River Page 3

  His hand rests on my shoulder.

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  “Are you coming to the after party?”

  I stare at him, my eyes blank, and my mind wandering away.

  “I’ll be there,” I say, flat.

  He’s just about to twirl to another sucker, when he turns back to me, his eyes glinting with a smile.

  “So... Did you see her?”

  He’s curious like a teenager, and I wonder why.

  “Who?” I ask, playing dumb.

  “Layla. The photographer. Nora’s friend.”

  “Oh...Yeah, yeah, I saw her. She’s okay,” I say dryly, trying to downplay the whole thing.

  But he’s no fool, and I can tell he’s not buying my bullshit, so I slip on a tangent.

  “So, who’s taking her home?” I ask.

  “What do you mean?”

  A wicked smile colors his gaze, and I barely stifle a roll of eyes as I’m seriously entertaining the idea of slapping his grin off his face.

  “That’s not what I meant,” I say, running my hand through my hair. “If what’s his face rides home in your limo, why can’t she share the trip with him?” I ask seriously.

  “Oh, I see what you mean... I would’ve offered her a ride anyway,” he says, stretching a smirk.

  “Great. I’ll see you tonight, then,” I say curtly, and before he can utter another word, I slip behind Lucas and Liam and walk out of the room.

  I take a turn onto a quiet corridor, text Steve to get the car ready for me, and vanish out of the venue. For the first time in a very long time, I avoid the press, photographers, fans and anyone in between. Including the stranded girl with the eyes of fire.

  I join the after-party late not because it’s far from my place––it’s only an elevator ride, a few floors down from my hotel suite, but I like to avoid the initial frenzy, when everybody’s high-strung, looking for something or someone. I’m sure by now they’ve settled down with a drink, an easy lay or a partially slurred conversation.

  I spot Steve across the room. Ron’s not far from me. Slung over his arm, Alma, a slender brunette with elegant features and aristocratic posture, showers him with her attention. Tilting her head back, she drinks him in with sultry eyes.

  A genuine pleaser, by all means.

  I get a drink and stride across the room, stopping from time to time to shake hands, sign autographs and lend my body for the occasional pictures. I reach the private booth in the corner, sink into the couch and take in the view.

  A few languorous, ‘fuck me’ gazes, come my way, a lot of them from women accompanied by other men. I lower my eyes and shift my focus to my drink.

  What can I say? It comes with the territory.

  Steve plops on the couch.

  “You okay?” he asks.

  I look at him.

  “Why’s everybody asking me if I’m okay?”

  “Because you look like you’re fucking sulking.”

  I grin.

  “I’m not sulking.”

  “You don’t talk, and you ran away. And now they’re all wired up, making suppositions,” he says, smiling.

  “Who’s they?

  “The boss,” he says jokingly.

  “He's just being nosy. I’m fucking fine,” I say, annoyed.

  Cocking his head to the side, he lifts an eyebrow. I start laughing.

  “No, I am. Seriously,” I say and take a swig of my drink. “So what’s up with that photographer?” I throw at him.

  He grins.

  “Other than what you’ve already seen?”

  “Yeah...” I say, unable to suppress a smile.

  “She was almost pulseless when I picked her up at the end of the show.”

  “Really?” I ask.

  “Yeah, really... Why are you smirking?”

  “No reason.”

  “You had anything to do with it?” he asks.

  I chuckle softly.

  “I doubt.”

  He gives me a questioning look.

  “How come you ask me about her? You’re never interested in women.”

  “I’m not?” I say, laughing softly.

  “Not in that sense,” he says, amused.“Why can’t you fucking say it, River?”

  “Say what?”

  Half of my drink goes down my throat as I hide my grin behind my glass.

  “You’re interested.”

  “I’m not interested.”

  “Yes, you are. Why is it so hard to admit?”

  “Because I’m not. Besides, she’s not my kind of customer.”

  “Since when beautiful women are not your style?”

  “It’s not about that. She’s just something different. That’s all,” I say.

  He gives me a side glance.

  “That she is. For one, she’s not used with any of this,” he says pointing around. “She was overwhelmed, to say the least, and you scared the shit out of her too.”

  “I didn’t.”

  He looks down at his glass before he flicks his eyes up.

  “Yes, you did. You were messing with her on that stage.”

  “She was hired to take my pictures, so I posed for her,” I say, smiling mischievously.

  He laughs quietly.

  “Mmm-hmm. Why can’t you just go for her?”

  My grin withers away.

  “Nah. I don’t want to go for someone like her,” I say, serious this time. “I don’t want to mess with her life. Besides, I’m good the way I am right now.”

  “How come you’re alone?”

  “She’s over there,” I say, pointing with the hand holding my glass to a nearby booth. “She’s talking to someone,” I add, not the least interested in what Lana’s doing.

  “Is that Jay?” he mutters.

  I throw a second glance, ponder for a moment, and guzzle down my drink.

  “Yup, that’s fucking him.Who says there’s no such a thing as divine intervention? I’m gonna go now before she changes her mind.”

  I push up to my feet, and Steve mirrors my move.

  We stride across the club and split at the exit door. By the time I hit the elevator, Lana’s heels click-clack after me.

  She slips in, right behind me.

  We ride the elevator up in perfect silence. My hands tucked into my pockets, and the back of my head pressed against the wall.

  I run my eyes down her back.

  Perched on her heels, she fashions a skintight dress, the hemline hitting right below her ass. She arches her spine and pushes her bottom out, her silver blonde hair draping down to her waist.

  Yeah, like I’ve never seen this trick before.

  Inches away from me, she’s easy for the taking. I could slip a hand under her skirt and slide it right between her thighs. I bet, she’d love to have me fuck her in the elevator.

  We get off on the last floor. I take a turn. She follows me like bad news. The funny thing is, I’m not even sure hooking up with her again is a great idea. Had it been yesterday, I would’ve left her high and dry, but now I may need her to take my mind off something else.

  I swipe the key card, hold the door open for her and wait.

  Thrown off by my new chivalrous attitude, she steps in, hesitant. I slam the door shut, and swiftly pull my T-shirt off.

  I snake an arm around her waist, pin her body against the wall, and run my hand between her thighs. I roll her dress up and pull her panties down.

  Despite the brief moment of surprise, she’s hot and wet, just the way I like it. On cue, her chest starts heaving, her hips rocking against my hand.

  She waves and moans and locks my mouth. She throbs, her pussy soaked. I nudge her to the wall, her back to me, pull her dress over her ass, and deftly roll a condom down.

  She groans as I enter her, and moves against me, thrust for thrust. I don’t stop until we’re both done.

  Panting, she leans against the wall, her legs shaking.

  I hook an arm around her waist and carry her to the bed. She rolls
onto her side, bends her knees, and moans softly, clenching her tights. I tip her face up, lower my mouth and kiss her.

  She closes her eyes. Happy. I hope the memory of this kiss will vanish from her mind by tomorrow.

  Moments later, I sneak into the bathroom, feeling like shit.

  4

  Next day, she gets all her wishes granted, and I get one.

  She got her sleepover, a chance to have a talk, and now the opportunity to mold her lips on what she likes the most.

  I can’t complain. There’s no better way to start a day.

  She skips the whole Barbie routine and gives me a lustful smile from behind a mane of tangled hair. She looks better without the heavy makeup.

  I roll to my side, pull her up to me and spoon her. She pushes her ass out and grinds against me. She’s done a great job, and now she wants a reward.

  I’m all for pleasing her, so I’m not gonna leave her hanging. I kiss the side of her neck as I slap a condom on and slowly slide in.

  An hour later, we sit at the table, finishing our brunch. Shirtless, arms crossed over my chest, I sink back into my chair, enjoying the show, and bracing myself at the same time.

  No fucking, no matter how good, comes without a price. A concession, a heartache, or even real money if you happen to find yourself at that end of the transaction.

  Chirping like a finch, she smiles ear to ear, clad in one of my T-shirts. The message has finally sunk into her brain, and she’s given up on the glossy, fake look.

  At least, momentary.

  She’s quite attractive in natural light, but I know better than that. Even though we’ve checked several points on the mating list and we’ve made several concessions to each other, I’m not fooling myself.

  I know this is only an illusion. I’m aware of who she really is, deep down in her heart, and I know she’ll never change. It’s not her fault. That’s all she’ll ever be.

  “So... what do you want to talk about?” I ask, my lips curving into a slow smile.

  “I’m booked for some work in LA over the next a couple of weeks, and I was wondering if I could crash at your place.”

  I wish my knowing smile wouldn’t spill all over my face. The corners of her mouth twitch as she registers my smirk.

  I can’t say her proposal takes me by surprise. She’s not the first woman to pull this trick on me.

  It’s all so damn predictable after a while.

  “You know that’s not possible,” I say, deadpan.

  “Why? It’s only two weeks... You’re gonna be on a break anyway. “

  Hmm, and this is even more worrisome.

  She’s done her homework, which begs the question. How come her schedule matches mine to perfection?

  This is not open for negotiation, so I’m gonna pull the plug right now.

  I rise to my feet.

  “I gotta go,” I say, and the blood drains out of her face.

  All the progress she’s made gets wiped out with one stupid move.

  “River, please...” she says.

  I walk to the night stand, grab my phone and start texting.

  “Steve will take you home.”

  Pivoting back, I bump into her.

  Shorter without heels, and innocent looking, she scorches me with her glare. She looks like one of those broken dolls with evil eyes from the horror movies.

  “Why? I don’t fucking understand,” she barks.

  She stares at me, waiting for an answer.

  I see the pain in her eyes, and I feel bad about it, but she wouldn’t understand even if I could pull a slideshow out of my ass.

  I lean in, take her face in my hands and look deep into her eyes.

  “You know it’s not possible,” I say, calm, and I kiss her before I tear away.

  Her eyes swim in tears, and I can see the dark clouds gathering, brewing a storm.

  “You’re such a piece of shit. Fucking asshole!”

  Not that I’ve never heard that before, but coming from her, is nothing but comical. I can’t withhold my laughter. She takes a jab at me, and I lock her hand, angering her even more.

  She kicks and screams and huffs. I’d lie if I say I didn’t see this coming.

  She’s back, Lana Fox, who deserves and gets everything she wants. She breaks away from me, cursing like a sailor.

  “I don’t need your fucking ride, ” she says.

  Unfazed, I let her blow steam and watch her as she puts her dress on, pulls her hair up and slips into her high heels. She grabs her purse and her phone before she casts me one last look, her eyes blazing with fury.

  I wish I could hide my amusement. My arrogant smirk has gotten me into trouble before, and it doesn’t make things better, now.

  She gets darker and crazier by the second.

  Screaming with frustration, she kicks a pillow out of her way, almost breaking a heel, before she pulls the door wide open and storms out.

  Steve fills the doorway.

  “Is everything okay?” he asks.

  “Yeah. Just another day in paradise.”

  “She’s going...?”

  “Yeah, let her go, but make sure she gets home in one piece.”

  He knows the drill. He goes, I stay.

  I shut the door and suddenly feel like breaking something.

  The week slips by peacefully. Women-free, headache-free. Shows, back to back. Gym. No after-parties. Only business. Interviews, a video recording, the last touch-ups on the new album.

  We’ve finally concluded three months of recordings, and the album is almost done, except a few vocal tracks I want to re-record.

  Ron is booking photographers for our promo packages. He’s planning to have a session here in our recording studio, in Astoria.

  “Speaking of which,” he says, his eyes lighting up with a mysterious smile. “I want to show you something.”

  My eyes follow him as he walks out of the control room. It better be good.

  I pull out of my chair and stride to the back room. He sets his laptop on the bar counter and flips it open while I fix drinks for both of us. I perch myself on the barstool next to him.

  He lights up a cigarette and turns the screen toward me.

  “These are her pictures,” he says.

  A buzz goes through my body as he utters ‘her pictures. I know exactly who’s he talking about.

  “Who’s pictures?” I ask, feigning ignorance.

  “Nora’s friend. The new photographer.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “She’s good. She’s got a great eye for photography. I can use all her pictures,” he says, pointing to the slideshow.

  He’s right.

  She has a good eye. No awkward positions, no stupid expressions. No ‘half and half.' That’s what we usually get, even from experienced photographers like Jessie Taylor.

  Great light, exposure, frame, and editing, but awkward composition. If the body looks good, the facial expression sucks, and vice versa. I can count on my fingers the pictures I like, of me or anyone else in the band.

  She nailed it.

  Even Lucas who’s notorious for his inane poses looks like a grown up, despite his go fuck yourself attitude. And it’s not because he grew older within the span of two hours, but because she had the inspiration to wait for those rare moments when he snaps out of his morose state.

  She pulled out a great Jay, too. Broody and dark as he is, she managed to catch that in an artistic way. She made him look good despite the very essence of him.

  As we get to my pictures, Ron’s eyes glint with unbridled excitement.

  “What do you think? ”

  I skim the pictures swiftly, not fast enough to miss the sharp focus on my blue eyes and dark blonde hair.

  Although my hair runs to my shoulders, and quite often when I'm on the stage, falls over my eyes, nothing weird shows up in the pictures.

  No wisps of hair glued to my lips, neck, the tip of my nose, or my brow. No unruly hair poking out.

  As my eyes
linger on the photographs, a restlessness spills in my blood. This is not only about a batch of pictures. The images are also a silent testimony to how she sees me, and that thought alone makes my temperature spike.

  “They’re good,” I offer.

  “Are you kidding me? They’re fucking awesome.”

  As he sifts through them, I realize my eye fucking was far more than a mere act.

  I was baiting her.

  And then, there was the moment when she walked in the light. I looked at her, awestruck, and she captured that expression in her photographs.

  I realize now how much I opened for her, and how hooked I was on that first glimpse of her. How much of my heart was on display. I look so fucking real I cringe.

  I push my drink to the side and start rubbing my eyes, a strange feeling creeping up on me.

  “I posted them on the social media,” Ron says, and I barely suppress my impulse to smash a fist onto the counter.

  Hey, that’s what they’re for after all. I can’t have it both ways.

  I let out a bitter smile.

  “Let me guess...They scored big with the female fans,” I say.

  “Are you kidding me? They fucking loved them. They’ve got thousands of likes within minutes. You have to see the comments.”

  No, I don’t really need to see them. Any other occasion, this would have been a moment of celebration, but now it makes me feel like crap.

  For some unexplained reason, my mind spins awkwardly, and I start bouncing ideas off Ron.

  “Why don’t you book her for the promo shots?”

  His eyes search mine.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah. Why not?”

  “I’ve already booked Jessie. Some time ago...“

  “Yeah, I know. Give him another job to keep him happy.”

  Ron’s eyebrows tilt up.

  “Do you trust her with this job?”

  I cut my eyes at him and hold his gaze. Badass bold.

  “Yeah, of course, I do.”

  I wouldn’t trust myself around her, but that’s another story. Just as I look for a way to escape Ron’s scrutiny, the door swings open, and one of the bodyguards pops in.

  “You have a visitor,” he says, looking at both of us.

  Ron and I exchange looks. That’s unusual. People don’t just stop by at our recording studio. Their names have to make it on a list way before they show up at the door.