Aaron stands in the hallway, one shoulder propped against the opposite wall, smirking at me. “So you’ve met our new assistant now.”
“Fuck off, Aaron.”
Cackling, he saunters away in the direction of his dressing room. “See you on stage in five.”
Chapter Two
Viola
Heading back to the greenroom, my emotions dip and soar like the ocean when a storm blows in, veering wildly from one extreme to another.
Mason Gray just kissed me.
I’d been so stunned that my body just reacted, my lips parting for his questing tongue. Because holy hell, that kiss. Dominant and skilled and masterful, his lips ignited parts of me that have lain dormant for too long.
I haven’t been kissed like that in … ever.
It was amazing and wonderful and lit me up from the inside.
But when his hand slid inside my pants and grabbed a handful of my ass, I came back to myself with a start.
Number one, Mason is one of my employers. While Marcus, the lead singer, seems to be the guy in charge, I’m responsible for handling all four guys. Which Mason so kindly pointed out that I’m already failing at by only providing them one bottle of water and one snack. But no one told me how much they usually get of anything, or any special requirements they have. I probably should’ve asked someone, but I’m terrified that they’ll think I’m too incompetent to keep on if I ask too many questions and just fire me. And then I’ll have to crawl back home with my tail between my legs and face the censure and I-told-you-sos from my parents.
My parents weren’t thrilled about me quitting my “good, steady”—read mind-numbingly boring—job and taking off to follow in my cousin Blaire’s footsteps. While they love Blaire to death, they didn’t like her following in her “unstable” and “irresponsible” parents’ footsteps either. Said parents are the reason that Blaire is more like a sister to me than a cousin, because she moved into my house when I was four, and we shared a room until we graduated—minus the summers she spent touring with her mom or dad, contract musicians for multiple famous acts.
Blaire used to have this job—personal assistant to Cataclysm—but she took a job as the tour manager for Beckett Stone and called me to see if I was interested in taking over for her here.
I agreed before she even told me what the job was, so desperate was I for a change of pace. She got me on a video call with Marcus and the other three guys—Danny, Aaron, and Mason—the next day.
But I guess Mason wasn’t paying much attention. To be honest, I barely caught a glimpse of his face when Marcus pointed the camera at him, and he gave a distracted wave. Because Mason clearly had no idea who I am when he escorted me into his dressing room. I followed him, thinking he must want to discuss his particular requirements.
I didn’t think those requirements included pre-show dressing room quickies, but clearly he had other ideas.
And that thought has me swooping back toward anger. I know he had some kind of arrangement with Blaire, and whatever, that’s fine, but to just assume I’d be down for the same thing? What the hell is that?
And I literally passed a groupie on the phone bragging to her friend about sucking him off like five seconds earlier?
Scowling, I wait in the greenroom for the band members to arrive. Marcus enters first, hand in hand with his girlfriend Kendra. They both give me warm smiles, though Marcus’s falters when he notices my face. “Everything alright? Is someone giving you trouble?”
I open my mouth to respond, but close it when Mason files in behind Danny and Aaron. Danny and Aaron both offer me smiles, but Mason’s scowl I’m sure matches my own.
Forcing my face into a more neutral expression, I return my attention to Marcus and shake my head. “Nope. Everything’s fine.” I can handle Mason by myself. I’m a big girl. And I don’t need to tattle to Marcus about a misunderstanding. Besides, Mason backed off as soon as I pushed him away. I doubt we’ll have a problem like this again.
Pasting on my sunniest smile, I check the time and pull my case of in-ear monitors from the pocket on the side of my leggings. “It’s showtime, guys. Break a leg.”
They all chuckle, except Mason, who stops next to me and in a voice barely more refined than a growl, says, “That’s theatre. We’re not superstitious about wishing each other good luck here.”
Before I can even respond, he’s gone.
Shaking my head in bemusement, I stand and watch the show from the wings. I’m transfixed. Marcus knows just how to work the crowd, amping them up, getting them to sing along on their radio hits, all of them moving to the music.
I spend a lot of the first half of the show watching Marcus, but I have to force myself to focus on him. And each time, my gaze gets dragged back to Mason behind the drum kit—that’s what Blaire told me they call it, not a drum set—his arms flying, muscles flexing, beads of sweat dripping off him by the end of the first half.
When he raises his shirt to wipe his face, my mouth goes dry at the sight of his abs, and I’m completely unsurprised by the crowd screaming and cheering, piercing whistles cutting through the ear protection I’m wearing. I want to whistle for those abs too.
Grinning at the audience, he stands and whips his shirt over his head, sending it flying to the front of the stage. Marcus, who’s now shirtless too, picks it up, wads it into a ball, and throws it high above the people crowding the barrier keeping them back from the stage. Glancing around, I realize none of them have shirts on anymore.
If I thought my mouth was
