Page 19 of Ravaged For You

“Ah, sorry,” I say in a mousey way to the gaggle of onlookers.

“All good,” Axel replies. “I didn’t like that shirt anyway. I’m more comfortable like this. Is that what you wanted when you went to spill tea down me, girl?”

Somehow, I have the suspicion that he’s mocking me.

“It was an accident…”

Axel smiles. His dimples flare. “Sure, it was. I bet you wanted a look under my shirt, you bad little girl.”

“I didn’t…”

“How about we head into the meeting room now,” Winston suggests from behind me, clearly wanting to move on as fast as possible. I’m guessing he’s shooting daggers into my back with his eyes.

“Sounds like a plan,” says Axel.

As the band follows my boss into the room, Axel doesn’t take his eyes off me. He follows me close behind. I can feel his penetrating gaze on my back the entire way.

Oh, Lord, what have I done?

9

AXEL

People tend to act… different around rockstars. That’s one of the biggest realizations you get when you become one. Everyone treats you differently. Looks at you differently.

Forget about all the other bullshit; that’s what fame is.

When the whole marketing office stopped dead in their tracks as we walked in, none of us band members barely noticed. That’s what tends to happen to Ravaged now wherever we go. It’s become such a part of normal life for us that an entire building fainting at our feet barely registers.

Yeah, I noted that mousey little publicist girl freak out when I offered her my hand to shake. Sure, I was toying with her – having fun with that fear in her eyes - but even I didn’t expect her to be so nervous as to spill that tea all over me.

But I honestly don’t give a solitary shit about a ruined jacket. I’ve taken much more expensive shirts and jackets off in the past and flung them into adoring crowds during shows to even care about something I hastily chucked on I found lying on my hotel suite this afternoon. I’ve hurled enough shit into crowds that Drake has helpfully suggested maybe I should start charging fans for it.

And so we follow the mousey girl and her boss, taking our seats in some crappy little meeting room. Not very rockstar, I must say.

I don’t know why the fuck I’m here, nor do I give a fuck.

“I’d rather be practicing bass or getting my dick sucked than be sitting in this shithole,” I tell Bishop.

He can’t help but chortle at my joke. “You’re so immature, Axel,” he says. “Grow the fuck up.”

“That’s bold coming from you.”

“Shut up and focus for once in your life.”

“I’m not the one who needs time to practice,” I retort snarkily. “I certainly heard that wrong note you played last night, and so did ten thousand of our fans…”

Bishop turns to face me. “Oh really? You’re making that accusation?”

“Yeah, I am. What are you gonna do about it, coward?”

“I’m gonna whoop your ass, that’s what. And then I’m going to whoop it again for calling me a coward.”

“What? You can’t bear the competition?”

He takes a swing at me, and I easily dodge it. I ram into his chest like a football player, pushing him back in his chair.

“Gotcha,” I grunt as I wrap my arms around his waist, pinning his hands.