Beneath the Burn (59 page)

Charlee rose from the bunk and held out a hand. “I’m not the only person. I mean, I’m not some psycho who doesn’t let people touch her boyfriend. But let’s not test it, all right?” She grasped Ella’s hand, the threat punctuated in her none-too-gentle grip.

Fuck, he loved her jealousy. It stirred a feverish storm in his chest, vibrating like a loudly strummed minor chord on his Les Paul electric. It also made him hard as a rock. He adjusted himself as he climbed to his feet.

Ella smiled. “That’s cool. Don’t you worry about me. I’m just here to keep things organized.” She flicked her eyes to him. “Schedule’s posted on the microwave. Check it every day to find out when and where you need to be. Y’all pick out your bunks?”

Charlee chewed a nail, watching her with a blank expression. “Uh, yeah. We’ve got this one.” She raised a boot behind her and tapped the toe against the mattress frame.

“Man, oh man, I’m in high cotton. Touring with
The Burn?
And first stop…San Dieeee-ego!” Her voice was high-pitched and way too fucking eager.

He twined his fingers with Charlee’s. “Let’s head up front.”

Past the drape and out of Ella’s earshot, Charlee whispered, “Is she new?”

“New tour. New tour manager.” He kissed her head. “We have to reeducate them every time.”

An hour later, Charlee nestled into the crook of his arm and stretched her legs along the couch in the front lounge. They cruised down the Five just south of San Clemente. The ocean view on the right sparkled in a luster of blues, yet not half as captivating as Charlee’s eyes as she took it all in.

Black Suburbans shadowed the views out the windshield and on the left. Unwanted but necessary reminders of what was out there, waiting for them.

Wil and Laz sprawled on opposite ends of the couch on the other side, hypnotized by whatever video game was sucking their brain cells. The slamming of the fridge and microwave doors meant Rio was eating. Again. Tony, Nathan, and Ella moved to the back to go over the schedule for that night’s show in San Diego.

“I’ve never swum in the ocean.” Charlee circled a finger on the glass, eyes on the coastline. “First thing I’d do is pull down my pants and stick my butt cheeks in the sand.”

A laugh burst out of him. “I better be there when that happens. I’ll help you clean the grit out of those hard to reach places.”

He pulled her in, crushing her back against his chest. They would be pushing out of San Diego immediately after the set was broken down, and the remainder of the trip was inland. He kissed the crook between her neck and shoulder. There would be plenty of downtime after the tour to take her to every ocean in the world.

Swift footfalls that could only belong to Tony whispered through the cabin. Phone to her ear, she grabbed the remote and switched off the guys’ video game.

“What the fuck, Tony?” Laz held the controller in the air, his mouth agape.

“Got it. Thanks, Faye.” She pocketed her phone and flipped through the channels, stopping on a news station. “Alan Patera, assistant to—”

“We know who he is.” Adrenaline heated Jay’s cheeks and spiked his pulse.

Charlee straightened, her twisting fingers echoing his unease. He clutched her hands.

Tony shifted to unblock Charlee’s view of the TV. “He called to warn us of a news report coming— Here it is.” She dialed up the volume, and the camera panned to a middle-aged anchorwoman with botoxed lips.

“Recently retired CEO of Windsor Records, Maxim Windsor, announced today that Jay Mayard, vocalist and guitarist of the popular rock band,
The Burn
, has been having sexual relations with his daughter, Sylvia Windsor. It is unknown if these relations began before Sylvia’s eighteenth birthday last month. If accused, Jay Mayard could be facing statutory rape charges in the state of California.”

Dread constricted his airflow, and Charlee’s fingers tugged uselessly in his flexing fist.

“What the fuck kind of fucking bullshit is this?” Laz hurled the controller, and it smashed somewhere in the galley.

“Shh.” Tony slashed a hand in Laz’s direction.

“…Oxford Industries’ acquisition of Windsor Records, Mr. Windsor stepped down from his position as CEO of the label; however, he contends that
The Burn’s
popularity is owed to Jay Mayard’s relationship with his daughter. Jay Mayard has declined to comment on these allegations, and Sylvia Windsor could not be reached for comment.

“Jay Mayard is not new to lawless behavior. His career has been plagued with drug use. In 2011, he was carried off the stage at Madison Square Garden due to a supposed overdose of speedball.”

“Turn that shit off.” Jay jumped up, shoved his hands in his hair, pulling, twisting, his heart tearing through his chest.

“That is so not cool.” Wil reached for the remote and clicked off the screen. “Jay has never OD’d.”

“Jay. Sit down.” Charlee’s tone was soft, too soft.

No way would she believe him after everything he’d done. He didn’t want to face her, didn’t want to see any more pain straining her face.

“Sit.” Stronger that time, but not angry.

He sat, dragged his eyes, burning as they were, to meet hers.

“Have you slept with her?”

The ache in his eyes clouded his vision. His teeth sawed at his cheek. An eighteen-year-old? Never. He was twenty-seven, for Christ’s sake, but why would she believe him?

She raised a hand to touch his cheek and withdrew it before she made contact. His heart sank.

“No, you haven’t slept with her.” Her eyes brightened. “Have you met her? In public or otherwise?”

Wait. What? She just looked at him and saw the truth? He gathered her to his chest and squeezed her harder than he should have. He didn’t care what the press said about him. Only Charlee’s opinion of him mattered.

He pressed his lips against the top of her head and cupped her face, lifting it to look into her perceptive eyes. “I met her once. A promotional event
after
we signed with Windsor. She…” He stroked her cheeks with his thumbs. “She propositioned me.”

“For sex?”

His stomach rolled. “I turned her down.” His response was coarse and tasted like acid. He remembered the girl’s determination, her attempts to touch him. He hadn’t let her down easy.

“A woman scorned.” She sat back, eyes rimmed red, and his hands slipped from her face. “She made Roy’s favorite score too easy.”

“Favorite score?”

“Slander. I’ve witnessed him rip families apart with false scandals, destroying reputations to get what he wants.” Her lip quivered and she bit down on it, inhaled deeply. “I’m so sorry, Jay.”

“Don’t. This is
not
your fault. And it’s not the end of the world. There’s no evidence to charge me. Faye will take care of it from the legal side.”

She looked up out of glossy eyes. “Faye?”

“She’s a lawyer.” Laz leaned forward, elbows on knees. “And a badass one. She’ll handle it.”

“The damage is done.” She rubbed a palm on her thigh. “How will this affect the tour? It’s defamation of your image. And why did they say you declined to comment?”

Jay placed a hand over her restless one. He’d say or do anything to take that look off her face. “The tour’s sold out. And we’ll make a public statement. It’ll be fine.” The fans would be outraged, and records sales would decline. Fucking woohoo. He didn’t give shit. They weren’t playing for the money.

Laz stood and moved toward the bunks. “The record company handles our publicity, our
image
, and interacts with the press on our behalf. Roy Oxford graciously declined to comment for Jay.” He held the drape aside, gaze falling on Charlee. “Don’t worry about the band. That asshole put us in headline news. Totally fuels our rockognition.” He grinned and dropped the drape behind him.

Creases fanned from the corners of her eyes. “Rockognition?”

“Recognition of a rock star.” Wil smiled, powered up his video game, and slouched into the couch. “Really, Charlee. We could give a fuck what people think of us. We just want to play music.”

Jay rolled back his shoulders and let his tension slip away. Roy’s slander might hurt his other targets, but he’d sorely misjudged what mattered to this band.

76

San Diego, Tucson, Albuquerque, and Denver whisked by. Four concerts in four days and Jay was straining through the simplest activities, even struggling to lift himself into their bunk. Sixty-six shows to go.

The sway of the privacy curtain brushed his arm, and the mattress vibrated with the propulsion of their metal home. He lifted his wrist from Charlee’s waist and angled it above his face. The tritium dials on his watch glowed through the darkness. Three in the morning. Mountain time? Central time? Whatever time, it was late and his eyes burned, refusing to close. Funny how fatigue did not equate to sleepiness. Especially when his mind wasn’t ready to shut down.

He flattened his palm against her lace-covered mound and pulled her ass into the bend of his hips. Tracing the thin material down her center, he followed the seam of her lips beneath. Christ, even in sleep, she was damp. He was too tired to stop his fingers. Maybe even too tired to take it further, considering the week they’d had.

Despite the sold-out tour, the stands had been thinner at the first three shows than what they were accustomed to. This was made worse by the sudden halt on the distribution of their albums to retail channels. The label stopped production on the basis of some bullshit legality related to the charges against him. Thank you, Sylvia Windsor, for alleging that he didn’t just fuck her, but he’d done so before her eighteenth birthday. He shivered.

Faye hadn’t wasted time sharpening her teeth with a legal defense. He’d given his statement to the D.A. following the accusation, and Faye assured him the charges would disintegrate without litigation.

Roy wasn’t after a trial. The fucker wanted to torpedo Jay’s character. Jay guessed the true motivation was to drive a wedge between him and Charlee.

True to form, Faye held a news conference in Albuquerque the previous day without the consent of Windsor Records. Jay had attended but left the talking to Faye. Her press statement highlighted convincing truths about his one face-to-face meeting with Sylvia and cited the reports she’d collected from witnesses of that meeting.

The communication soothed disgruntled fans if the ovation at their Denver show that night was any indication. Every seat in the canyon amphitheater held a bouncing, cheerful body.

Charlee, on the other hand, wasn’t so easily soothed. Her self-reproach for his bruised reputation and the cease in CD distribution put an ever-present slump in her shoulders. He and the guys tried to convince her it wouldn’t hurt their pockets, but her regret over all things Roy knew no bounds.

She wiggled her hips against his.

“You awake?” His whisper broke through the hum of tires on pavement.

“No.” A groggy croak.

With his arm trapped beneath her waist, he kept his hand pressed against her pussy. His other found the soft curve of her shoulder, traced her arm around the elbow, and twined their fingers.

She’d remained steadfast in her ultimatum, refusing him the caress of her touch. Still, her hand had become a permanent fixture in his. In every town, on every stage, steering through mobs and paparazzi, she never left his side. Reaching for her hand and lacing their fingers had become as reflexive and certain as his love for her.

He circled her wrist with his thumb. “Why aren’t you asleep?”

“There’s something hard jabbing my ass,” she whispered, though they both knew their bunk mates wore ear buds to bed.

He rocked his hips. “Can’t help it. You’re a wiggler.”

“And you’re a freak. Who sleeps in a t-shirt and no underpants?”

He missed sleeping nude with her. On the road, she slept in panties and nothing else while he wore a shirt at all times to hide the scars from their bus load of roommates.

He shifted their entwined hands into the valley of her tits, and she stretched her fingers to roll them over her nipple.

Christ, he was desperate for her touch. “Please. Put your hands on me.” He ground himself against her to emphasize the area that needed the most attention.