Holy hell. If this is what I’m going to be dealing with on a regular basis …
I can see why Blaire slept with them.
The thing is, though, that I’m not like Blaire. In so many ways. She was always outgoing and exuberant, popular. I lost track of the number of boyfriends she had in high school.
I always looked up to her. Tried to follow along after her. But she was a grade ahead of me, and while she never deliberately excluded me, I always felt like an outsider with her friends. At home, she didn’t talk to me much, mostly keeping to herself, doing her homework and helping out with chores as much as possible. While she was always polite to me, it seemed like I tried harder at being friends with her than she did with me. In that way, she was a lot like my older brother Will. Neither of them seemed to have much time for me, but I always assumed that’s what it was like being the little sister. And even though Blaire isn’t technically my sister, I always thought of her as one.
I told my friends she was my sister. Still do, actually. It’s easier than explaining the details.
Only recently did I find out why she held herself apart from me. It wasn’t, as I’d grown up believing, that she thought I was annoying. No, actually, the opposite was true. She kept to herself thinking that I resented her being in our house, sharing my room. She thought she was a burden and an intruder. An outsider.
And all these years I thought she resented having to share a room with me, her annoying younger cousin.
Funny how both people can view the same situation so differently.
All that aside, I’m still much more reserved than my cousin. I didn’t have an endless string of boyfriends growing up. Nope. I had one in high school, my senior year. A few in college. And the last two years have been a wasteland of terrible attempts at online dating rife with dick pics, terrible come-ons, and guys who don’t match their profile pics at all.
So being faced with this smorgasbord of attractive masculine torsos … well, combined with Mason’s kiss a little while ago, my libido has certainly woken up from its enforced hibernation.
Unfortunately, it’s not likely to get satisfaction anytime soon. Because while Mason might be happy to oblige, I’m not okay with screwing a guy who got a blow job from another woman literally minutes before having his tongue down my throat.
And I’ve seen the way Blaire’s been dragged through the tabloids, both when she was working for Cataclysm and now that she’s with Beckett Stone.
I have no desire to follow in those footsteps. Blaire might be able to handle that kind of attention.
But I’ve always been the wallflower. I’m not built for the spotlight.
Chapter Three
Mason
We file off stage at the end of our show, and once again our prim little assistant with her shocking red lips—lips that I haven’t been able to get out of my head despite performing for the last two hours, lips that I shouldn’t care about with the cool disdain she gave me after pushing me away—stands at the entrance to the greenroom handing bottles of water to us.
“I’m sorry again about not having your dressing rooms adequately stocked tonight. I’m hoping you’ll forgive me since it’s my first day, and I’ve really never done anything like this before.” She lets out a nervous laugh. “I’ll be sure to have everything you need ready for you next time.”
Marcus jumps in with reassurances while I cross to the couch, scowling as I drain the bottle of water. That’s what I’ve been doing ever since she shoved me away from her. Scowling. One quick taste, one quick handful of ass, and that was the end of it. All my plans for the night, all the half formed ideas of things I wanted to do to that mouth, that body—poof. Gone.
And now I’m scowling. At her. Like it’s her fault that she’s not a groupie.
I mean, I guess it kinda is her fault. She’d have to decide to be one, after all.
But it’s my fault that I assumed she was. That I didn’t recognize her from the video conference where we interviewed her. Though, to be fair, I was hungover and paying almost no attention whatsoever to that video call. I didn’t care who we picked to replace Blaire.
The fact that we were replacing Blaire was fucking with my head.
Blaire’s irreplaceable as far as I’m concerned. So searching for her replacement is a fool’s errand.
Yeah, yeah, we need a PA. I know. And Blaire’s not coming back. Not when she’s a tour manager—and we all know she’s kicking ass at it, because that’s what Blaire does—and not when she’s in love with Beckett.
I just … I wanted her to choose me.
And it’s still a kick in the nuts that she didn’t.
So I’ve been finding solace where I can get it. Groupies. Booze. Weed. Though I can’t do that last one backstage. Marcus would have a shit fit. No smoke around his precious, precious vocal cords.
Since his voice is the money-maker, though, I suppose I can’t blame him. I only sing occasional backup vocals. I don’t need to sound particularly spectacular. I just need to be able to be on pitch while wailing on the drums.
But the pussy and booze should be available now. We’re rock stars. Where are the groupies?
Before I can stand and find the answer to my question, Aaron plops himself on the couch next to me. “Dude,” he says quietly. “I still can’t believe you tried to fuck the new assistant. And on her first day. Let her have some time to get settled, at least.”
“Shut up, Aaron.” I swig the last of my water.
He just chuckles. “Why are you whoring around
