Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
JC
It’s midnight. First show in the can. What a performance. Gia had the fans eating out of her hand, and we staggered off the stage, arms looped together, glowing with exhilaration. If the reviews land right tomorrow, this tour really kicks off.
My skin still burns with leftover adrenaline, and the buzz takes forever to wear off, which is why we’re here: outside some dance club in South Kensington, ready to blow off some steam. Punks and goths, cigarette tips glowing orange in the dark, wait in a line that snakes around the block.
Brady flags the muscled bouncer with his usual panache. “Yo! We’re on the VIP list. Team Cherry.”
The bouncer—young, Black, and profoundly unimpressed—shoots him a look and talks into his earpiece, blocking us from sneaking past his mighty clipboard. Dude is cranky, and we’re getting sour looks from the crowd. When he finally unclips the red velvet rope to wave us inside, wails erupt behind us.
“Take us!” “Fuck you, wankers!” “We’ve been waiting for hours!”
I slide my arm around Gia’s shoulder as a shield, ushering her past the anger.
Sorry, not sorry. The rock star life does have its perks.
Inside, a hostess in a sparkly jumpsuit guides us to a private booth Shae wrangled on the fly.
It sits high above a dance floor throbbing with sweaty bodies.
A spotlight shines on a spinning disco ball, throwing rainbow shards around the low-ceilinged bunker.
A Duran Duran remix thunders in my ears.
“Should we divide and conquer?” Tai yells at us.
Brady thumbs at me. “I’m sticking close to this groupie magnet. How many chicks swarmed us last night at the bar? Must’ve been at least a dozen.” He peels my arm off Gia with a seductive smile. “You and me, bro. Team Cherry.”
Tai grooves to the beat, ready to rock. “A few shooters, then dance floor?”
The boys crowd the hostess guarding a table stacked with enough booze to guarantee my body will feel like a biohazard disaster tomorrow.
Meanwhile, I can feel Gia’s stare burning into me.
“You want to dance?” I shout.
Something flickers behind her eyes. She makes some space between us. “Don’t let me cramp your style.”
Her words land like a gut punch. I’ve been waiting all day to be alone with her. “That’s not what I asked.”
“I’ll be fine on my own, Mr. Chaperone.” Her gaze skims the crowd in a way that feels like she’s purposefully avoiding mine. “Sounds like you can handle flying solo.”
Ah, now I understand. And a flash of irritation ripples through me because why did Brady dump that news? I specifically chose a table away from the crowds last night. He waved all the women over who kept flashing us looks.
And I asked Gia to join us at the pub yesterday, but she brushed us off, said we should have our guys’ night. She knows band dynamics matter and that sometimes you need to play the long game to keep them in balance. And with our kiss pinging between us like a ricochet, I’m still off-balance.
We have things to talk about.
I lean in, my mouth brushing the warm curl of her ear. “I’d like to sit with you and chill. Kick back and people-watch. That cool?”
With impeccable timing, Brady cuts in, shoving whipped cream-topped shooters at us. “Down the hatch, bitches!”
We toss them back, the sweet bite of crème de cassis and vodka going down smooth. I take Gia's shot glass and set mine down with hers, making it clear the two of us are hanging back.
“We’ll catch up in a bit,” I shout.
Brady rolls his eyes, muttering something lost in the pounding music, and drags Tai out onto the dance floor.
Gia watches them go, arms crossed tight.
The curves of her body and the sounds she made when our tongues dueled last night find their way to the front of my mind.
I’m ready to climb the walls or rip all her clothes off and take her right here.
Boldy, I take a step closer and nudge her with my elbow. “Rum and Coke?”
Her gaze flicks to mine for a nanosecond, just long enough for me to understand that the social dynamic of her band has changed, and she’s not sure what to do about it. But then her mouth curls up with a smile.
And the intense fluttering in my stomach dies down when she says, “Yes, please.”
An hour later, the club is going off. Strobe lights flashing, partiers sway in a blissed-out trance, the music a thudding drum and bass that feels like steel screws drilled into my brain.
But Gia? She feels incredible.
We’re thigh to thigh on the couch, looser, louder, much drunker.
I’m conscious of our position, the contact point of our legs warm to the point of distraction.
Her cheeks are flushed, lips wet with spiced rum.
Every time she leans in to shout-talk, her breast crushing against my shoulder destabilizes me.
“Sorry,” I yell back. “I can’t hear you.”
“You wanna walk around outside?” she tries again. “My brain’s getting scrambled.”
Yes. Please.
I get up and stretch out my legs, palming our hostess a tip. She asks if we want shots for the road, but we both decline. Gia does one last sweep for Tai and Brady, but no luck. They vanished in the crowd ages ago and have been MIA since.
“I’ll text them,” she says as we shoulder past vapeheads and arguing couples crammed in the exit corridor. The hall reeks like leather and pot, a bad mix of cheap perfumes. Outside, the cool night air is a heavenly relief. So is the ability to think straight.
“Where to?” I ask, breath fogging in the cold.
Gia burrows into her hoodie and stomps her sneakered feet. It’s almost one thirty a.m. “Might as well make our way back to the bus. Unless you wanna rage harder.”
I smile at her. That would be a no. “Let me find us an Uber.”
I’m nine-tenths hammered, my drunk heart soaked with whatever mix of drinks I inhaled at the club.
But by the time our driver and his strange-smelling Kia drop us at the designated lot for the touring vehicles, I’ve sobered right up.
Enough that I can open the tour bus door without groping around like a wasted fool.
I flick the lights on, dimming them to soften the glare. Gia chews on a nail, surveying the unglam space. All buses, it seems, are designed to strip joy from any soul unfortunate enough to enter one.
“It ain’t The Savoy,” I joke.
“It’s cool.” Gia shrugs. “Cozy.”
We’d dropped our bags earlier, and our luggage sits clustered together in the middle of the lounge like a long-lost family reunion.
Stacked in the narrow space that funnels into the rear kitchen are four bunks, two on either side.
Gia opens a lower bunk curtain, shrugs off her hoodie, and tosses it onto the mattress. Shakes out her hair.
A sinuous little dance move follows, sending a cold shot of nerves up my spine. Gia uses her body on stage like an athlete, all flow and poetry in motion. Her crawl across the stage during “Feel Me” made me flush hot. Was I the only one imagining her without clothes on?
Doubt it.
Suddenly, I’m very aware that it's just her and me.
“Will you sleep on top of me?” she asks.
Three seconds pass before she realizes what she said. By then, I’m laughing my face off.
Gia groans, scrubbing both hands over her face. “What I mean is—”
“I’d be honored,” I finish.
“Jesus,” she says, a smile lifting her voice. “That was super awkward.”
“If you want to shower or change, I can wait outside.”
She slides her gaze to mine with a curious, widening smile. “Are you nervous?”
“No,” I lie. “Just being polite.”
She keeps studying me as the first fat drops of rain ping against the roof. I swear her dark eyes get bigger every time I look into their depths. “You weren’t polite last night. I like that version of you.”
Gia steps closer. In a weird reactionary do-si-do, I step backward, stumbling right into her giant suitcase. For a frozen moment, my arms flail for balance. Then I crash hard on my tailbone, not drunk enough to numb the jolt of pain.
A half groan spills from my lips. Fuck. I’m going to feel that tomorrow.
Gia sidles closer still, peering down at me like a kid fascinated by an upturned beetle. “Too much to drink, Chaperone?”
I wince through a laugh. “Probably.”
She offers her hand. “On the count of three?”
My motor skills feel too toasted to pull this off.
Sure enough, I grab her hand, she pulls hard, I wobble, and suddenly we’re collapsing together in a tangle of limbs and laughter.
I manage to sit up against the couch, head spinning from the booze.
Gia scrambles upright, but instead of moving away, swings a leg over me and settles in my lap, bold as anything.
“Hi,” I breathe.
Gia captures my chin between her thumb and forefinger, her eyes searching mine. Lord knows the depravity she’ll find. “Good memories tonight? Back in the saddle?”
“Yeah. No sweat.”
She laughs softly, leans in, and flicks her tongue along my jaw. “But you’re sweaty. And you taste good.”
She wriggles her body closer, the contact sending tiny shocks through my already shredded nervous system. My erection swells, warm and thick against the inside of my thigh. There are only so many ways two bodies can meet, but I’m thinking of at least ten right now.
“Gia.” My voice sounds far away. “What are you doing to me?”
Her brows tilt in an expression of mocking threat. “The same thing you’re doing to me.”
She starts rocking back and forth, every stroke pulling another groan from me as my denim stretches tighter. She doesn’t rush, doesn’t do anything other than torture me with perfect pressure. I’m not sure if I’m calming down or getting more excited, but I’m positive I don’t want it to stop.
She buries her face into my neck, her breath falling hot onto my skin. Overwhelmed by the sensations—the alcohol, her scent—all of them hitting in one giant wave, I drive my hips into her hot center.
And she feels me, hardening into steel.
“Is this good?” she whispers. Her hands slide under my boxers to grab handfuls of ass, sending a ripple of pleasure cascading down my spine.
I groan, “Too good,” and nip her neck, leaving a trail of gentle bite marks down her throat.
She keeps grinding, using my ass as leverage, little moans spilling from her mouth, both of us working the groove of our dirty synchronized rhythm. She’s controlling the shots, but I’m throwing every hundred at her.
Rob the fucking bank.
“Jesus, Gia.” My breath is clipped, coming out in tight hisses.
Her mouth crashes onto mine, and I gasp into that kiss, each breath sparking out of me like smoke. I can feel my orgasm building hard, and I want her to come with me, but my own release hijacks me.
I peak, suddenly and sharply.
Wave after wave, violent and bright.
Blood roaring in my ears.
I’m still lost in a rollicking sea of white-hot pleasure when the sudden sound of Brady’s howling, drunken laughter echoes from outside.
Gia stiffens, her eyes blown wide as she scrambles off me. I’m willing my heart to stop beating so fast when the bus door flies open, and Brady and his vintage Air Jordans mount the stairs. I panic, diving face-first onto the carpet.
He sees us in the dim, mutters, “What the hell?” and stops cold.
Tai, hot on his heels, crashes into him. “Dude,” he slurs. “Keep going.”
Brady smashes the lights on full blast. I squint into the searing brightness and want to speak, say something, anything, but I’m in another dimension, my whole world reduced to this: warmth spreading in my jeans and trembling thighs.
Behind me, Gia tries to contain her panting. “Hey.”
Tai squeezes past Brady to get an eyeful. His nose wrinkles like he's about to sneeze. “It smells like the sex tent at Burning Man in here.”
I can feel my face flush redder than it already is as my mind races for any viable excuse. I start to pry carpet fibers apart like I’m living the Law and Order dream.
“Bro, you alright?” Brady asks.
“My contact fell out,” I say the first thing that pops into my head. “Dry eyes from the show.”
The boys exchange suspicious glances. Both of us have epic, mussed hair, clothes half-pawed off. Brady scratches his head, the full extent of his investigative instincts, apparently. “You wear contacts?”
It’s raining harder now, and the boys are soaked. The air feels humid and heavy, like a weighted blanket on my skin. The wetness in my boxers starts spreading, sticky and uncomfortable. Fuck. The longer I’m stationary, the more obvious it will be.
I exaggerate plucking an invisible contact from the carpet, cradling it in my palm. “Got it! I’ll be right back.”
I shuffle to the bathroom like the hunchback of Notre Dame and can hear the conversation turn heated through the thin walls.
“Is this why you ditched us at the club?” Brady demands. “For a banger session?”
Gia: “I texted you both to say we were leaving.”
Then Tai: “Are you two like an item now?”
Gia, vehemently: “No. We were talking about the show. Ways to fine-tune.”
Brady, unimpressed: “Did you think of asking us?”
Gia: “You were a little busy blowing the night up.”
I splash my face with water, my breath still coming in short bursts.
Euphoria rushes through every vein, my afterglow backed up with no place to go.
I let the water run, then soak a washcloth to deal with the mess in my boxers.
After a thorough rinse, I hang it back on the hook Shae labeled with my name on masking tape.
Thank god each of us has our own towel bar.
I lean onto the sink and close my eyes. My muscles feel tight and achy from the show. All my thoughts are spinning wildly out of control. If the boys dragged me out for another interrogation, I don’t know what I’d say.
All I want is Gia.
And they better get used to it.