2. TWO

TWO

I pack a small bag and leave for L.A. before my sister gets home from work. I realize if this goes my way, my Camry is going to end up towed by this time tomorrow, but I'm not really worried about that.

This winter has been colder than we're used to in Southern California, and tonight is no different. I park in a nearby garage and walk to the venue, shivering and running my hands over my arms in a pathetic attempt to keep myself warm, suddenly wishing I'd at least worn jeans. As it is, I'm in combat boots and black shorts over fishnets; my top is red and strapless, and it laces up in the front like a corset. I join the masses huddled outside, waiting to get in, then spot a roped line off to the side labeled "VIP" which appears to be moving.

I double-check my ticket.

That's me—VIP section with backstage after party pass. I quickly make my way over to the side doors, and the bouncer scans my ticket.

"You're over twenty-one?" he asks.

"Yes."

"Do you have your ID?"

I reach into my pocket and pull out Blakely's ID. We look enough alike that you can't reasonably say the picture isn't me—especially when she's wearing glasses large enough to obscure many of the features that set us apart, like my rounder face. I suck in my cheeks and stand a little taller, remembering I'm supposed to be 5'6". Fortunately, the guy in front of me is such a giant that there's no way he'd be able to discern a difference between 5'3" and 5'6". I'm probably pushing 5'5" in these boots anyway.

"Happy late birthday," he says.

I narrow my eyes. It's February, and Blakely's birthday is in May. Nice try, though.

"My birthday isn't until May," I tell him.

He looks a bit skeptical but still wraps the purple "21+" bracelet around my wrist and fastens it. "VIPs get open bar until we open the doors for general admission in…" He pauses, checking the time on his phone. "Approximately nineteen minutes. Enjoy the show, Blakely."

"Thank you," I say. Once inside, I waste no time finding the bar. I grab an empty stool, order a beer, and throw a tip down on the counter before taking a swig.

"Teagan Townsend," a voice says from the seat beside me. "No way. Is that you?"

I look to my left and find myself face-to-face with Kyle Thomas. It takes me a few seconds to recognize the former captain of my high school's football team. I look him up and down, less than impressed.

"It's Kyle," he says. "Kyle Thomas. We went to high school together."

"Yeah, I remember," I say.

How could I forget? Our lockers were next to each other, and his girlfriend was my worst fucking nightmare. If I didn't have better shit to do, maybe I'd fuck him just to prove a point. But I do, so he can go fuck himself.

"Well, you look fucking…amazing. Are you here alone?" he asks.

"I'm with the band, actually," I tell him. I don't think it's a lie. I will be with the band. Manifest the shit you want from life or whatever.

"Oh, no shit? How'd that happen? You think you could get me backstage? The after party passes sold out before I could grab one."

"Nope," I say simply, sipping my beer.

He laughs like he thinks I'm joking. My eyes let him know how serious I am. Still, he sits there, staring at me, waiting for something else—for me to be interested.

"I'm going to turn the other way now," I say.

"Well, hey," he says, placing a hand on my shoulder, "do you maybe want to—"

"I'm not going to fuck you, Kyle," I deadpan. "I'm out of your league. Move on."

"What—you're…" he scoffs, flustered. The bartender and the couple next to us laugh. Maybe it makes me an asshole, but it feels good to be on this side of it. "I don't want to fuck you," he says. "You're a loser . I was just being nice to you because I feel sorry for you, that's all."

"Pathetic," another voice says from behind me—right behind me, actually. I look down and see tattooed hands gripping the bar on either side of me, and my body flushes with heat. I recognize the Roman numerals on the knuckles.

The man behind me is Luca De Rossi.

"My girl told you to fuck off," he says to Kyle.

Red-faced and flustered, Kyle leaves the bar. I smile, relishing in my substantial victory. Kyle spent a significant amount of money to see a band he loved tonight, only to be rejected by a loser like me and humiliated by someone he probably idolizes.

And now, I have Luca De Rossi wrapped around my body.

"My hero," I say, turning to face him. "Your timing is impeccable."

"That was the greatest thing I've seen in a while," he says. He hoists himself onto the bar, then swings his legs over to the other side. The bartender looks at the shirtless guitar player but says nothing as he grabs a bottle of top-shelf vodka and takes it back over the bar with him. "What's your name?"

"Teagan."

"I'm Luca," he says.

"Yeah…I know who you are."

"Really?" he says, taking a swig from the bottle. "Who am I, then, Teagan?"

He half smiles, and green eyes run up and down my body, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. He runs his hands through his dirty blonde hair and waits.

There's something about musicians—it's true. Everything about them exudes sex appeal; they're irresistible. But this man in front of me…he's the living, breathing embodiment of human carnality. Do I think his brother is a murderer? Yes. But do I plan to enjoy every moment I spend trying to piece this together? Also yes.

"You're the reason I'm here," I say in an almost-whisper.

He seems to like that answer. Placing a hand under my chin, he tilts my face toward his. Then, he brings the bottle of vodka to my lips.

"Open," he says.

I open for it, and he fills my mouth with liquid smooth enough that it barely burns on the way down.

"Good girl," he says. His fingers run down the lanyard on my neck, then he lifts and inspects my pass. "See you backstage, Teagan."

I watch his muscular back as he goes, the bottle of vodka in his right hand.

Jesus fucking Christ. He told me to open my mouth and called me a good girl. My panties are wrecked.

Luca jumps up onto the stage and disappears around the corner. As he does, I'm met with dark eyes and a scowl.

Declan.

Why is he looking at me? Why is he looking at me like that?

I glance over my shoulder, wondering if perhaps that look is intended for someone else instead, but there's no one there. When I turn back, he's still there, and I meet that same harsh glare, indisputably meant for me. He slowly steps backward, not breaking eye contact until he's out of sight.

Well, that was fucking weird.

I realize the general admission guests have started to file in, so I make my way over to the VIP section, finding a spot on the left side of the stage.

The side I know Luca plays on.

A local band plays a short opening set before Gods of Tomorrow takes the darkened stage. A spotlight finds Declan, who pulls a knife from a sheath at his waist. He holds it above his head, the blade facing the floor, and the crowd goes absolutely wild. Girls in the VIP section shove their way toward the front-center stage, reaching for him.

After seeing the videos online, I thought I knew what to expect. In person, it's…different.

Declan approaches the edge of the stage, extending the knife toward the group of screaming girls. He beckons one of them to come closer, then, lowering his body onto the stage and lying flat on his stomach, he runs the blade across her collarbone. I watch deep red blood run down her chest, staining her white top red.

Well, shit.

Then, he runs his tongue over the area, licking it clean, sucking at the open wound, and I…

I…fuck. I want to say that I'm disgusted. Reading about it—the blood drinking—and watching the videos online, it looked like a performance and an unnecessary one at that. Watching it is something entirely different. I want it to be me. I want to suck the blood from his tongue; I can't explain it. I've never had an issue with blood. Like Blakely said, I've been obsessed with horror and crime my whole life, but I've never thought of it like this. There's just something…erotic about how wrong it is.

Declan stands and wipes his mouth with his forearm, staining it red. I force myself to avert my eyes, and they land on Luca, watching me from the darkened stage, a satisfied look on his face. I see a flash of teeth before the lights go up, and he starts strumming the intro to "Stained in Crimson."

I watch, enthralled from start to finish. Gods of Tomorrow blew up for a reason—their lyrics are haunting, and Declan's vocals only make them more so. I made it a point to memorize their set list and every word. I was partially convinced I'd come here and find his voice had been altered, that he'd either be lip-syncing the lyrics or he'd sound entirely different, but that isn't the case at all. It's soul-stirring—the kind of voice that sends chills up and down your spine—and their in-person performance is even more powerful.

An hour and a half later, they wrap up the set with "Rhapsody of Regret," and the stage goes dark again. I've never been to this venue, nor have I been backstage after a concert, so I'm unsure what to do next. I look around for some kind of secret line or back door when a group of girls blows past me, including the one with the bloody neck. Instinct tells me I should follow—that they must know where they're going—so I do.

Sure enough, there is a secret fucking door. I mimic the group, flashing my badge to the security guard, who lifts a curtain aside so I can step through. Then, I follow them down the dark corridor and into a dimly lit back room filling with people—mostly females—with the same badge around their necks. I don't see the band yet, but this has to be the right place.

There's a bar in the back corner, a dance floor, and booths lining the walls. The interior is red and black, with crystal chandeliers reflecting dim—almost too dim—lighting. A song from Gods of Tomorrow's first album plays through the speakers. I'm taking it all in when an employee stops in front of me with a tray of jello shots.

"Care for a shot?" she prompts.

I shrug. "Why not?"

I take one of the small plastic cups and bring it to my lips, running my tongue around the sides before sucking the red and green substance into my mouth. I chew it a couple of times and gag, shocked by the metallic taste, before I force it down.

"That never gets old," a small blonde girl beside me says, laughing.

"Seriously, never," her friend agrees, wrapping her arms around her waist and laughing into her shoulder.

"What the fuck was it?" I ask them.

"Is this your first time?" the blonde asks.

The second girl, taller with pink hair cut into a sleek bob, laughs again.

"Yes," I tell them, even though I don't quite understand the question.

"What's your name?"

"Um, Teagan."

"She's cute," the blonde tells her friend before turning back to me. "I'm River, and this is Hazel. We've been on this tour since…" She pauses, laughing. "I don't even know how long we've been here."

"Since July," Hazel says.

"Right," River says. "July. Right before they left for the European leg—and that was blood, by the way."

"What—" I guess I knew once it settled onto my tongue; I read about it online, too. I just haven't had time to process it yet. Still, you'd think the server would fucking warn people. "What the…well…who's fucking blood was it?"

The band's?

River shrugs. "I don't know. Mine, hers? It's clean if that's what you're worried about. It's all been tested."

"Well, I suppose that's comforting," I say.

The two girls laugh. "I like her, Haze," River says. "You can sit with us."

River takes my hand and pulls me to a large booth in the back corner which has been roped off with a sign that says, "Reserved." I slide into the booth behind her. The dark-skinned girl with the bloody neck sits on the top of the high-backed booth seat with another sadder-looking blonde girl beside her, staring at the cut at the base of her throat.

She's jealous. Interesting.

"Riv, did you make a new friend?" a guy asks from across the table.

"I did," she says. "Her name is Teagan, and she ate our blood jello. Teagan, this is Brady. That's Layla with the blonde hair, and the bloody girl is Alana. What do you want to drink, Teagan? We have everything."

"Is there blood in everything?" I ask.

"There isn't blood in any of this," Hazel says, gesturing to the center of the table. "But…there could be. If you wanted."

She flips open a knife. I guess she didn't have to go through the metal detector. I furrow my brow, and she smiles. I can't tell if she's teasing me or not, but before I can respond, the band enters the room through the back door. First is Eli, the bass player, then Rhett, the drummer, followed by the two brothers. Eli heads for the bar, throwing his arm around someone he appears to know. The brothers start moving around the room, taking pictures and signing autographs. Rhett slides into the booth next to Brady, and the group I've fallen in with congratulates him on the show. He thanks them, his eyes settling on me—the one who doesn't belong—before looking at River and laughing.

"What?" River prompts.

"You know what," Rhett says.

"I like her," River says. "And I love him. And he wants her here."

He? Does she mean Luca? Is that why I'm here? She found me for him?

"And she ate our blood shots," Brady says. He puts his arm around Rhett and starts rubbing the back of his neck.

"How was that?" Rhett asks me.

"Um…coppery," I tell him.

"It's not a good mix," he says. "The Bloody Marys are better."

"I'll remember that." I turn to River. "Is he joking?"

"Oh, no. The Bloody Marys do have blood in them. And they do taste better than the jello. I'm happy to get you one."

Fuck that. "I'm good for now. Thanks, though."

"Okay," she says. She taps me on the nose, then turns back to Hazel, and I just sit there, processing that for a second before I begin scanning the space again.

Luca has almost made it over to this side of the room. A couple of booths away, he's signing girls' bare tits and taking photos. I try not to let him see me staring, but I catch his eye anyway. I quickly turn my attention back to River and Hazel. Hazel strokes the sad girl's hair, appearing to comfort her. I wish I could hear what was happening, but I can't. The other girl, Alana, appears to be Facetiming with someone or taking a video. Rhett is slouched in the booth, his head thrown back and his eyes closed. I realize his hand is in Brady's hair, who is on his knees under the table.

Again, I try not to stare but can't help it. He's sucking him off feet away from me. Am I not supposed to look?

Rhett lets out a long moan, and I finally force myself to look away, squeezing my thighs together.

"Go ahead and watch," River says. "They don't mind…obviously."

Before I can reply, Luca slides into the booth next to me. "I was looking for you," he says.

"Hi, Luca," River says, flashing him a shit-eating grin. He reaches over and pats her on the head. Satisfied, she turns back to Hazel and Layla.

"Did you enjoy the show?" he asks.

"I did," I tell him. I don't mean to, but my voice raises an octave when I say it. He notices and raises an eyebrow.

"And did that surprise you?"

"No," I say a little too quickly. "I didn't mean it like that. I just mean…most bands aren't better in person. You guys were even better in person. That's what surprised me."

"It's the energy," he says. "That's what makes us better in person. The room was alive; couldn't you feel it?"

He brings that same vodka bottle from earlier to his mouth and takes a swig. All I can do is nod, staring at his tattooed hands wrapped around the bottle's neck, his mouth and the muscles in his throat when he swallows.

The energy of all of this is sex. As the thought crosses my mind, Rhett groans across from me.

"Oh, fuck," he says. "Yes. Take it all."

I fight the urge to turn and look. Luca sets the bottle down and adds, "You can't get energy like that inside a recording studio. I mean, you can try, but it's not the same."

"Yeah, no. I know what you mean."

He lifts the bottle from the table again and holds it out in front of me. "See that?" he says, pointing to the faded lipstick stain around the rim.

"Uh-huh."

"That's you," he says. He brings the bottle to my mouth again, and I wrap my lips around it, taking a long, hard pull.

I need to be careful. I can't get drunk here—not tonight.

"Do you have a favorite song?" he asks.

"Um, yeah," I tell him. "But you didn't play it."

"Which one is that?"

"'My Favorite Ending.'"

"Really?" he says. "I wrote that song. It's actually my favorite one, too."

"Seriously?"

I knew that.

"Yeah. I actually write most of our lyrics, but Declan makes a lot of changes to them—so they fit the vibe or whatever. I had a little more freedom on the first album. That's one of only two songs that are entirely mine."

"I wonder what that would feel like," I say.

"Writing a song?" he asks.

"Being entirely yours."

"Oh, Teagan," he says, shaking his head. "If only you knew what you were saying."

"Why don't you tell me then?"

Reaching for me, he tucks my hair behind my ear and then traces my jawline with his fingertips. His eyes drop to my chest, then meet mine again. I lean into the table to give him a better look and run my hand up the inside of his thigh, stopping when I get to his rock-hard cock straining against his jeans. "Fuck, you're beautiful. When I heard you tell off that guy at the bar, I knew I had to have a taste of you. If you come with us to San Francisco, I'll sing you 'My Favorite Ending,' and I'll make you—"

Across from us, someone clears their throat loudly. Luca and I look over at Declan, who scowls at us with Alana nestled in his lap.

"No," he says plainly. "You want to fuck? Fine. Go fuck Hazel and Riv. Or anyone else in this room, as long as you aren't looking at them like that. And as long as you don't fucking talk to them. You know you aren't allowed to talk to women."

"Declan," Hazel says. "Come on. Let him have fun. He's been so good lately."

What the hell is going on here?

"And we're going to keep it that way. Actually, we need to head out. Hey!" he calls out, waving at Eli across the room. He walks over to the table, bringing the topless girl who was grinding on his lap with him.

"Yeah?" he says.

"We're heading out," Declan says. "You can bring your friend." He turns back to Luca. "Not you. No more friends for you."

Rhett and Brady file out of the booth, and the rest follow.

"You should have seen that coming," Hazel says to Luca. "You were too slow."

"Yeah, I realize that now," he says.

"Poor Luca," River says before leaving the booth, too. I look back just in time to see Luca walking away.

"Wait," I say, grabbing him by the arm. "What's going on?"

"I'm in trouble," he says. "And you…" He pauses, looking me up and down again, and runs his knuckles over the exposed skin just above my waistline, then up my center. His fingers linger there, toying with the ties between my breasts, causing me to suck in a breath. "You are black licorice."

"Black licorice?" I ask. "Everyone hates black licorice."

"I don't," he says. "It's sweet. It's actually good for you in small amounts—did you know that?"

I shake my head.

"But in large quantities, it can be deadly. It's poisonous; it can cause heart attacks."

"I'm not…poisonous," I tell him.

"No, I believe you," he says. "But my problem is I'm not really good at doing anything in moderation. It's a fucking shame. I bet you are so fucking sweet."

"I can be anything you want," I say. "Just tell me what you want. It's not Declan's choice."

"I really like this," he says, still running his fingers over the low lace neckline across my breasts.

"I have it in black," I tell him. "I'll wear it in San Francisco."

Luca shakes his head and laughs. "And you say you're not poisonous. God damn."

With that, he turns and heads for the back door.

"I'll see you there!" I call after him. "Don't forget to play my song."

"Okay, Teagan," he says over his shoulder before the door closes. "I'll see you in San Francisco."

What the fuck am I going to do now?

I was so close—and I didn't plan for failure. I also never would have guessed I'd be stuck standing here alone—hot and bothered, wet and horny as fuck. I look around the room and almost scream. I'd love to just pick someone to go burn this off with, but I can't afford to waste time…not that anyone here could live up to the tattooed rockstar sex god that just walked out the door.

"Fuck! God fucking damn it!" I scream, earning me a few questioning looks. I stomp out the door just in time to watch the tour bus pull away, and then walk a couple of cold, dark blocks back to the parking garage.

After aggressively pushing the unlock button about a hundred times, I climb inside the car and slam the door behind me. I turn the key in the ignition, and Declan's voice blares through the speakers.

"Fuck!" I scream, punching my steering wheel with both of my fists. "Fuck this! Fuck Declan De Rossi! Fuck!"

I lean back in my seat, pull at my hair, and scream again. Then, I think of Luca—of the sweat running down his abs when he played tonight, his hungry eyes on my body, his tattooed hands. I reach down the front of my shorts and find my swollen, aching clit. I close my eyes, drop my head back, and think of those hands on me as I rub myself hard and fast, whimpering, chasing the relief I so desperately need until finally I get my release, legs shaking as my clit pulses against my fingers.

It still isn't enough to take the edge off. Fuck.

I make myself come in my car's front seat again before leaving the garage. Then, I take the 405 until I hit the 5 North and prepare to drive all night.

I'll figure the rest out when I get there.