Chapter 13 #2
His mouth parts in surprise, and why shouldn’t it? Now I’m throwing some A-class idiocy into his face.
“You sat on me like I was your favorite armchair,” he reminds me, “and, yeah, things got crazy fast. That wasn’t my intention.
Is that what’s bothering you?” His eyes are dark now, wounded and searching mine like he’s trying to find the version of me from last night—the one who let him touch her like that, who let him in.
“Because why are you doing this?” He doesn’t wait for my answer.
“It’s all the shit online, right? That’s the real issue. Nothing to do with me.”
I lift my chin, all righteous indignation. “They’re writing glowing stuff about you, so, yes, it has everything to do with you.”
There it is—the truth.
The reason for my full complement of neurotic girl shit.
JC breathes in deep, weariness creeping into his voice.
“I don’t control the media, Gia. And you asked me to play in your band because, apparently, I have skills.
You want some hack instead? You want to read those reviews?
” He’s moved past frustration into anger, but he claws it back just as quickly.
“I did what I could to hang back last night. Made sure the spotlight stays on you. If I need to play from backstage tonight, I will. Tell me what you want.”
He punctuates that by throwing up his hands. Waits for me to step up to the plate. His directive was an unmissable slow pitch even the most useless rookie could clobber.
“Not that,” I finally say, an overflowing fountain of contrition he immediately challenges.
“Then what? Offer up a solution. Don’t mindfuck me.” The stubborn fold of his arms is the equivalent of a slap in the face. I feel the floor fall away and the horizon spin. I can see the moment he clocks the regret on my face, and when he calculates how rarely I look regretful about anything.
He clears his throat and says, more gently, “I’m all in, Gia, on every level, in case that wasn’t obvious to you.”
I think about his crumpled face last night and how he let himself moan.
That I did straddle him and ride him like a cowgirl, pressing my lips to his neck to taste the show in an entirely different way.
JC isn’t a threat. He’s Jameson Chevalier Trenton, one of my all-time inspirations.
The man who left me blinded by stars, then kissed an unkissable carpet to save my bacon.
In the deepest hours of sleep, he was the vision my mind circled back to.
“Yo! Sid and Nancy,” Brady barks at us from the stage. “Can we get the party started?”
JC stifles a laugh, and I think, screw it, Gia. Laugh with him. The tension seeps away, and for a suspended moment—only a few seconds in real time—I feel closed in and protected by his gaze.
Until he impressively shatters any shred of my false victory. “For the record,” he adds, “the song is still mine. And you just blew up all your negotiation credits.”
I heave a sigh. Maybe this time, I’m the one backing down. “Fuck me. Truce?”
His lips quirk into a smile I absolutely do not deserve. Then he dips his head, lips nuzzling my earlobe. I suck in a breath and squish both eyes shut as his warm, wet tongue glides over my triple skull piercings. Shameless as I am in emotional manipulation.
When he murmurs, “I’d like to fuck your dirty little mouth,” it’s the next best thing to music I’ve ever heard.
The crowd tonight doesn’t notice when I fumble the lyrics to “Bite into the Chaos,” too busy losing their minds over JC’s shredding solo. But I noticed her. Not in a red flag way. Not at first.
Just … curious.
She’s older, maybe forty, with styled honey-blonde hair and sad eyes.
Someone I’d expect to see in a fancy bar with a glass of chilled wine in hand.
Totally out of place here, crushed in with the fans, high on every consumable, punching the air with their fists.
While half the loveable freaks scream their intention to marry me during “Rock and Roll Bride,” this woman—this stranger—she isn’t screaming or filming or moshing in a haze of ecstasy.
She’s there ... watching.
Watching JC, cloaked in shadows.
She looks like she knows things she shouldn’t.
Like, maybe she knows him. Is that why JC entrenches himself close to the amps, borderline offstage?
I’m in no position to demand anything of him or my boys tonight and refuse to ask them a single question to deepen their uncertainty about me.
And that lady? I’d like to will her into negative space, but she’s there all night until we break for the encore.
Then she’s gone.
I tell myself to forget her.
Types like her show up occasionally, wearing expensive blouses and real diamonds, paying top dollar for a StubHub rip-off. Maybe she was a lawyer or accountant reliving her youth in the stiffest, most joyless way. Or another wayward groupie radiating sad girl starter pack vibes.
I've seen plenty of those so far.
With more on the way, no doubt.
Post-show, we cram into a bar on the edge of collapse to party with the local blokes and lasses.
The yellow light from ancient fixtures makes everyone look jaundiced, while a rickety sound system blares Oasis so loudly that it bleeds my ears.
The boys bask in attention, but I fight back anxiety whenever another swarm of women circles JC.
They coo and fangirl, hands lingering on his arm or shoulder, and he flirts back with that damn sexy smile.
Sitting at the bar, I watch the scene unfold as the grip on my rocks glass tightens. He should be saving that smile for me.
But he wasn’t the difficult one today.
I shit all over my fantasy man and have only myself to blame.
Mama always says that my drive for success could alienate me from my closest friends.
My baby-brained attack on JC now feels fully idiotic.
Angry at him for being that good, instead of raging at myself for not being good enough to keep the spotlight where it belongs.
Of all the badly timed meltdowns, this is the one that could have turned him off me for good.
I feel faintly nauseated.
In need of support.
I find a dark corner to hide in, toss back my rum and Coke, and whip out my phone to ping Audrie. We text, on average, twenty times a day. Now, in less than seventy-two hours, my oldest friend, who said she had my back twenty-four-seven, has gone radio silent.
GB: Hey. We wrapped London.
GB: Miss u.
GB: What’s up?
It’s only what, five p.m. in Seattle? But it might as well be midnight.
Because she doesn’t text back.