Page 44 of The Masks We Wear

He laughs under his breath as he walks over to the bed and joins me. His calloused fingers trail over the exposed flesh of my thigh, sending goosebumps rising all over my skin. I almost forget what we were talking about, too distracted by his touch. “Why do you hate Kiss?”

“Because they fucking suck,” I spit. I toss my head back into the plethora of pillows Harvey has on his bed and huff, “They’re way too try hard. Aerosmith came first and they’re way better. I can’t believe people actually put Kiss in the rock and metal hall of fame let alone consider them one of the greatest of all time. If you ask me, Metallica, Guns N’ Roses, M?tley Crüe, Aerosmith, and Ozzy are the greatest of all time. Kiss could never compare, let alone Eric fucking Singer,” I ramble on and stop when I catch him staring at the side of my face with an amused expression on his. “What?” I ask, suddenly feeling self-conscious. I know he isn’t a huge music fan, I probably just annoyed the shit out of him.

He smiles slightly, “I like how passionate you are about music. It isn’t just a career to you, it’s your life and you love it. You getso lost in it and watching you create, listening to you sing is like nothing I’ve ever seen or heard before. I could get lost in you while you get lost in music.”

A swarm of butterflies chooses this exact moment to go absolutely ballistic in my stomach at his words. My anger towards Eric Singer and Kiss dissipates, replaced entirely by emotions towards the man looking at me like nobody has ever looked at me before. His black eyes stare into my blues with such depth, it feels more intimate than all the times we’ve had sex. Walking away from him in just another five weeks is going to be impossible. “I thought you didn’t like music,” I tease him, my cheeks flushing with color.

He grabs me by the back of my neck and pulls my mouth to his, kissing me. I kiss him back and roll on top of him so that I straddle his waist with my already damp center with his already rigid length. He pulls away for a split second, “I don’t like music. I never said I didn’t like your music.”

I feign surprise, “Have you been a closeted Satan’s Angels fan this whole time?”

He rolls his eyes, “Yeah, I have a poster of you in my closet and a shrine to you under my bed.”

“Kinky,” I tease as I grind down on his length.

He grunts as his fingers dig into the flesh of my ass, controlling my movements over his groin. He nips my jaw and breathes, “Your music has grown on me the same way that you have.”

“So romantic,” I say, sarcasm lacing my tone.

He grins wickedly as he tosses me onto my back and settles between my legs. “Someone is getting a little bratty. You remember what happens when you get bratty don’t you?”

The pulse between my legs runs rampant with need, with anticipation. I might still be sore but fuck it. I need him over and over again like a hunger that just can’t be satiated. Thereminder of what he did to me the last time I got bratty with him, the time in my dressing room, comes to mind and my nipples pucker at how filthy and primal we got. Remembering the same thing, he practically tears his t-shirt off my body and sucks a nipple into his mouth. I throw my head back and moan, covering my face with one of his pillows that smells like him, inhaling his scent deep. While he sucks and licks the puckered flesh, his other hand dips between my legs, spreading my juices through my folds and I ask myself how I’ll ever be able to part ways with him? It may have started as hate, as sexual tension and frustration that turned into attraction and then evolved into a friends with benefits type of thing, but this feels entirely different. We don’t just have sex and go back to opposite sides of the hallway. We sleep together, entwined by our legs or with my head on his chest, we wake up together, we spend all day together either watching TV in our hotel rooms and relaxing or going out into the cities and getting food or going shopping, even just exploring or going for walks while trying to hide from the paps.

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THE SHOW LAST NIGHTwent perfectly, though all I could think about the entire time was running back to my dressing room when the show ended and locking Harvey and I inside. Selene seems suspicious of us, but she hasn’t mentioned anything to me. I haven’t told the girls either, knowing Ivory has a tendency to blurt out information at the worst of times.

We’re in Chicago until tomorrow morning and then we head to Michigan but for now, we sit in the studio, heads bent together as we work on our new album. So far, we have about six completed songs and according to our pain in the ass contract with the record label, we need about six more. We only have about five weeks left and while we work to make new music,Selene has been working tirelessly, having virtual meetings with the legal and PR teams to see if there have been any updates on our cases. So far there haven’t been many updates and Selene feels that it’s a good sign but I’m not feeling too optimistic.

I’ve written some more of my own song but I still haven’t told anyone about it since I’m still not entirely confident in my song writing abilities, and I also don’t know if it’s going anywhere. There still seem to be big pieces missing in both my lyrics and the piano interlude. I know with Ivory and Aria playing their guitars the song would sound worlds better, but I haven’t mustered up the confidence to tell them about it yet. I also like having a puzzle I have to work out on my own.

Aria hums a melody as she writes in messy, almost illegible cursive, on the crumpled up sheet of loose leaf on her thigh. Her handwriting looks like hieroglyphics but somehow, I’m able to read it, though it used to be easier to read when I wasn’t sober. Ivory experiments with different riffs on her bass and I tap out different beats that sound good with what she’s playing.

“Okay, check this out,” Aria hands me the sheet of loose leaf that was in her lap and I skim through the lyrics, actually liking what she came up with. The song portrays someone coming to LA to pursue musical dreams but the city eats them alive inevitably and turns them into a super fucked up rockstar. I love these lyrics so much I almost drool all over the paper.

“This,” I flap the paper around in the air to emphasize my point, “Isfuckingamazing,” I rise from my seat, fisting my sticks in one hand. I cup both sides of Aria’s face in my full hands, the paper and the wood of the sticks pressing into her cheeks as I look up at her, “Aria Kane, you are a fucking genius and I love you,” I praise her as I stand on my toes to kiss her cheek, dramatizing the muah sound.

Ivory excitedly strides over, swiping the sheet from my grip. She reads through it and her eyes widen as she grins, “This iskiller, Six.”

I add, “Keep this up, dude. We’re almost finished. After this we only have five more.”

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ARIA SCOFFS AROUND Amouthful of chicken nuggets. She claims greasy chicken nuggets are her brain food and she can’t write good lyrics or play good music unless she has them but we all know the truth. Aria Kane loves chicken nuggets and just wants an excuse to eat them as a twenty-something adult. “Get this one,” Aria flips her phone in my direction for me to read the screen. She has Instagram pulled up with our band page’s most recent post of us at our concert last night. More specifically, she has the comment section opened.

Mandy63: Anyone else think the rumors are true and Brody is actually pregnant? Why hasn’t she drank a drop on stage?

I roll my eyes at the comment and pretend to brush it off though my insecurities are rising to the surface below my skin.

Rockerbabe224: None of them have been drinking lol

Thank you, Rockerbabe224! She clearly has been paying attention to the entire group and not just me.

KissFanOfficial: They’re boring now. Hard to watch them. Nothing about them keeps me entertained. They just aren’t fun. I won’t be listening to them anymore.

Well, you stupid motherfucker. I think to myself. As if I would ever take anythingKissFanOfficalsaid seriously when they clearly lack good taste in music just based on their username. “Fuck that guy,” I rage as I point to the screen.

The girls read the comment too and scoff, “I’m replying,” Aria snaps as her thumbs start flying over the keyboard of her phone.

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