Page 4 of Give Me What I Want

“Don’t call him that,” Cole mumbled at the same time that I spoke.

“He’s what?” My voice rose an octave higher than usual as I took a step back.

Mav didn’t smoke. The only one of us who regularly did was Jordan. I would if I was stressed, and so would Cole, but Ronan and Maverick were always so against it. So why the hell had Mav decided to start now? Were things really that bad?

I took another step back, about ready to go and lay into our guitarist for fucking with his health in that way when Jord quickly offered to go and check on him, muttering something about needing a smoke himself with how we were all behaving.

I let him go, and Ronan took the opportunity to close in on me, towering over me as Garth tapped his foot impatiently. “Well…” he purred.

“Well, what?” I snapped. Then remembered what was going on, that I was supposed to be fixing things. Pushing down the worry I felt for Mav, I rolled my shoulders and straightened my spine. It didn’t do a lot for my height, in my heels my nose still only came to Ro’s throat, but I could channel big dick energy better than any of these guys when I wanted to, and right now, I really fucking wanted to. Sure, Ineededto apologise—so did Ro, butthatwasn’t going to be enforced—but I didn’t need to turn into some timid little mouse to do it. I may have let my emotions get the better of me when Mav had stopped us from fighting the other night, but that was different. I was always a little softer for Maverick.

“Dinner,” I decided out loud. “You and me, somewhere fancy, my treat.” I turned my attention to Garth next. “I presume you’ll tip somebody off.”

“That isn’t my job,” he said flatly, tapping on his phone.

“Well, you fired our last publicist,” I reminded him, “so unless you want to find us another one, yes, it is. Anyway, you’re the one who is so dead set on us publicly making up.”

“Fine.” He spat the word at me, glancing up from his phone to give me a glacial look before his gaze moved to Ronan and instantly warmed back up. “We’re heading up to Manchester tonight, but you have two nights there before the show. I’ll leave it up to you to let me know your plans.”

Rolling my eyes at Garth’s clear dislike for me, and the plain fucking rudeness of the man, I walked away from them, grabbed a bottle of water, and slipped out of the back door, snatching a half-smoked cigarette from Maverick’s hand as I passed him and Jordan. I heard him start to complain, but I didn’t turn back to argue. I’d let him off tonight, but I wouldn’t simply allow him to start up a bad habit.

Taking a long drag, I filled my lungs with the calm-inducing poison, then tossed the cigarette and unlocked the bus, almost running to the back room, now desperate to release a little of my newly pent-up anger. My post-show ‘buzz’ had well and truly worn off, but I’d still go and fuck myself until I felt better. Then I’d be able to come back clear-headed and able to tolerate the shitty start we were having to our first sold-out tour.

The table was booked for 8 pm, and to no one’s surprise, we arrived precisely on time. That was one of the few things that I did enjoy about having dinner—or any meal—with Ronan, he was just as punctual and impatient as I was. He had a low tolerance for disorganisation and tardiness. It was quite possibly his most attractive quality. That, and that little sliver of hair he had that did that thing, you know, the slutty hair thing that a very particular type of guy can pull off really fucking well, where one unruly strand won’t stay pushed back, falling into his eye, casting a line of shadow. Yeah, that shit was hot. And it was even hotter when he tried to push it back, fingers raking into his thick, dark strands.

It was such a shame that his personality didn’t line up with his good looks. Ro was pretty on the outside, smouldering gaze, sharp jawline, and heart-shaped pout, but he was a full-blown arsehole beneath that pretty surface. Although, he did own it. Never pretended to be something else. In all the seven years that I had known him, I had never seen him fake anything, except maybe the occasional smile, usually the ones he threw my way whenever we were in public and he wanted to strangle me. Then again, if he was picturing doing it, the mental image would probably make him happy, so maybe they were genuine too. Beautiful, genuine, cock-womble—as my sister would say. Definitely an acquired taste.

“Right this way,” the waitress said as she guided us through the restaurant to a window-side table. I had picked this place, 20 stories, after text ranting to my best friend last night. During his band’s last tour they had eaten here, and he would not shut up about the view you got from this place.

Ronan stayed one step behind me but then overtook me as we reached our table, pulling a chair out and gesturing to it with a sarcastic grin. “Mi’lady,” he said, his voice holding even more of its low growl than usual. I rolled my eyes as I sat, and he thanked the waitress for showing us to our table, complementing the view while he slipped his jacket off and folded it neatly.

“Oh.” She gasped lightly, and I raised a brow at her. She quickly composed herself and placed menus down on the table, telling us that she’d give us a minute.

Her reaction wasn’t one that I wasn’t used to, and it was usually for one of two reasons. One, they expected Ronan to have some form of East Asian accent, thanks to the features he had inherited from his Taiwanese father, there was very little of his Irish mother in him at all. They did not usually expect a deep, firmly British, bordering on cockney, accent. Or two, they thought that the firmly British accent of his was disgustingly hot. Like… drool-worthy, flood your knickers hot. I mean, I understood, voices sometimes did it for me too, not just music, but usually only while someone was singing.

I usually chose to ignore Ronan when he sang, focusing more on creating the perfect balance rather than letting his voice have any effect on mymood. He’d be way too smug if he ever found out about how I reacted to some of our songs, and his inflated ego would one hundred percent think that it was all him.

It wasn’t.

“I’m presuming you’ll order, and I’ll just go with it?” I asked Ronan as he briefly scanned the menu.

“Of course,” he said matter-of-factly, his gaze meeting mine as he smiled, a genuine smile this time. No teasing or malice to be found.

When the waitress came back over her cheeks were far less pink than before. Ronan placed our order and she disappeared to fetch our drinks. A bottle of red for him, and a cocktail for me. Ronan may have always known what to order in any restaurant, and which wine to pair, but he was smart enough to know now that wine wasn’t for me, and that I’d always go for a funky, fruity option with dinner.

Halfway through the five-course taster menu that Ronan had ordered for each of us, I started to groan. “Ro, I’m already stuffed, how is this possible?” I complained, rubbing my tummy as it bloated under my figure-hugging dress.

Ronan chuckled, placing his fork down and leaning back in his chair. “So it's Ro now, is it? You’re done being a grumpy bitch with this Ronan crap?” We only ever full-named each other when we were mad at each other.

“Oh, shut up,” I groaned. “You’re the grumpy bitch, not me.” I leaned back too, placing my knife and fork together on my plate to indicate that I was finished with the dish.

Ronan copied. “Come on, Bea. You’ve been having a strop ever since Mav looked at you like you had just told him that you hated 80’s rock.”

“I don’t hate—”

“Not the point. You’ve been a pain to live with the last couple of days. Are you over it now? Are we good? Can we get on with this tour with a better fucking attitude?” he asked, smiling up at the waitress as she cleared our plates.

“Are we good?You tell me, I’m the one who’s supposed to be apologising with some fancy-pants meal,” I said bitterly.

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