Alcohol You Later (3)
“It’s just sex. A way to wind down…but I don’t…” He trails off, and I can see his brows working while he tries to think through the lingering alcohol induced fog. “It’s just a little fun, that’s all,” he finally says, giving up on whatever profound thought he was toying with. “I don’t want anything deeper with them.”
I nod, working to conceal the pain from my expression. Maybe they mean nothing to him, but that’s far from the case where I’m concerned. My mind begins to wander, as it often does…ruminating over how many there’ve been just in the three weeks since our last…whatever the hell this is.
“I mean, would you want to cuddle with a stranger?”
“No,” I rasp. “Definitely not.”
He gives me another lazy smile as his eyes grow heavy.
Before he nods off, I’ve got to leave him with a reminder of the promise I made on the night he broke down over a year ago, confiding in me about his past. A vow to both of us that no matter what, I’d always be here.
“Nick?”
“Mmm?” he grunts, peeping those green irises at me through the tiniest sliver in his lids.
“I’ll keep you safe,” I whisper, powerless to keep from getting a little choked up.
Warmth floods my veins at his answering smile.
I like to believe it’s more than just sex that prompts these late-night sessions, but also reassurance of my unwavering devotion he seeks.
“And I’ll keep you wild, pretty girl.”
He attempts to punctuate his declaration with a wink but is far too gone to pull it off. A throaty laugh and brief series of slow blinks later, my room fills with the familiar sound of his rhythmic snores.
It’s in moments like this, when he’s tender and seems so genuine, that I allow myself to believe he feels for me even a fraction of what I feel for him.
That I convince myself that once he’s gotten over this need for sex, drugs, and rock and roll, he’ll be ready for something real…
That I dare to hope that when the time comes, he’ll choose me.
But I’m painfully aware that no matter how badly I want them to be, his pretty words are nothing more than a product of post-orgasmic bliss.
Our concert just ended, and I’m flying high, riding the rush I’ve only ever gotten from performing. It’s an addiction, this life. I’m talking blood pumping, heart racing, bones shaking. The kind that keeps me constantly firing on all cylinders.
I need a bar. A drink. A joint. And a nice warm pu—
“Great show, boys.” Our manager, Anika, steps out from the shadows backstage looking anything but approachable. Her long brown hair is pulled back in a severe bun with an expression on her face to match. Her arms are crossed over her chest…her right stiletto steadily tap, tap, tapping the tile floor. And for some reason those honey brown eyes of hers are narrowed in what looks to be my direction.
This can’t be good.
That girl has two moods: happiness and rainbows, and raging bitch, and if her scowl is anything to go by, I’ve got a date with the latter.
Aiden nudges me with an elbow to the ribs, muttering something about me being in trouble, and my chest fills with dread. No one can kill a buzz quicker than that tiny dictator.
“Hey, Annie,” I greet with a playful smile. “Who pissed in your Cheerios?”
Her ice-cold fingers curl around my forearm, her nails digging in so deep I’m certain she’s about to break skin. “Apparently that honor belongs to you,” she grits between clenched teeth that are poorly veiled behind a half-assed smile. “Come with me.”
“Ooooh,” Lyle and Aiden jeer as we head for my dressing room.
I flip the two pricks off before locking eyes with Rhett and jerking my head toward the door in a silent order to follow. I don’t know what the hell has Anika so riled up, but I’m not about to face her wrath alone.
Message received, he and Korie fall in line behind us.
The media are everywhere, shoving mics in our faces and rapid-firing questions. To their credit, we’re usually more than happy to engage them after a show. That we’re rushing off is going to have them all working triple time to be the one to discover the Rhett Taylor Band’s latest drama.
Anika politely declines, citing an urgent need for a moment of privacy and promising they’ll get their chance for pictures and questions once we’re through. She directs them toward Lyle and Aiden, who are deeply focused on signing a very juicy set of knockers. I’m fighting the urge to pout out of pure jealousy when she ushers us into the room, shutting and locking the door behind. I’d much rather be autographing boobies. Hell, with the scowl on boss lady’s face, John Hancock-ing a dick doesn’t even sound too bad right about now. I give myself a little mental pat on the back at my masterful pun, but the she-devil’s whisper-hiss brings me quickly back to reality.
“Before we start, I’d like to remind everyone of the importance of keeping our voices down…the last thing we need is for any of those vultures out there to catch wind of this.”
“Catch wind of what?” I ask at the exact moment that she directs my attention to the far side of the room.
“Explain.” She waves a hand toward an unfamiliar brunette, who’s staring back at me with two cotton-haired babies, one on each hip.