CHAPTER 4

 

 

Knox

 

 

 

Everyone agrees this party is supposed to be a good idea. Baz; the label and their little mouthpiece, Marty; the band. Twenty-four hours ago, I thought so, too.

Now, it’s all fucked up.

I stand near the bar, waiting for a Jack on the rocks, and look around the room. The label took over a restaurant for this thing, located on top of one of the fancy hotels in L.A., and the place looks like it’s filled to capacity. The cynical part of me knows it’s because of the free food and booze, more than because they give a shit about Wycked Obsession or our music.

I saw Baz earlier, but he’s missing again. Probably taking care of a bunch of crap that I don’t even know about. I grab the back of my neck and squeeze. It irks me a little, depending on Baz to do so much, but I can’t do it all.

I can’t control everything, as Bree likes to remind me.

I search the crowd until I find her, one arm linked through Ajia’s as they drink champagne and listen to…who the hell knows? I haven’t met the old geezer they’re talking to, and I don’t want to. Not interested in being bored to death like they must be. I can tell by the way my sister shifts her weight from side to side, and how Ajia keeps looking around the room, like he’s desperate to get away.

Welcome to life as a rock star.

At least they look the part of the rich and famous. Bree’s dressed in a black fuck-me dress with matching heels, and both piss me off. I can’t bitch about it, though, because she didn’t pick them out; Baz had some personal shopper send them to her room.

Besides, I promised to give her some space. I don’t like it, but I get it. Kind of. She’s almost 20 and says she’s grown up. I just want to protect her, like our sperm donor didn’t.

At least Ajia’s dressed kind of conservatively. A lot like me, actually, in a suit and tie and his hair pulled back in a ponytail. I’m in gray, he’s all in black, and I gotta admit they look fucking hot together. If I didn’t know ‘em, I’d think it was a great marketing campaign. Like they’re each half of a pair. Seeing that pisses me off, too.

Is it a good idea for them to be together, hiding in plain sight, according to Rye? Bree’s had a silly crush on Ajia for a long time. Putting them this close together…well, I don’t like it. Especially because I have to give her some space right now. At least in public. Because of those goddamn rumors.

We had to do something, and I got outvoted on this one.

“Your drink, sir.”

The bartender hands me a glass, and I kick up a corner of my mouth. Sir? They’re way too freaking polite here.

“It’s Knox,” I say, and he nods with a smile.

I look around again. There was a time when we all dreamed about shit like this. A record label throwing parties for us. Crap like fancy tour buses, limos, and security. Videos, albums, traveling the country, playing sold-out shows, and having more pussy than we could ever fuck.

Well, we’ve got all that shit now. And the ever-loving gossip that goes with fame. Didn’t plan on that.

Fucking paparazzi.

Who the hell would say shit like that about Bree? Sleeping with the band? Orgies and sharing her between them? And…me? Fucking my own sister?

Anybody saying shit like that makes me want to puke.

And Bree… She’s innocent in all this. It’s Gabe’s fault, the motherfucker. If Mom’s new husband knew how to keep his goddamn hands to himself, we wouldn’t be in this position.

Only Baz and the band know about our stepfather wanting to fuck—hell, rape—my sister, and it’s gonna stay that way. But, Jesus! Gossip and rumors about a band ménage and me fucking my own sister make it so much worse. It ramps up my temper to overload, but we’re gonna deal with it.

Have to.

We’re hiring London Kennedy. Today.

Knew I wanted to hire her from the get-go, but she pissed me off. Pushed me. Challenged me. Reminded me of shit I left behind me a long time ago. So I had a little tantrum and was almost ready to change my mind. Then this happened, and that made all the difference. Nobody is fucking with Bree.

I glance around the room again, just to look things over. Noah and Rye are making the rounds, chatting up execs and their women. Wives? Girlfriends? Doesn’t matter. Those guys can charm little old ladies in wheelchairs. Even Zayne’s doing his part, hanging with Marty and some other suits.

Weight shifts heavily on my shoulders as I watch Zayne. He’s struggling. Drugs, alcohol, women. A fist forms in my gut. I don’t know exactly what’s going on with him; he won’t say. Doesn’t mean I can’t guess. We agreed—no drugs. Ajia pushed us to agree to nothing more than weed, and nobody wanted to argue it with him. We understand his crap with it, and we respect it.

Now, we’re a couple of weeks into the tour, and Zayne’s using already. I’m sure of it—and it pisses me off for the band. Worse, it worries me for him.

Gotta figure this shit out.

I turn away, and it’s then that I see her. London. Standing in the doorway, wearing her own version of a fuck-me dress. It’s short and tight, hugging her tits and curvy hips in a very seductive way. Her dress is a dark-blue color with some lacy shit over the top, and her hair’s all loose, falling just around her shoulders.

Jesus Christ. It’s like my cock has eyeballs of its own and notices every fucking detail. I go hard in seconds.

She hasn’t seen me yet, and I watch as she inspects the ridiculous posters plastered all over the room. Fuck. They’re from yesterday’s photo shoot. No idea how they got the prints made up so fast, but I guess the right amount of money can do anything.

I glance at the huge black-and-white posters. As a group, we look like we’re ready to step onstage. I like the energy, the fire. The others—the stupid-ass individual shots—are different. I guess we’re all supposed to look like we’re ready to fuck the next girl we see—and we fucking do. I hate it.

I search until I find the one of me. Unshaven, hair back, the glint of my diamond earring caught by the camera. Worse, my pants are undone, pushed down over my hips just enough to leave you wondering if it’s shadows or a tease of manscaping there. My thumbs are hooked over the waistband, fingers splayed wide over my hips. Looks like I’m ready to shove ‘em off completely.

It could be worse, I suppose. I could have had to put my hand down my pants, like Ajia did.

And if it’s all such a bad joke, why don’t I laugh?

“Knox.”

I blink and discover London standing in front of me.

“English. You made it.”

She smiles faintly. “Yes, of course.”

“Bring your shit?”

“I arranged everything with Baz. He had a car pick me up. I stopped by your hotel, checked in and left my luggage there.”

“You didn’t pack too much, did you?”

I’m being kind of a jackass, but I can’t seem to stop myself. There’s something about this woman that pushes at me, and I can’t see how else to deal with it.

Her expression tightens, but she smooths it out so quickly, I almost miss it. Yep. I pissed her off.

“As I said, I arranged everything with Baz. He told me how much space I was allowed, and I packed accordingly.

I nod and let it go. It’s the best thing all the way around, and for once, I try to follow some kind of good judgment. London Kennedy can help us, and I don’t want to start out making things any more fucked up than they already are.

“Want a drink?” I gesture to the bartender.

“White wine, please.”

I place the order and ask what I’ve been wanting to since I saw her. “You got any ideas how to handle this shitstorm?”

“I’ve made some notes and jotted down a few things. We can talk later, but for now—” she pauses when the bartender brings her wine “—making a public appearance like this is good.”

“Group decision. Rye thought it would be good for her to be front and center with Ajia.” I nod in their direction.

London glances across the room. They’ve escaped the boring old guy, and Bree’s left Ajia, headed for…the bathroom? Looks like it.

“He’s right.” London turns back to me. “Hiding would indicate shame or guilt.”

“I’m keeping my distance.” Irks the shit out of me to say it.

“Also a good idea.” She nods. “Like you trust her with Ajia and have no reason to…hover.”

I snort. If she only knew the rest of it, what we left behind in Austin and how much I want to protect my baby sister. And, hell, that’s the truth and nothing but the truth. It’s my job to take care of everybody in the band. My responsibility.

“What about the rest of the guys?” London asks as her gaze slips through the crowd.

I lift my shoulder in a shrug “We all agreed Bree’d be best with Ajia and the rest of us would back off. No…group shit, you know?”

“Good idea. Looks like you’ve done a great job with your reactions so far.”

“We all love Bree. Don’t want anybody to fuck with her.”

London rests a hand on my forearm, and my body goes into instant and total arousal. Like I wasn’t already hard. Damn prick.

It makes me realize suddenly how much bigger I am than her. She’s got a slender frame, looks almost too thin for her hourglass figure, and even though she’s wearing heels high enough that her legs look so ridiculously long, she’s still at least six inches shorter than me.

A sharp twist of protectiveness arcs through me, and I stiffen. All over. My cock likes the differences. And the idea of covering her. In every way.

What the fuck?

She’s talking, but I can’t make sense of the words. My brain is demanding an answer to that question. What the fuck?

I’m used to being bigger than the girls I fuck. I’m not a huge guy—not as big as Noah—but I’m a little over 6’2” and work out enough to have a body the right size for my height. Besides, chicks seem to like muscular guys.

Chicks? Like the one last night?

I don’t remember a whole hell of a lot about that one. Not her name or her face. She was smaller than London in every way. Flat chest, no hips…and I picked her for exactly that reason. Didn’t want to be thinking about London when I was fucking somebody else. But then, when that chick had her mouth around my dick, the sudden image of London’s fingers wrapped around my cock grabbed me by the throat, and I exploded like a fucking roman candle. Came so hard the chick couldn’t take it all.

Son of a bitch.

A sour fist knots in my stomach. Didn’t want the girl anymore after that. Got her off with my fingers and a few slaps on the ass, and then sent her on her way. Didn’t think of it again until now, when the memory carries a serious sense of revulsion.

What the fuck? The question comes again.

“Knox?”

“Yeah?”

“Did you hear me?”

“Uh…no.” I toss back the rest of my drink and gesture toward the bartender for another. “Sorry. I was watching the crowd.”

Her hand is gone from my arm, I realize, and I look down into her face. I wish she’d left it there. She smiles warily.

“I was saying that your instincts were good. Your group thinking is solid. There are other things we can do to protect your sister and turn attention away from this story. We’ll make a plan.”

“Like?”

“Like replace it with something else. A charitable act. Talk about the next single, the next video. Teasers about the photo shoot.” She gestures toward the posters. “Lots of things. We can brainstorm later, and within a day or two, we can turn things in an entirely new direction. Your call which way they go.”

I’m glad for something else to concentrate on. I hate this rumor shit about Bree, but I don’t wanna go back to thinking about sex, either. Not when London’s standing next to me. Can’t really afford it now, and sure as hell can’t afford it here.

I force myself to nod in agreement. “We’ll have a band meeting tomorrow. Introduce you to everybody and figure this shit out.”

“Okay.” She pauses to sip her wine. “Good,” she adds, like she isn’t sure what else to say. I notice, but I’m also kind of distracted.

Where’s Bree? I haven’t seen her since she went in the direction of the restrooms, and now Ajia’s missing, too. Did something happen? I snatch my fresh drink from the bar and start across the floor.

“Knox!”

It’s London’s voice, coming from behind me. I stop and turn back. “What?”

“Where are you going?”

“What?” I ask again.

“You have…a look on your face.”

“What kind of look?”

She pulls in a breath deep enough that I can see the rise and fall of her breasts. And—goddammit! I shouldn’t notice.

“Like you’re ready to rip somebody a new asshole.”

I blink. “Just looking for Bree. And Ajia. I don’t see ‘em.”

“Relax.” She comes closer, puts that same small hand over my forearm and squeezes. “They’re all right. Just let the evening play out, and everything will be fine.”

“But—”

“What do you think could have happened in a room full of people?”

“Somebody could have said something.”

“Something worse than they’ve already said?”

She’s got me there. “Probably not.”

“Okay, then. You circulate, play the cocky rock god, and I’ll find Baz. Let him know I’m here. Maybe he’s seen Ajia and Bree.”

I let out a breath. She’s right. Okay. I can do this. I search my brain for a safe middle ground.

“You think I’m a cocky rock god?”

London looks at me until she gets this crooked little smile. “Bollocks.” She snorts. “I should have known that’s the part you’d listen to.”

I’m surprised by an answering grin. What is it about London Kennedy?

“What can I say, English? We cocky rock gods have a reputation to keep up.”

She shakes her head. “What the bloody hell have I gotten myself into?”

I give her a look, raised eyebrow and wide innocent eyes. She laughs.

“Keep trying, Rock God. Mingle.” She waves her hand. “Give the people a thrill. I’ll see you later.”

She turns with a swing of her hips, working her way through the crowd with a smile and an occasional sip of her white wine. I watch, my eyes trained on her ass and wonder, not for the first time, what she’ll look like, bent at the waist and waiting for my cock.