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“She’s an equal,” Whip retorts. “Which makes it even better.”
“And when shit goes south?” Jax asks. “What then? You’re stuck with someone who hates you, and it brings us all down.”
Whip rubs the back of his neck. “That would be awkward.”
Thank fucking God. I might not have to kill him after all.
“Worse if she turns you down,” Rye adds. “Then you have to face her knowing…” He trails off when Brenna bursts into the room with a loud laugh, stumbling on her sky-high heels. She’s arm in arm with Jesse, one of our sound techs.
Whatever Jesse’s telling her must be hilarious, because she’s snorting and burrowing her face in his neck while his hand travels down to grab her ass.
At my side, Rye growls like a feral dog. The rest of us exchange a look. Here we go.
Brenna gives Jesse’s ass a squeeze back before she heads to the bar, her hips moving in an exaggerated sway. Rye jerks to his feet, his eyes tracking her.
“Man,” I say. “Don’t do whatever it is you’re thinking.”
He either doesn’t hear me or doesn’t want to. Rye brushes off Whip’s attempt to grab his wrist and stalks off. Heading for trouble.
“Should we stop him?” Whip asks.
“Too late for that,” Jax mutters. “Years too late.”
Rye’s already in Jesse’s face, his voice loud enough to carry over the din. “Man, we did not hire you to fuck around with our publicist.”
“Are you kidding me?” Brenna all but screeches as she rushes over, getting in between Rye and Jesse. “You did not just say that.”
“I’m pretty sure I just did,” Rye snaps. “Seriously, Bren, have some self-respect.”
Oh. Shit.
“You have some fucking nerve, Ryland. Can’t keep your dick in your pants for five minutes, and you’re lecturing me?”
“Yeah, well, I’m not the one in charge of PR.” He’s red in the face now too. “You set the example, honey.”
“Don’t you ‘honey’ me, asshat.” She pokes his chest. “Or go around acting like some jealous—”
“Jealous? More like disgusted.”
I push to my feet as Brenna goes bright red.
“You mother—”
“All right,” I cut in. “Why don’t we take it somewhere else?” I nod to the very interested crowd forming. Someone giggles, a few people duck their heads. But most stare.
Brenna blanches, her gaze darting around before zeroing in on Rye, who doesn’t appear to be bothered at all. “You are an asshole,” she hisses beneath her breath.
It’s the lowest she’s kept her voice the whole time, but the force of her anger is enough to make Rye flinch. He opens his mouth like he’s going to reply, but Brenna turns away from him, grabbing a mute Jesse by the hand and stalking off.
Jesse glances back, clearly fearful for his job.
I wave him off as Rye snorts.
“Little wuss didn’t even stand up for her,” Rye mutters.
He brushes past us, stealing a beer out of some guy’s hand as he goes. The door slams on his way out.
“That right there.” Jax shakes his head in disgust. “That’s why you don’t fuck with your crew.”
Libby
“I bet they’re doing it within the week,” one woman says to another as they drink martinis and watch Brenna and Rye stomp off in different directions.
The other woman snorts. “They’re probably already doing it. And can you blame her?” She sucks at her teeth. “Rye is hot as hell.”
“Mmm…all those massive muscles.”
“Personally, I’d rather do Killian. Tight and lean, with those sinful eyes. And that walk of his. You know he’s loaded for bear.”
“I have no idea what that means,” her friend says with a laugh.
But I do. I turn away before I have to hear more speculation over Killian’s equipment. Or the women who clearly want a chance to find out how big it actually is.
After-parties are a fact of touring life I never really considered. Frankly, I think they blow. Oh, meeting true fans is fun. They practically vibrate with joy when they finally face one of the guys. It’s cute. At least, those types of fans are. Then there are the groupies. Women whose job, it seems, is to put another notch on their proverbial bed posts. I shouldn’t hate on them, and I try really hard not to. But watching them hang on Killian like he’s a steak thrown into a pack of lionesses isn’t easy.
And they will do anything—anything—to get attention. I’ve seen more tits in these past weeks than in the whole of my life. Tops coming off at the oddest times. Like, oh, hey, the music started? Let me rip off my top and shake what my mama gave me. Or my plastic surgeon. Same difference.
Doesn’t matter if it’s a room full of journalists, record execs, roadies, and other hangers on. In fact, that somehow appears to make a strip show more thrilling for them.
Killian doesn’t encourage them. If anything, he always shoots me a pained look that says, “See what our hiding is making me do?” I love him for it. And hate myself a little more each time.
