CHAPTER 18

 

 

Knox

 

 

The show in Sacramento goes better than expected. Yeah, paparazzi line the path between the venue and the bus, but Kel and the rest of our security team keep them under control. They shout their questions.

Ajia, did you steal Bree from the rest of the band?

Knox, how do you feel about your sister and Ajia hooking up?

Noah, some girl says you gave her a disease. That true?

We ignore them. Already agreed we’re not answering any more questions about Ajia’s and Bree’s relationship, and that pretty much takes care of orgy questions, too. No. Fucking. Comment.

The shit about Noah giving some chick an STD? London worked her ass off getting ahead of that. She and Baz got Noah in for testing, with the results promised in twenty-four hours. It cost a few extra bucks, but it’s worth it. She posted a carefully-worded denial with the promise that Noah would issue a statement with his test results. She put it everywhere online, and she and Baz made some deal with the label to get better coverage with Noah’s statement.

Video, we decide, and not a press conference. Don’t want to make any more of it than it needs to be. Less chance of him being blindsided by some jerk out for blood. We’re using the excuse that we’re too busy with the tour.

Next up are a few dates in the Bay Area. Won’t be there as long as we were in L.A., about a week. Thank freaking God! Plus, there won’t be any label bullshit to deal with. Just this goddamn gossip, like somebody put a damn target on our backs.

Is this what fame is like?

Can’t believe I’m thinking this, but why can’t we just write and perform our music? Didn’t think I’d get so jaded so fast—but didn’t think I’d have to deal with all this gossip shit, either.

Baz gets us back in a hotel after only a couple of nights on the bus. I was glad to get back on the road, but not crazy about Bree and Ajia sharing the bedroom. The least noise, and my gut clenches. Jesus, I know what they’re doing…and it’s none of my business!

Bree says so.

And even though they’re sharing a room at the hotel, there’s at least some real estate between us. I’m glad and not pretending. Which is why London and I share a room, too.

She seems happy about it…but somehow nervous as hell, too.

“What’s wrong, English?” I asked her when we first checked in. “Something bothering you?”

She gave me a surprisingly weak smile. “No. It’s…nothing. Just…we’re so new, and there’s all this other stuff going on. It’s like we’re, I don’t know, getting to know each other in front of an audience.”

I pulled her close then and dropped a quick, hard kiss on her mouth. Maybe a little too sweet and caring for Knox Gallagher, manwhore, but I like London. She doesn’t pull her punches, and she looks out for all of us. Especially Bree. That means something to me, so I gave her words, too.

“You know how it is with celebrity, baby. Even B- and C-list rockers. Put us on tour together, and you can’t find much privacy.”

“I know.” She smiled then, seemed more at ease, and she’s worked like a pro ever since.

Now we’re setting up for sound check at the venue in San Jose, and London is drifting through the backstage area, talking to everybody there. Roadies, managers, merch people. What the hell?

What’s she up to now? Just getting to know everyone?

“Knox!”

I have to let it go when Rye calls my name. Just as well, and I lose track of time while we go through the actual sound check and get set for the night’s concert. I actually like the process, making sure everything is set up right.

My control-freak tendencies, Bree would say.

I almost smile. She’s right. I do like things a certain way—my way, I suppose—and feel easier when I’m in charge. If that makes me a control freak, I wear the title proudly.

After sound check is over, I head from the stage to the green room. Accommodations have been decent all over California, but it’s still backstage. Still Grand Fucking Central most of the time.

London’s alone there, hovering over her tablet.

“Hey, baby.”

She looks up, shooting a glance behind me. The rest of the band drags in, Bree tucked close against Ajia’s side. I hold my frown and stare at London. Still not used to the sight of them together, but at least I don’t want to punch my fist in Ajia’s too-pretty face anymore.

I’d rather look at London, but the heavy, whiskey-gold light in her eyes makes me curious. They’re deep, uneasy, and my gut tells me something’s wrong.

“What?” I say in a low voice.

She stands with so much grace, my breath catches. What the fuck? Jesus, am I going all poetic or something now? I grab the back of my neck and shoot out a short breath.

No, nothing like that, but what the hell is she doing with a long-haired, tattooed rocker like me? She’s beautiful, intelligent, naughty at all the right times, and in all the right ways. Too good for an asshole like me.

She slips close enough that I can smell the faintly exotic fragrance that I associate with her. No damn clue what it is, just all London.

“Can we go somewhere?” she whispers. “Private? We need to talk.”

“Okay?” It’s more of a question than agreement. What the hell?

“We’ll be in the bus,” I announce to no one, and Zayne laughs.

“A little afternoon delight, kids?”

London blushes adorably, and I toss off a quick grin. Maybe—who knows? She has something on her mind, I know that much, and we have to get through that first. I can wait. I hold the winning card.

No matter what happens on the bus—or doesn’t—I get her to myself in the hotel room tonight.

We head for the bus, the metal barricades already in place. A few hardcore fans lounge in the parking lot, and security is stationed at both the venue and bus doors.

We brought the bus for privacy. Relaxation. A place to rest or get away from the crazy atmosphere backstage. I’m glad now, because something’s eating at London. In fact, she’s been acting weird for a couple of days.

Is she finally gonna tell me why?

“Knox!”

Some super fan notices us and starts racing toward the metal barricade. Security nods toward the bus, encouraging us inside, and then ambles over to intercept the screeching girl. I don’t hesitate and urge London up the steps into the bus.

She shakes her head. “I’m gonna have to get used to that.”

I grin but don’t really feel it. “Good luck. I’m not used to it.” Not sure I ever will be. I mean, who really likes women—people—coming out of the woodwork, screaming their name, grabbing at them, their clothes, their hair? Who doesn’t want a say in who touches you, where, and how?

I drop onto the sofa, grab London’s hand, and pull her down with me. She’s still a little off-center, so I start out easy.

“Saw you ghosting around backstage.”

Her smile is easier than any other I’ve seen today. “Yes. I thought I’d do a little…snooping. We still don’t know who leaked that original picture of Bree with the band.”

“Any luck?”

She shrugs. “Not yet. I’ve only talked to about half the crew, yours and Edge of Return’s. If it was a jealous fan, we might never find out anything. But maybe somebody from the crew saw something. Heard something. It’s worth following up.”

I want to smile back. My girl is going all the way for my sister. That means a lot to me. A hell of a lot. But I stay serious.

“Thanks, English. It means…a lot.” Can’t think of any other words.

She twines her fingers with mine. “I’d say it’s my job. And it is! But there’s more to it than that. I hate that sneaky, behind the veil kind of stuff.”

We sit for a minute. I tell myself I don’t like the feel of her hand, so small and soft in mine, but it’s a lie.

I love it.

“Knox?” She says it softly. Carefully. “There’s something else.”

“Figured.” I nod once. “What is it?”

“I…” She drops her gaze and sighs. “This.”

She shoves her tablet into my hands, and I glance down. It’s Wycked Obsession’s Facebook page. I see London’s original response to the accusations against Noah. Heartfelt but professional. Perfect under the circumstances. I look farther down and see the little private message window.

Fuking digenrates. Group sex w/ my dau w/ dirty dicks? Im coming for my $$ an want 50 grand. Tell Knox the ole man always git his way.

I stare at the words, misspellings, the stupid shorthand. My gut fists, ending up at the same time empty and too full. My heart thuds an extra beat, and I try to swallow.

“That motherfucker.”

The words come out soft but hard. Granite. I can’t find the pissed-off shout I’d normally give. Don’t have the breath for it.

This isn’t normal for me. Or acceptable, considering the churning emotions inside me. It’s totally, completely wrong, and on so many levels.

Fucked up in every way.

I want to be pissed. To let my rage erupt. To punch something, someone. Destroy shit. But it’s not there. Right now, I’m just fucking tired. Tired of fighting. Tired of the sperm donor and his bullshit. Tired of these assholes coming at us from all angles.

The fury will come. I know it, and I can’t wait for it. It’ll help me. Motivate me to do what I have to. I need it.

All I ever wanted was to keep my family safe, write some music, and play my fucking guitar. What’s so wrong about that?

“Knox?”

I blink. London’s expression is intense. Concerned. Afraid?

“He’s not gonna give up,” I say finally. Tiredly.

“I…” She shakes her head. “No, I don’t think so.”

I stare at her, at the genuine emotion in her eyes, the way her hair curls around her shoulders in auburn-colored waves, the tight-fitting tank top with old-fashioned looking flowers that suit her so well. She’s so hot, beautiful with a smokin’ body, but she’s so much more.

She’s strong and committed to her beliefs. She’s smart. She’s kind and caring. She’s genuine and giving, and she’s helping me take care of my Wycked Obsession family.

I let out a sharp breath. “He screwed with us our whole lives. When we were little, he’d fight with Mom and then disappear for a few days, weeks. Whatever. Then one time he didn’t come back. Ever. He left us with questions and bills, and Mom working her ass off to pay ‘em because she had two kids to support.”

“She sounds like a remarkable woman.”

“She is.” I nod. “Bree’s a lot like her, but she was so scared at first. Hurt. Couldn’t understand why he ‘didn’t want us anymore.’ She was eight years old, and that’s how she said it. Didn’t want us anymore.”

I hate those fucking memories. Of the nights when Bree would cry herself to sleep, and I’d sneak into her room to calm her down. Didn’t want Mom to hear. She was upset enough. So I’d crawl into Bree’s bed, wrap my arms around her in the awkward way only a twelve-year-old boy can do, and lay there until my sister fell asleep. Then I’d go back to my room and curse the asshole who made my mom and my sister cry.

The sperm donor.

I swallow, and finally find some rage in the tone of my voice. “I’m not giving him a goddamn dime.”

“I know. But…do Bree and your mom deserve to know about this?”

“No!” I stiffen and pull away. “Absolutely not. You didn’t see them, English. Don’t know what they went through when he abandoned us. No.” I shake my head sharply, and my hair whips across my eyes. I shove it back. “Not after all these years. He doesn’t want to see them. Didn’t ask about that, did he? No!” I answer my own question. “He’s only after money.”

“Right.” She agrees softly. “Okay. I understand. But…maybe we should bring Baz in on this.”

“Baz?” But I’m still shaking my head.

“Knox.” She reaches for me, scoots closer. For some reason, that makes me feel better.

“I know you want to handle this yourself,” she admits. “Like you do with everything. I get it. But this has the potential to spin so bloody far out of control. I’m not sure if I have the knowledge or know-how to contain it. Baz has other contacts, more experience. Between the three of us…”

Her words die away, and I know it’s because she doesn’t quite know what to say. Who would? It’s a screwed-up situation, no winners, and she’s caught right in the middle of it.

Just like me. Along with all the other bullshit going on in my life.

I nod. “Yeah, okay. Baz. We’ll talk to him tomorrow.”

 



 

I know how to get my head back in the game, channel my adrenalin, and by the time we leave the green room for the show, I’m Knox Gallagher, guitarist and co-founder of Wycked Obsession.

Cocky rock god.

A corner of my mouth twists up in a half-grin, and it let it. London’s voice fills my head, and I glance over my shoulder to where she and Bree perch on a couple of chairs to watch. She’s been with us for a couple of shows now, but I’m suddenly aware of her watching me perform.

Not as a band employee or a new acquaintance. As English. My lover. The woman who can touch me and make me go off like a damn Roman candle. Who knows more about me than just about anybody.

The show goes well. From our standard opening of Run to the last song, our most recent hit, Tonight. Soon as we get the details for shooting the video of Lost, we’ll switch up the playlist and end with that.

But now, tonight, I have something—someone—that matters more. I grab London’s hand as I stalk off stage. “C’mon.”

She hurries to keep up. She’s wearing a cute skirt that’s maybe a little tight—for my benefit?—so I slow down a little. “Where are we going?”

“Away from here.” I stop long enough to press a long, deep kiss against her mouth. Just enough of a taste to hold me until we get back to the hotel.

Or maybe just the bus.

I wrap an arm around her, because I know what’s waiting. The groupies crowding forward, screaming and grabbing. I can already hear them up ahead.

“Noah!”

“Ajia, wait! Are you really with her?”

“Zayne!”

“Rye!”

And my name, when we get up around the corner. I’m already tense, and the whole circus pisses me off.

Why? I used to play the game, liked it even. Then everything got all screwed up with the first rumors about Bree, and it all started to change for me.

I love Wycked Obsession. The band. I love making music, performing. I’m grateful for the fans, and the groupie chicks have been good for business. Good for me. But…fuck.

Not now. Not tonight. Not anymore.

Too much other shit on my mind, and I’ve got a woman next to me who has my back. Who knows how to make it all go away.

At least for a little while.

“Knox!”

The inevitable happens, and the crowd descends on us. I keep London tight against me, her arm around my waist. She’s smart enough to hook her thumb through a belt loop on my leather pants, and I smile down at her. She smiles back, but I can see the uneasiness in the depths of her eyes.

Who wouldn’t freak out a little with a hoard of women all pushing close, grabbing, shouting?

“Sorry, ladies,” I call with what I hope sounds like real sorrow and give them my I-wish-I-could-fuck-you-all grin. It usually works.

“Got other plans tonight,” I add and tighten my grip around London’s shoulder. “Thanks for coming out. You’re the reason we do this.”

It’s bullshit. We do it for ourselves. I do it to calm the noise in my soul. But they want to be a part of it all? What’s the harm?

A chorus of groans follows us. Literally. They’re right behind us, on into the green room where the rest of the band and the hangers-on are milling around. Ajia’s got Bree on the couch, protected by his arm around her, and Noah’s just coming out of the bathroom. Zayne and Rye hold court on opposite sides of the room, ever-present red Solo cups in their hands and one-and-done chicks jockeying for position.

I’ve seen it a thousand times, but something about it scrapes over my nerves tonight. Maybe it’s the rumors. Bree and Ajia and Noah. Or Mom’s divorce. She has to handle that shit on her own while we’re on tour. Or the next video, the one the label is putting money and talent behind, and that we’re going to have to fly back to L.A. to film.

Or the sperm donor. No matter what else is going on, I know that jerk and his bullshit have pushed me over the edge.

Irritation and anger rise in me, probably worse because of the adrenalin that started before the show and is still there. Always is after a performance. And maybe a dose of testosterone, tuned up by the need to smash my fist into the old man’s face. Stirred by the groupies who act so desperate just to be around us. Refined by the woman standing so close next to me.

“Let’s get out of here.” I look down at her, and I can tell by how her eyes widen that my expression carries the ferocity I feel inside.

“Go where?”

“Back to the room. I…need you.”

I fucking hate admitting it, but I don’t have it in me to say anything else tonight. I just need to get that sexy, flirty skirt and white, short-sleeved top off her. I need to get her under me, ready and waiting for my cock. My hands. My mouth.

I need something in my control, and English is the only one who can give it to me.