Текст книги "Before & After"

Only my everything.

(Rike’s poems to Peyton)

He almost dumps me into the truck. His truck. “What are you even doing here?” I demand, and he slams the door in my face. I huff a sigh, twisting in my seat to stare at him as he climbs in the truck.

“What are you doing here?” I demand again, and he leans across the console, catching me by the back of the next and kissing me. It’s hot and hungry and forceful. There is no soft request; it’s a demand.

It always has been with him.

I bite his lip and his hand clenches in my hair, jerking just a little, riding a delicious line of pain, his tongue in my mouth, twisting and stroking.

“I should spank your ass for that shit. You can’t go there alone. They’re horrible for you. Promise me, Peyton?”

He never uses my full name, and it shocks me enough that I nod. He sighs, and sits back. “I’m not fucking you in my truck in your parent’s driveway. I love you too much for that. So put your seatbelt on and let’s go, because I do need to fuck you. Soon.”

Why the hell does that blunt, crude admission turn me on so fucking much?

I pull on my seatbelt, and he squeals out of my parent’s driveway.

“You don’t like them,” I say after a few minutes.

His gaze turns to me, pure disbelief, and I swallow hard. “No fucking shit, Pey.”

He drives for about five minutes, and then jerks the truck off the road, onto a dirt road that serves as a driveway to an old, little used farm. “What are we doing?” I ask, nervously.

“Your brother’s house is thirty minutes from here, and my hotel is farther than that. And I can’t wait that long to fuck you,” he says matter-of-factly, stopping the truck. He glances at me, the look hot and invasive. “You look fucking amazing, Fish.”

Then he’s out of the truck and I have just a few seconds to decide. If this is what I want. If Rike is who I want. Then the door pops open, and his hands are on my legs, pulling me around to face him. He nudges them open and settles against me, hugging me. His shoulders relax as he clings to me. “I’ve missed you, Fish. So fucking much.”

I don’t know how to respond to that. Except… “I miss you too,” I confess quietly. The truth. How can I miss someone I barely know, someone who shouldn’t matter to me? But should or not, he does.

He matters so much.

Rike looks up at me, his blue eyes hungry. “I want you. But it’s your choice. It’s always been your choice.” Something crosses his eyes and he smirks at me, a crooked little boy grin. “Stay or go?” he murmurs.

A shudder runs through me, and my body goes soft and pliant, my panties wet. I’ve heard him say that before and it was hot.

“Stay,” I whisper.

His eyes flare and then he’s pulling me down, and I slide down his body, against this thick erection. He groans and I smile, just barely resisting the urge to wrap my legs around his waist and grind against him.

Instead, I keep sliding down, until I’m on my knees. “Peyton,” he says hoarsely.

I unzip his pants, and my hands are on him. Stroking over the silky skin. His dick kicks in my hand and I giggle, sliding his pants and boxers aide. He has two tattoos, trailing down that sexy v that makes my mouth water. A pair of dragons in mid-flight. I lean down and kiss one, my tongue licking over it, and he grunts, thrusting a little. I pull back and he curses. “Don’t tease, baby. Let me fuck your pretty little mouth.”

My hand comes up and cups his balls, tugging gently, and he grunts. I lick over the matching dragon. “Dirty girl. You fucking love this. Want me to beg? Because I’m begging. Do it, babe. Suck my dick.” I take his cock deep, my lips tight around him and his head falls back, hissing, “Fuck, yes, baby.”

I whimper as his hands find my hair, and he thrusts gently. “Love that dick, don’t you, dirty girl?”

I keep one hand on his cock, and slip the other one down, pulling up my skirt and slipping a hand between my legs.

“Yes,” he groans. “Fuck yes, touch yourself, Pey. You’re wet, aren’t you? So wet. I could fuck you so easy right now, babe.”

I scream, shuddering as I come, a combination of the dirty, raspy words, and my fingers, and the fucking crazy high of controlling his pleasure. His hands are on me, jerking me up and I scream again as he buries himself in my pussy.

“Fuck, yes,” he groans, pulling back and slamming into me again. He shifts me against the truck, slides a hand between my ass and the door and pulls me into him, meeting each furious thrust. Each one sets off another tiny orgasm, until there is nothing but sensation, and pleasure, and his body and mine.

***

We fuck again when we get to the hotel, against the door while he chants my name like a prayer and plays my body like an instrument. After, I cuddle next to him on the bed, his fingers toying in my hair.

“I want you to come home,” he says into the silence.

I squeeze my eyes closed. I knew it was coming, but still—to hear it said so bluntly is like running headlong into a brick wall. I shift, so I’m lying across his chest. The koi on his arm stares up at me through the shield of seaweed and coral, and I study it.

“I love that one,” I say. He chuckles, and I prop myself up, glaring at him. “What?”

“You should. It’s yours.” My mouth falls open and he laughs again. “Why the hell does that surprise you? Half my ink is because of you.”

“Tell me,” I demand.

He pushes off the bed, and stands naked next to me. I make a small hum of appreciation and Rike laughs again. “Stop. Focus.”

With some effort—and a good deal of reluctance—I force my attention from the more interesting bits of his anatomy to the ink he’s pointing at.

I’m a patchwork across his body. The pinup girl on his ribcage with her head turned away, and long red hair. The script wrapped around his right wrist. The matching swallows on his back. And the koi, the brilliant tattoo that’s captivated me since I woke up in the hospital.

“Why do you call me Fish?” I ask, tracing it.

“People say there’s plenty of fish in the sea. I say, fuck you, she was my sea.”

My breath catches and I glance up at hm. Let my lips curve into a tiny smile. “Doesn’t take mean I’m Sea?”

He shifts, covering me and sliding into me in one move that makes my laugh catch in my throat. Turn into a broken groan.

“Fish sounds better,” he whispers, watching me.

I whimper, and he smiles, a smile so fucking beautiful and sad it makes me want to cry. Moves in me, slow and sweet, his lips on my neck and shoulders and lips, whispering sweet, dirty words of love while he makes love to me, until I gasp, my body arching against him as I come apart.

When he comes, a few seconds later, he whispers, so softly, “I love you, Fish.”

Chapter 23 : Before

The girls are out. Peyton wanted tequila, and after the few hours we spent with her parents, I don’t blame her much. I want some painkillers and my bed.

“Was it bad?”

“I won’t make her visit her parents again; let’s put it that way,” I say, scrubbing a hand over my face.

Scotty’s quiet for a long minute, and I frown, glancing up at him. “Ever wonder if we were lucky? Our parents were awful, but at least we didn’t get stuck with them. We got free.”

“Being put in the system isn’t free, Scott. It’s just in a fucking broken system.”

He nods. “Yeah. I know. But we’re out now. And at least in the system we found some family. Maybe not the one we were born with, but family that you choose is just as important. Maybe more, in a way.”

I stare at him. “Where the actual fuck is this coming from?”

He shrugs. “Dunno. I guess now that we have the girls—we’re our own family. We created something for ourselves that we never had. What would we do if we lost that? If the girls walked away or decided that we aren’t good enough as we are?”

I think about Peyton, and her fierce anger with her father, the way she defended me and refused to let him and Mary Anne tear me apart. I think of Lindsay and her good-natured teasing, the way she fights with Scott while pulling him closer. I think of how they both vanished, giving me and him the time to process shit, and how she put together that fucking perfect room, the way they’ve slipped so effortlessly into our lives, and made it their own.

How Linds will work to get us gigs. How Peyton is so quick to encourage me and Scott to try new things, shit that will make us better. Happier.

“They wouldn’t do that,” I say hoarsely. Because now I’m thinking about it, and the idea of losing them, even for a little while, is fucking terrifying.

Lindsay isn’t mine. She won’t ever be, and I don’t want her. But the four of us—we’re a fucking family. And I hate even the thought of losing that. I glance at my best friend, the brother I never had. “They wouldn’t.”

“No, brother,” he says gently. “They wouldn’t.”

I stand abruptly and go into my room, grabbing the sketch I did this morning. I extend it to him silently, and his eyes widen. “Yeah?” he says, his gaze flicking up to me.

“I want it to be the anchor piece for my right sleeve.”

A smile turns his lips, and he nods. “I like it, dude. It’s appropriate and she’d love it. Not that you’re going to tell her.”

I grin, “Not ‘til it’s done anyway.”

“Secretive bastard,” he accuses, and I nod.

There’s a knock on the door, and he arches an eyebrow at me silently. We haven’t been here long enough that anyone knows where we’re at. Staci does, and so does Barrie, but only because that’s work. “Did the girls forget their keys?” I ask, walking to the door.

“No. Linds wanted to stop and get hers bedazzled or some shit,” he snorts.

I laugh and open the door.

Brody is standing there, his eyes darting around as he hunches forward, his hands tucked into his pockets. He’s looking around like he thinks he might be shanked for being here and I have to swallow my laugh. Because I like her brother, and he doesn’t know that this is actually a really good neighborhood, as our price range goes.

Poor kid would have a heart attack if he knew where his sister had been slumming before we moved here.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, staring at him.

“Uh, hello, future brother-in-law, yes I would love to come in.” From the couch, Scott snorts a laugh, and puts aside his guitar to stand and come to the door.

"Who are you?" he asks without preamble.

"Brody. And you’re Scott. Where is Peyton?"

"She went to get alcohol."

Brody laughs. "Dad has that effect on folks, and especially on her."

I nod, and Scott heaves a sigh, grabbing my arm and pulling me aside while Brody steps into the apartment and closes the door behind him.

"What are you doing here, man?" Scott asks.

"You love my sister," he says, looking at me.

I nod, and he grins. "Good. You’re good for her. Peyton is different from the rest of us. She's creative and spontaneous and wild. I thought for a long time that she killed that when she played the good little political daughter, but she didn't. And then–she told you about the eating disorder? About rehab?"

I nod and my gut clenches. Because I'll run to the farthest ends of the earth to keep her away from these people. To make sure that she never becomes the shell of the girl she was then.

"It changed her, man. Fucked her up for a long time. She had a hard time letting people in after that. And she quit playing the part, got deeper into her own head and creativity—but I haven't seen the girl I grew up with in years, not the way I saw her tonight. I want you to know that." He shifts and grins. "I saw my sister again, man. And you made that happen. You are bringing her out of her shell. So I don't really give a fuck who you are or what you do or what fucked up past you have hiding. I respect what you did." His gaze darts to Scott, and then back to me, and my best friend shifts.

"So why are you here?" I ask. "I appreciate the vote of confidence and shit but it seems a little excessive."

"I love Peyton. I get her in a way I don't get my brothers. But she doesn't need to be anywhere near my parents. They won't ever accept what she wants, because it's not the picture they have in their mind for her. I get where they're coming from—she's the only daughter and all that shit. But it's bad for her. And she's self-destructive when shit gets bad. So keep her away. Don't let her come back to this."

I stare at him, startled. "You want me to keep Peyton away from her family?"

"I don't want you to be the reason Peyton comes back to her family. She won't, not on her own. But she loves you and you've never had one. She wants to give to the people she loves, and if she thinks this is something you want, she'll come home just to give you what you never had. And it'll destroy her, and what you two have. No one wants that. Well, I don't. She doesn't. You don't. So do her and yourself a favor and build your life without her family."

"But you love her."

"I do. And I'm going to be around, especially when I get out of college and can cut the apron strings. But in the meantime, I want my sister happy. Do that for me." He stares at me, and his eye aren't amused or laughing. He's dead serious. I nod and his lips twitch into a tired smile. "Thanks man. I–just thanks."

He hugs me, abruptly, and I go stiff, startled. Behind him, Scott is staring his eyes huge and laughing. Then he steps back and grins at me. “Take care of yourself, Rike.”

Chapter 24 : After

I want to strip the masks from you,

Until you are as

broken and

Raw and

Vulnerable.

As you leave me.

(Rike’s poems to Peyton)

“I need you to come home,” he says the next morning. I peer at him over a cup of coffee and he sits down across from me. He’s dressed in a pair of loose flannel sleep, pants his chest bare except for ink. And my teeth marks.

I flush, and look away.

“Why?" I ask and his eyebrows rise.

I shake my head, "Why now? What's different about now?"

"Lindsay is being released from the hospital. Scott has talked her into coming home. But she needs her family. She needs you, just as much as she needs him. It's an all or nothing kind of thing."

"So, no pressure, right?" I joke, and he shakes his head.

"No, Pey. This is all the pressure. I'm not going to lie to you about that. Scott and Lindsay are doing worse than we are, and we aren't even living in the same fucking state since you moved in with Brody. We're falling apart. I don't know that Scott’ll survive losing Lindsay. I need you to come home, because I can't lose my best friend and the love of my life. And we don't work without all of us."

I reach for him, squeezing his hand. "You don't have to talk me into this, Rike. I'm in this. I know I've been distant. And I'm sorry; I had to be. I had to figure out who I am."

"I know. I'm sorry. I want to give you time—" He sighs. Shakes his head. "No, I don't. I want to take you home, lock you in our room, and fuck you until you can't remember a time when we weren't together. Until I'm a part of you, so fucking wrapped up in you that there is no you or me. Just us. That's what I've wanted since the day you opened your eyes. But I've given you time and space because I know that what I wanted wasn't what you needed and I love you too much to force you into something."

"You aren't," I protest, and he holds up a hand.

"Let me finish, Peyton," he says.

I fall silent, stung just a little. He huffs out a breath. "I love you. I always will. But I'm not going to force you into this because I do. Not when you can't remember loving me. I love you too much for that. I would walk away and wait for you to come to me. I would wait for you forever, if I had to. But Lindsay doesn't have that kind of patience. She never has. We need you to keep her and our family together. The only person who matters to me the way you do is Scott." His gaze is pleading and sad when he finally lifts those bright blue eyes to look at me. "He's my brother and he's falling apart, Peyton. She's talking about going to her parents’ house. About never coming home. He can't—he can't lose her."

I put my coffee down and lean forward, catching his hand in mine. Squeezing it until his gaze finds mine, so desolate and broken.

I did this. I left him. He's not seeing Lindsay leaving Scott, and how that will fall out. He's remembering me leaving him, and how fucking horrible it will be for his best friend to live through that same nightmare.

I hate that I've done that to him.

"Ok, Rike. Let's go home."

Chapter 25—: Before

It happens a few weeks before Christmas. We’ve been playing for increasingly busier crowds. More nights spent in bars and venues we’ve never been to than in Barrie’s. It’s caused a bit of a strain with him, but I’m following Scott’s lead—this is his dream, and I’ll follow wherever he chooses to chase it.

Ever since we played “Perfect Girl,” we've been growing. It's opened doors for Scott as a singer and me as a songwriter that neither of us expected. And the girls have cheered us along—Linds has worked almost as hard as Scott to find new venues and bands to open for, anything to get more exposure.

Anytime I wonder about her and how she feels about Scott, I remember that.

"See that guy?" she asks now, almost bouncing in her seat. "Black suit, red tie, looks like Simon Cowell's cuter younger brother?" I crane my head and see the dude she's talking about. The guy has been on his phone all night and Scott scowls in his direction. She raps the table sharply with one finger. "He's with an indie label out of Austin, up scouting talent in Nashville. I got a friend to pass him your demo."

"When did we make a demo?" I wonder, and Lindsay flicks me a longsuffering look. I hold up a hand in surrender.

"So he's interested in the guys?" Peyton says curiously.

"Yeah. So do good tonight." She leans into Scott, kissing him before she hops down and scurries for the bar. Peyton follows. They don't do bars alone, and they know we like a minute alone before we take the stage.

There are nerves in Scott's eyes when I look at him, unexpected nerves, and I lean forward. "Same shit, brother. Sing like we're still at Barrie’s.”

"We aren't though," he says, blowing out a breath. "This is real."

I nod. "But it's everything we've been working for. So. Embrace the real shit, dude.”

“The real shit is risky as hell,” he says.

I get it.

It's a risk every time we debut a new song, anytime we do a show anywhere that isn't Barrie's. There's comfort in the familiar old ruts but…"We get to decide who and what we are," I say quietly. Then I stand up and go to where the opening act is winding down, pulling my drumsticks. My koi winks up at me, a brilliant flare of color that grounds me while we ride the crowd's energy.

Scott bounds onto the stage a step ahead of me, and I let out a relieved sigh. The mood has passed and he's ready to perform.

***

"Gentlemen," a smooth voice says behind us. It cuts through Peyton's low murmur and Lindsay's excited chatter as they hug us and we order drinks. The set is over, just, and we're still surrounded by throbbing noise and the energy of the music. And the studio exec is staring at us with a smile on his face.

Real shit is scary as fuck.

"Hey, man," Scott says, disentangling from Lindsay and shaking the guy's hand. "Thanks for being here."

"It was a great set. I had a chance to listen to your demo. I don't think that last song was on it. What was the name?"

"Chosen," I say. Peyton's hand slips in mine and I smile at the dude, a tight, reserved smile, slipping easily into my role of quiet backup to Scott's cocky devil may care disregard "And it's new. We debuted it a few weeks ago."

Apparently, that was after the demo, but whatever.

"I think my bosses would like it. I'd like to arrange a meeting where you boys can play some for them and talk about what kind of future you have. Is that something you think you'd be interested in?"

Scott's tense and still at my side, and the girls seem far away. So does everything. Everything we've come from and tried to get past. He's not speaking, and I nod, for both of us. Taking that step that could change every fucking thing. "Yeah, dude. That would be fantastic. We'd love to talk."

The guy grins and slips us a business card and we exchange numbers, scribbling mine on the back of a cocktail napkin. He promises to call and then he's gone, slipping into the crowd and swallowed up, carrying the promise of so fucking much in his back pocket.

I look at Scott and laugh when I see the stunned look in his eyes. Sometimes, laughing is the only way to keep from breaking down.

It breaks the shock that's fallen over him and then he's screaming and I'm screaming, and the girls are laughing, shrieking as we pull them into the hug, celebrating everything that could possibly go right. She's got her arms around my neck, the scent of her hair in my nose, legs wrapped around my waist, and my best friend is happier than I've ever seen.

The real shit might be scary as fuck, but it's hella worth it.

“I love you,” she whispers, and my grip on her tightens.

Something I learned quick is that watching us perform turns both girls on. Sex with Peyton is always good—fucking fantastic—but when I’m coming off the stage, the girl can’t keep her hand off me. It’s the same as when we practice at home—they both love it and practice used to get cut short by one of us making out with one of the girls before someone ended up naked.

“When you’re rich and famous, you still going to want me?” she murmurs, and even though she’s teasing, it sends a fission of unease down my spine.

“Always, Fish. You’re it. My always. You forget me, and walk away and I would love you still.”

She pulls back, and stares at me, eyes wide and searching. “Do you think I could forget you?”

I shrug. “Doesn’t matter. I’ll remember for both of us, and I’ll make you remember too.”

She kisses me then, that deep kiss that I fucking love, the one she controls with her hands in my hair and teeth nipping at my lips before her tongue tangles with mine and everything falls away in a wave of sunshine and sugar and everything that is her.

“Want you,” she pants when she pulls back.

It’s all I need to hear. I’m moving before she kisses me again, and I hear Scott laughing behind me, but it barely registers as I carry her through the bar to a dark hallway. She squeaks against my throat, her teeth digging in just a little as I bump into a door and then we’re spilling into a stockroom that’s almost pitch black, and I’m letting her slide down my body, cupping her ass as she falls.

I fucking love her ass in those skin tight jeans she wears when I perform. She’s got a corset-looking top on over the jeans, baring a smooth sliver of her belly, and my fingers skim it before I skate lower and cup her, grinding the heel of my hand into her through the jeans.

“Not playing fair,” she gasps, and I groan as her hands cup my erection. Stroke and tug in that way she has—not too hard, but rough. Enough to remind me that she wants this just as bad as I do.

She unzips my jeans and drops to her knees, taking me deep in her throat before I can process, and then I can’t.

The girl is amazing in bed, but I don’t think I’ll ever get over the sight of her on her knees, her lips wrapped around my cock. She licks at my shaft, her hand slipping between my legs to cup my balls and I struggle to keep still. My hand is on her head, my fingers twisting in her hair and she relents, the suction of her lips tightening as she slides down, until my dick hits her throat.

“I’m going to come,” I mutter.

She pulls back and strokes my dick. “That’s the point.”

“Not like that.” I say pulling her up. “As much as I like fucking your pretty mouth, I want your pussy.” Her eyes close and she sways closer. I unsnap her pants and work a hand into her jeans and the door behind us opens.

It’s dark. Dark enough that they don’t know we’re here. But I can see her, all wide eyes and flushed skin.

And I can see them. For a heartbeat, I consider saying something. But she’s trembling against me, and I know Scott well enough to know he wouldn’t care.

I lift an eyebrow and move my fingers, brushing against her clit, and she jolts against me. I lean into her ear, and whisper, so low, I almost don’t hear it, “Stay or go?”

She shudders, and wet warmth is covering my fingers as I slide them into her.

“Stay,” she breathes against my ear.

I smile against her skin, shoving my fingers into her, and grinding against her clit. “Be quiet, perfect girl,” I whisper.

Then I twist us, so she is against the side wall. In the darkness, we can both see them.

“Watch,” I murmur, and she shivers, her eyes on our best friends as Scott drops to his knees, shoves Lindsay’s skirt up, and covers her with his lips. Peyton’s whole body shudders, her pussy clenching on my fingers as I lazily finger-fuck her, and I grin. Lindsay is biting her hand, trying to stay quiet as he licks her cunt, but it’s not working. Tiny noises are leaking out, these gasping little whimpers, and his name, and it’s hot as hell.

And Peyton is so fucking wet. I pull my hand out of her pants and she makes a quiet mewl of displeasure, her hips rising and falling restlessly as I work her jeans down to her knees. I glance over at Scott and Peyton. Her head is thrown back, one leg hooked over his shoulder.

I lean into Peyton, and lick her once, feeling her body go tight as she bows off the wall toward me. I grin, and her hands find my hair, pulling me to her. She’s on tiptoes as I go to work, my tongue sliding through her, nipping at her clit, searching for the little friction I’m not giving her, and then I do, pinching her clit lightly as I tongue-fuck her and she’s coming, her pussy clenching in waves around me.

“Like that, baby?” I hear, and I freeze as Peyton shudders, thrusting against me, her orgasm tripping into another. Lindsay answers Scott in a low murmur, and I hear him groan before he kisses her.

Fuck. Peyton isn’t the only one turned on by this shit.

I stand quietly, and lift Peyton just a little.

Lindsay screams as Scott slams into her, her back thudding against the wall, and he groans again, that noise I’ve heard a million times when we shared women. Peyton is gasping as I grab her ass and fuck her slow and silently, her eyes wide and staring at Scott thrusting into Lindsay.

It’s hot as fuck that she’s getting off on this, but she is. She’s clenching and coming, these continuous orgasms that fall into each other, and she’s so wet I can feel it on my balls. I grit my teeth and drop my head into the crook of her neck, biting her shoulder to keep silent.

“Turn me,” Linds demands suddenly and he laughs, slowing. He pulls out and she moans, her voice rising to a shriek when he shoves his fingers into her.

“You’re demanding,” he mutters, and she whimpers, pushing back against him.

He slams into her and she shrieks, a noise he cuts off with a curse and a hand across her mouth, yanking her head back by the hair and hissing, “Quiet, sweetheart. Or I stop.”

“Don’t you fucking dare,” she mutters.

Peyton makes a little huff of air, and I slide a hand between us, toying with her clit as I fuck her. “You like listening to them, sweetheart? Watching Scott fuck her. You love it.”

Her eyes find mine, and I see guilt there—mixed with the glassy desire is conflicted guilt, and I lean into her, kissing her hard and fast. “I love everything about you, Fish. Even the dirty girl who plays rough and likes her sex dangerous. You want him to watch me fuck you?”