Summer (Four Seasons #2) (13 page)

There are a group of women in their early twenties at the table next to us. Butler approaches them and says a few words. They look pissed. More than pissed—they look
furious
. One by one, they snatch up their drinks and are getting to their feet when the shortest, cutest, blondest girl catches sight of me.
 

“Luke Reid? Oh my God! No fucking way it's you.” She pulls up my hat and I have to work hard not to push her away. I would never be disrespectful to a woman like that, but damn, it takes everything I’ve got to stop myself.
 

“Yeah. I guess you got me.” I give her a tight smile, pulling the hat back down.
 

“
Luke Reid
. Guys! It’s Luke Reid from D.M.F.” She faces me again, hands barely reaching my chest, then sliding down, closer to my belt than I’d like. She starts talking way too fast. Something about wanting a picture and how she listens to my voice as she goes to sleep. My brain shuts down, my eyes meeting Cole's.
 

“Do something or I'm out.”
 

Cole moves toward the woman and talks her back, Butler joining him. I take a long drink of my beer and glance at the clock. An hour and I’m out of here, max.
 

“You
have
to do the video, Luke.” Butler moves up on my side, his eyebrow lifting as he turns to face me. “You're the lead singer. People will expect it to be you.”

“Back at the apartment, you were saying we’d have to wait on polls before we’d get a video. Now you’re casting me, man. What the fuck?”

“That was before I heard the damn song, Luke. Shit, when MVP hears that, they’re gonna lose their fucking minds!”

“We're not taking no for an answer, my man.” Cole reaches for his beer, drinking most of it down in his first gulp.

“We’re in LA. Hire an actor. There are plenty of them out here.” I shrug. I'm done with this conversation. Nothing they can say will change my mind.
 

“What if you just sing? It has to be you.” Cole moves closer to me, puffing out his chest like a silver back gorilla. I can't help but laugh.
 

“You’re so full of shit. Like you would be happy for me to just stand there and sing.” I finish my beer, slamming the bottle down on the table. Paul gets up to fetch another round. I’m left with Pete, Cole and Butler, all looking at me like they’re expectantly waiting on something momentous to happen.
 

I lean forward, elbows on my knees, hands clasped together. “Gentlemen. Please pay close attention. I will do this video when hell freezes over. When pigs fly. When the Red Sox win the World Series again.”
 

Cole kicks me under the table. “The Red Sox have a fighting chance this year.”

“No…they
really
don’t.”

“How about you do the video, and I never give you shit again? About anything.
Ever
.”

“Bullshit.”

“Scout’s honor.” Cole never begs, but I can tell he’s on the brink of doing so soon.
 

“Fine. I’ll just sing. Hire an actor to interact with the girl. We’ll talk then. Fuck.”

 
Cole makes me shake on it. Butler lets out a holler as Paul returns with a bucket of beer and a pretty blonde bartender behind him carrying a tray of shots.
 

“Nope. No way.” These guys have dragged me to Margaritaville too many times to count, and they have no qualms with leaving a fallen man behind. Last time I woke up under a table with my cheek stuck to the floor and both my shoes missing. I’ve learned my lesson. I’m a grown ass man. I don’t plan on spending tomorrow with my head down a toilet.

“Yes. Mmm-hmm. Time to party, asshole. Guess why?” A sinking feeling pulls at my stomach. I get the sense that a group of strippers might be rolling through the door any second now. Pete doesn’t give me enough time to guess, though. He’s far too excited. “The top forty was just announced.
Cotton Mouth
is sitting at number thirty-fucking-three!” he yells.

Cottonmouth, the quieter song I wrote just after I saw Avery the last time, was recorded and mixed quickly. None of us had any idea why Butler was pushing us so hard to get it done until he announced MVP were actually planning on releasing it straight away. And now Paul’s saying it’s fucking charted? That’s…it’s just insane.

Cole and Paul let out a loud yell, and the entire bar joins us. Music pours from the speakers, growing louder and louder, the volume being cranked. It takes all of three seconds to realize that it’s
our
music that’s playing. A song
I
wrote. Pain
I
felt.
My
heart breaking apart.

There’s something so very disconcerting about hearing your own voice blasting through a speaker system, and having the crowd around you instantly bursting into song, belting out the words. I had no idea the song was this popular. I had no idea people even knew the lyrics. It’s…it’s kind of mind blowing.
 

Cottonmouth
was one of Butler’s infamous polls. It was raw, and it was real. I guess I appreciated that. The song was a roll of the dice. MVP expected it to maybe get limited airplay in California, since we’ve been playing low-key shows here, but this is bigger than that. Number thirty-three in the top forty means national airplay. That means it’s traveled across the entire United States on its own, without a huge push or a huge PR budget.
 

It means people fucking loved it.

I allow myself a small smirk as I watch my boys flip their shit, jumping around, high-fiving Butler, slamming back their drinks. I accept the shot that’s offered out to me, not willing to be a downer in the face of such great news.
 

We're making it. Unbelievably enough, we're making it.
 

******

“Come here, baby. Let me help you.” Her voice is husky and sweet. I wrap my arm around her shoulders as she helps me up the stairs to my apartment. I don't know her name, but I remember that she was the one pouring drinks at the bar.
Maybe
.
 

“You should have cut me off,” I tell her, slurring a little. I know I'm drunk, but I'm loving it. It's freeing. I wanna spin in circles like a little fucking kid. I haven't felt this alive in a while now. Not since I was inside Avery last.

“I probably should have, huh, handsome?” the bartender purrs. “We're almost to the door. Where’s your key?” She moves in front of me and I reach out, touching the side of her face. She looks kind of like Avery, but not really. Not enough.
 

“In my pocket. I'll get it.” I try, but my fingers don’t seem to work. I laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation, swaying as I’m hit with a wave of dizziness.
 

“Whoa there, sunshine.” The bartender holds me up, which is more than a little embarrassing. She slips her hand in my pocket, her fingers brushing by the top of my thigh. I groan, some part of me wanting the contact. Fuck, what the hell is wrong with me?

“No touching my dick. Just get the keys,” I tell her. I'm thrilled to have help, but I don't want her getting any ideas, sexy though she is. When did she become sexy? Probably around the same time the alcohol grabbed a tight hold on my balls and refused to let go.

Sexy bartender girl laughs and moves me to the door, opening it and helping me inside. I get a waft of her perfume as she breezes past me—something tropical and sweet—and I can feel myself hardening in my pants. Sweet Jesus Christ. I turn into her, not knowing what my hands are doing, not caring, and pulling her to me. Her lips are soft. I close my eyes, trying to imagine she's Avery. The taste is all wrong, but I push on, needing the affection. Needing to feel something. Anything.
 

Her hands are on my chest, sliding under my shirt before I realize what's happening. I moan, pressing my tongue into her mouth. She sucks on it like she's done this many times—she probably has. I grind my hips against hers. I'll just fuck her from behind. Her hair is the color of Ave's. I'll pretend.
 

“You don't know how bad I want this,” she says, unfastening my belt and sinking to her knees. I stagger backwards, my back hitting the door with a loud thud. Sexy bartender girl laughs and crawls forward, the hunger in her eyes making my stomach turn.
 

She's not Avery.

I don't want this.

I start to tell her, but she presses her mouth against my cock through my jeans.
Oh, fuck.
Oh, fucking shit
. I groan, slowly banging the back of my head against the door.
 

I can’t do this. Sexy bartender girl has other ideas, though. She presses her mouth against me again, this time licking the tip of her tongue up the shining gold metal of my fly. I screw my eyes shut. I can’t…I can’t even fucking think. I thrust against her face and she bites playfully through the material of my pants. It’s like applying a live wire against my skin. The pain turns everything upside down, sending pleasure shooting through my body, from my shoulders, down my arms, across my back, across my stomach, all down my legs. It occurs to me that I need this. I should have spent more time masturbating, but jerking myself off makes me think about Avery. I can’t wrap my hand around my cock without imagining it sliding slowly inside her pussy. I just can’t. The sensation and the action are inextricably linked.

“So fucking hot, Luke.” Sexy bartender girl tugs at the waistband of my jeans. My breath catches in my throat. I don’t want her to take my pants down, but then again I don’t stop her. Fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck
. She presses her face against my cock, breathing in deeply, then letting out a sound that would cause most men to crumble. I sink my fingers into her hair and glance down, confused. The texture’s all wrong. No soft silky curls. The bartender’s hair is coarse and thick, coated with some kind of product that feels stiff and crunchy. The girl reaches for my boxers and everything hits me at once

No. Just no fucking way.
 

“Stop,” I whisper through clenched teeth.
 

“Shhh, just relax, baby. I’m gonna make you feel so good, I promise. You wanna come for me, baby? You wanna come deep in my throat?” Her words are so hot, but the voice is all wrong. I jerk away, ripping my jeans up my legs, my head suddenly very, very clear.

“Get out.”

“What? Why?” Sexy bartender girl stands, hands on her hips. “You're fucking kidding me right?”

“No. Get out. Please just leave. Do you need money to get home?”

“
What
? No, I don’t need fucking money to get home. I drove you here, asshole. Jesus Christ!”
 

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I just…” This time when the back of my head hits the door behind me, it hurts. Really hurts. “I just
can’t
. I’m really sorry.”

“Maybe another shot of Jack will change your mind. Don’t you have any alcohol here?” she asks. There’s a desperate note in her voice that makes me feel even worse.
 

“I’ll never be drunk enough. I’ll never be sad enough. You’re really beautiful, and I’m sure you’re an awesome person, but—”

 
“Wow. The famous Luke Reid, too good to have his cock sucked by one of the hottest bartenders in LA?” She laughs harshly as she picks up her purse. “The girls are going to love hearing about this.”

I slide along the wall so she can open the door, not caring about the spite in her voice. It doesn’t matter to me. She can be as angry and as disappointed as she wants. I didn’t go through with it. That’s the only thing that means anything right now.

When she’s gone, I don’t feel any better, though. I still brought her here. I still allowed her inside my apartment. I still let her scramble around on her knees while I fought my inner war, deciding whether I should let her suck my cock.
 

God. I feel like shit. I am the worst fucking human being on the face of this entire godforsaken fucking planet. I don’t feel anything as my fist impacts with the wall. I don’t feel anything the second time it impacts, either.
 

Everything is blood and broken bone and shame.
 

Everything is black.

THIRTEEN

AVERY

I’m late when I show up at Sam’s rehearsal studio. I
hate
being late for things, especially when I’m meeting with someone who’s doing me a favor. Awesome.
 

I get out of my car, straighten myself up, and take a deep breath. This is it. I knock twice on the graffiti-covered roller shutter that acts as a main door to the rehearsal studio, and the metal rattles loudly down the narrow side street. Two seconds later, the shutter whips upward and Sam’s standing there, wearing a huge smile on his face. “Hey. Wasn't sure if I should text you the address or if Morgan got it to you.”

“Yeah, sorry. My GPS hates me.”

Sam’s wearing a plain white t-shirt and low hanging jeans, his feet bare. He's not my type at all, but I can see why Morgan’s besotted. The rough-guy look sure has sex appeal.

“No worries. I needed a coffee anyway.” He motions for me to join him as we walk through a small hall of offices. He guides me to the last door on the right, and the room beyond is filled wall to ceiling with mixing desks and a state of the art speaker system. It looks very similar to the recording set up D.M.F. used here in New York before they left for LA.

“So this is where all the auto-tuning takes place, right?”

Sam’s facial expression turns blank. “You take that back. I’ve washed people’s mouths out with soap for less.” He laughs, the deep bass rumble echoing off the sound proofed walls of the cramped room. “I’m all raw, baby. No over-production for my shit.”

“I know, I know. I’m only playing.”

“I’ll admit, we blend out the white noise on the band’s stuff, but that’s about it.”
 

I don't think D.M.F. ever needed to meddle with the sound quality of their recordings. I’m fairly sure Cole insisted they kept the atmospheric background noise, in fact, in order to make the tracks sound more edgy.