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“My bet? Yeah, she fucking does.” Kieran smirks when he stands, running his hands down his ripped jeans. “Our girl is secretly jealous. So, let’s show her we can be as professional as her. We sign autographs but stay close to her.”
Ohhh, I like secretly jealous Pretty Girl. She gets all stabby and punchy. It makes my dick hard just thinking about it.
“Let’s do this. Operation prove ourselves commences,” I say, throwing a fist into the air with a whoop.
“Have a good night, boys,”I say, sauntering out of the band house at midnight with my head held high.
Three days of running them through the wringer has every muscle in my body wound tighter than a damn spring. Ready to unload.
Three days of watching their asses sway on stage.
Sexy, stupid bastards. Why do they have to look so damn good and delicious in their natural habitat?
Three days of watching the sweat drip down their bare chests as they move with grins on their faces. Three goddamn miserable days of watching girls flock to their sides, pawing at them, and helplessly watching as I kept my shit together with gritted teeth and fake smiles.
Now, I’m free from them for a few days. I don’t know why I thought this torture would be good for them. They flew through my rigorous training exercise with ease.
Bastards.
Sure, the first concert was like watching a cactus soak in the sun. They were stiff pricks, avoiding eye contact with each other, including the roaring crowd. After that, they took my critical notes and ran with them like wild animals. Everything I laid down, they took it like champs.
I had to get creative by torturing their asses somehow and enact a little revenge of my own. I can’t exactly burn the house down with them inside to get some retribution, so… I may have overextended their abilities on stage.
Just a little. Three shows in a thirty-hour period isn’t too horrible. They survived. Maybe on fumes.
Okay, maybe it was just a little too much.
So, fucking sue me.
If I had it my way, I would have shoved them on a boat, duct taped and unconscious, and driven them out to sea. Sleep with the fishes now, boys.
Fuck. Not really. I couldn’t do that. They’ve been—
Great.
So, fucking wonderful with Ly. They’ve been here for me, too. Every step of the way. They aren’t fighting me on the demands I’m putting them through.
Asher makes her fucking breakfast every morning and brings it over. Even though looking at him simultaneously breaks my heart and hardens it. He’s still so bruised from their punches. And so damn subdued and polite.
It’s hard to hate a man who isn’t the same person he was years before when he pulled this stunt. He may wear the same face, but the demon that once sat on his shoulders disappeared the moment he confessed. Maybe my exorcisms really worked.
See? So damn conflicted.
Callum reads her bedtime stories, and sometimes Rad joins in for comedic relief.
Kieran spends as much time as possible with her on the beach with his guitar in his hand and her on his lap, teaching her the notes.
They’ve been fucking great. It both pleases the piss out of me and irritates me to no end.
Why couldn’t they be bastards so I could continue to hate them?
But no. That’s not what I want either.
Goddamn, my head aches with all the different opinions rattling through my head. I try to remember what Rocco and I talked about when he dropped soup off a few weeks ago and live by that mantra. I can’t fault these men for trying their hardest. Even when they fucked up in the worst possible way.
Take it day by day. Don’t roll over and forgive them. Make them beg. Make them get on their damn knees and earn your trust back. Let them see Lyric and prove themselves to her and to you.
And I’ve done that. I haven’t rolled over. Or forgiven them. It may be on the horizon. Sometime in the close future. But not yet. They still deserve more shit from me.
