Page 95 of Crimson Desires

Normally, this wouldn’t bug me.

I would’ve rationalized that Aster had probably gotten tired and wanted to forgo the bar. Or maybe she just wanted to avoid the media maelstrom that this party was sure to attract. Aster wasn’t timid, but after the virality of our art museum photos, she might’ve assumed that the reporters camped outside the Bluegrass Bourbon & Lace might have hounded her for more information about her relationship with me.

In summary: Aster not drinking with us at the bar? No big deal.

Aster and Arnold not drinking with us at the bar? Hugely fucking concerning.

I tapped my fingers against the lacquered tabletop, trying my best to look invested in Rick and Manny as they regaled about their best days on the road.

At some point, Zephyr marched over to us with a round of shots.

“Gentlemen, would you do me the honors?” Zephyr asked. He doled out the shots to each of us. As he passed me mine, he hissed into my ear, “Don’t want to alarm you, dude, but I saw that guitarist taking Aster into the Killing Kiss tour bus.”

Despite my heart plummeting into my chest, I maintained a stoic face. As much as I wanted to give Killing Kiss the benefit of the doubt, I wasn’t sure if they’d take kindly to me accusing their lead guitarist of being a fucking creep. I gave Zephyr a quick nod to thank him for the information.

Leveling my voice, I held my shot into the air. “To a killer fucking show.”

We drank down our shots. I noticed that mine was distinctly flavorless. Water, I realized.

“And with that, I’m off to take a leak,” I lied. “Zeph, have you met Rick and Manny yet?”

“No, because you’ve been fucking hogging them,” Zephyr said. He clapped me on the back, then whispered, “Go, dude.”

He didn’t have to tell me twice.

As I made my way to the back of the bar, only one thought ran through my head: If that asshole has touched one hair on Aster’s head, I’m going to fucking kill him.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Aster

Killing Kiss’s tour bus wasn’t much different than Wicked Crimson’s. At least, not in layout. The bus had the same main area up front, bunks in the middle, and a more private lounge space in the back.

What differentiated the two buses was the smell.

Wicked Crimson’s bus—perhaps with credit to Ava—smelled decently clean. The space was tidy (at least, as tidy as a space can get with five guys living in it), and the clutter was minimal. To contrast, Killing Kiss’s tour bus looked like it belonged to rock stars.

Unfortunately, that wasn’t a good thing.

Dirty clothes and underwear littered every surface. Booze bottles lay dripping on the ground. Moldy, half-eaten microwave meals sat in a mini landfill in the sink basin. There were also a few bras laying around. Since I was pretty sure none of the members of Killing Kiss were drag queens, I assumed the bras belonged to groupies.

Arnold didn’t seem to mind the mess. He grinned at me as he pulled me into the back of the bus.

“You ever see the inside of a tour bus, honey?” Arnold asked.

I strained to grin. “I have. But none like this.” It wasn’t exactly a lie.

“I didn’t think so. Can I make you a drink?”

Usually, I would’ve accepted. But a strange feeling in my gut told me to decline. “I’ll pass.”

“Come on, Aster. One drink won’t kill you.”

“Seriously, I’m fine.”

“Alright, alright. But let me know if you change your mind.”

Arnold led me to the back of the bus. I crinkled my nose as I entered the private lounge space. It smelled like must and sweat. I gingerly sat down on the couch, praying that the stain next to me wasn’t a dried-up body fluid.

---