Rock Me Deep (4 page)

The flash of confusion in her eyes morphed into something raw—something hot and eager for more. It happened too fast, leaving me unsure if I should push further or back away. I didn't know if I liked how fast she was making my heart dance.

Quickly, I released her. It wasn't normal for anyone to throw me for such a loop. I made myself speak flatly, fighting for indifference. “Good. It'll be hard work, but if you don't mind that, you'll be fine.”

“Of course I don't mind!”
Her exuberance stunned us both. Scrubbing the nape of her neck, she darted shy eyes away. “This is crazy. I never expected you'd pick me. Wait until Sean hears.”

A bitter thing wormed through me. I didn't know what it was, but it was hot and burned like acid. “Who's Sean?”
And why do I fucking care?

Lola bent down, fiddling with her guitar and packing it away. “My brother, he was the one pushing me to come do this.”

That was comforting. Shit,
why
was that comforting? Because it meant she was single?
Fuck. Get a grip.
Clearing my throat, I went to speak again. The door slammed open, ruining my chance.

Brenda shoved inside on her deathly sharp heels, angry voices thrumming outside. She gave me a smile that didn't reach her eyes. “Okay, you win. You said you'd get someone to replace Johnny, and you did. I owe you a drink, but
you
still owe me an apology.”

My fingers went in search of my cigarette pack, touching, but not freeing it. “Not now. Just give the kid the papers, I want to get going.”

Rolling her eyes, my manager approached Lola with her sparkling porcelain teeth. She was striking in her immaculately perfect red lipstick. Her business-like demeanor never really fit with the vibe of the grungy rock tour, but Brenda didn't care. She was like me, she did things her own way.

It was why we always clashed.

“First, congratulations,” she said, manicured nails pressing on the girl's shoulder, leading her to the cheap plastic table.

Grinning politely—or was she still excited from the news? —Lola went with her. She had one hand buried in her pocket, the other digging into her thick hair. Was Brenda making her nervous? Was Lola just shy?

It doesn't fucking matter, who cares?
Inhaling sharply when I caught Brenda tracing Lola's forearm, commenting on her tattoo, I wrenched my gaze away. I
loved
ink on a woman. It didn't just enhance the flesh; the right tattoos usually told a story.

What was Lola's story?

Don't get wrapped up in a new face just because it belongs to a skilled body.

A gorgeous, hot body.

Shit.

“Sign here,” Brenda instructed, pointing down at the stack of papers.

“Shouldn't I read it first?” she asked, the unease in her tone drawing my eyes back. She was squinting, flipping the pages over.

Brenda folded her arms, impatience turning her comments into thin razors. “It's all standard. I know this can't be the first time you've seen a performer's contract.”

What the hell does that mean?

Lola's blush was like champagne, tantalizing. I needed a cigarette badly. Bending over the table, she laughed nervously. The sound of the pen scribbling over the paperwork sent my blood flying in my veins.

She'd signed the contract. It was done, Lola belonged in my band.

“Well,” she said, meeting Brenda's eyes and offering her the contract, “To be fair, Sean never really shared that side of things with me.”

My manager reached out, winding elegant fingers on Lola's and giving her a firm handshake. “Not everyone is so open, I guess. It doesn't matter, you get to show him yours, now.” That made Lola grin, her eyes flicking to mine over Brenda's shoulder. “Welcome to Four and a Half Headstones, Lola Cooper.”

Cooper.
Adrenaline and cold anxiety flooded into my guts.
Cooper. Holy fuck, she's Sean Cooper's little sister.

The realization shook around in my skull. It brought with it a memory several years old. Impossibly, Lola wasn't the first Cooper to try and get into my band.

But unlike her brother...

Lola hadn't failed the audition.

Did Lola know about that? She had to, certainly she had to.

Lola watched me with such genuine delight that it turned my heart into a drum roll. But I was suspicious. I didn't want to be, but I knew too well the terror of betrayal. What was I supposed to do, though?

Turning back won't solve anything. I need her, there's no one else that's so perfect for this band.
For
my
band. Mine.

I didn't know if Lola was here to sabotage me or fuck me over.

But I did know that... for now...

She was the only chance we had at surviving this damn tour.

Lola

I
couldn't believe it. I could not fucking believe it.

I was the new guitarist for Four and a Half Headstones. Holy shit. How could I be so lucky?

The look on Sean's face when I held the papers up to him was proof, but my dopey smile gave it all away long before that.

“Son of a bitch,” he breathed out, snagging the contract. Squinting at it, then me, he waved the papers like they were a flag. “You actually did it!”

Together we laughed, and for the first time in... forever? Sean grabbed me in a rib crushing hug. We were standing just inside the tour bus, the engines rumbling. Everyone was about to take off, we needed to hurry to get on the road.

Rubbing my nose, I folded the contract up and shoved it in my back pocket. “Impressed?”

“Hell yes,” he said, muscles flexing over folded arms. “How was it? How was Drezden and the rest?”

The reminder of the tall singer, his piercing green eyes, warmed my cheeks.
How was it?
I could never explain. Drezden had both scared me and intrigued me. Being near him was like daring a tornado to roll closer.

I said, “He was—
it
was fine. They asked me to play one of their songs, and they apparently thought I was good.” I tried to shrug casually, but I was glowing too much to get away with being indifferent. “Sean, I'm in their band. I'm in the tour!”

“I know, I know.” Chuckling, he looked towards the front of the bus. “You should grab your stuff and hurry over there. They'll leave without you.”

The memory of Brenda telling me I'd be traveling with Four and Half Headstones, to help use every minute to prepare, was sobering. “I... yeah. Jeez. I'm really doing this.”

Sean nodded deeply, his eyes glittering with something I couldn't identify. “You are. Make them proud, but more importantly, make
me
proud. Don't slack, and when we stop next, I want you to tell me everything about practice. Okay?”

The request didn't feel weird, just the intensity in how he asked me. “Yeah. No problem.”

His hug, the second one, was lighter. “Okay, now get the fuck out of here, rock star.” He was teasing, but it sounded almost like an insult. Had I done something to upset him?

Burning with strange trepidation, I gave him one more quick hug. Then I hoisted my bag and guitar, jumping down the bus steps.
Is something going on with Sean?
I couldn't explain it, but my intuition was screaming. I'd known Sean my whole life.

I knew when he was being strange.

I'll worry about it later,
I decided. The bounce in my walk was pronounced; I had more to think about than my brother. I was in a
real
fucking band, I was headlining on a tour! I'd woken up today hoping that I wouldn't end up with a busted neck from doing all the manual labor for Barbed Fire again.

How had I gotten
here?

Some people stared at me as I strolled towards the giant, black behemoth that was the Four and a Half Headstone's tour bus. Word that I, unimpressive Lola Cooper, was the new guitarist had traveled fast. It was hard not to grin at the adoring looks. Even the angry ones made me swell.

The stairwell opened before me, glass doors sliding apart. The driver was an older man, his squishy body struggling to fit into the seat. He offered me an impatient glare, jerking his chin over his shoulder. “Hurry up, lady, we need to move.”

“Sorry, I had to get my stuff," I said with a wince. His flat stare said he didn't care. Ascending the steps, my mood crumbled ever so slightly from this sour man's attitude.

Then I saw the inside of the bus, and everything was good again.

Velvet, leather, and no doubt some silk, too... the inside of the bus was a treasure trove of expensive material. Every seat was huge, made to sink into and never bother climbing out of. I spotted not one mini bar, but three, all of them stacked with bottles.

Unlike how hot the Barbed Fire bus got when the air conditioning failed, this vehicle was comfortably chilled. The burning sun outside couldn't hope to break in.

Wow,
I thought in wonder, staring without blinking.
This is the perk of being a real rock star. Sean would be so jealous if he saw all of this.
It occurred to me that he might actually know already.

There was a large curtain hanging at the back of the aisle. Through it, I heard a familiar laugh. The skinny, pale guy that passed through the thick material was speaking to someone behind him that I couldn't see.

That's Colt, the drummer,
I realized. I'd know him from any distance; almost as easily as I'd know Drezden.

He spotted me, a smile warming his gaunt features. “Hey! Lola! We were waiting on you, I even joked that you'd run off.”

As if that was what he was waiting for, the driver jerked the bus forward and onto the road. I was violently jostled; I grabbed a seat, partially falling into it with my bags on top of me. “Sorry!" I said, struggling to get my balance. "I just needed my things. Should I put them somewhere?”

Shrugging, he jerked his head towards the curtain, where he'd come from. “Probably back here. Come pick a bunk.”

A bunk?
My chest thrummed at the idea.
Do they have real beds here? No sleeping with my neck crushed at an angle on a window?
Carefully I stood, rocking down the aisle after Colt.

The black curtain revealed that the rear of the vehicle was just as startling as the rest. There were alcoves along the aisle, most covered by more curtains. Small rooms, but certainly grand when compared to where I'd been sleeping.

“Drop your bag there, but keep your guitar,” he said. Nodding, I abandoned my stuff on the mattress of the nearest empty room. Colt motioned with his fingers, so I followed him deeper into the bus.

What I found next blew my mind.

The entire back of the bus was set up like a studio. There were speakers, wires, and a thick padding all over the walls to soften the noise. It was a little bit cramped, but it was also a fucking
mobile studio.
I couldn't judge the space too hard.

Drezden and Porter were lounging, toying with their gear. At my arrival, all eyes flipped up to stare at me. Unsure what else to do, I wiggled my fingers in a weak wave. "Hi guys."

Porter strummed his bass, blonde faux-hawk glowing from the sunlight streaming in through the tiny window above. “Welcome to the party,” he grunted.

Drezden said nothing, twisting a bottle of water in his palms. Across his knee I saw a wire, the microphone dangling like a ripe piece of fruit from a vine. The intensity around him, even with the others so near, made my throat tight.

He has eyes like a killer,
I realized. It called to mind the talk about Johnny Muse, how Drez had beaten him into a bloody mess.
Stop it, brain. I never saw that, don't give me creepy imaginary images.
Even so, red blood filled my mind's eye.

“You want something to drink?” Colt asked, sliding around me towards a cooler. At my nod, he tossed me a bottle. I fumbled, clutching it to my chest. He dropped down by his drums, expert hands going for the smooth sticks. “We should be blunt with you, Lola.”

They were quiet, waiting for my response. Blinking, I sat down on a bench against the wall, furthest from Drez as I could get. “Sure. Okay, go ahead, be blunt.”

Colt parted his lips, but it was Drezden who spoke first. He was soft, brisk; an autumn breeze. “We've got two days until the next tour stop. We need you ready, or we're going to look like assholes up on stage. Get me?”

“Yeah,” I squeaked, then tried again. “Yeah. I get it, don't worry. I'm ready to do whatever it takes to impress the world.”

The drummer rolled his neck, the giant gauges in his ears rattling. “You say that now. Wait until you survive this practice,
then
we'll see how eager you are.”

His doubt rattled me, a sourness etching into my voice. “I'll be fine,” I said, breaking out my guitar to tune it. I squeezed the pegs too hard, my skin aching.
Do they think I'm some pathetic newbie?

Rustling noises made me look up. Drezden was there, standing over me so I was level with his waist. He crouched, offering me some papers, enveloping me in the warm scent of tobacco and oranges.

Fuck, he smelled good.

“Here,” he said, waving the pages. For the first time I noticed the bandage over his knuckles. “Music notes for our songs. You'll want to follow along, even if you think you know them already. We'll start with Black Grit.”

I was blushing, why was I blushing? He had a vibe that was overwhelming. It suffocated me, dared me to inhale more of his existence or to let myself pass out in a daze.
Focus, take the papers.

My fingers shook when I did.

Calm the fuck down!
I screamed in my head, fighting with my warring emotions. I was acting like a fan girl, but why?
Because he's Drezden, that's why. You've been a literal fan of his for years. You've listened to his music, danced to it, cried to it, fallen asleep to it. You know how talented he is. How powerful.

That had to be it.

That had to be all it was.

He moved away, languid on his long legs. Not sitting that time, he scooped up the microphone and stood tall. “The volume will be lower in here to keep our ears from exploding. Keep that in mind.”