Punishing Me (Shaft on Tour #6) (3 page)

“Everyone
havin’ a good time tonight? My Wildflower drove all the way here just to see us
play tonight, so ya think you could handle another song?” Gray asks while
adjusting his guitar. The crowd screams and the lights adjust to focus solely
on him. “Okay,” he grins, giving Daisy a wink. “If you guys know this one, help
me out and sing along, okay?”

Daisy
hangs onto every word of
Criminal by Framing Hanley
as Gray sings, her
eyes glued to him on stage. Their eyes meet from time to time, but there is no
mistaking the connection they have. There was a time when a moment like this
would have me swooning and writing a damn poem while I secretly wonder if every
man I lay eyes on could be the one for me.

Not
anymore.

After
coming to terms with Dominick’s betrayal, I realized that I didn’t like the
insecurities I saw in my reflection. The heartbroken seventeen-year-old girl,
with red rimmed eyes, and mascara streaked face was not who I wanted to be. The
sad girl looking back at me in the mirror let someone else have the power to
control her happiness and I know now what a mistake that had been.

Ready
to blow this pop stand, I jerk my head at Jared who, though he doesn’t say
anything, knows the drill all too well. Depositing my bass back on her stand, I
make my way toward the ramp where Sargent Sourpuss stands waiting beside Henry.

“I
don’t like that look,” Jared says, leading me down the hall. “That’s the look
that says you’re not planning on a nice, quiet night alone, back at the hotel.”

“Tomorrow,
it’s back to Nashville, Jared. At least a week with no stage, no screaming fans,
and all the soul crushing boredom and loneliness I can stand,” I say, patting
his arm. “You can bet your ass tonight will be goin’ out with a bang.”

Bangover

Ireland

“Rise
and shine!” Henry’s voice cuts through the residual alcohol that lingers in my
fuzzy senses. I groan, hoping that he will have mercy on me and leave me the
fuck alone until I can get a handle on my over-churning stomach. “Come on, it’s
a beautiful, Sunday morning. How about we have coffee and chat while we read
the paper?”

The
hell? I have no love for this cheery mood of his… Give me bossy and broody any day
over Henry, the fairy guardmother.

Last
night, will without a doubt, go down in the history books as the hardest
partying I have ever done. I just wish I could remember all of it. Who knew
things could get so fuzzy after drinking your weight in alcohol?

“Just
give me twenty minutes, Big Man,” I murmur, wincing at the sound of my own
voice. “Need to shower and pack my shit. Can you ask Jared to get me a coffee
from the lobby and maybe some aspirin?”

“’Fraid
I can’t do that since he damn near broke down my door at the crack of dawn,
refusing to handle your ass anymore.” The curtains open, causing the sun to
pour through the window, mocking me from its spot in the sky. “You’ve done it
this time, girl. This break in the tour couldn’t have come soon enough.”

Groaning
again, I roll over and cover my face with the pillow beside me. “Fuckin’ sun,”
I mutter into the cool, cotton pillowcase. “It’s too early for this shit.”

Just
as quickly, the pillow is yanked from my fingers. My eyes fly open just in time
to see a very pissed off Henry dump a stack of newspapers and printed hard copy
pages on the mattress in front of me next to a pair of red jockey shorts and a
green lace bra. Neither are mine. Shit. “This,” he grounds out, pointing to the
stack of tabloid and media headlines with my face plastered all over them, “is
not how Shaft is known by the public, Ireland. For fuck’s sake, Hunter hasn’t
broken the rules this much. No matter how dirty his dick got, he knew he was
expected to keep his nose clean.”

Bolting
upright in bed, my hands fly up to cradle my aching head. My stomach rolls violently
and I find myself torn between vomiting and sobbing. Focusing on my breathing,
I open my eyes and stare down at the tabloid highlights from my celebration
last night.

Shaft
Bassist Has No Shame…

Booze
and the Bassist: Shaft Bass Player Shames Group With Behavior.

Shaft
Girl’s Gone Wild: Drug And Alcohol Filled Sex Parties Between Shows.

Band
Outcast, Ireland, Drowns Sorrows At Local Bar…

Snatching
up one of the papers, I read the article titled
Tour on Hiatus: A Shaft
Scandal.

“It
has neither been confirmed, nor denied, if the break in the sold out Perfectly
Warped Tour is because of the antics of new bassist, Ireland Tyler, or just an
excuse for the group to return to their Nashville compound for some much needed
R&R.

Photos
show Tyler drinking and partying at Crawl, a local and popular dive bar, before
being spotted outside the hotel the band is known to be staying at, ushering up
several guests to her suite. Hotel manager, Marshall Witherson, refused to
comment, but there is talk amongst the staff of several guest complaints being
filed due to noise.

As
of now, no shows have been rescheduled or cancelled, but it leaves us all to
wonder what will management be forced to do if this little time out doesn’t
help put her in check.”

“Bullshit,”
I huff, shoving the papers out of my way and climbing from the bed. “None of
this shit is true.”

“They
report on what they see, Ireland,” Camaron says, stepping into the room. “Putting
a spin on things is what they get paid for. Scandal equals sales, plain and
simple.”

“Can
we discuss this once I’ve had coffee?” I ask while my brain bangs out its own
bassline against my skull.

The
bottom of her sleeveless, slate gray dress swishes around her knees. Every inch
of her is flawlessly put together, as always. I would be jealous of her long
legs and a bit intimidated by her confident demeanor if I wasn’t fighting the
urge to climb back in the bed and hide under the covers until my head stops
pounding. “Here.” Tossing her blonde hair over her shoulder, she crosses the
room toward me and hands me orange juice and a bottle of aspirin. “This is
better for you than coffee.”

“Thank
you,” I say, quickly downing two of the pills and chugging the juice.

Nodding,
she sighs. “I haven’t said much about how you’ve behaved on the tour the last
few months, in hopes you’d reel yourself in on your own; but, last night, has
forced my hand.”

“Is
this you firing me?” I ask, meeting her eyes. “Or are you gonna tuck me away in
one of those overly priced, cushy rehabs in hopes talking about my feelings
will cure me and cause me to spew out Grammy worthy material?”

“No
one is being fired, and I don’t think you need rehab, Ireland,” she replies, taking
a seat in the large, fluffy, red chair by the window. Cocking her head to the
side as she studies me, she crosses one leg over the other. “I could be wrong,
but I don’t see addiction when I look at you. I see someone who hasn’t figured
out her place in life yet and is going about finding it the wrong way.”

“Good
to know,” I deadpan, crossing my arms over my chest. “What about the label?” I
ask, knowing that she has yet to mention their reaction to this morning’s
trending topics on social media and Sunday reading material. I also know that
they can’t be too pleased since I signed a moral’s clause when I joined the
band.

“I’ve
assured all necessary parties that the issue is being handled in house,” she
says, pushing to her feet. “That was enough, this time.”

“Thank
you,” I reply, sighing in relief.

“Don’t
thank me yet,” she counters. “We still have a lot of tour left. I expect you to
prove that you belong here.” Leaning up in the chair, she pushes to her feet. Heading
for the door, she glances at me over her shoulder. “Bus pulls out in twenty.”

***

After
rushing through the fastest shower ever, I hurriedly dress while shoving my
shit into my bag. Henry is waiting outside the door for me the moment I open it
and has no problem rushing me downstairs to where the bus is parked. The other
guard, Mike, is loading things up with the help of some of the road crew.

“Where’s
Jared?” I ask Henry when I don’t see him helping. Looking around the parking
lot, I brace myself for the man to jump out of a bush and scare the hell out of
me. “Someone needs to tell Sargent Sourpuss it’s too early for these ninja
games of his.”

“Rode
back with Gray and Daisy earlier this morning,” he replies. “He’s no longer
with the tour.”

I
nod, swallowing the guilt I don’t have time to feel as memories of me arguing
with him before locking him out of my suite hazily come back to me. I mean,
it’s not my fault he was too sensitive to handle a joke, right?

“Hey,
girl,” Chase says the second I step up onto the bus and drop down on the sofa
beside her. “Whoa.” Wincing, she pats my arm. “You look like shit.”

“Thanks,”
I deadpan, crossing my arms over my chest and wishing I could disappear into
the cushions.

“You
know what the perfect cure is for a bangover?” Hunter asks, spinning his
recliner to face me. Toeing off his sneakers, he kicks the leg out on his ugly
ass chair and stretches out. “Bacon,” he says reaching over to shove a piece in
my face.

“Get
that shit away from me,” I growl, swatting away the piece of disgusting, fried,
pig flesh.

“How
the hell does bacon instantly cure a hangover?” Chase asks, shaking her head.
“Bacon isn’t the cure all pill of everything that is wrong with the world,
baby.”

“Wrong,”
he counters, nearly flipping the chair to rescue the meat from the floor before
shoving it into his mouth. I swallow around the vomit rising in my throat at
the sight of him, not only eating bacon, but eating it off the floor of the
bus.

“You’re
disgusting,” I groan, clamping a hand over my mouth.

“Rule
one: never waste bacon. And it’s bangover, not hangover,” he corrects her,
before looking at me. “The bottle that you sucked dry like some cheap prom date
had a guy’s name, correct?” he asks, arching a brow. “Jack Daniels, Jim Beam,
Johnnie Walker, Jose Cuervo: all men that will fuck you hard every time you
swallow them and leave you walkin’ funny the next day.”

 “Do
you hear the shit that comes out of your mouth?” Aiden asks from the small
kitchenette table where he sits with Camaron.

“I
know, I’m a genius,” Hunter nods. “One day, I’ll write a book and everyone can
have a piece of me on their shelves.”

“Or
use it to steady a wobbly table leg,” Henry says, climbing into the driver’s seat.
“Get comfortable, asshole, it’s gonna be a bumpy ride.”

“I
hope you bought Rae dinner before using that line on her,” Hunter laughs,
nearly dropping his plate. “Or, at least, used lube.”

Digging
the Beats from my bag, I plug into my phone and blast my playlist as loud as I
can. That way I won’t hear Hunter’s screams if Henry beats him to death with
his bacon plate, and I’m less likely to be named as an accessory. With music
blaring, I settle in for the ride back to Nashville, trying to figure out what
the hell I’ll do with all my free time that won’t have me plastered all over
every media outlet and knee deep in shit with Cam.

Mackumentally
Fucked

Mack

“Mommy!
Daddy!” Jazzie screams, the second the bus rounds the corner. “They’re home!”

“Not
a word to Henry,” Rae says to me in a hushed voice. “I mean it, Dominick.”

“Whatever
you want, darlin’, but you and I both know you should’ve told him already,” I
reply, rolling my eyes as I cross my fingers over my heart like a jackass. “I
still don’t understand why you just don’t sit his big ass down and explain what
the doctors are saying, Rae. That’s his monster spawn you’re bakin’ in there; you
can’t just keep him out of the loop. He’ll be pissed when he finds out we’ve been
going behind his back and keepin’ secrets.”

“It’s
my place to tell him,” she argues, rubbing a hand over her ever-swelling baby
bump. Rae is short to begin with, but now with the oversized lookin’ Buddah belly
she is working with, she looks like a normal colored version of that blueberry
brat off
Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory
.

She
wears mismatched shoes and has given up on pants most days and socks
completely. It’s entertaining as hell to watch.

Until
she catches me laughing and hits me with the closest, hard object…

Which
is usually a wooden spoon…

Which
hurts like a motherfucker.

This
may or may not be the reason why those evil wooden bastards have begun to
disappear. Though, I’ll never own up to that shit. I have learned it is smart
to fear the women in tiny packages, and Rae is no exception. She may need a stepladder
and a safety net to bash my skull in, but I’ll bet money she has the nearest
hardware store on speed dial.

“I
should’ve never let things go as far as they have, and you know it.” The bus
comes to a stop on its reserved concrete turn around spot. Jazzie squeals the
second the brakes let off and the door swings open. “He should have been told
immediately when the Doc first mentioned there was an issue. Now, it’s way
beyond a simple conversation.”

“I
refuse to ruin this week. With Jared quitting, and the media shit storm Ireland
has dumped in their laps, Henry needs to relax,” she counters, as we make our
way down the porch steps and into the yard. “I’ll tell him everything when the
time is right.”

“Sure
thing,” I say with a grin, “but, you’re gonna owe me.”

“What
the hell are you waitin’ for, Jazz? The welcome party is supposed to rush the
bus!” Hunter shouts, leaping off the steps and onto the concrete. “Get over
here, Squirt, give me some love.”

Hunter
barely has time to drop his bag before the tiny diva launches herself into his
arms and takes him straight to his ass. “Hey,” he breathes, wrapping her up
tight and dropping a kiss to the top of her head. “I was wonderin’ where my
welcome party was.”

The
kid goes into a recap of every single detail Hunter has missed in the two weeks
it’s been since we flew out to Minneapolis for the weekend to see one of the
few small venue acoustic sets the band did for the tour. Most of which I’m sure
he has heard a hundred times during their Skype calls every day, but he hangs
on to every word she says.

Me
not so much.

My
eyes are glued to the woman struggling with her bags. Neon green Beats on her
ears and a fuck off and die attitude written all over her face; Ireland is far
from the girl I was paired up with while serving out my court ordered community
service. Although I haven’t had much interaction with her since she joined the
band a few months back, it doesn’t take much to see that she’s no longer the
sweet, shy girl I used to shed my virgin status.

I
was a shit. I can admit that, but what seventeen-year-old boy wasn’t? I was
also honest. What the hell would she have had to gain by being with me? She had
a perfect life where there was no place for some punk kid from the wrong side
of the tracks. I was the perfect, dirty little secret for her taste of
rebellion. I knew the score. We both gave to each other, we both took, in the
end I walked away because I knew it was what needed to be done.

“How’s
it hangin’, fucker?” Hunter asks, slapping me on the back and taking my focus
off Ireland. “Brought you a present.”

“Thanks,”
I reply, flipping him off. “Not sure you can top the golf ball size anal beads
you sent last month, or the giant stuffed crab that ended up in my bed,” I
huff, glaring at Jasmine when she giggles. Turning my gaze back to Hunter, I
shake my head. “You bribed her to torture me with stuffed animals. That’s
pretty shady.”

Hunter
shrugs, a proud smile spreading across his face. Handing her off to Chase, he
nudges me in the ribs with his elbow. “A box of cookie batter dipped double
stuffed Oreos will get me just about anything with that kid. Besides, she
thought it was funny too. Said you screamed like a little girl,” Hunter laughs,
reaching out to bump her fist.

Nodding
my head, I can’t argue with that. “At least she shared those with me,” I nod,
my mouth damn near watering at the thought of those little pieces of cream
filled heaven.

What
can I say? Sweet, creamy filling is one of my weaknesses…

“Fuckin’
piece of shit, cocksucker, shit piss, and fuck it all to hell.”

Ignoring
Hunter, and his promises to have topped himself this time, I make my way over
to the bus while everyone else starts heading for the house. Ireland is bent
over at the waist, struggling to lift her suitcase, backpack, and guitar case.
“Got your hands full, huh?” I ask, grabbing her arm.

 She
stills, her entire small frame going rigid the second my skin makes contact
with hers. Spinning around, she straightens to her full height. Even in heels,
Ireland still barely comes to my shoulders, but the look on her face is much
bigger than the five-foot-whatever she is. Her eyes meet mine, the deep blue
hardening immediately.

“No
thanks, houseboy. I’ve got it,” she spits, dismissing me with a wave of her
black painted fingernails.

“I
see that,” I toss out, sarcastically. “How about you put the claws away and
I’ll help you out.”

“Let’s
get something straight here, Nicky,” she purrs. The use of my childhood
nickname makes me grit my teeth. Damn her. She grins, knowing that she has
gotten to me and that does nothing but push me more. “I wouldn’t ask for your
help even if I were burning alive and your dick was a fire hose.”

Yep,
she absolutely hates me.

“Whoa,”
I chuckle. Holding up my hands, I take her in as she stands before me. The fire
I see blazing behind those blues has me smiling. “Haven’t you grown into a hot,
little handful,” I say, raking my eyes up and down her body, absorbing every
curve.

“Oh
sweetie,” she purrs again, arching her eyebrow. “I’m plenty more than a
handful. You could never handle me.”

“Oh
sweetie,” I mock her, “I have.”

“Suuuuuure
you did,” she chuckles, sarcastically. Amusement dances in her eyes and it
pisses me off.

“What
the fuck is that supposed to mean?” I growl. Tired of her games and snarky
comments, I yank the bags from her grip, leaving her to carry her guitar case.

“Nothing.”
Adjusting her grip on her case, she makes her way over to the tiny blue car she
parked here before leaving on the bus. “I don’t have time to stroke your ego
like everyone else,
Big Mack
. I’ve got shit to do.”

Hot
on her heels, I follow her over and yank open the back door before tossing her
shit inside. “You know what?” I ask, slamming the back driver’s side door and
caging her in. Her eyes widen in shock, her hands fly up defensively,
flattening against my chest. “I didn’t ask you to stroke shit, brat. I was
attempting to be nice,” I force out through gritted teeth.

“Who
are you callin’ a brat, asshole?” she snaps, shoving at my chest.

“What
are you gonna do about it,
brat?
” I ask, grinning down at her.
Stepping
closer, I pin her tightly between me and the car.

Ireland’s
breath accelerates; the rise and fall of her chest as it presses against mine
through her low cut tank top would have my full attention if my eyes weren’t
already glued to her mouth. The dark red gloss on those plump lips makes me
ache to feel them wrapped around my cock while she stares up at me from her
knees.

Leaning
into her, I reach down and grab the driver’s door handle, yanking it open for
her. My eyes close as I inhale her scent. The sweet smell of honeysuckle on her
skin makes me want to see if she tastes as good as she smells.

“Mack!”
Henry yells, startling us both. I shift our bodies, causing Ireland to drop
down into the seat.

“Thank
fuck,” she says, breathlessly. The engine roars to life and I barely move out
of the way before she yanks the door closed and drives away.

 Yanking
a hand through my hair, I try to push the thoughts of fucking Ireland’s mouth
out of my head as I make my way into the house. The calm and quiet of the last
few weeks is gone, replaced by the chaos of having everyone back home where
they belong. It’s loud, it’s busy, but it’s home and I couldn’t imagine being
anywhere else but consumed by the craziness that we all seem to create when
everyone is under one roof.

“Things
been good here?” Henry asks, coming up behind me.

Stilling
immediately, I turn to face him. Though we butt heads, a lot, I have never been
afraid of Henry’s reaction to how I conduct myself in a given situation. Until
now. My actions, lately, won’t be earning anything other than the imprint of
his size fifteen boot permanently stamped on my face.

“Oh
yeah,” I say, trying to read his expression. “Everything’s been great.”

Slipping
off his sunglasses, he slips them into the pocket of his black t-shirt. His
face softens, the corners of his mouth quirk up in a smile. “Look, I know it’s
no secret that I was uneasy about separating the group as a whole for tours.
And, it’s been no secret that Ireland sure as shit hasn’t made touring easy on
us this time around.” Shaking his head, he blows out a breath. “I gotta admit I
was sure I’d pull in the driveway and be met with a clusterfuck.”

“Oh
yeah?” I ask, laughing nervously. “What were you expecting, orgies during
naptime and vodka spiked juice boxes?”

Henry
laughs, scrubbing a hand over his face. I know touring with the band is
stressful, but in the time I have been with the band, I have never seen it wear
on him this way. Protecting everyone, taking on the safety of others in the
craziness of fans and media, is no small task. As much as I know I need to pull
him aside and tell him everything, I can’t bring myself to do it. Rae’s right,
Big Man needs time to unwind before he snaps like a rubber band.

“Dude,
is that so much to ask?” Hunter blurts, stepping into the doorway that leads
into the den. Taking a long swallow from his beer bottle, he shakes his head.
“I thought we were friends and here you are not planning orgies for naptimes.
You’re a horrible friend. Now that I’m chained to monogamy’s perfectly waxed
pussy, someone has to be making a dent in all the ass I’m not tappin’, or else
it offsets the balance of nature. Henry, what is wrong with this fucker?” He
laughs at his own words, shaking his head in amusement. “See what I did there?”

“Yeah,
yeah,” I roll my eyes. “I’m the fucker who can’t properly use his fucker
because he’s babysittin’ the baby bakin’ babysitter and the rocker rugrats.”

“Jesus,
fuck,” Hunter curses, pushing off the doorjamb and heading for me. “What’s
that?”

“What?”
I ask, taking a step back.

“This!”
he shouts, jabbing me in the chin. “What is this?”

“It’s
my face, asshole,” I fire back, ready to drop kick his balls up into his
eardrums.

“No,”
he replies, holding up his fingers. “Is this glitter?” he asks in disbelief. “Is
this pink glitter on your face?”

“It’s
purple!” Jazzie screams, her pink tutu swishing furiously as she stomps up the
hallway. Bits, Hunter’s annoying fucking wiener dog, scrambles around her,
headed straight into the den. Barking like the furious Rottweiler he thinks he
is, he rounds the corner, nearly taking out a potted plant and a floor lamp
without missing a beat. “Mack wears the blue feathers when we play dress-up and
have our tea parties. He can’t wear the pink glitter!” She continues her tirade
before slapping her palm against her forehead dramatically. “You’re gonna drive
me to drink.”

Ignoring
the barking and shouting from the other room, Hunter and Henry eyes go straight
to the pint sized diva tapping her cheetah print converse on the hard wood
floor. Folding her arms over her chest, she glares at the three of us.

“Drive
you to drink?” Hunter asks, staring blankly at his daughter.

Jazz
shrugs. “That’s what Mack says to Rae every time…”

“No,
Bits!” Chase screams, interrupting Jazz, just as something, no doubt expensive
and made of glass, crashes to the floor. “Dammit! Come here, you little shit.”

Scrubbing
a hand over his face, Henry sighs. “Guess the dog didn’t get the email on it
being a calm and relaxing week, huh?”