Slow Body Rock (Rockstar Romance) Read online

  Inside, I wanted to agree. No one wants to be suspicious of their sibling. “Okay. Okay, don't worry. It's not important anymore.”

  His face smoothed with relief. “Good. Now, what were you going to say before that tangent?”

  “Oh.” I almost dropped my coffee. “Oh, shit. I need to go! Brenda scheduled a photo shoot today and I—I'll talk to you soon!” Waving, I ran at full power back to the parking lot.

  My lungs roared, screaming as I jumped up the stairs on the bus. Inside, I found Drezden and Porter waiting for me. They looked up, both surprised.

  The bassist grinned, showing every tooth. “So! You're ready to practice?” Gasping, I clutched my chest, not able to speak. “Fantastic! Colt drank enough that there's no way he doesn't have a huge fucking hangover.” His arm draped over my shoulders, pulling me close. I saw Drezden's narrowed stare.

  “How about,” Porter chuckled in my ear, “we wake him up in style.”

  Chapter One.

  Drezden

  By the time the bus rolled out, we were all awake and in the practice room. Lola had tuned her guitar, then at Porter's suggestion, strummed with the amp turned up until Colt stormed in clutching his skull. It was what they needed; a moment that broke the tension.

  I wished it worked for me.

  My night had been plagued with visions of Lola. Her pouting lips, the curve of her neck, the way her dark hair fell so wild over her shoulders. Even her smell had been in my dream. Worse, when I awoke, I swore it was hanging around me.

  When it faded, I'd actually felt sad.

  Seeing her that morning had only soothed me briefly. I was luckily wrapped up in my fight with Brenda. It made dealing with Lola's appearance less of an all encompassing event. Seeing her flushed cheeks, I'd craved to grab her pale skin in my hands until she bruised.

  I didn't think I was dangerous. Now, with a beast coming to life in my bones, I had to wonder. If I was left alone with Lola, no one around to judge me, to stop me... what would I do to her? The thought of her mewling mouth, plaintive cries, sent my heart pumping. My blood careened through me chaotically.

  I was chaotic.

  Fuck.

  Leaning on the wall, I wrapped the wire from my mic in my fingers. I pretended it was her hair; my tugging became firmer. “Yo,” Colt said, downing another palm full of pain meds for his headache. “We doing this or what? Pick a fucking song, maestro.”

  Pushing off the wall put me dead center in the room. I was positive I saw Lola flinch, leaning away on her bench. Everything she did to me made me want to curse myself, or to curse her. How could one girl drive me so insane? “Let's play Velvet Lost,” I grunted, razors sinking in my words. Hiding my hunger for Lola was so fucking hard. The only way to even try was to embrace my voracious anger.

  “Fine, whatever,” Colt grumbled. His mood was bleak, but he had himself to blame. He never should have gotten so drunk. But unlike Johnny, I'd never known Colt to let his habits ruin his music. When he started drumming, my confidence returned.

  Together we began our mixture of sounds. Porter let the base punctuate, making Lola's sweet licks of strings sound so clean. Chugging from my water, I dropped the empty bottle aside. It fell, forgotten. “Sticky sweetness, burning fast. My love, my dear, this will be your last...” I whispered into the mic, let the lyrics coat my tongue and soul. Every song I ever wrote had a meaning. It was something the band fought with me over at times.

  I would tell them a lyric couldn't be changed. I'd fold my arms and stand my ground at Brenda's laments. It was my music, my fucking heart and core and god damn blood.

  No one was allowed to change it.

  Looking straight at Lola, I gauged her playing. She wasn't struggling like yesterday. That was good. We didn't have the luxury of time for her mistakes. “If I take you from the grave, you'll be mine... you'll be mine...” Her eyes glimmered, sticking to me, then my lips. I spread them; a kiss across the room. A promise I would taste her as soon as I found a way.

  “Lost in time,” I hissed, all rocks and leather. “Your end is mine. My love will be your last.”

  Just like that, Lola missed her mark. Dead air, a wrong note, she was stammering as much as if she'd forgotten her words during a speech. To give her credit, she recovered and kept going. The tension in her neck and shoulders was clear as day.

  Yesterday, when she'd kept making mistakes, I'd burst with disgust. Rage had taken over my brain. Staring at her red skin, the sweaty luster on her throat... I knew what was happening.

  I finally understood.

  She messes up when she gets sucked into my words. When I sing at her, and she feels it, she can't control herself. It was delicious and awful and astounding all at once. What fucking power I had over her. I could make her so weak, she'd forget every bit of talent she had and turn into someone who'd never touched a guitar before.

  I could break Lola.

  That shouldn't have excited me so much.

  Everyone was still playing. They had only stopped when I'd been the one to quit before. I'd always demanded perfection and hard work. Inside of me, a tempting wall of sin was tearing me in two. Lola needed to perform up to par. The band relied on her doing her best.

  But the idea of seeing her crumbling because of me, to have that direct of a connection with her mind and body...

  Fuck, it made me shiver.

  When I sang my lines, my mouth was salivating. “Velvet lost on the skin of your bones, velvet rugs that lead to just stones.” With every fiber of intensity, I channeled the heat from my core to my voice. My jeans were tight from my excitement. I needed Lola's reactions. I needed them so bad it made my molars throb. “Sweet love, last love, you'll burn for me...”

  There; the twang of failure. Her misstep sang to my heart, soared through me like a bird with a promise. No one saw it, but I trembled with need. God, was I so fucked up that I'd find such joy in touching her the only way I could? Caressing her with my song until she shattered?

  I am that sick, yes. I really am. Clutching the mic, I let the music fade on the unfinished song. Watching Lola, my forehead was smooth. Everything inside of me, the hidden pieces, were wrinkling and slithering. “This is why I told Brenda we needed all the time we had.” Why I need every god damn second with you I can get, Lola Cooper. Anything else is a hollow cavity.

  “Sorry,” she whispered, fingers running nervously through her hair. Over and over she toyed with the long strands. It did little to subdue their waves. “Can we just try again?”

  My eyebrows made a tight fist. “You sure it won't be wasting our time?”

  “Drezden!” Porter snapped, palming his neck. “Fuck, man. Every time. Just chill out, you know she can do it.”

  “I don't know shit.” That's a lie. She can do it when I'm not trying to sing right into her cells. I'm making her fumble intentionally. Fuck fuck fuck, I'm so hard over this. Ducking down, I grabbed a new water bottle, adjusting my erection covertly. “Again, let's go again.”

  I could keep doing this forever.

  Any question about my promise last night fled. I'd told myself I'd make Lola mine, that I'd do whatever it took to claim her. If I had to start with her skill, with controlling how she performed, then I would. I was a monster.

  And I didn't care.

  The next song was Black Grit. Lola knew this one well. She held up smoothly as I sang. Once, she even managed to look me in the eye without dropping a note. She had no idea I'd figured her out. I wished I could see into her head. Was she blaming herself? Nerves? I hadn't seen her bite herself today, but I couldn't be entirely sure.

  If she uses pain to claim her body from me, what then?

  Swelling with energy, I belted out the wild chorus to the song. It could bring the house down on stage, I'd sung it for crowds so big you'd get lost for days. Now I aimed that surge at one single girl. Lola had no chance.

  If it weren't for the strap around her neck, she would have dropped her guitar entirely.

  The rest of
the band voiced their frustration. Inside, I cheered with rapture.

  “Jesus,” Colt sighed. Holding a water bottle to his forehead, he squinted across at me. “Look, at this rate, I've got to say... maybe we shouldn't have kicked Johnny so quick.”

  My stomach coiled like a cobra. A twinge of pain slid through my neck; I'd twisted that fast to look from my drummer, to Lola. Holy shit, what am I doing? The clarity was colder than the deep ocean. I was fucking sabotaging my own band. Even with my promise, my desire, in my mind... I had to admit that was messed up. But I need her, and this is the only way I can have her. The only way I can reach inside of her in a way no one else has a right to, or could even dream to.

  But was it worth it?

  Warring with the rancid chunk of me that wanted to affect Lola, I gazed at Porter and Colt. My band, guys who had stood by me for years. Guys who knew me at my best and my worst. Well, not entirely my worst.

  Lola was learning that.

  This isn't the way. If I keep this up, we all lose. How can I keep Lola by me if the band crumbles, if we fail on stage and lose it all? Observing the dark haired girl, I licked my lower lip. I knew what I had to do. “No. I made the right choice. She can do it.” Lola sat up, gawking. “One more time. Play it again.”

  That round, I reigned myself in. I didn't try to make her flounder. It took everything in me to control my need to brush that part of her in her brain... but I did it.

  With the last of the chords capering around the room, I looked over my band. Their relief, their excitement, was contagious. “See?” I graced Lola with a subtle smile. “I knew she could do it.” I need her to be able to do it.

  And I need to affect her.

  God fucking hell, why do I need both things so bad?

  Rolling his eyes, Porter plucked his base. “Yeah yeah, you're clairvoyant. Let's do another one.”

  As a solid unit, we played. Four and a Half Headstones came alive. My ears rang with our sound, telling me we were as good now as we'd been at our peak. Before Johnny had started dipping into lackadaisical habits. Back when we'd brought him on fresh, same day as we'd told Sean Cooper no.

  Lola's brother. I wonder what they talked about this morning. Had she said anything about me to him? Had the guy even asked? It wasn't my business, yet at the same time, the feeling that anything having to do with Lola was my business was forming. God, I wanted her. My skin boiled with my starvation, tongue tasting like delirium.

  I actually almost missed a lyric. No one noticed, just me.

  That was plenty.

  Winding down an hour into practice, I kicked the pile of plastic bottles around the floor. Lola was sweating, the front of her shirt stained. The dark patch drew the eye—my eye—to her heaving breasts. Leaning on the bench, head tilted to the ceiling, her throat bobbed. Her panting summoned filth from the base of my skull.

  Instantly, I recalled how she'd looked beneath me in the tub. Her parted lips, wide-eyes and wild smell. I'd heard her heart, her very blood, and still pressed on her harder.

  Wrenching my gaze away didn't help.

  Ruffling my hair, I didn't need to spend time coping with the rush of tingles. Brenda was there to sober me. She pushed through the curtain, looking at all of us but honing in on Lola. “Good, perfect timing.”

  “What's perfect timing?” I growled.

  My manager brushed past me. She still wore her ridiculous tall red heels; the sharp bottoms tore at the rug floor. “Come on Lola, we're pulling the bus over for a minute.”

  The guitarist lifted her eyebrows. “What? Why?”

  “Our photographer is up ahead, he's with his crew in the parking lot of a furniture store.” Gripping her curved hips, the red-head tapped her toe. “Come on, be quick!”

  Lola's sapphire eyes jumped to me. That expression was pleading, but the reasoning as to why escaped me. Is she asking my permission to leave, or asking me to stop this shoot? “Go, make it fast,” I grumbled.

  Brenda fluffed her hair. “Relax. We're doing it right on the bus. They just need to clean her up first, then they'll take some shots as we drive. Easy.”

  Easy, I thought silently. Saying nothing, I folded my arms and watched them leave the room.

  When their footsteps faded, Porter gave a sharp cough. “So. First time we've all been alone together since Lola joined.”

  “Yup.” Colt rubbed his chin with a stick.

  They were waiting for me to talk. I could see it in their eyes. Setting the mic on the stand, I dropped onto a bench. “Say whatever you need to.”

  Poking at his base, Porter watched the floor like it had words there to read. “She's good. I think she's gotten a handle on her nerves now.”

  Nerves. My lips twisted. Nerves wasn't the right word, but they didn't need to know that. I was entirely convinced that Lola was caught up in me. Her awkward moments were crafted from her feelings, her reactions. It was a private gift meant for me, they didn't need that knowledge.

  “Forget about that,” Colt mumbled. “What's this photo shoot thing all about? Did I miss something, do we all need new head shots or some shit?”

  The internal debate I had was a funny one. I knew I could play dumb, force Brenda to come up with an answer. Putting that on her is a risk. I know she won't say word one about the security mix up, it makes her look bad too, but if they press her and she can't give a good lie... Leaning forward, I gripped my knees. “Brenda just said Lola needs some photos. Stuff for social media, that sort of junk.”

  The two men nodded, happy to accept that answer. It was close enough to the truth to be believable. “In that case,” the bassist yawned, “I'm going to grab some coffee. Pretty sure we got some instant stuff left in the cupboard.”

  “I'll remind Brenda we need supplies.” My legs creaked when I stood. I was only twenty-one, but lately, my stress and lack of sleep made me feel much older. The two of us wandered into the front of the bus. I don't know what I expected to see out there. Maybe a camera guy, someone for makeup.

  A tall umbrella light stood in the aisle, blocking most of the way in. Porter was pacing in front of it, hands held high. “Hey, come on, let me through!”

  “One second,” Brenda snapped. She appeared beside me, dragging Lola by the arm from the bathroom. My sour mood was rising... Then, I saw her.

  Someone, no doubt Brenda, had forced the guitarist out of her ratty pants and fitted top. In black, torn jeans that revealed chunks of skin all up the backs of her thighs, Lola was a vision. A white and black spaghetti top, the back shredded to display her shoulder blades, and knee high vinyl boots completed her ensemble.

  It wasn't the Lola I knew... but I could see myself liking this version just fine.

  Her cheeks were on fire. Blue eyes sparkled, casting my way in another silent cry for help. She hates this already, I realized. Brenda guided her past us, our bodies brushing in the tight aisle. The sweet scent of Lola sank into my bones, living there.

  Porter made room for the girls, then scowled as the umbrella light was pushed back in his face. “Hey! Come on, I don't want to break this, but I need some fucking coffee.”

  “Chill.” Our manager grabbed a carton off of a table. Steaming, bitter smelling liquid poured into a tall cup which she hastily thrust at Porter. Someone from the photo team had brought us coffee.

  Lola was handed over to the group. Two woman and one man quickly surrounded her like hungry wolves. I could hardly see the girl.

  Anxiety jumped through me, grasshoppers on cocaine. It shouldn't have mattered. She was just getting her makeup done. You know it's more than that. She's going to be showing herself to the world now. I shook my head vigorously. Lola was going to show herself tomorrow anyway, on stage. I'd known that.

  Hadn't I realized what that meant?

  No. I didn't fucking think about it until now. Gripping the seat next to me, I listened to the group titter around Lola like little birds. She's going to be famous like the rest of us. That means fans, stalkers, obsessive people who will
try to take pictures of her, with her, everywhere.

  Lola was going to become a star like me.

  I wanted her to be mine, and she would belong to the world before that would happen.

  Porter moved beside me, sipping his coffee. “They never put as much effort into my makeup for these shoots.”

  My mood was too black for his humor. “She's going to look like a different person.”

  “No more than the rest of us,” he snorted.

  Porter was wrong.

  Eventually the group cleared, another umbrella light added into the aisle. Lola was a queen, black tresses wound out so they fell across her shoulders in smooth curls. They'd turned her eyes into lands of coal, lashes so heavy I was amazed she could blink.

  And her fucking lips... they'd made them plumper, shiny and crimson. It was a frown made of rubies begging to be kissed. Lola looked absolutely miserable.

  My bassist whistled, low and private for us. Jerking my glare at him, I witnessed the stare of appreciation on his face. He was seeing Lola in a way he never had. It was a sliver compared to what I saw in her from the start. “Wow, she's kind of hot, isn't she? Damn.”

  Biting my tongue, I went back to watching the girl I hungered for. They were coaxing her into posing. Stiff as wood, Lola let them adjust her until she was draped in a seat. Cameras flashed, blinding her pretty blue eyes.

  Though I didn't enjoy seeing her so uneasy at the hands of the photographers, I had to admit she looked stunning. My jeans were crying out, begging me to give my cock more room. Scratching at my skull did little to chase the degenerate thoughts away.

  Someone shoved Lola's guitar at her. She took it happily, transforming before my eyes. The instrument was a lifeline. It completed the picture, made her whole. Lola was lost without her music; it hurt me how similar we were.

  Now the photos would make sense. They'd show a girl who was a masterpiece of talent, not a half-finished plastic replica.