Total pages in book: 155
Estimated words: 144435 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 722(@200wpm)___ 578(@250wpm)___ 481(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 144435 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 722(@200wpm)___ 578(@250wpm)___ 481(@300wpm)
I gasp, caught between the urge to squeeze my thighs together and trap his hand…and the urge to beg him to slip my panties aside and touch me. For the love of all that's holy, just touch me.
"You've taken good care of my pussy for me," he says, his voice like sandpaper. "But it's mine to take care of now, Ireland."
"I…" I have no idea how to respond to that, so I simply nod.
He rewards me with another of those panty-melting grins before slipping his hand from between my legs. "Come on, baby. Let's get this fucking interview out of the way so we can get to the important shit."
"W-wh…" I lick my lips, trying to work moisture back into my mouth. "What important stuff?"
"For every question you ask me now, I get to ask one of my own later," he says, smirking like the devil.
"That…is not how this works, Crue."
"It is now, Éire. It is now."
Chapter Three
CRUE
"Whoa," Ireland says, glancing around my room. It's not much, but it comes with a sitting area, a table, a king bed, and a balcony. "Your room is way bigger than mine." Her nose scrunches up. "Neater, too." She practically skips to the closet, pulling it open. "Why am I not surprised that your clothes are hanging up?"
"Yours aren't?"
"Uh, no." She turns to look at me like I've lost my mind. "Mine are all over the place like they should be in a hotel room."
I grin, leaning against the wall. "So you're saying you're a mess when you travel."
"Obviously." She pushes the closet closed before moving on to the mini-fridge. She doesn't ask for permission before she starts prowling through it. "No wonder you look like you do," she mumbles. "You live on junk."
"Fruit, protein shakes, and water is not junk," I protest with a laugh. "It's healthy."
"Exactly. Junk," she sniffs, closing the fridge before facing me. "Your room is boring, Crue. There aren't even any skeletons in the closet or six packs in the fridge."
"So you're saying I make a shit rockstar?"
"If the shoe fits." She shrugs, making me laugh.
"Stop poking through my shit and get your laptop set up, Éire." I set the bag on the table for her.
She shoots me an impish grin before making her way back to me. "Sorry. I couldn't resist. I'm unbearably nosy."
"I didn't notice," I say, deadpan.
She makes a face at me while unpacking her laptop and then sobers, switching from sassy, carefree Ireland to business mode. The dichotomy is sexy as hell to me. I learn something fascinating in this moment. She throws everything she has into everything she does. If she's playing around, she plays hard. If she's working, she gives it everything she's got. She holds nothing in reserve, living each moment to its fullest.
When was the last time I did that?
Today, with her. But before that? I can't remember.
"What do you regret most about being part of the band, Crue?" she asks.
"Jesus." I blink, caught off guard by the question. "We're playing hardball right out of the gate, huh?"
"No. Well, maybe. I just think everyone tries to tell your story for you, but no one ever asks you for the real story. And the real story isn't as neat and tidy as we wish it had been for you guys." She gives me a sad smile. "It was hard on you. All of you."
"I don't regret it, Ireland," I say quietly. "Being part of Soul Obsession was life-changing for all of us. I love the band, the fans, the music, and everything we accomplished. We helped define a generation. Not many get to say that. But I regret that we didn't know enough and didn't have the right people around us back then to help ensure the decisions being made were in our best interests. A lot of them weren't."
"If you could do one thing differently, what would you do?" She slips into her chair, her fingers flying across her laptop as she types.
I chuckle at the question. "Only one thing? Because I've got a whole fucking list, baby."
"Let's start with one," she suggests.
"Refuse to play the game."
She glances up at me, a question in her eyes.
"When we first started, we thought it was important to be on the covers of magazines and in the news," I explain. "Any press was good press. And for a while, it was good press. But it became negative fast. Everything we did was overanalyzed. Half the shit they wrote wasn't true, but anytime we tried to correct it with them, they twisted it, and we looked worst. If I could do one thing differently, I wouldn't do that shit again. I wouldn't play that game. It wasn't worth the price."
"Is that why you guys walked away?" she asks. "Off the record this time."
"Partly. We were just fucking tired. We did it for seven years without a break, album after album, tour after tour. And in between all of that were the appearances, photoshoots, award shows, and everything else. We had no lives and no privacy."