Outsider (16 page)

She
reached out and fisted her hand in the back of Dare’s shirt. He glanced over
his shoulder and grimaced before looping an arm around her shoulders and
pulling her into his side. Blinking back tears, she clung to his shirt, one
hand at his chest, the other at his back. She wished Ethan was the one she was
holding on to. Wished it were Trey rather than Max who gave her shoulder a
comforting squeeze.

“Take
one more fucking picture, and I will break your face with that camera,” Steve
yelled at someone.

For
some reason, that image made Reagan chuckle. Dare lifted a hand to touch her
hair, but after observing the perfect artistry that Cora had created, he settled
his palm between her shoulders instead.

“Keep
laughing,” he said. “Don’t let them see you cry.”

Reagan
nodded, but couldn’t muster so much as a chortle.

Sam
was waiting for them just outside the door that led to the darkened area behind
the stage. His lips were pursed, brows drawn together, hands once again clasped
behind his back. He shook his head at Reagan, but waited for everyone to pass
through the doors—and they’d closed the photographers out—before he said
anything.

“You
can’t even walk from your dressing room to the backstage area without hanging
all over a man?” Sam asked. “We’ll never be able to present the reputation you
claim to want if you behave like this.”

What
the hell was he talking about? It took her a moment to realize he was
criticizing her for leaning on Dare. Yes, Dare was a man, and a very delicious
one at that, but she thought of him as a big brother.

“Lay
off, Sam,” Dare said.

“They
have pictures of that little scene,” Sam said. “You know how they’ll slant
this.”

“Then
you’re going to have to slant it a different way for them.” Dare nudged Reagan
forward.

“I
still think making her out to be a total slut is our best option,” Sam called
after them.

Reagan’s
stomach clenched.

“And
we told you, if you do that, you’re fucking fired,” Steve said.

Reagan
looked from Steve to Dare. She’d apparently missed out on some goings-on while
hanging out alone in her dressing room. “What’s he talking about?”

“Our
strategy for tomorrow’s press conference,” Max said. “We’ll go over it with you
after the show.”

Great.
Something else for her to worry about.

“I
won’t be there,” Logan told her. “I’m leaving for Seattle right after the show
tonight.”

To
be with the woman responsible for this mess, Reagan thought with a snarl. She
didn’t hate Toni’s guts entirely, but what grown-ass woman wrote secrets in a
fucking diary?

“You’re
missing out on a great opportunity, Lo,” Steve said, twirling a drumstick that
a roadie handed him. “You might have been able to convince them you don’t
constantly cry for your mommy.”

“My
mommy could go to the press conference in my place,” Logan said. “She lives a
few miles up the road.”

“Oh
yeah,” Steve said. “That’ll show them. Send your mommy in your place to speak
on your behalf.”

Reagan
laughed. Those two were always going at each other. She wouldn’t truly feel
part of the band until Steve started ripping on her constantly. The only reason
Steve criticized her was for her love of the San Diego Chargers. Surely he
could do better than that.

Someone
handed Reagan a guitar, and she flipped the strap over her head, settling the
instrument into place. She automatically reached for a tuning peg, before
remembering that a technician had already tuned it for her. She strummed the
strings just to be sure. At first she’d been overjoyed that someone else took
care of her instrument on tour, but the novelty had worn off. She kind of
missed tuning it herself.

Sam
appeared at her side, to chase away her improved mood, apparently. “We’re going
to call up an audience member following ‘Rebel in You.’ ”

“Fine,”
Reagan said. “But it has to be a woman.”

Steve
whistled. “Now we’re talking!”

Reagan
reached over and slapped his bare stomach. “I’m not playing the sex kitten,”
Reagan said. “Forget it.”

“Fantastic
idea,” Dare said, a supportive hand on her lower back. “Aspiring female
guitarists can look up to her instead of misogynistic assholes looking down on her.”

Ha!
She wasn’t the only one who saw Sam that way. She looked at Max, who’d
convinced her she might be mistaken about their manager’s sexism. She was happy
to see that Max was nodding. “Yeah, I like that idea better,” Max said.

Reagan
refrained from giving Sam a literal middle finger, deciding her disobedience
was enough of a figurative fuck you.

“We’ll
see how the fans respond,” Sam said.

So
Reagan had won a battle, but evidently the war was far from over.

Reagan
released a ton of pent-up fury into the first song of the show. “Ovation” was
one of her favorite songs to play live and while she did interact with her
bandmates more than usual, she kept her interactions fun and playful, hoping no
one misconstrued their antics as sexual. Of course, there was always some
asshole in the audience who volunteered to show her his dick, but she refused
to degrade herself or Exodus End’s music by responding. Dare, however, never
had a problem telling the perverts off.

“How
are we feeling tonight, Phoenix?” Max called to the crowd while Reagan replaced
her tattered pick with a new one from the tape on Dare’s mic stand.

The
crowd started chanting
Logan, Logan, Logan
, which had never happened
before. Why would they be so interested in the band’s bass player?

“It’s
good to be home,” Logan said, waving at the audience with both hands raised
high above his head.

Oh
yeah, Phoenix was Logan’s hometown. Maybe that would take some of the focus off
Reagan tonight.

As
the performance continued and the crowd’s responses weren’t much different from
those made before the tabloid stories’ release, Reagan figured she should start
to relax, but they were getting closer to her new guitar lesson segment. What
if they couldn’t find a woman in the audience who wanted a lesson from her?
Would they force her to instruct a guy? She couldn’t think of a way to make
that look even slightly nonsexual.

Reagan
added a mini-guitar solo to the end of “Rebel in You.” Not to show off, but to put
off the inevitable. But she couldn’t delay it forever.

“Hey,
Phoenix,” Max said as he crossed to stand near her. “Reagan has offered to give
a lucky fan a personal guitar lesson right here onstage.”

Offered?
More like had been forced. But Reagan could make this segment her own. Assuming
she could get her nervousness under control. She expected Max to send out a
call for volunteers, but a woman had already been selected. When she crossed
the stage, Reagan’s jaw dropped. The slender brunette was stunningly gorgeous.
Her hair and makeup had been done to perfection, probably by Cora—the traitor.
Reagan was pretty sure those were her high-heeled boots her
impromptu
pupil was wearing. The smug look on Sam’s face as he stood in the wings with
his arms crossed over his chest made a muscle above Reagan’s eye twitch. She
was sure he’d rehearsed this woman’s role with her before putting her onstage.

“Uh,”
Max said, watching the newcomer cross in front of him as she sauntered toward
Reagan. Jeez, had Sam told her how to walk too?

“I
guess we have a volunteer,” Max said, shooting a confused look at Dare, who
shrugged.

“And
she’s a hottie!” Steve called from behind his drum kit.

Reagan
ignored him, though she considered tossing her guitar at his face and allowing
him to give Hottie the lesson.

“What’s
your name?” Max asked, holding his microphone out to their guest.

“Felicity.”

“Have
you always wanted to learn to play guitar, Felicity?” Max asked.

Felicity
gave Reagan a look that made her decidedly uncomfortable. It was the kind of
look that Ethan gave her right before she found herself being fucked against a
wall.

“I
have if she’s doing the teaching,” Felicity said.

The
entire stadium erupted into raucous cheers and lewd catcalls.

Jaw
set, Reagan nodded. “Well, let’s get to it then.”

She
lifted her guitar strap over her head and handed the instrument to Felicity.
Felicity held it as if she’d never even seen a guitar and looked to Reagan for
instruction. Reagan decided the sooner she got this over with, the sooner they
could get on with the show and once it was over, the sooner she could kick Sam
in the nuts. It was that glorious idea that made her smile and take her guitar
from Felicity’s trembling hands. She stepped up behind the other woman and
showed her how to properly hold the instrument. Felicity was a few inches
shorter than Reagan, so the strap needed adjustment. Reagan had never realized
that the buckle was adjacent to the breast until she had to fiddle with it next
to Felicity’s tit.

Reagan
focused on what she was doing, trying hard to ignore the excitement of the
crowd. She was pretty sure Felicity was playing the scenario for all it was
worth, but Reagan didn’t look at her face the entire time she was adjusting the
strap.

Reagan
stepped back, almost tripping over the mic and stand that had been moved next
to them to pick up their conversation. “Okay, now you just finger and strum.”

“Finger?”
Felicity said, a naughty pout on her face.

From
the amount of noise the audience was making, they obviously liked that visual.

“You
walked right into that one, Reagan,” Logan said into his microphone.

Reagan
snorted. She had. There was no way for this situation not to deteriorate, so
she might as well have her own fun with it.

“So
you have some experience with fingering?” Reagan said, actually relieved that
she’d found her sense of humor.

“A
little,” Felicity said, using her left hand to stroke her right index finger
back and forth.

“I’m
an expert at fingering,” Reagan said, which drew a shudder of excitement from
Sam’s over-acting puppet. “We’ll see if you can keep up.”

Reagan
stepped up behind Felicity. There was no way to reach the strings without
plastering herself to the woman’s backside, so she went for it, knowing Sam was
likely enraptured by her actions. But then, so was the crowd.

“We’ll
start with strumming,” Reagan said. “You want to hit the string in that sweet
spot over and over again until she wails.”

Reagan
showed Felicity how to hold the pick and then had her strum the D string
repeatedly. “Faster,” Reagan said, and Felicity strummed faster. “Oh yes,
faster. Right there. Don’t stop. Faster.” Reagan released a moan and pulled the
whammy bar, making the guitar wail. The crowd roared in appreciation, and
Felicity shifted in her arms. Was Reagan making her uncomfortable? Good.

“I
will never look at that guitar the same way again,” Max said.

Reagan
grinned. “Strumming is a necessary part of playing, Felicity, but you have to
use your other hand at the same time to draw out the guitar’s full range of
sound. Do you think you can use both hands at once?”

“Show
me,” Felicity said, her voice breathy with excitement.

Was
this woman actually turned on by Reagan’s little act or was she just
pretending? Reagan hoped Felicity was just following Sam’s instructions.
Otherwise Reagan would feel bad for toying with the woman.

Reagan
covered Felicity’s strumming hand to control the rhythm and fingered the proper
notes to the intro to “Bite” because it was played on just one string.

“Reagan,
teach me to play!” yelled a man in the audience after the final note. “I want
to learn how to strum and finger at the same time.”

“I
give only one lesson per night,” Reagan said. “Then I roll over and go to
sleep.”

She
loved that the audience laughed at her joke. Her bandmates laughed too. Even
Sam, who was still on her shit list, was cracking up. The only one who wasn’t
laughing was Felicity. Reagan leaned over her shoulder to try to see her
expression and got a rushed kiss on the cheek.

“I
hope you didn’t take my lesson the wrong way, Felicity,” Reagan said. “I like
guys.”

“I
want to get in line to tap that!” a fan yelled.

“I
got all the dick I can handle at the moment.” Reagan didn’t know what possessed
her to say that, but the entire stadium erupted into the laughter. This time
even Felicity laughed. Maybe Reagan had been approaching the situation from the
wrong angle. Maybe instead of being so angry, she should laugh about it. But
she wasn’t sure if she wanted her love life and her career to be the brunt of
some huge joke. Then again, she didn’t want them to be a tragedy either.

Trey
was getting a neck ache from watching Ethan pace the floor.

“She
doesn’t know what she needs right now,” Ethan said for the tenth or twelfth
time since they’d spoken to Reagan. “What she needs is me.” He tossed a hand in
Trey’s direction. “Us. She needs us.”

“I
know it’s hard to understand band dynamics if you’ve never been in a band—”

“I
was on the force. I know what it’s like to depend on your comrades.”

“It’s
not quite as extreme as that,” Trey admitted. None of the guys had ever taken a
bullet for him. “It’s not life or death, but everyone is watching you—judging
you—all the time. I worked my way up slowly, so I adjusted to fame gradually.
Reagan was thrust into the spotlight. She hasn’t had time to adjust.”

“You
said
thrust
.” Ethan grinned crookedly and cocked a suggestive eyebrow at
him.

Trey
grabbed the pillow from the bed and smacked him with it, though he was glad
something he’d said had broken through Ethan’s aura of gravity. The guy needed
to loosen up. Trey knew Ethan couldn’t stand the idea of anything hurting
Reagan—physically or emotionally—but the best thing they could do for her was
let her handle the scandals her own way. She was the one who’d been affronted.
They’d just been treated like accessories to her scandal.

Ethan
tossed his suitcase onto the bed and unzipped it.

“Seriously,
E? We don’t have time for thrusting right now,” Trey said, knowing their stash
of lube was in Ethan’s bag.

Ethan
pinned him with a pair of dark brown eyes narrowed in annoyance. “Is sex all
you ever think about?”

“No.”
He shrugged. “Only most of the time. You’re the one who pointed out I’d said
thrust
.”

Ethan
pulled his shirt off over his head and tossed the crumpled mass into his open
bag.

“And
now you’re taking off your clothes,” Trey said. “What am I supposed to be
thinking about?”

“Reagan.”

“I
would prefer her to be in on the thrusting thing.”

Ethan
rolled his eyes and tugged a neon-yellow shirt on over his head. SECURITY was
written in a bold font across the back. “Do you have a backstage pass for
tonight’s show?”

“Of
course, but we’re not going there, so it doesn’t matter.”

“I’m
going,” Ethan said, unfastening his pants so he could tuck his shirt into the
waistband. “I’d like for this to be our decision, but if it has to be mine and
I have to go it alone, so be it.”

Trey
got distracted by what he knew was in those pants before jerking his attention back
to the problem at hand. “Reagan doesn’t want us there.”

Ethan
tilted his head and held Trey’s gaze. “I thought you knew her better than
that.”

“Huh?”

“Of
course she wants us there.”

“She’s
going to be pissed.” But Trey climbed from the bed and went in search of his
shoes. Maybe it wasn’t really Reagan who wanted them there. Maybe Ethan was
just using her needs as an excuse. But Trey wanted to be there for her, despite
her wishes or even what might be best for her. He was actually glad Ethan had
forced their hand.

“She
won’t be pissed. She’ll be happy to see us.” Ethan looked almost convinced of
his assertion, but Trey figured they’d be flayed within an inch of their lives
by her sharp tongue. At least they’d both be in the same boat.

“Ethan?”

Ethan
stopped with one hand on the doorknob and turned back to Trey. In an instant,
Trey found himself wrapped in Ethan’s arms, their lips close. “Everything will
be okay,” Ethan whispered.

Staring
up into Ethan’s dark eyes, Trey believed him.

What
a wonderful feeling. No wonder Reagan was always seeking him out for
reassurance.

They
took a cab to the arena and prepared for a media onslaught. The area where the
paparazzi was likely to congregate was blissfully devoid of nosy photographers.
Trey fought the urge to hold Ethan’s hand as they went through various security
checkpoints. They kept a comfortable distance between them in case they were
being watched.

“Where
are all the photographers and reporters?” Ethan asked Butch as they finally
found their way to the dressing rooms.

“They’re
resting up for tomorrow’s press conference, I’m sure.” Butch scowled at him.
“Are you supposed to be here?”

“Yes,”
Ethan said. Without hesitation he entered Reagan’s dressing room. Trey nodded
at Butch as he followed.

Reagan
was sitting on the bench of her dressing table, her hands knotted in her lap
and her gaze fixed on the floor. Her bandmates, with the exception of Logan,
were perched on various pieces of furniture, looking equally uncomfortable. The
band’s manager was pacing about, gesticulating as he gave his sermon—or
lecture—Trey couldn’t tell which. Sam paused to confront his latest spectators.

“Didn’t
Reagan tell you to leave?” Sam turned toward Reagan, and Trey’s hackles rose at
the accusatory look he gave her.

“She
did, but sometimes she says go when she really means stay,” Ethan said.

Reagan
sprang from her seat and, apparently not knowing who to hug first, wrapped her
arms tightly around both of them. Trey felt a tremble in her body, but couldn’t
tell if it was the manifestation of fury or hurt.

“I
asked you to go to LA,” she said, drawing away and lifting her hands to place
one on Ethan’s cheek, the other on Trey’s. She looked from Trey’s eyes to
Ethan’s and back again. “Whose bright idea was this?”

“Uh.”
Ethan’s gaze shifted to Trey.

“Both
of ours,” Trey said, not sure if he was taking credit he didn’t deserve or
shouldering some of the burden of her anger.

She
smiled and kissed Trey’s lips and then Ethan’s. “I should be mad, but I’m not.
Did the reporters see you arrive together?”

Ethan
lifted his brows at Trey, offering his smuggest I-told-you-so look.

“No,”
Trey said. “I think they’ve all left.”

“Just
as well,” Reagan said. “Sam’s talking strategy for tomorrow. Maybe you’d like
to weigh in.”

Trey
was sure no one would like his views, except maybe his brother, who he waved at
when he remembered that the three of them weren’t alone in the room. But he’d
gladly share his opinions. He didn’t want to hide his feelings for Reagan and
Ethan from anyone. There was no strategy in that. Just truth.

Reagan
slipped away from them and sat on the bench again. Ethan positioned himself
behind her left shoulder, his arms crossed, a look of warning on his face. Trey
doubted anyone would cross Ethan when he was so obviously guarding his lady,
but his stern expression made Trey want to poke him in the ribs until he could
draw a smile from Ethan’s terse lips. Trey decided to lean against the wall by
the door instead. He fiddled in his pocket until he found gold—a cherry sucker.
He unwrapped it and stuck it in his mouth to soothe his jitters. The familiar
sweet tang washed some of the tension from his spine, and he leaned heavily
into the wall at his back.

“Where
was I?” Sam asked.

Max
scratched at his jaw. “Steer their attention toward her career and away from
her, uh . . .” He glanced at Trey and then turned his head to
look at Ethan. “. . . unusual love life.”

“I
think the word he used was
abhorrent
,” Reagan said, glaring up at Sam
through her long bangs.

“
Aberrant
,”
Sam said, his gaze flitting to Ethan, who was cracking his knuckles. “I said
aberrant
.”

“Not
much better,” Reagan said.

People
would
call their relationship abhorrent if they knew the truth, but Trey
realized they’d be repulsed because they didn’t understand or had only enough
love to give one person at a time. He just happened to be built a bit
differently. He was lucky to have found two others who felt the same way he
did.

Trey
cleared his throat. “I think we should just tell—”

His
words were interrupted by Dare’s hastily spoken, “Focus on her music career.”

“Yeah,
good plan,” Steve said, covering his mouth with a yawn. “Can we go now? I’d
like to go to bed early since all this nonsense resulted in the after-party
getting canceled. Again. And now I have to get out of bed early for some
fucking press conference.”

“Do
you honestly feel like partying right now?” Max glanced over his shoulder at
Steve, who was leaning against the back of the sofa behind him.

Steve
drummed on Max’s back with both palms and used his head as a cymbal. “I always
feel like partying.”

“So
what do I say if they don’t care about my career or interactions with the band
and all they ask are questions about my relationship with Trey?” Reagan asked.
“Or with Ethan?”

Ethan
squeezed her shoulder, and she smiled up at him.

“You
can say whatever you want,” Sam said. “Your personal life doesn’t reflect
poorly on the band. It actually draws attention, which is always a benefit.”

“You’re
looking a little tired, Sam,” Dare said. “Why don’t you and Steve head off to
bed?”

Sam
stiffened. “I don’t know what you’re insinuating—”

“That
it’s time for you to go. You’ve said your piece, and Steve doesn’t care if we
make decisions without him.”

“Yes,
I do,” Steve said.

Trey
smiled around his sucker. He’d grown up with Dare, so he was well accustomed to
the man always getting his way. As children, Dare had used his wits to get
everything he wanted while Trey had relied on being irresistibly cute. Trey had
always admired his older brother. He was pretty sure Steve had no idea he was
being manipulated.

“Well
then, why not try acting like you give a shit for once in your life?” Dare
said.

“Steve
isn’t the only one who’s tired.” Max stood from the sofa and massaged his
damaged wrist, loosening a Velcro strap on his brace before adjusting it into a
new position. “Why don’t we all go back to the hotel and get some sleep? We can
talk this out in the morning after we’ve rested.”

Max
exchanged a pointed look with Dare, who shrugged. “I’m a little tired myself.
Let’s call it a night.”

Reagan
paled. “I still don’t know what I’m supposed to say tomorrow.”

“It’ll
come to you,” Dare assured her. “Just don’t panic.”

But
Reagan already looked panicked.

They
all piled into the limo, including Sam and Butch, and sat in edgy silence all
the way back to the hotel. Reagan clung to Trey’s hand, and he had plenty to
say to her, but he didn’t want to say anything in front of Sam. He wouldn’t
have cared if the others had heard his advice, but he didn’t trust Sam and from
the tension in the limo, he was pretty sure he wasn’t the only one. He’d been
hanging around these guys for weeks; they never sat completely silent in the
car, no matter how tired they were. When they reached the hotel, Butch was the
first out of the car. He tugged Sam aside to ask him how he wanted security to
be handled the following day while the rest of them entered the lobby.

“Give
us all half an hour,” Max said to Reagan. “We’ll arrive one at a time so Sam
doesn’t get suspicious.”

Reagan
crumpled her brow and stopped walking. “Huh?”

“What’s
going on?” Steve asked, looking from one person to the next.

“We
can’t talk candidly with Sam looming over us,” Max said. “Meet in Reagan’s room
when the coast is clear.”

“Oh,”
Reagan said. Apparently, she was as clueless about Max/Dare telepathy as the
rest of them were.

“So
we’re
not
sleeping?” Steve grumbled.

“If
you don’t show up, that’s your decision.” Dare stepped into the elevator.

Butch
had stalled Sam for as long as possible. They both hurried into the lobby to
catch up. Max held the door so they could squeeze onto the elevator with them.

Their
manager was keeping unusually close tabs on them. Trey had heard tales, but
this was excessive, even for Sam. Trey tried to catch Dare’s eye, but his
brother was staring straight ahead. Sometimes Sed could be a bit of a tyrant,
but Trey was glad Sed was the one who did the majority of management for
Sinners. Having someone like Sam breathing down their necks would have driven
the entire band insane. Why did his brother’s band put up with this guy?
Couldn’t they tell him to get lost? Or to loosen their dog collars a little?