Diva (Ironclad Bodyguards Book 2) (17 page)

“Blah blah blah. Those stage dives are how I made my name in this business. That’s what people want, that’s what they remember.”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Don, and Ransom had to agree. It was one thing to dive into the crowd at a small venue. At these festivals…

“Ugh, you talk to her,” said Don. “You explain to her. I can’t even deal.”

“Here’s the thing,” Ransom said to Lola. “When you jump into the crowd, you don’t only endanger yourself. You can’t see it from where you are, but everyone in the crowd surges toward you. Kids get shoved against the barriers and it’s not safe. Performers belong onstage.”

“I know that,” she yelled. “I’m on stage, I’m trying to perform, I’m trying to make these rich fucking pricks more money, and what do I get for it? A bunch of idiotic bullshit restrictions.”

“Just fucking do your job,” Don yelled back. “And stop giving everyone around you a headache. You’re the only one who has to have a special fucking security guy following you around, because you’re such an irresponsible cunt.”

“Hey,” said Ransom in a sharp voice. “Watch your fucking mouth.”

Don turned his jabbing finger toward Ransom now, even though he still spoke to Lola. “Do you know how much this fucking bodyguard costs MadDance? Do you have any idea of the expense? This tour, this bus, your fucking liability insurance, all of it has a price tag.”

“And you too,” she shot back at her manager. “You have a price tag too, even if you’re shitty at your job. It’s all about the fucking money. I know that. None of you gives a shit about me, except for your fucking money, so fuck you.” She turned to Ransom next. “And fuck you. Fuck all of you. Fuck all of this. At this point I really don’t give a fuck. Find someone else to do your goddamned festival tour. I fucking quit.”

She stormed back to the bedroom and yanked the door shut, and threw the lock as Don shouted, “You can’t quit. Don’t you understand that?”

Ransom held up a hand to silence him. “What’s her deal?” Don seethed. “I mean, seriously, what’s wrong with her?”

“Nothing. I think she understands everything,” said Ransom. “For better or worse.”

Porno Sex

B
ack at the
hotel, Lola waited to cry until Ransom was in the shower. She’d be damned if she’d cry in front of him, but the tears still had to come out. As she mopped at her eyes, she listened for the sound of the water shutting off. He never took long enough showers, or maybe she just had too many tears.

She only cried now when he was in the shower, or when she was in the shower. She used to cry when he was asleep, but then she realized he wasn’t always sleeping when he looked like he was sleeping, because in the mornings, he’d study her with those dark, brooding eyes.

She couldn’t think about his eyes, or all the other things she’d come to love about him. It seemed really important not to reveal how much she obsessed over him, so she’d been stuffing everything down, every awkward, lonely feeling. Maybe that’s why she’d lost it after the show, and screamed at Ransom and Don like a maniac.

The water shut off. Lola unwrapped the towel from her hair and used it to wipe her cheeks. She didn’t know what had happened tonight, why she was coming apart one downbeat at a time. She’d been fine until Ransom pulled her out of the crowd. The way he’d glared at her…

If you don’t want him to glare at you, don’t act like an idiot.

That was easier said than done. When he’d pushed her away in front of all those people, like she was something dirty, it had really hurt her feelings. It made her feel dirty, and her hour-long shower hadn’t done anything to help her feel clean again. She looked down at her bare legs under her sleep shirt. Now her skin was too dry.

As soon as Ransom came out in his joggers and tee shirt, Lola slipped past him into the bathroom and shut the door. She could still smell the scent of his soap and deodorant in the humid air. She checked her eyes for redness, splashed some water on her face, then dried off and went back into the room with her lotion.

She sat on the edge of the bed and started moisturizing her legs. He’d probably accuse her again of flirting and seduction, but she felt scaly so he could suck it. Once her legs were done she started on her arms, and then the back of her shoulders where she’d stood under the hot water until it burned. No, she could never get clean enough for him, which made no sense, because he was a porn legend who’d made hundreds of films.

She’d searched Rico Rockhard and found dozens of pages of results: photos, clips, entire films freely available on the web. She’d watched some of them. She couldn’t help it.

He’d looked the same back then. Maybe a little less muscular, with darker, shorter hair, but his cock looked the same. That lightning bolt. What the fuck? He was a monster in the vids she’d watched. He’d drilled the women, held them down, berated them, subdued them in violent mastery. She could never watch for more than a minute or two, because it was so shocking to see him that way.

It was also an invasion of his privacy. It made her feel shitty and weak to watch them.

But what else did she have?

She looked over toward the desk, where he typed on his laptop. He had to write daily reports for Ironclad, memoirs of her fuckery. Today’s report would include her illicit stage dive and the argument with her manager.

“Want some lotion?” she asked.

He looked up at her. Brooding. Always brooding. “No, thank you.”

She held the bottle to her nose. “It doesn’t smell girly.”

He didn’t need lotion. She just wanted to talk to him, which he knew. “I don’t want any lotion,” he said. “I’m typing.”

She rubbed a little more on her hands and tossed the bottle across the room, hitting her luggage by chance. He noticed and smiled.

“We’re off to Spain tomorrow,” he said.

“Mm-hm.”

“We’ll have to pack.”

“That’s what people usually do when they leave a hotel.” She clamped her lips shut. She didn’t want to make this night worse by smarting off to him. He turned away and continued his report. She got out her own laptop and typed “Rico Rockhard” into the search engine. It autofilled because she’d searched him so many times before. God, she had to stop. This wasn’t healthy. She sighed and put on her headphones, but before she could open up a video, he said her name.

“Lola?”

She turned to him as he shut his laptop. Had he already finished his report? Did she look guilty? Did he know she was perving his pornos? “Yeah?”

“Do you really want to quit the tour?”

Oh fuck. She’d said that earlier, in her screamfest with Don. She shrugged and avoided his gaze. “I don’t know.”

“Do you or don’t you? You must know how you feel. This is the second time you’ve talked about wanting to quit.”

She minimized the search results and stared at her keyboard instead. “It’s just so much bullshit, you know?”

“Yeah, I know.”

He was gearing up to say something else, but she didn’t want to hear it. She didn’t want to think about how much she wanted to quit the tour, quit the business, take her guitar and move back to Memphis, and play in some small club with people who were her friends. Real friends, not L.A. friends. But she didn’t have any real friends anymore. She’d pissed them all off by becoming an L.A. friend: self-occupied, shallow, a diva, just as everyone said.

“Oh well.” She shrugged. “Whatever. I hate Don.” That was something they both could understand. “I hate being on tour. I hate—”
Myself. I hate myself for being a scared, fucked up poser, but I love you, Ransom. Not that it matters.

“I need a distraction.” She leaned her head down on her hands. “I need something to take the edge off.”

“Maybe you need to quit the tour,” he said without missing a beat.

“No. I need to go out.”

“You owe me five miles for the stage dive. Want to go for a run?”

“At this hour?” She sat up, hugging herself. “Fuck no. I need to have some fun. I need sex again, if not from you, then someone willing.”

He was already shaking his head.

“I do,” she protested. “I know you don’t want to hear about it, but it’s been ages—”

“It’s been less than two weeks.”

“I need people. I need activity and energy.” She got up and started pacing. “I need to forget about tonight because it sucked. I want to party. I need a few stiff drinks and someone to go to bed with me.”

He got in her way, holding up his judgey finger. “You think you need those things, but what you really need is sleep. It’s been a tough night. Tomorrow’s another day.”

“Yes, another day just like this one.”

He pointed her toward her bed. “Go lie down before you start losing it. We’re not going out. It’s too late.”

“Go lie down? What am I, your dog? This isn’t one of your crazy fetish pornos, Rico.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’ve told you not to bring that up. And there were never any dogs.”

“Weren’t there? I bet I could find one.” She flopped onto the bed and reopened her search results. “Or at least one where you treat a woman like a dog.”

She could never rein herself in, even when she knew she was hurting someone. When she knew she was hurting
him
. He watched her with a frown, his hands braced on his hips.

“Yeah, I’m watching your pornos,” she said. “Whatcha gonna do about it?” She started reading off titles, lurid examples of his worst work. “
Bound Anal Slaves.
That sounds lovely. Then there’s the ever popular
Choke on My Cock
. Ooh,
Painal Peril, Part Four
. Bitch hung in there for four rounds of painful anal with your lightning bolt, huh? What a trooper.”

“Lola, stop it.”

“I think I’m going to watch the whole painal series. I’m sick like that.”

He made a noise in his throat. “You’ll get a computer virus if you click on that shit. Don’t. Lola—”

She clicked it anyway, taking out her headphone jack so the sounds of Rico Rockhard’s painal stylings filled the room. Crying, begging, and his animalistic grunts and grumbles, so fake, and yet so terribly real.

He moved then, took away her laptop and shut it, and carried it across the room to drop it on the desk. “When are you going to stop tormenting me?” he said, turning to her. His voice vibrated with fury.

“I’ll stop when I get sex. I’ll stop when you acknowledge what we had together.”

“
What we had together?
We shouldn’t have been together.” A vein throbbed in his forehead. That vein should have checked her, but she was an idiot and it had been a shitty night.

Instead she took off her panties and pulled her nightshirt over her head, and faced him with her arms spread wide. “I want some fucking painal, Rico. Hop to it.”

He strode to her and picked up her nightshirt, and shoved it at her. “You wouldn’t survive painal with me. You don’t have a clue, not a fucking clue.”

“You want it too.” She batted the nightshirt away and traced his burgeoning erection through his sweatpants. “You always get hard when you’re pissed at me, but that’s okay. I like it rough and angry. Maybe I should do porn too.
Painal Peril, Part Five
.”

She was going too far. She knew it, but the feel of him vibrating against her was delicious all the same. He gave her a hard look that condemned and lusted at once, and then he was gone, rummaging for condoms in her extensive stash. He stripped and sheathed himself with scary focus, then crawled onto the bed and yanked her legs open. His lightning-emblazoned cock reared between them.

“You want porn sex?” His eyes were scary intense, and black as hell. “That’s what you want from me?”

He shoved into her pussy, an abrupt, angry thrust. If his force hadn’t made her wet already, it would have hurt. It still hurt a little, and she bit her lip as he pounded into her, hardcore-jackhammer style. She’d seen her share of porn, Rico and non-Rico films, and she’d always wondered how the actresses could stand being pummeled so relentlessly for so long. After thirty seconds, she reached to grip his arms.

“Had enough?” he asked through gritted teeth.

She gazed up at his fury, his torment. Fuck, she’d really pushed things too far. “I’m sorry.” Her voice shook from his violent thrusts. “I’m sorry I…”

He pulled away, jumped off the bed and stalked to the other side of the room. She went after him, even though she didn’t know what to say. She just wrapped her arms around his waist and held him. He was shaking worse than she was.

“I don’t believe I did that.” He took off the condom and slung it in the trash. “I don’t believe I did that to you.”

She rested her cheek against his back, willing his trembling to stop. “I wanted it.”

“No, I can’t believe I—” He sounded so broken, so upset. His hands curled around hers until she had to release him. He turned to her and lifted her face. “Are you okay? I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry.”

He shook his head. “No, you can’t be sorry. I hurt you.”

He pressed his fingers over his eyes. His jaw was taut to the point of shattering. She tugged his hands away and he gazed down at her with a woebegone stillness.

“I’m sorry,” she repeated. “It was my fault. I pushed you until you lost it. I wanted you to lose it.”

She hugged him tight, because she knew as soon as she let him go, he would leave for real. He’d walk out the door as fast as he could pack his luggage, whether there was someone to replace him or not. This was the end, unless she could find a way to make it not the end.

“Ransom,” she whispered. “I pushed you because I wanted to hurt you, and I wanted to hurt you because I want you that much.” She spread her fingers across his back, then drew them down the tense lattice of his muscles. “You know when you want someone so much that it makes you angry?”

Some response sparked within his stillness. “Yes, I know how that feels. But we can’t—Lola, I can’t—”

“We can.” She pressed herself closer against him. “We have to, or we’ll hurt each other even more.”

*