Bad Beats: A Rock-Star Step-Brother Romance (6 page)

Reggie, our self-proclaimed roadie, has moved closer and is hovering near Lila, making no attempt to hide his smug expression.

“When we broke up, I got together with Reg. I never stopped seeing him. I didn’t know how to tell you. I love you, but I’m in love with him. Shit, Sean. This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“You fucker!” I lunge for one of my oldest friends.

He could have stopped this nightmare, but it’s obvious, he wants to see me suffer the humiliation of losing Lila to him in public. Roxie had pointed out his jealous streak more than once, but I’d brushed off her warnings.

Stix and Marx grab my arms. Slyder jogs over from his hiding place.

“He’s not worth it, man. She’s not either,” Slyder yells before turning his attention to the two traitors. “Get the fuck out of here while you can. When we’re at the top of the charts, you’ll both regret this.”

“You’ll never make it!” Reggie shouts as he pulls Lila away. “Talent-less wannabes.”

Reggie’s opinion means very little to me, but Lila has always been my biggest cheerleader.

She turns back, an ugly sneer distorting her otherwise perfect face. “I hate Crude Element. Reggie’s right. You guys suck.”

Even with her parents present, their own shock palpable, she flips us off.

And the switch to my heart follows her example, flipping to the off spot at the sight of her middle finger. I decide right then and there that women are good for one thing—sex.

So far, I’m the only one in my band who hasn’t decided on a stage name.

Thanks to Reggie and Lila’s sick stunt, I’ve got one now.

I’m Shag
fucking
Steal. I intend to do a whole lot of shagging to make up for lost time.

Sean is dead, buried, and there is no resurrection date anywhere on the horizon.

“Shag, are you okay?” a timid voice asks, reminding me what and
who
exactly triggered my worse memory ever.

I release her hand like its shooting flames and step back. “This was a mistake. I gotta go.”

Not bothering to explain, I leave the woman who could be my undoing
or
perhaps my salvation, standing by the rail.

After about ten steps, I give into temptation and glance back. There is no way I can miss the confusion and hurt reflected on her beautiful face. And I can’t deny how hard her wounded expression affects me either. It’s like a punch to the gut.

Fuck!
She’s dangerous. I have no doubt now that a simple roll in the sack won’t be enough.

Time to get stoned and write a song, anything to get my mind off Cadie O’Shea and what might have been.

Cadie

“Everybody’s Crazy in some way and everybody’s weird, and that kind of makes us all the same in a lot of ways. We’re not alone, we just think we are.”

-Mike Herrera

The table’s overhead umbrella manages to keep the sun’s scorching rays off my delicate skin. My floppy hat, swimsuit cover-up, oversized sunglasses, and layers of sun block help too, although I’m already pink from the thirty minutes I spent in the pool, splashing around with Robin and Roxie.

Even now, after two and a half hours, they continue to enjoy the water and sunshine with no adverse effects, occasionally returning to our table to check on me and order more drinks…
lucky bitches
.

Attempting to look like I’m having at least some fun tucked away in the shade, I sip my drink, a tropical slushy-thing that tastes like coconuts and pineapple, and remember to flash an occasional smile their way or wave when one of them looks my direction. In reality, I’m so tired I can barely keep my eyes open, but I promised Roxie and Robin at least a few hours of ‘girl time,’ and I’m not one to renege no matter what the circumstances.

Today’s circumstance is more than simple exhaustion.

After being abandoned by Shag last night, I found my way back to the cabin, where I proceeded to cry off my makeup and gorge on a bag of cookies from our overabundant food supply. Passed out and snoring like a freight train, Robin was oblivious to my meltdown.

Once I finished off the strawberry shortbreads, I moved on to plain, salty potato chips, consuming over half before collapsing in the Jacuzzi tub, where I attempted to wash away my still-lingering embarrassment.

What was Shag’s deal?

He’d seemed so earnest, holding my hand and acting like he couldn’t wait to get me alone.

After hours of tossing and turning and analyzing the situation, I came to the conclusion that by agreeing to spend time with him, I’d somehow scared him off. Apparently ‘the chase’ is what intrigues him.

At least now I know my initial suspicions about him just wanting a challenge were accurate; which means I can move on and enjoy my vacation without worrying and wondering about his motives. Besides, there are plenty of other attractive men onboard, several who have made no effort to hide their interest. In fact, the drink I’m currently nursing came from a tall, dark, and very handsome stranger sitting at the round bar, on the far side of the pool.

He stopped by to introduce himself a while ago. We engaged in friendly conversation until Robin interrupted, scaring him back to his stool with her intrusive questions. He sent the cocktail, in spite of her overprotective antics. I made sure to toast him from afar, earning a dashing smile worthy of a toothpaste commercial.

Though flattered by his attention, I’m still not interested or motivated enough to leave my secluded shelter to pursue anything with him.

Instead I switch on my Kindle, planning to escape my problems for someone else’s. Fictional characters tend to have more challenges than I do, which is the reason I enjoy reading so much. I can get caught up in their world and avoid mine.

A hand on my shoulder sends me flying from my seat, putting a halt to my reading session before I even get started. I drop my device on the table and turn to identify the offender.

I should have known.

Who else would have the balls to creep up from behind and touch me unannounced?

“Hey, Cat. What are you doing sitting all alone? Isn’t it your girl-power day?” Shag smirks.

Because his dark glasses do their job so well, I can’t see his eyes. He seems to have forgotten how we parted last night, or, more likely, he’s choosing to pretend it didn’t happen. Whatever the reason, he’s giving me emotional whiplash, and I don’t like it. Not to mention, he just referred to me by a revised version of the nickname only Robin and Josh are allowed to use. He must have overheard Robin call me Cadie Cat and decided to drop my first name from the equation.

Feeling surprisingly confident from all the male attention and the three drinks I’ve polished off, I decide to give him a taste of his own asshole-a-ry.

“What do you want, Shag? I’m busy here.” I sit back down and pick up my Kindle, pretending to dust off the screen with a napkin and pressing the power button.

Ignoring my question, he folds his big body into the chair closest to me. The movement distracts me, and I give up my feigned attempt at reading a second time.

It’s then I fully absorb his appearance.

Besides his smooth head, dark sunglasses, and that damn heart-shaped mouth, he’s sporting some serious facial stubble, giving him a rougher edge I find oddly appealing. He has circular, black gauges, in his ears, something I failed to notice before, and I’m surprised how much I like the same look on him that I’ve always found so repulsive on others. Everything about the Crude Element front-man should disgust me, only it doesn’t. In fact, he has the opposite effect. 

Still pondering my traitorous reaction, I allow my gaze to sweep lower, sucking in a breath at the next visual treat.

He’s shirtless; his broad chest, washboard abs, and bulging biceps on display. It looks like he bathed in body oil making his skin shine and his tattoos gleam.

Unlike the other male passengers, most who wear tropical shorts, swim trunks, or khakis; Shag is wearing tattered jeans that have rips and tears in strategic places, revealing flashes of his bronzed skin.

Wow. Just wow.

“Like what you see, Miss O’Shea?”

Ignoring his question, I suck an icy slurp from my cocktail’s hot pink straw.

“So, who was the dude?” he questions, a hint of what sounds suspiciously like jealousy invading his otherwise calm and cocky tone.

Confused, I lift my head, trying to figure out who exactly he’s referring to. “What
dude
?”

“You really don’t drink much, do you?” He grins, changing topics
again
, making me doubt my green eyed monster sighting.

And I’m not so buzzed that I don’t realize we’re answering questions with more questions and getting nowhere. It doesn’t stop me from firing back one of my own. “Why do you say that?” 

He recognizes our quandary as well and offers a solution. “How about I answer that last question and then you can answer one of mine.”

I start to toss out another query, just for the hell of it, but decide I’d rather hear why he considers me a novice drinker. He’s correct, but I want to know how he knows. I nod for him to continue.

“For starters, I could see how worried you were about your friend’s consumption habits, and it’s pretty obvious you’re not a fan drunken behavior. Secondly, you passed up the free booze backstage in Portland,
and
you didn’t have a drink with last night’s dinner…”

“Dinner? I wouldn’t call what I ate an actual dinner. I was saving Rico the Rat from potential extermination and trying to avoid becoming everyone’s poor excuse for entertainment. I didn’t have time to order a drink.”

“I get that. But, seriously, there’s no doubt in my mind that partying isn’t your priority.”

For some reason, it annoys me how Shag Steal thinks I’m some uptight goody-goody that never cuts lose. He might be right, but when he points it out, I feel stupid. Without thinking, I decide to tell him the real reason behind my cautious approach to all mood-altering substances, liquor included.

“Here’s the deal…the real deal, I might add.”

He leans closer. The unique, masculine scent of leather, spice, and fresh rain rolled into one yummy package teases my senses. I ignore the urge to ask what cologne he has on, afraid I will buy a bottle and douse my pillow with it. 

“I like real. Go on,” he prompts, redirecting my thoughts.

When I hesitate, he offers an encouraging smile. “Please, tell me.”

There is no way I can say no when he asks like that. The smile doesn’t hurt either.

With a sigh, I launch into my story before I chicken out. “Back in high school, my good friend went through a recreational drug phase. He decided to try anything he could get his hands on. He wasn’t the only one. It seemed like everyone was getting high or drinking, and not just on weekends.

I’m not sure what other schools are like, but ours was notorious for its drug problems. Anyway, Thomas was an athlete and in great shape. There was no reason for us to think he had any health issues, especially a serious one.” I pause, reaching for my drink before realizing the irony of my action.

I am getting ready to reveal one of my darkest moments, a moment that might have been prevented or at the very least delayed without booze and blow hastening it along. A cocktail is the last thing I need. I grab my water bottle instead, wishing I’d added more ice. 

“You okay?” Shag lowers his sunglasses and searches my face.

His unexpected concern thrills me far more than his usual cheap innuendos. If he continues with the nice guy act, I’ll be doomed.

I force myself to nod. “I haven’t talked about this in a long time. I wasn’t prepared for how it would make me feel.”

“You don’t have to tell me,” he assures, endearing himself to me even more.

“No, I want to. It’s a good reminder why I avoid certain extracurricular activities.”

After another sip of water, I continue on to the part I’m dreading. “Thomas had an undiagnosed heart condition. When he decided to smoke large quantities of crack cocaine, it triggered a fatal reaction.” I swallow a sob threatening to escape, but am unable stop my eyes from misting. “As if that wasn’t bad enough, things only got worse. Thomas had a twin sister. They were like soul-siblings, closer than close. She didn’t take his overdose well, as you can imagine. Two months later, she decided living without her twin wasn’t worth the effort. She was found hanging in her walk-in closet.”

I refuse to cry and snatch my drink instead, chugging down what’s left and feeling horrible for giving in.

Shag’s expression is hard to read, considering the glasses, but I can see his jaw twitch and he’s grown tense, no longer kicked back and relaxed.

Unsure what to say next, I wait for his response.

* * *

Shag

When I encouraged Cadie to
be real
, I wasn’t expecting her to share something so personal, especially something that would force me to examine my own questionable habits.

Pain-inducing and thought-provoking discussions aren’t my strong suit. I do everything possible to keep conversations light and hopefully humorous. Sexual suggestions, jokes, and dramatic retellings of my experiences are my specialty. Those subjects are in my safe zone. Emotionally, I live in that safe zone, walled off from anything too heavy for my hardened heart.

But once again, the woman next to me has found a way to shake the walls I’ve erected. Cracks and fissures are starting to appear in the supposedly, impenetrable foundation I have worked so hard to fortify. Part of me wants to get up and walk away. But if I do it a second time, any chance I might have with the fiery redhead will be obliterated.

For some inexplicable reason, I’m not ready or willing to give up whatever it is I feel for her, not yet anyway. And I’m definitely not giving up until I’ve had her in my bed.

I can’t remember ever wanting a woman more. But there’s a glaring problem I can’t ignore, an issue sure to put a skidding stop to anything that might be developing between us.

Considering her repulsion in regard to drugs, cocaine in particular, there is no doubt Cadie O’Shea would be appalled by my behavior last night, not to mention, by my history of chemical excess.

Following my rude dismissal, I’d acted recklessly and behaved foolishly―no surprise there. Normally it wouldn’t matter; but now, because of her, it does. It matters a lot.

A vision of my debauchery reminds me why I am every kind of wrong for the woman staring expectantly at me. 

With guilt tugging at my gut, and the image of Cadie O’Shea’s wounded expression harassing my heart, I enter my cabin and flip on the light, prepared to put all my new feelings of angst and frustration into a song for our next album. Guilt and remorse are not emotions I’m used to. I can’t remember the last time I felt either. Miss O’Shea is creating an avalanche of unfamiliar emotions and an abundance of musical inspiration.

She’s also making me horny as fuck.

Picturing her in that clingy dress with her luscious legs begging to be spread has my cock straining, ready to punch through my pants.  I can’t forget her breasts either. She’s a fucking bombshell…all those curves and that curly crimson hair. I’d give my right arm to see her ‘other’ curls, and I wonder if she waxes. I hope like hell she’s not bare down there. I need at least a landing strip to tease with my tongue.

Cadie is, without argument, a sexy, sensuous woman. She might not be thin enough for Vogue’s cover, but she’s fucking perfect for me. I’ve seen what some of those models look like, and they’re too damn skinny. When I spank an ass, I want it to jiggle and shake.

The thought of my palm print on Cadie’s round bottom forces me to adjust my cock.