Chapter 6
Chapter Six
CRUE
"Twenty-three."
"What?" Ireland blinks at me like a little owl, far too fucking cute in those glasses as we stroll toward the arena, hand in hand.
"Twenty-three," I say again, leaning close. She's already dragged my ass through every bus in the fleet, demanding I show her everything. I've never met anyone who gets as excited about little shit as she does. It's fucking adorable. "That's how many questions I get to ask you."
Her lips curve into an amused smile. "You really counted yesterday?"
"Damn right, I counted. You owe me twenty-three answers."
"Fine, but I'm not very interesting."
She's the most interesting person I've met in years, hands down. Everything about her fascinates me. But I decide to start off easy.
"You grew up in Texas?" I ask.
"Yep. A tiny little ghost town called Blackthorne in west Texas with more cows than people."
"How is it a ghost town if people live there?" I quickly hold up a finger when she opens her mouth to answer. "And that doesn't count as one of my questions. Everyone in the fucking world would have the same goddamn question."
"Fine. I'll let you cheat this time," she huffs at me.
"But only because you answered my off-the-record questions yesterday.
It's a ghost town because Blackthorne grew up around an old Wild West town.
Except no one knows what the old Wild West town was named.
There's no record of it that anyone has been able to find, so they named our town Blackthorne after the Wild West town in an old John Wayne movie. "
We reach the entrance that gives us access to the backstage area of the arena. I shoot a quick text to Xander, requesting that he let us in the building. A few seconds later, he pokes his head out, sees us, and then holds the door open, letting us through.
"Thank you," Ireland chirps, unfailingly polite.
"Thanks, man," I murmur. "Ireland, this is Xander. Xander, Ireland."
"We've met. Sort of." She grins at him.
He grins back. I suddenly like him far, far less than I did sixty seconds ago.
"When did you meet?" I growl.
"Oh. Videochat."
I nod, slightly mollified. But only slightly.
Xander smirks like he knows exactly why I'm acting like a dick. Whatever. He shouldn't smile at my wife, and I wouldn't have to be a dick.
"How's it looking?" I ask.
"Fans are starting to line up out front, but it's not crazy yet." He frowns. "Some chick tried to sneak in earlier. We caught her before she made it past the lobby."
"Jesus." I'm surprised no one has shown up at the hotel yet.
"It's all good. We've got it under control."
"Thanks." I hold my fist out for him to bump and then place my hand on the small of Ireland's back, shuffling her around him before he can try to shake her hand or hug her or some shit.
I'm acting like a possessive asshole. I recognize that.
But I can't help it, either. I don't want anyone touching her.
Or looking at her. Or fucking making her smile.
Xander chuckles behind us like he knows exactly what's up. He doesn't call me on it, though. He's a good dude.
"What do you want to see, éire?" I ask, leading her down the hallway.
"Well, I saw your dressing room last night," she says, tapping her lips like she's really thinking about it. "It did not live up to the hype. There wasn't even a single naughty thing in it."
"That's a damn lie." I tip my head down, hitting her with a look that says, 'Don't bullshit me.' "You were in it, and we both know you started every naughty thing we did this morning."
She beams at me, her laugh bouncing off the cinderblock walls. Christ, I could listen to her laugh all day and not grow tired of it. It's the sweetest, most carefree sound I've ever heard.
If I can't convince her to stay, she's going to rip my heart out of my chest when she goes.
I'm not going to survive it. She's been my wife for all of twelve hours, and she already owns me, body and fucking soul.
I don't know how it happened. I don't even know when it happened.
But somewhere over the last twenty-four hours, I've fallen hard.
I have no intention of slowing down or stopping the free-fall, either.
"Oh! Can I see the stage?" She grabs my arm, looking up at me with big, hopeful eyes. "I want to live out my rockstar fantasies while no one is looking."
"You have rockstar fantasies, éire?" I ask, grinning.
"Duh. Doesn't everyone?"
I lead her toward the crossover space backstage, helping her over the electrical cords taped to the floor all over the place. The area is crammed full of equipment and gear. She gapes all around as if she didn't just see half of this shit when she was backstage last night.
I love how fascinated she is by everything.
I've spent so much time around it that it lost its appeal a long time ago, but seeing it through her eyes brings back a little of the magic it lost long before we called it quits a decade ago.
I felt like a fraud telling the guys that shit wasn't all bad because I didn't even really believe it when I said it, but it was true.
We had a lot of good times, and things weren't all terrible. It's nice to remember that.
"Wow," Ireland whispers when we step out onto the stage. We walk to center stage before she draws to a stop, taking it all in. "It's so much more intimidating than I expected."
"It's definitely intimidating."
"How do you do it?" She peers up at me, avidly curious.
"Practice," I chuckle.
"Don't you get nervous?"
"Only every fucking night, but it's a lot more manageable now than it was back then. The first time we got on a stage, we were all shitting bricks. I thought Mason was going to pass out on us." I smile at the memory. Fuck, that was a lifetime ago.
"I love that," she whispers.
"What?"
"How much you love them. You smile every time you talk about them. It's really sweet, Crue."
"They're like my brothers." I sigh heavily. "But we haven't always been close, éire. When we went on hiatus, Jax and I were barely speaking. We were all sick of each other. It was rough."
"It usually is when you fight with family.
" She slips her hand into mine, linking our fingers together.
"Shelby is my best friend, but we fight too.
It always sucks. But sometimes, you fight the hardest with the people you love because they matter more than anything else.
Growing and changing is uncomfortable. They help us do more of it than anyone else.
Family loves us at our worst to teach us how to be our best."
I hook my arm around her waist, pulling her up against me. "You're pretty fucking smart, you know that?"
"I know," she says, tipping her head back to grin at me. "It's that fancy college education."
"No, it's you, sweet girl." I dip my head, brushing my lips against hers. "It's all you."
Her soft sigh washes across my face before she kisses me back, melting into me. Before I can pull her closer and devour her like I want, she dances out of my arms, laughing.
"No way, Crue. I have a fantasy to live out," she says, throwing up a hand to halt me when I stalk after her. "Microphone, please."
I stop walking and grin. "You going to sing for me, baby?"
"Maybe."
I jog toward Mason's drum set and grab one of the microphones lying there. The soundboard isn't switched on, but I don't think she really cares about that. She's just living her best life. I don't think she knows any other way to live.
Christ, it's beautiful to witness.
I hand her the microphone. She sashays back to centerstage and strikes a pose, one hand in the air over her head and one hip cocked out with her toes pointed. She looks like a sassy little popstar.
She shoots me an impish grin over her shoulder, clears her throat…
and immediately starts belting out the dirtiest lines of DTF, one of the last songs we recorded before we went on hiatus.
It's about fucking, plain and simple. The goddamn label made us record it, and our fans lost their shit over it.
She couldn't hold a tune in a bucket if her life depended on it, but she shimmies and shakes her way across the stage, belting out the lyrics as if she's back in the elevator and no one is watching.
My dick throbs in my pants, aching like a motherfucker at the sight of her, so sweet and innocent, singing about wanting to fuck in the back of a tour bus.
If she's throwing down hints, I'm picking them up. I'll gladly take her against the wall on the way to Detroit with my hand over her mouth so no one hears her moaning for me. Anytime, any place. All she has to do is say the words.
When she launches into the next verse, I stalk toward her, pulling her up against my chest. My lips descend on her neck as she sings quietly now, whispering the lyrics to me.
I run my hands up her body, brushing my palms over her hard nipples.
"Crue," she moans.
"Keep singing, Ireland," I demand, nipping her throat.
"I…" She huffs a sigh and then picks up the next line.
I pinch her nipples, teasing her. Teasing myself. Fuck. I don't know. All I know is that I can't keep my hands off this woman. And I don't have to try. She's my wife. One way or another, I'm going to convince her that she wants to keep my ring on her finger.
"You're sleeping in my bed with me tonight, éire," I growl against her skin, rolling her nipples between my thumbs and forefingers. "As soon as the concert ends, I'm coming to find you and claim what belongs to me."
She stumbles over the lyrics.
"I'm giving you what's yours too." I press my lips to her ear, telling her the one thing I've never told anyone. My big secret. "My virginity."
She gasps, spinning to face me. "Crue…what?"
"You heard me."
"But—"
"The tabloids said a lot of shit about us back then that wasn't true, sweet girl. I'm all yours." My lips close around the shell of her ear. "You'll be my only."
"There you are," Mason says, stomping onto the stage.