Anyone But You Page 5

  Reluctantly pulling back the covers, I climb out of bed and put on a pair of leggings and an oversized sweatshirt while calling the car service followed by a text to Dave, the security guy. He’s on duty all night, so at least I’m not getting him out of bed.

  Blearily, I grab my bag, stuff my feet into my slip-ons, and head to the lobby to wait for the car. Dave’s waiting for me at the elevator, greeting me with a sympathetic smile. Thankfully, he doesn’t try to make small talk. I don’t want to talk to anyone. I want my bed.

  I close my eyes in the car, not really sleeping, but trying to rest as much as I can anyway. Now I get what Blaire was always going on about when she said that touring is exhausting. I had no idea it meant so many late nights and early mornings. At least there aren’t any morning show appearances scheduled tomorrow—today?—so I should be able to sleep in a little bit.

  “We’re here,” Dave says as the car pulls to a stop.

  Blinking, I look out the window. Maybe I really did doze off, or maybe the club’s closer to the hotel than I realized, because it feels like that took about thirty seconds.

  “I can go collect him,” Dave offers as I’m gathering my things.

  I give him a weary smile. “I appreciate the offer, but since he summoned me, I have a feeling there’ll be hell to pay if I don’t go in too. He’s already making my job hard enough. I don’t want to see what happens if I piss him off more.”

  His expression blank, Dave simply nods and climbs out, leading the way into the club through the throngs of people still out partying on a Friday night.

  It’s a strange universe I find myself in, and I feel distinctly out of place with my shapeless sweatshirt and messy bun. To fit in, I’d need a tiny dress, a killer blowout, and makeup. Any amount of makeup would be better than the none I’m wearing now. I showered before falling into bed a couple hours ago, and no way was I putting on makeup just to go pick up Mason.

  And that’s ignoring the fact that I’ve never been to a place like this. The music is audible as soon as we get out of the car, and it assaults me once Dave leads the way past the bouncers—who greet him with a nod like they know him—and through the door.

  Even though I’m the assistant, Dave is the one handling everything right now, finding the right people to ask to lead us to Mason, pulling out his phone, typing something in, then guiding me in front of him, where he leans down to speak close to my ear. “The car’s moving around to the back entrance so we won’t get mobbed on our way out.”

  I nod, dazed and slow. “Good idea,” I manage to respond, but I don’t even know if Dave heard me, because he’s already straightened, and it’s so loud that even if I shouted, my voice would still be lost in the cacophony.

  Dave guides me down a long hallway like he knows exactly where he’s going. Like maybe he’s been here before. Hell, for all I know, the guys come here all the time when they’re in the area, and Mason making me do it without giving me any clues was some kind of test. Or just his way of making my life harder, since that seems to be his favorite pastime. Calling me the wrong name. Making me chase him down when he’s supposed to be somewhere. Asking for different snacks every night. A different brand of water than everyone else gets. That smirk on his face all the while, deriving pleasure from making me work extra hard.

  This—dragging me out of bed to pick him up when he’s been out late partying—is just another example. I’m not sure what his endgame is, though. To get me to quit? But wouldn’t that just make his life worse? Then they wouldn’t have an assistant. Or would they be able to fill my shoes the next day?

  Am I that expendable?

  Giving myself a mental shake, I focus on putting one foot in front of the other as we navigate the black hallway into the abyss—or at least that’s what it feels like. This hallway seems to go on forever, and the black walls just soak up the tiny amount of multicolored light running along the floor and ceiling.

  Dave’s hand on my back turns me toward a nearly invisible door. How many doors have we passed that I didn’t even notice? And does Dave have epic night vision? How the hell did he know we were here?

  After two authoritative raps on the door with his knuckles, Dave slides the door open.

  There are people everywhere. And they’re doing … everything. Drinking, dancing, kissing … are those two having sex in the middle of all this?

  And that chick’s definitely giving that guy a blowjob.

  It’s hard to recognize who’s who in the low light, though it’s at least slightly brighter than in the hallway. But there’s no mistaking the lazy smirk on the face of the man getting blown.

  Mason watches me watch him, and he doesn’t even look like he’s into whatever’s happening to him. A fact he confirms by tapping the girl on the shoulder. His eyes leave mine as they have some kind of exchange. I can’t hear it, but it’s clear he’s telling her he’s done. Then he nods at another guy further down the couch, and to my eternal astonishment, she crawls over and starts pawing at his crotch.

  Before I know it, Mason’s in front of me, and I can’t help darting a glance at his crotch. But his pants are done up, and I can’t make out any telltale bulges. Maybe he’d already finished and I was just watching the cleanup.

  Ugh.

  I think I just puked in my mouth.

  “What’s wrong?” Mason asks. “Aren’t you happy to see me?”

  Instead of responding, I turn on my heel and lead the way back down the hall. Normally I’d have some kind of snappy comeback. But I’m too tired. And too disgusted. And too …

  Dismissed.

  That’s what it is. After the way he kissed me that first night, and then how he’s been all pissy with me since then … well, I thought maybe he was upset that I’d rejected him. Like maybe he was attracted to me, actually me and not just any random female.

  But seeing him like that, with some other woman that he clearly didn’t care about at all, just confirms that I’m nothing to him.

  I really was just another piece of ass. And if he’s mad about getting rejected, it’s only to do with his ego, and not anything to do with me.

  Chapter Nine

  Mason

  When I get back to the hotel, something like shame slithers into my guts.

  I don’t know why I made Viola come all the way to the club to pick me up. It was probably the biggest dick move of all the dick moves I’ve made this week.

  Actually, I do know why. I wanted to see her. And I wanted her to see me surrounded by women and universally adored. I wanted her to see what she was missing out on.

  But it backfired.

  Instead I disgusted her. I saw that look stamped on her face. She didn’t bother to hide it or look away.

  Some backwards part of me thought she’d get jealous if she saw me with another woman.

  Instead I think I made her hate me more.

  And for what? A lackluster blowjob from a groupie too high to even notice whose dick she’s sucking. And I didn’t even finish.

  Though to be fair, I was barely half hard when I sent her away. I didn’t want her sucking my dick. I hadn’t actually planned on anyone doing that, much less having my dick down someone’s throat when Viola walked in.

  It was the party I’d wanted her to see. Wanted her to want to be a part of.

  I collapse into bed, too drunk and disappointed in myself to even shower. Hoping that I’ll feel less disgusted with myself in the morning.

  But no. That is not to be. If anything I feel more disgusted with myself when I’m once again awakened by Viola knocking on the door and then letting herself in.

  At least this time I have clothes on. The same clothes from last night, but still …

  Yesterday I hadn’t minded her seeing me buck naked. Let her get an eyeful of what she’s missing out on by shoving me away like I’m diseased that first night.

  But now? I’ve done enough. Tortured her enough. I need to stop.

  Last night was a step too far.

 
And why am I being a dick to her anyway? Because she’s not Blaire?

  It’s not her fault Blaire abandoned us. She doesn’t deserve to be treated like shit because I’m too wrapped up in myself and my own bullshit to pay attention to what’s going on around me. I didn’t pay attention to her video interview. I didn’t recognize her when she introduced herself. I made assumptions about her before she even opened her mouth. I’m the dick. Who can blame her for being cold and impassive with me?

  “Marcus wants to see you,” she announces without preamble when she sees me sitting up in bed and blinking at her. She’s dressed in her usual uniform of leggings and a T-shirt, only she looks more rumpled than usual today. More … drained. Her hair’s in a messy bun like it was last night—this morning?—when she came to pick me up from the club. Normally it’s pulled back in a sleek ponytail or framing her face in a glossy curtain.

  I open my mouth to ask if she’s okay, but she’s clearly not. She looks like she needs to go back to bed and sleep for a week. And I dragged her out of bed for no damn reason. I really am an asshole.

  “I’m sorry,” I say instead.

  Her only response is to raise her eyebrows. “For?”

  “Last night.”

  She hums in response. That fucking hum that doesn’t tell me a damn thing. I apologize and this is what I get? “Thanks. As I said, Marcus wants to see you. He’s in his suite.” She looks me up and down. “Since you’re dressed, I’m assuming you can find your own way there.”

  “Yeah. Of course.” My answer comes out more disgruntled than I want it to, not when I’m trying to apologize to her, but before I can correct it, she gives me a perfunctory nod and leaves.

  Dragging my hand down my face, I heave out a sigh, then stumble down the hall to Marcus’s room barefoot.

  Marcus answers, his face grim. He gestures me in with his head, crossing to a table covered in newsprint.

  I bite back a groan when I see it. Tabloids. Multiple. And a few printouts from digital gossip sites. All with headlines and pictures of my sex party last night.

  That’s what they’re calling it.

  A sex party.

  “I thought we’d reached an understanding,” Marcus says at last, his voice low and even.

  I shrug, irritation simmering inside me and coalescing into anger. First the realization that I’m a dick. I came to that conclusion on my own, so I can handle that. But to have my apology dismissed and then my bandmate summon me to his room for … what? Another sermon about appropriate behavior? I got enough of those growing up as a preacher’s kid. I left all that behind me. I don’t need it from Marcus.

  “That’s it? That’s all you have to say for yourself?”

  Raising my eyes to his, I fix him with a cold glare. “Last I checked, you’re not my dad, Marcus. I don’t need your permission to blow off some steam.”

  “Fine. No. You don’t. But I thought you had at least enough self-respect to quit dragging your name through the mud. Or enough respect for the rest of us not to drag Cataclysm’s name through the mud.” He picks up one of the tabloids, shaking it at me. “At the very least, you need to do a better job vetting who you let in. Take security with you and have them collect everyone’s cell phones so we quit getting pictures of you getting your cock sucked plastered all over the internet and supermarket tabloids.”

  I suck in my breath at the self-respect bit. It’s a dumb trigger word. I know it. But there it is. That’s what my dad used to always say when he’d berate my brother and me for acting like kids at church. That we needed to have more self-respect. And his chosen way to teach it to us was with a belt.

  “Guess not,” I say through clenched teeth, shutting down just like I always did. There was no winning an argument with my dad. There’s no winning one with Marcus, either. Not when he’s like this. It’s useless to even try.

  He gives me a long look, like he doesn’t quite buy my capitulation.

  “Next time I’ll have security hold everyone’s cell phone hostage, alright?”

  Marcus gives a tight nod. “Normal call time. Nothing else is on the schedule today. But tomorrow we have a radio show. We have to leave at four forty-five in the morning. Keep that in mind when you’re making plans tonight.”

  My eyes bug out. “All of us?”

  Face hard, Marcus shakes his head. “No. Just you and me. Be ready. Go take a nap, finish sleeping off your hangover. And don’t forget to shower before the show. You look like shit.”

  I turn to leave, thoroughly dismissed, jaw clenching, gut churning. When my hand is on the doorknob, Marcus calls after me. “Oh and Mason?” I glance back over my shoulder. “Don’t make Viola come pick you up at three in the morning when she has to be up at four, too. She’s still adjusting to life on tour. Cut her some slack.”

  For some reason, Marcus sticking up for her just pisses me off even more. Like he’s rubbing my nose in the fact that I’ve been awful to her. Like I’m a puppy who’s piddled on the floor and needs his face shoved in the evidence of his mistake.

  I manage a curt jerk of my head that Marcus seems to take for agreement and head back to my room. Only to realize that I didn’t grab my keycard before I left.

  Fuck me.

  Chapter Ten

  Viola

  Marcus has officially appointed me as Mason’s babysitter. Dave and me, we’re Mason’s shadows after the shows.

  Which means I’m getting even less sleep, and I’m forced to watch other women crawling all over him at every opportunity. This not only continues for the rest of our time in Boston, but persists as we make our way down the east coast. New York, Philadelphia, Charlotte.

  A month in, and he still won’t call me by name. But he’s stopped calling me deliberately wrong names, at least. It’s not much, but it’s still progress. At this rate, he might call me by name in six months or so.

  If I last that long.

  It’s the afternoon before our second show in Charlotte, and I’m wishing I could take a nap. Instead I’m talking to both of my parents on video chat.

  “You look tired, Viola. Why aren’t you sleeping?”

  “Thanks, Mom,” I tell her, trying to hold back my sigh. “Touring’s busy, and the hours are long. I am tired. I’d normally catch a nap right now, but instead I’m talking to you.”

  “We won’t keep you long, honey,” says my dad, putting his face so close to the camera that all I can see is his nose.

  I lean away from my computer reflexively. “Thanks, Dad. I see you’ve been keeping up with the nose hair trimming.”

  “Sit back,” my mom hisses in the way that long-time couples scold each other in front of people. I’m not really supposed to hear it, but I do.

  “How are you guys?” I ask, wanting to turn the conversation on them. If we talk about me for too long, it’ll only devolve into Mom trying to convince me to come home and Dad lecturing me about the importance of safe sex practices. “How’s the semester going?”

  That does the trick. “Oh, you know how it is,” Dad says. “The freshmen leave something to be desired, as usual, but my class on the comedies is going marvelous.” He launches into a lengthy discussion of his planned assignments and how excited he is to see what his students come up with. My mom occasionally punctuates this with statements about how he’s left out the best one—Twelfth Night—and she’s still aggrieved by the oversight.

  Aggrieved is the actual word she uses.

  This is why I got made fun of as a kid for using strange words. And occasionally got into trouble at school for using old words that sound like something bad today—like the time I accused a classmate of bumfiddling my drawing in elementary school. He’d leaned over and scribbled all over what I was working on for art class. I’d gotten mad and whipped out the new word my dad had taught us over the weekend, only to have the teacher turn pink and scold me for using potty language. She didn’t believe me when I told her it meant that he’d messed it up.

  After that I started paying more a
ttention to how everyone outside of my family spoke, and I never used one of Dad’s fancy words in front of a teacher again.

  After another ten minutes, I wrap up the conversation. “I really do need to get a nap. We have another show tonight, which means I’ll be out late. And there are interviews in the morning, so I have to be up early.”

  This time even Dad’s face pulls into a scowl. “That can’t be legal. Aren’t you required a certain amount of time off? You have to sleep, at least. It’s not healthy to be required to work late and then turn around and be back at work before normal people eat breakfast.”

  I wave away his concern. “It’s fine, Dad. We’ll have a few rest days after tomorrow’s concert. I’ll catch up on sleep then.”

  “That’s not how it works, you know,” says Mom, her mouth pinched. “I read an article recently—”

  “I know, Mom. You emailed it to me. But this is my job now. And if you’re really worried about me sleeping, you’ll let me go so I can do that.”

  “I still can’t believe you quit your job at Inglefield Insurance. And for what? To traipse all around the country after these … these witless rags who need you to chase after them at all hours of the day and night. We’ve seen the tabloids, you know. The pictures of that drummer.”

  Dad leans forward again, giving me another shot up his nose. “He’s the one you should avoid. He’ll probably give you syphilis. Always use condoms. No need to get the pox.”

  “He doesn’t have syphilis, Dad. And even if he did, he couldn’t give it to me.”

  “Right. Because you’re a smart girl and always take prophylactic measures.”

  I resist the urge to cover my face. “I am smart, and yes, I do.” I can’t believe I just said that. “But also because I’m not sleeping with Mason. He doesn’t even like me.”

  Dad sits up straight, bristling at that assertion. “What? How can he not like you? He must be a gnat-brained fool.”