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Who the fuck cares?
I hold up a hand to Michael as Muse whistles under his breath and scoots off the bed, leaving to give us some privacy, I think. Michael looks my body up and down, his feathered black hair falling into his face, his beautiful eyes passionate and wild. I bet he's an amazing lover.
He looks at me with fire rearing in his eyes, parting his lips, darkening that violet gaze to black. I can almost see his pulse in his throat, can swear I hear his heart beating. As I stare up at him, I even catch sight of a single drop of sweat sliding down the side of his muscular neck, over the jewel toned firebird tattoo on his chest.
Michael runs his tongue across his lower lip and rakes his fingers through his hair; I can see the bulge in his sweatpants from here.
“No,” he says after several long moments. I feel my hand drop to my side, feel my heart thundering, my cheeks turning red with embarrassment. “I don't fuck groupies.”
Groupies? I think as he turns away, climbs into a bunk and slides a curtain closed. The sound of the metal rings grating against the metal bar makes my teeth hurt. Groupie? I'm not a groupie.
That was the first time I'd heard that word used on me; it wouldn't be the last.
I dress myself in Muse's giant t-shirt and sweats, listening to the chatter from the front of the bus. The door to the bedroom itself is still open, but the one leading into the kitchen area is closed. As far as I know, there's nobody back here but me and that asshole Michael guy. My cheeks flush as I dig my bra and panties out of the wet clothes on the floor and tuck them into the giant pocket on the sweats. My jeans and tank are sopping. No way I'm putting those back on.
I'm finishing off my soda and trying not to glance at the three full condoms in the trash can by my feet when the door at the end of the hall opens and spills weak light across the shadowed floor.
It's Ransom again.
“Hey, honey,” he says when he sees me sitting there and looking at him. I want to hate that he says baby and sweetie and honey, but I don't. There's just something about his soft, sleepy voice and his bedroom eyes that makes it sexy. “Muse says you have free reign to use his credit card to book whatever you need.”
He comes all the way down the hall in his black hoodie and grey sweats, holding out a hand with a smartphone and a credit card tucked inside it. I notice he's barefoot and casual, leaning against the doorframe and staring down at me on the edge of the bed.
“Thanks,” I say as I take the phone and the card, my body humming and singing while my heart whimpers and cries. It's a strange feeling. This night … this wasn't the way it was supposed to go. I was supposed to drive my shitty Matador to Dad's place, move back into my old bedroom, take care of him during the day and start night classes at the community college.
A drop falls on the bright surface of Muse's phone before I realize I'm crying yet again.
But then, it's been—I glance at the time on the phone—about twelve hours since I found out that I was alone in the world. Twelve hours. Half a day. I think I can cry still and not feel like I owe the world a strong face to look at.
“Where is Muse?” I ask as I look up, wondering suddenly why Ransom, one of the only guys I didn't sleep with tonight, is the one bringing me the phone.
“He called a tow truck for your car; he's outside with our manager and some roadie that says he knows a good auto body shop.”
“He's towing my car?” I ask, and I can't decide whether or not I should be excited about that. “Can they fix it?” I hear the wistful hope in my voice at the same time Ransom does.
His full lips twist to the side in a sad sort of smile, dark eyes focused wholly on me and my tear streaked face.
“I don't know, sweetie,” he says, and his voice wraps around me and holds me tight, like a caress, like one of Copeland's hugs.
“I can't believe it's six in the morning,” I whisper next and then I just break down, dropping the phone and credit card into my lap and covering my face with my hands. I can't even believe that my daddy died today. How? Why? He was smart and strong and the kindest man I'd ever met. He was young, too. He was only forty-eight years old and now he's dead? How can he be dead?
“It's okay to cry, baby doll,” Ransom says, sitting down on the bed next to me. He takes the credit card and phone away. I'm not sure what he does with them, but he puts his arms around me and even though it's not the same kind of hug that Copeland gave me, I feel some sort of connection to him. “Come 'ere,” he says, turning and crawling up the bed, flicking off the light.
I can barely see his hand when he offers it to me.
I sniffle and even though I'm a little suspicious of his motivation, I take what's being offered and follow him to the pillows. He gets us both under the covers and then gently turns me so I'm facing away from him. My throat gets so dry and my body throbs in response to his touch as he curls his own around me, spooning me nice and tight.
It's literally the most intimate thing I've ever been a part of—and that includes all of the sex I just had.
“Let the tears out, baby doll,” he says as he buries his face against my neck and breathes out slow and deep. I swear, he smells like my mother's violets. Or maybe he just smells like cigarettes? Doesn't matter. I like the way his arms feel as they curve around me and hold me tight. “When my mother died, I locked myself in a bathroom and cried for two days straight.”
“I'm sorry,” I whisper as he presses a strangely intimate kiss to the side of my forehead.
“Thanks,” is his response.
“For what?” I ask, trembling and shedding messy tears all over the black silk pillow beneath my head. “You seem to be the one comforting me.”
“For this. I hate sleeping alone, baby girl. I hate it.”
I start to tell him that I'm not sleeping here, that I have to go, that I'm sure their bus is probably leaving for Denver soon.
Instead, I drift off in a stranger's dark arms, swaddled in heat and hoodie and most definitely, the flirty scent of violets.
A pleasant jostling wakes me out of sleep, this gentle rocking motion that brings primal memories to the surface, like a baby in a cradle. It's soothing, especially when combined with the soft, warm breath feathering against my ear, the rhythmic breathing of the body curled protectively around mine.
This is nice, I think as I snuggle into the pillow and then … that awful feeling sweeps over me.
My father died yesterday; cancer stole him away from me.
A hiccuping sob rises in my throat and chokes me as I sit up straight, tearing myself away from the warm arms that held me.
Ransom Riggs.
The bassist for Beauty in Lies.
I rub both hands down my face and feel the gentle jostling motion again.
It's the movement of the bus.
“Oh my god.”
I scramble to the window on the left side of the room and push the heavy blackout curtains aside, letting golden light spill across the black surface of the bed. We're rocketing down a highway, flat, dry ground stretching out for miles and miles, covered in nothing but shriveled sad looking shrubs. Makes me feel awfully lucky to be inside this dark, air conditioned bedroom.
A groan sounds from behind me and I glance back to see Ransom pulling his hood over his eyes.
“Close the curtains,” he mumbles, and I do, shoving them back into place and spotting my purse on the floor near the foot of the bed. Someone must have brought it in here for me, but I have no idea who. I dive for it and snatch my phone from inside, checking the time.
It's almost two o'clock in the fucking afternoon.
“Holy shit,” I whisper, checking my texts and finding … nothing. Literally, nothing. Nothing from Kevin or Susan or my estranged aunt, Bess. It really hits me then, how truly sad and alone I am. I disappear all night, half of the next day, and nobody knows where I am. Nobody cares.
I drop the phone in my purse and sit back on my heels with a deep sigh.
“What's the matter, honey?” Ransom murmurs from behi
nd me. The sound of his voice is dark and sensual and soothing. I get the impression that he's broken and sad inside, but he does a good job of hiding it.
“Where are we?”
He sits up, yawning and stretching his arms above his head. The motion causes his hood to fall back, revealing a headful of messy dark brown hair, the same color as his eyes, like chocolate or a hot cup of coffee tucked in tired hands.
“I have no idea,” he murmurs, leaning over and peeking through a curtain. His face wrinkles up and he blinks stupidly at the bright sunshine. “Ugh. Gross.” I'm not sure if he's referring to the sun or the scenery, but he drops the curtain back in place and looks over at me. “We're on the road,” he says, like he's afraid I'm going to freak out.
I almost do.
But then I wonder why. Why the hell should I care? We're driving, aren't we? And it's not on my dime with my gas or my food. If these boys can get me to Denver, then why not? Maybe I can get a flight from there to New York? Muse said I could use his card …
“Who decided to just take me along for the ride?” I ask as Ransom yawns again and scratches at the front of his hoodie with lazy fingers.
“Probably Muse,” he says in that soft, velvety voice of his. “He overreaches a lot, makes assumptions, acts like he knows people when he has no fucking clue. Need me to hold his arms back for you, baby?”
“No,” I say, my voice just as soft as his. I scoot back up to the pillows and watch as Ransom shrugs his hoodie over his head … revealing a bare chest etched in scars and ink. He has three deep gashes across his sculpted pecs, long healed and slightly discolored from the rest of his skin but visible nonetheless. When the bus hits a particularly big pothole, the curtains flap and sunlight flashes across Ransom's face. I realize with surprise that he has a scar there, too, down the side of his left cheek. It's not visible without the bright light to highlight it, but it's there. I decide not to comment on any of it. “I … need to get to New York anyway and my car clearly isn't going to make it. Maybe I can get a flight out of Denver?”
I watch as Ransom struggles with his hoodie, yanking out a black t-shirt from inside it. I guess he took both off accidentally. He slips the shirt over his head and then turns to look at me with his heavy lidded gaze.
“That sounds like a good plan, doll. But why New York?”
“It's where my dad is,” I say. I can't make myself say dad's body. His corpse. This shell of flesh and bone that used to be the greatest love of my life, the only man I ever truly loved. My daddy. I suck in a sharp breath and wrap my arms around myself.
“You have family there?” Ransom asks, but when I don't answer, he makes this soft, sad sound in his throat that manages to light me up completely. I glance back at him and see that he has his hand out again. “Sleep with me a little longer?” he asks, and I turn and go to him. What else is there to do? I don't know anyone on this bus and it's a long drive. If I had to hazard a guess, it looks like we're near the Arizona/Utah border. It'll probably be another six or seven hours until we get to Denver.
I curl my body up against Ransom's side and realize with the sharp sting of butterflies that I'm doing something weird with a stranger—again. Four strangers, four weird encounters in one night. Five if you count that asshole Michael guy staring at me like he wanted to jump my bones and then storming off.
I refuse to think about him; I have enough to worry about.
“My dad was my hero,” I say absently.
“My mom was mine,” Ransom says and I shiver when I think about his story. “Some guy broke into her house, raped her and shot her in the face.” Harsh words to say to a stranger. “You're probably curious about my scars,” he says mildly.
“No,” I say, but that's a lie.
Silence falls between us and I close my eyes, drifting in and out of sleep for a little while.
I wake up when I hear Ransom make a sharp, terrible gasping sound.
Snapping to, I sit up and look down at him, finding his legs tangled in the sheets, his breathing hard and uneven, sweat soaking his forehead. Immediately, I drop my hand to his face and brush sticky wet strands of his hair back.
“It's okay, baby,” I say, and realize stupidly that I'm imitating his weird pet name habit. “It's okay, wake up.” I stroke his face until his eyes flutter and he flicks them up in my direction, meeting my gaze. Before I can stop myself, I'm leaning down and kissing his mouth. It's full and warm and his response is priceless. He makes this sound that turns my body to liquid, makes my sex clench in anticipation of feeling him inside of me.
Ransom pulls me on top of him, wrapping me up like he did last night, kissing me with a mouth that tastes like shadow and heartbreak; I can't explain it. That's just what he tastes like.
His hands glide down the back of the t-shirt, and he grips my ass in strong fingers.
We make out like teenagers, kissing for what feels like years, tasting and exploring each other with our hands. He manages to get one up my shirt, fondling my breast with this fervent desire he holds firmly in check, like he's afraid to let it out and see what might happen.
Feeling him hold back like that makes me want to shake him loose, so I pull away and slide down, my entire body on fire, my skin so sensitive that the touch of my clothing feels painful. I catch the grey waistband of Ransom's sweats and start to tug them down.
He stops me with a hand on his waistband.
“Wait,” he whispers, voice still delicious and decadent, but laced with need. “There are scars all over me, down there, too.”
But I don't care, so when he lets go, I pull his sweats down and see what he's talking about.
There are several sharp lines down here, too. None on his actual genitals, but his hips and thighs. Now I'm dying with curiosity; I want to know.
Then a horrible image pops into my mind, of those leaked pictures of my sister, all those gunshot wounds, and I clamp down on that curiosity. I don't need to know everything; I've learned that lesson before.
I focus instead on Ransom's cock. He's thick, bigger than stupid fucking Kevin for sure. And I've always sort of hated giving blow jobs before … but I need to see Ransom let go a little.
I kiss my way down his shaft, fondle his balls with my hand, feel his tension leaking out little by little. And the sounds that escape his throat, those are like foreplay in and of themselves. I've never heard noises like that, these velvety little kisses of sound that get stuck in my head, travel through my blood, and wet my borrowed sweatpants with desire.
“Too much, sweetheart,” he gasps when I slide as much of him between my lips as I can. “Too much.”
I don't stop, sucking and caressing him with my mouth, my tongue, enjoying the way he writhes beneath me. I don't take him to the edge though. When his breath starts to flutter and he curls his fingers in my hair, I move back up to lay next to him.
Ransom doesn't waste any time getting a condom and slipping it on. He doesn't climb on top of me though, instead encouraging me to turn around. I get on all fours and gasp as he slips the sweatpants down to my thighs. I can't spread my legs with them on, but that doesn't seem to matter. I'm so wet that when he grabs hold of my hips with one hand and guides his cock to my opening with the other, he slips right in.
I'm shocked at the full, heavy feeling of him between my legs like that. Like he said, too much. It's too much. It gives me something else to think about though, keeps my mind occupied with the delicious slide of his body inside of mine.
Ransom is different from the other boys, restrained and desperate, and sad, so sad. He's got this dark, twisted soul that I can feel through the connection of our bodies. It makes me want him at the same time it scares me enough that I wonder if I should stay away from him.
Doesn't matter, I tell myself as I put a palm up against the shiny black lacquered surface of the wooden bat headboard. This won't happen again. Just this one time. One time.
I repeat that mantra as his hips slam into me, the slightly uncomfortable feeling of t
ightness morphing into pure pleasure, tearing through my body in violent waves. I gasp and shudder, even as his skillful hands slide down and underneath the baggy t-shirt, cupping my breasts. Ransom leans over me, puts his mouth to my ear and whispers something.
“I wish I could see your face.”
I think that's what he says, but he doesn't stop fucking me long enough for me to decipher it. Instead he moves inside of me until he comes, slamming into my aching body with deep, wild thrusts. The rough, broken sound that tears from his throat almost shatters me into pieces.
I'm still recovering from that when he pulls out and turns me over.
He gets rid of the condom, fixes his pants and reaches into a drawer above my head.
“What are you …” I start, but he's got this silicone cock in his hand, smiling wryly at me when I make a face.
“It's just a dildo, sweetheart,” he says as he runs his long fingers down the length of it. “And it's brand-new. No worries.” Before I can protest, he's slipping it into his mouth, lubing it up like he doesn't give a shit what that looks like, how hot it is.
He lays down next to me, curls an arm under my back and pulls me close.
Our eyes are locked when he puts the toy inside of me. It's not as warm as he was, but it feels so good, especially when I see the way his pupils dilate, the way his gaze lights on fire when he watches it move in and out.
I relax into the pillows, turn my head and bury it against his t-shirt, breathing in that sweet fragrant scent of his as I drop my left hand to my clit, tease some juices over it and masturbate myself all the way up to the edge and over the other side. It's so weird to do this with a stranger watching, but something about Ransom … his pain calls to mine. We could be twins.
I come around the toy, soaking his hand in shining heat, gasping as I push my head into the hollow of his throat, feel the slight brush of stubble rub against my skin.
“There you go, sweet thing,” he whispers, kissing my forehead, putting the toy into a different drawer and pushing it closed. I wonder what they do with those? Throw them away and buy new ones? I'm not exactly an expert on sex toys, but aren't those things expensive? I suppose it doesn't matter; I won't be here long enough to find out.