Hidden in the Stars (Falling Stars #2) (2 page)

"Kristy, you ready to go?" I ask. She's finally brought her high ass back to our VIP area.

"Why?" she asks, breathless from dancing. She sticks out her bottom lip and slips onto the red couch. "Aren't you having a good time?"

"I'd rather go back to your place and have a better time." Tossing a wink at her, I lift the glass to my mouth.

She makes a purring noise and slides across two of her friend's laps, laying her head on my thighs. Her long, thick, blonde hair fans over my legs as she nuzzles my crotch. I drop my head back onto the couch and close my eyes as arousal heats my thighs. Hands caress my chest and damp lips press against my neck.

At first, I don't think about the fact that Kristy's face is still nuzzling, so it can't be her kissing me. When the lips press against my mouth, my eyes shoot open. Instead of Kristy's dark brown, I'm looking into summer-sky blue.

This wouldn't be the first time a third joined us—hell, a fourth—but my arousal instantly flees. I shove the girl away and she squeaks in protest.

"What's wrong?" Kristy asks, popping out of my lap.

"I'm not in the mood." Bringing my tumbler glass back to my lips, I drain the last of my watered-down drink.

"Not in the mood?" Kristy straightens, eyeing me suspiciously. "Since when, are you not in the mood to be fucked by two women?"

With I shrug, I sniff and set my glass on the low table in front of us. My buzz is wearing off. "Just not."

"Fine," she huffs. Slipping from the couch, she puts a hand out to her friend and pulls her up from the sofa. Her angry eyes shoot back to me. "I'll just find someone who won't turn the two of us down."

"You know I don't share, Kristy." Narrowing my eyes on her, she tosses a haughty look over her shoulder before moving into the crowd. "Kristy?!"

Fuck, she's crazy. Why do I put up with this shit?
My head spins.
Christ, I need a bump.

Growling, I stand from the couch and blend into the gyrating crowd in search of her.

Bodies grinding, sliding, sweating…the atmosphere once held appeal. The VIP treatment, celebrities, music, girls, drugs and drinks—this place was so locked down, you could get away with almost anything in here. And Kristy was the one who showed me the way. It had been exactly what I thought I needed and wanted. To get lost in numbness. To feel without fear. I used to get that here. But now? Fuck. Now I was dealing with a six-foot blonde woman known for her tantrum throwing tendencies. I swear, holding her breath and stamping her foot was not out of the question.

"Kristy?!" She and her friend are grinding against some young pretty boy who has his hands in all the wrong places. Wrong, because she’s here with me and while we may dabble with other women in our bed, there are no other men involved.

The look she gives me is pure defiance and the hand she slips to his crotch is done to taunt me. "Don't you think it's hot to watch me with another guy?" Extending her tongue from her mouth, she leans forward and licks the kid's neck. His head drops back and his mouth parts, his visible hand high on her bare thigh.

"You know I don't," I growl, and step closer, pulling her off the pretty boy.

"Don't grab at me!" She pulls away from me, her arm quickly slipping free. "You know, I let you have other women and don't say a thing."

"It was your idea for the threesomes and you chose the girls," I argue back.

"If I let you choose the girl, can I choose a boy? We could pick a couple to—”

"No," I growl. Her eyes narrow.

"Fuck you, Jackson! You don't own me. I could find ten other guys who would love to share me." Crossing her arms over her chest, she stands defensively.

"So, this is how it's going to go now." It's not a question. "You want to be treated like a whore, be my guest. But you won't be my whore." Turning, I leave her on the dance floor, still fuming.

"Jackson!" she screeches, her voice actually louder than the thumping music. "Jackson Shaw, do you know what you are giving up?!"

Without turning around, I give a wave over my head. This trip to L.A. couldn't come at a better time. I'll gladly put up with tone-deaf and uncharismatic wannabes if it means getting away from this shit.

Apparently, no woman in my life can be happy with me. Hopefully, Randall can hook me up with a few rails of the good shit. This shit she brought isn't doing a damn thing.

Chapter Two

Jackson

Walking through LAX, I try to stay incognito—black beanie hat, dark glasses, my *NSYNC t-shirt, just for laughs, and jeans. However, at almost seven feet tall, it's virtually impossible not to stand out.

The cameramen move in, fans try to slip next to me for pictures and autographs. Even with the bodyguard assigned to me during this trip, they still push and shove. It doesn't bother me. In fact, it's pretty flattering. But when the paps start with the questions, I want to slam the cameras into their faces.

"Jackson, is it true you are in town to meet up with Laney?" one overweight pap calls out.

"No comment," I growl.
Of course, she's fucking here.

"Are you here to stop her from marrying Hollywood's golden boy?"

"No comm—”

She's getting married?

"Were you invited to their secret ceremony?" another pap shouts.

"No, I wasn't." Gritting my teeth, it takes everything in me not to lash out.

"Is there anything you want to say to Laney and Chanse on their special day?" This time, it's an attractive man with a video camera following him. He looks familiar and it only takes a minute to recognize the well-known web-based gossip show host.

"Best wishes," I call out, and slip into my waiting car.

Settling back into the leather seat, the divider window lowers.

"You okay, boss?" The bodyguard-slash-driver, who identified himself as Sam, twists in the front seat to look over.

"Call me Jackson. I'm cool."

With a nod, he turns to the steering wheel, starts the car, and pulls out.

Just as I lay my head back, my phone rings.
Fuck.

"What, Chris?" I sigh.

"It's Mia."

"Why are you calling me on Chris' phone?" There's no hiding the annoyance I feel.

"I knew you wouldn't ignore him." She forces a laugh. "No matter what, you guys are always there for each other. It's why he loves you so much."

"Mia, if this is about the argument before I left, you should know it's all good."

"Oh, I know. It's just…well, bloggers work fast."

I growl and drop my chin to my chest, using the pad of my thumb and index finger to rub my eyes. "They got that broadcasted quick enough."

"She's not, you know?"

"Why would I care?"

"Jack, come on. I know you still care. I just want you to know she's not."

"Is she in L.A.?"

Silence. It's the only response I need.

"So, she's here and she's with this Chanse guy." Not a question.

"Jack, she's—”

"Give me my phone!" Chris yells in the background.

"Stop it!" Mia yells back.

"Hey, man," Chris says, gaining control of his phone. "Fuck that whore."

"Christopher…" Mia’s warning is muffled.

"Baby, this is between Jack and me. Listen, don't think or worry about her. L.A. is huge and you won't see each other."

What do I say? What am I supposed to say? That part of me wishes I would see her? Granted, it's the sick, masochistic side, but it still wants the very thing I shouldn't.

"You still there?" Chris barks.

"Yeah, I'm here. Are you done now?"

"Did you get in touch with Xavier?"

"Yeah, before the flight. We’re going to meet up at the hotel. He wants to visit some club Redman's thinking about investing in."

Xavier Stone was the drummer for Corrosive Velocity, which was not only the first band we went on tour with, but the first where we were the opening act. Xavier had taken Chris under his wing early on in the tour. He was only a few years older than us, but had been on the tour circuit five times—he knew the ropes. We learned good things that first year, and some bad—Redman, their road manager, kept us in line and protected from too much trouble with Nicholas, though. The last time we'd all been together was for their lead singer's funeral five years ago.

Ethan Crowne had ignored his headaches and vision problems until it was too late. The best doctors tried chemotherapy and experimental treatments, but nothing worked against the brain tumor. When Ethan opted for surgery, everyone knew the risk was too great. Hell, finding a doctor to perform the surgery took forever. Corbin, Ethan's twin brother and fellow band mate, almost had him talked out of it. One hour into the surgery, Ethan was gone. Corrosive Velocity fell apart and each member went on to do solo projects.

Xavier now co-owns a small studio with his best friend, Randy, who was also the bassist for the band.

"Tell him I may be out that way while you're staying there. We'll have to get together."

"You going to introduce him to Mia?" A small smile creeps up the corner of my mouth.

"Fuck no. Lord knows he will use her to mess with me," Christopher scoffs.

My small smile blows up to a full, tooth-revealing grin. Chris and Xavier always messed with each other's women, until Xavier got married. But even then, Chris messed with his now ex-wife, Maria, just to piss around. Nothing ever happened between them, but Chris would flirt a little too much just to rile him up. Thank God Maria was a good sport.

"True, he would, especially now that he's divorced."

"Exactly. Well, tell Red and Xavier they still owe me a drink."

"Okay, but I need a favor."

"Like?"

"Like keep an eye on my mom and Nic. I'm still not sure what's going on with them."

Their behavior is still causing concern. The worry often lining Nic's eyes, the quiet looks they would share when I last visited, and the way their happiness seemed false. Shit was off and they weren't sharing what the fuck is wrong with them.

"Me either, but I'll keep watch."

"Thanks."

"Just stay away from that bitch." Chris ends the call without a goodbye.
Typical.

Sitting back into the seat, I close my eyes and tried not to think about Laney or Kristy.
"Are you here for the wedding?" How do I get that out of my mind? And why do I care so much?
Kristy was supposed to make all of it go away. Instead, I find myself easily leaving her behind without a second thought. Yet, Laney—fucking Laney—still knows how to rip me back open.

My cell blares from the seat next to me just as Sam announces our arrival to the hotel. Glancing at my phone, I see
her
number. It takes everything not to hit the decline button and send her ass to voicemail, but I've had enough.

"Quit fucking calling me," I greet.

The catch of her breath tugs at feelings I wish would die already.

"It's over, Laney, you're choices are made and I'm not going to be best fucking friends with you."

"I just…" she hiccups.

"I don't care what 'you just'. In fact, I fucking hate hearing your voice, seeing your number show up, and…fuck, if I hear you say you're sorry one more time, I'm going to stab guitar picks in my ears," I say, my rant starting strong, but ending on a desperate plea.

Her sob goes straight to the unwanted feels in my chest. Fisting the material of my shirt just above my heart, I regroup and focus on my anger.

"We aren't going to be friends. Leave me the fuck alone."

"I know you can't forgive me, but I hate to lose the—”

"You know what? I hear a lot of I's from you. You're such a selfish bitch," I bark the last word. "Hate is all we have and loss is all that’s left. Don't call me again, Laney. Just leave me the fuck alone."

I press the end button, not allowing her to make any further attempts.

The back door opens and with a deep breath, I climb out of the car, shoving my cell into my pocket.
Why would she call? Did she see the footage the gossip site put up? Fuck, I can't get to my room fast enough.

I'm thankful for my dark sunglasses as I look up at the Bel-Air hotel. The sun has come out in full, eye-burning force and I'm still feeling the effects of partying withdrawal. Sam clears his throat, a noise made to get me moving. The sounds of camera shutters and murmurs of the gossip leeches finally force me into the hotel.

I step into the lobby, the cameras and questions silenced with the shutting of the glass doors. A small crowd turns to watch the commotion of my arrival while others carry an air of being too important to worry about me.

"G-good afternoon, Mr. Shaw." A small, round-faced girl with dark black hair done up like a 1950's pinup appears next to me, her right hand outstretched, her left holding a black leather portfolio. "I-I'm Julia, your personal assistant."

"I don't remember asking for an assistant." I keep my hands at my sides.

Her face drains of color and she drops her hand.

"T-the sh-show provides—”

Jesus, I'm making the girl a nervous wreck.

"Hey, sorry. I'm a dick." Putting my hand out, I wait for her to take it.

"I would never call you—”

"You might not, but you should," I laugh.

A tentative smile forms on her lips. She takes my hand and shakes firmly.

"So, what's the plan?" I slip my arm over her shoulders and walk toward the concierge waiting near the elevators. The nervous look on his face and the way his eyes watch me are the first clues he's waiting for me.

"Well, sir—”

"Listen, Julia, first things first, it's Jackson or Jack, not sir. Got it?" I wink.

"Okay, Jackson." She smiles. "This is William." She motions to the concierge. "He’ll be taking us up to your suite."

"Great." I pull my arm from Julia’s and clap my hands together, rubbing them. "Let's get going."

"Welcome to the Hotel Bel-Air, Mr. Shaw." William nods. "If you would, please follow me." He motions to the open elevator door behind him.

We step into the elevator and my cell phone vibrates in my pocket.
The last thing I need is a voicemail from her.

"Julia," I say her name a bit abruptly, causing her to jolt in surprise. "What's on the schedule?"

"Tonight, you have plans to meet with Mr. Stone. I've arranged for a car to retrieve him and be here by eight to pick you up."

The surprise on my face stops her.

"Is there a problem?" Julia chews on her lip.

"How did you know about my plans tonight?" Furrowing my brow, I try to think of how she might have found out.

"It's my job to know." She winks.

I laugh. I like this girl.

Eliza Campbell

"Liza, you should've let me enter you," Sid whines without looking at me. Her eyes stay on the iPad as she goes through the contestants in the latest reality music show sweeping the internet:
Hidden Talent
. "Some of these people suck. I mean, they must have their whole hillbilly, redneck, mountain-top-wood-mutant family members voting for them." Her head pops up. "Huh, I didn't think you could get the internet in those backwoods areas."

"I've got enough to deal with without the reality show drama." Shaking my head, I continue hanging up today's clean clothes on a fifteen dollar clothing rack between my son and younger brother's rooms.