstroking through my shorthair “Resa,I howfardoyouwanttotakethis?”
Whenherollsoffme,allmyairseizesinmylungs butit’sokay.He’sstrippinghisshirt,tugginghisbeltopen,kicking offhisshoes.Undressingwithjerkymotions,oneeyebrowraisedatmeasiftosay,“Well?” And I could lie here in a puddle,could waitfor Becketttocome back and undress me himself,butI’m toogreedy for skin-to-skincontactforthat.Tooafraidthathemightchangehismindatanymoment.
My topwhispers againstmy skin as I tug itoff,and Beckettmakes a growly sound.My bra and skirtfollow suit,all sailingthroughtheairtosmackagainstthethinbuswall.
Beckettstaresatme,chestheaving.
Thecurtainsareopenatinyslit,starswinking inthenightsky and mylegspartsonaturallyasBeckettcrawlsback upmy body,settling his hips between my thighs.We’re both stillin our underwear,twolayers offabric between us,and mentally,I’mcursingtheshynessthatheldmebackfromstrippingalltheway
IfIwerebraver,Beckettcouldbepushinginsidemerightnow.Holdingmythighsapartandsinkingdeep.Hecould “Thesetits.”Beckettshakes his head,palming my leftboobinhis hand,thesuddenheatand frictionalltickly against mynipple.Isquirm,buthedoesn’tseemtomind thatthey’resosmall.He’sfreaking thrilled with me.“Yourfucking body, Resa.Youreyes.Allofyou.”
Because he’s so much. So big and lithe and toned, somehow even more so out of his clothes, with that deep voice tinglingthroughmyinsidesandhishotbreathpuffingagainstmycheek.ThewayBeckettcupsme,palmsme,testinghow Ifeel…it’ssopossessive.LikeI’mhisprivateplaything. Iloveit.
AndI am.Iamhis.
Morethanheevenrealizes.
“You’resoaked”Whenhis fingers delvebeneath my panties,Beckett’s voiceturns gruffwith approval My handsome writer touches my body like he owns it,cataloging the effects he has on me: my flushed cheeks,my ragged breaths,how slickIgetafterthemerestkiss He’spleasedbywhathefinds “Youneedthis,don’tyou,sweetgirl?You’redesperateforit” Hipsliftingtochasehistouch,Inodsofastmyteethclacktogether “Uh-huh Ineedit,Beckett Please” Me?Tooproudtobeg?
Nope!Noway
Besides,helikes it.Beckett’s pupils areblownwide,eating upthering oficy blue,and now he’s likesomedark-eyed, British-voiced demonlooming overme.Coasting his fingertips through my folds;brushing my clitand smirking whenI whine.
A car door slams nearby in the parking lot, and the muffled sound of the Soul Obsession gig seeps through the bus window. Should probably care about skipping the show I declared I’d rather die than miss, but things have changed. There’snoplaceonEarthI’dratherberightnow.
“Hey,” I say. “Stop grumping.” There’s a freckle right on his collarbone, and when I thump him on the shoulder, my pathetichitmakesadullsound.“Justbecauseit’smyfirsttimedoesn’tmeanI’llbeterribleatit.”
Beckettlevelsmeaglare.“Thatisclearly not whatI’mworriedabout.Givemesomecredit,please.”
“No.” I shake my head, heart hammering. “I won’t if you won’t. You’re acting like I’m not able to make my own decisions.Likeyou’retakingadvantageofme.”
Hiseyebrowsshootup.“I am takingadvantage ”
“No,you’renot,yougiantjerk!I’magrownwoman,andIknowwhatIwant,andIwant you,LiamBeckett.Dealwith it.”Myspeechwouldsoundbetterifmyvoicedidn’tcrack,butthat’slife.Besides,it’sbeenalong,weirdday,andI’mstill thirstyin all theways,andevenaswetalkaboutthis,myhipsroll,tryingtoridehishand.“WouldyouratherIgobackto mynormallifetomorrowandfindanothermantopopmycherry?Wouldthatmakeyouhappier?”
“I’m older than you, ” Beckett points out, but his fingers are moving again, pumping slowly in and out of my body They’re slick and sheened in the lamplight,and I’m getting wetter by the minute,my nerve endings crackling under his touch Thewaistbandofmypantiesdigsintohiswrist “Byatleastadecade AndI’mjadedandtiredandmybonescreak inthemornings.”
“Soundslikeyoudeserveatreat.”
Beckettpuffsoutapained laugh and crookshisfingersagain,stroking thespotinsidemewhich makesmybandaged
And we ’ re teasing each other now, dragging out the conversation, because our bodies have already decided. He’s thrustingintomewithtwofingers,steadyand sure,and myhipsarerolling,ridinghistouch.We’rebothbreathinghard, bothflushed,bothstaringliketheotheristhecenterofourworld.
Want more. Want his cock splitting me open, reaching parts of me that have never been reached and I tell him so, whiningasBeckettsucksonmythroat,sorestlessandeagerIcanbarelybreathe “Soon You’llcomeformefirst comeonmyhand Soakmyfingers Showme,Angel”Beckett’steethscrapemyneck, andthecrampedroomspins
Eight Beckett
ResaCastillobroughttoanorgasmbymyhandisasighttobehold.It’stheeighthwonderoftheworld amodernday miracle. A gift that no mortal man could deserve. And I’ve barely recovered from the sight, barely ripped off those pantiesand shoved downmyownboxers,beforeI’mpushing insideherfullyand losing mygoddamnmind allover again.
Can’tthink.
Can’tspeak.
Can’tgoasgentlyasIshould.
Because pure unadulterated need crackles down my spine, my nerve endings throwing off sparks like a struck flint. Can’tdoanythingexceptthrustdeep,rockinginsideher,groaningatthehot,wetsqueezeofherbodyaroundmine
My body knows hers.It recognizes hers,justlike something inside me clicked intoplace the firsttime this bubbly fan girlmetmyeyes.OfcourseIloveher.Resaismyperson.
Butshe flushes even brighter atmy words,her lips curving in a dreamy smile.Like she doesn’teven realize I’m not kidding likeshetrulydoesn’tknow Andthatkillsme…butmaybeit’sforthebest Afterall,it’snotlikeIcanaskResatouprootherwholelifeandfollowmeonthistour NotlikeIcanofferhermuchof anythingrightnowexceptaspotonthisalreadycrowdedtourbus
Myhandjamsbetweenustorubatherclit Myjawisclenchedsohardmyteethache I willgetherthere.Iwillfeelhertightenonmycockifit’sthelastbloodythingIdo. “Oh.”Resa’seyesflutterclosed.“Oh,that’s…”
Herchannelclampsdownonmewithoutwarning,grippingharderthanavise.Theheatinthissmallbedroomroarsto a new furnace level. And every ripple of sensation, every shudder that rocks her small, soft frame, is the best goddamn thingI’veeverfelt,barnone. She’samiracle. Resacomeswithathroatygasp.
Thestarsglitterthroughtheslitinthecurtains,watchingmyworldturnupsidedown. It takes every ounce of my remaining will power, but I pull out as soon as Resa is done, her body collapsing in a bonelesspuddle.Can’tbeevenmorerecklessthanI’vealreadybeen can’tgetResaintrouble.Whiteropesofcomestreak herperfect,barebelly,andaknifeofpleasurestabsintomygutand twists. “Ew,” Resa murmurs, but she’s grinning up at me, tracing her fingertips through the stickiness “We’re gonna need
It’sasleeplessnight,butnotbecauseResasnoresorfidgetsinbed No afterborrowingmytoothbrushandcleaningupin thecrampedbathroom,Resaflopsontomybedandpassesoutwithoutanotherword.Just…gone.Lightsout.Felledlikea beautifullog.
And then: nothing. Not a wink of sleep all night. Not once the gig has finished and the crowds have melted away, leaving ghostly quiet in the parking lot. Not once all the other bus residents have come back, chatting and banging cupboards,thenfiledawaytotheirroomsonebyoneandfallensilent.Noteventhen.
Hersoftbreathsstirtheairbesideme,and she’ssowarmand real,curving intomy side.Willshemiss meoncewe ’ ve gone? Will she ever think about me? She’s sleeping peacefully right now, not troubled at all by the thought of parting forever
Someone snorts in their sleep,the sound muffled by the thin bus walls Muscles aching,I pillow one arm beneath my head
Butno… I can’tleave her hanging in limbolike that.Can’tputher under pressure tosettle down with an older man withnocurrentfixedaddress.Howisthatfairtoher?
Those aren’t my bedroom curtains. This isn’t my mattress. Even the sounds floating into this room are all wrong distantclattering and chattering,thelow rumbleofmen’svoicesand therhythmicdrumming ofashower.Wherearethe strainsofmyneighbor’stelenovela?
MystrangledlaughmakesBeckettjolt,andhefrownsharderasIthrowbackthesheetsandswingmylegsoutofbed Screw worrying about my nakedness; screw tiptoeing around this room and trying to dress gracefully My bedhead is always a complete hedgehog-nightmare in the mornings, and there are still flushed patches on my chest where Beckett suckedroughkisseslastnight Dignityisoffthetable.
“Well.” Shouldering my backpack, I hit Beckett with a big, false smile. It’s kinda mean, but I don’t regret it when he winces,because this morning has made me feelsooily and awful.Like a tarslick in his pristine bed.“Bye.This sure has been…aneducation.”
Yesterday’s blisters throbbing inside my shoes, I stomp to the door. Beckett hesitates, then steps out of my face, his expressionpained.“Resa…”
Voices floatallaround,somedrifting through closed bedroomdoors and afew louderones echoing fromthekitchen area. Squaring my shoulders, I lift my chin and stride down the bus, nodding at the startled crew members hunched aroundthetable,spoonshoveringabovetheircerealbowls.
Thetourbusdooropenswith ahiss,and Iclatteroutintotheparking lot.Therearemoreglossy black tourbusesout here, all standing in a line, with huge battered equipment trucks and around a dozen smaller cars and camper vans, all clustered together in the morning sunshine. Voices bounce around the lot as people call to each other, so stupidly energizedaftertheirlatenightyesterday,andvehicledoorsslamasenginesrumbletolife. Theyreallyareabouttomoveout,then Thisconvoyisonthemove Goodbye,Beckett Goodbye,whateverthis was “Resa,”hesaysnow,stumblingoutofthebusbehindme,tugginghissuitjacketstraight “Wait,Ineedtosaysomething Ineedto ”Hisvoicecracks,horrified “Hangon Areyoucrying?” Sniffling,Iwipealineofsnotonmybarearm Well,it’snotlikeIcangoanylower,isit?“OfcourseI’mcrying!”
Imean,he’sseenmymorning,hasn’the?Hewitnessedthewholeshitshowfirsthand,sothisshouldnotbeaplottwist Can’tbelieve I missed SoulObsession for this.My one chance tomeetthe band.Tugging on the lilac reunion tour tshirtthatBeckettboughtmeyesterday,Itryandfailtostopmychinfromwobbling.Andit’shotalreadythismorning,so hotand sticky and stifling,and I can’tbelieveI havetogoback tomy tiny studioapartmentand pretend I’mnotawhole differentpersonfromtwentyfourhoursago.
“Shit.” Beckett scrapes one palm down his face, then steps toward me, arms outstretched. “I’m so sorry. Come here, Angel.”
“I’mnotgoingtohugyouafterallthat,youmaniac.”
Butmy words make me a liar,because as soon as Beckettsteps close,I collapse againsthis stupid chestwith a shaky sighofrelief.Thatcreepingfrostinsidemethawsthetiniestbit,andthehollowfeelinginmystomacheases.
Ineedthismansomuch.Lovehimsomuchalready.
Andhe’ssohappytoletmego.
But not yet For now, strong arms wrap around me, holding me tight Beckett clutches me to his chest like I’m something precious, like I’m not all bed-rumpled and sticky from last night, my skin burning from the humiliation of walkingpastallthosestrangersinthetourbuskitchen Hepresseshisfacetothetopofmyhead,breathingmeinlikeI’m hisonlysourceofoxygen,anditmakesnofreakingsense,nosenseatall,butitsurehelpssoothetherawhurtinsideme
“I know. God, I handled that so badly.” Beckett hugs me even tighter. “I’m so sorry, Resa. So, so sorry. I my brain brokewhenIrealizedIhadtosaygoodbyetoyouthismorning,andyouborethebruntofmystupidity.”
Sunshine licks warm over my bare arms, and I cuddle closer to Beckett’s chest. So close that we ’ re pressed together
Beckett’s laugh is broken,tingling againstmy scalp.“Because I don’tknow how I’llfunction withoutyou,Resa.” His breath puffs,ruffling my shorthair.“Because every cellin my body is screaming atme tobundle you back ontothatbus andtakeyouwithme,or orpackupmystuffandstaywithyouhere,orjust ” “Okay.”
Stunnedsilenceaboveme.
Across theparking lot,acampervanrattles tolifeand circles slowly around thegrouped vehicles,thenheads toward theexit.
Patting his wrist, I beam up into Beckett’s wan face. “I’m coming with you, obviously. I haven’t even seen the Soul Obsessiongigyet.”
And what am I leaving behind anyway? Two different bar tending gigs, a cluttered studio with broken AC, and a constantitchy restlessness under my skin.This is nota hard decision,justlike tipping forward and kissing my grumpy writeristhemostnaturalthingintheworld.Theparkinglotspinsaroundus,sowarmandsunshine-bright,andeventhe insectsbuzzingaroundusinswarmscan’truinthismoment.
“Weird place for a rock star,” Resa says, standing at the window of our suite in the Daybreak Inn Her hands are propped on her hips, a baggy red t-shirt tucked into her frayed denim shorts, and the sunset glows behind my wife, outliningherperfectsilhouetteinfire “SweetCherryCove Soundslikeoneofthosevintagetravelpostcards Come along for sun, sea and sand!”
Resasnorts,squintingoutofthewindowatthetownbelowinallitskitschyglory.Whensheturns,thesunsetoutlines thesmallcurveofherbaby bump,and justlikeevery timeIcatch aglimpse my throatsticks.Can’tbelieveIevergotso lucky.“Well,Iguessyou’dknow.”
Massagingonestiffshoulder,IjoinResabythewindow.
“True.I am the world authority offlighty musicians.” Thank god,or we may never have met and Resa and I might neverhavebuiltthislifetogether,touringaroundtheworldtowriteprofilestogetheronartistsintheirprime.
Well that’swhatwe’vebeendoingsofar,thoughlatelywe’vebeentouringmoretofindourforeverhome.Somewhere toraiseourbump.“Isthatanhonest-to-godicecreamparlordownthere?Withastripedawning?”
For long moments, quiet fills the hotel suite, broken only by the rustle of clothes and our quickened breaths Resa’s shortsfallaroundheranklesbeforeshekicksthemoff;herpalmssmackagainstthewindow,rattlingtheglasspanesasshe bracesherself.
Sure enough,Resa whimpers,her bare ass jutting out.It’s taking every ounce ofmy controltohold outfor this long. “Uh-huh.Please,Beckett.Ineeditsobad.”
AsIsinkinsideher,thesunsetflarescrimsonandgold.
ThanksforreadingAccessAllAreas!Ihopeyoulovedit.:)
The next book in the Galentine’s Groupies series is Bad Boy’s Convenient Wife by Mayra Statham. Turns out my quiet neighbor is none other than the bad boy from the boy band I used to listen to as a teenager! And he’s made me an offer I can’t refuse…
ForDaltonMeadow’sstory,checkoutRockGod!I loved him for years, and he was clueless He left and never looked back Now the rock star sends me an invitation to our wedding
Andforabonusinstalovestory,grabyourcopyofRideorDie.She’s sweet and innocent and that’s like catnip in this strip club. It’s okay, though. I won’t let the pretty bartender out of my sight.
