Page 96 of Crimson Desires

My lunch with Arnold had gone well. Despite Jack’s worries, Arnold was charming, respectful, and friendly. The lunch went so perfectly, in fact, that when Arnold offered to let me hang out with him on his tour bus instead of going to the post-show party, I agreed.

The last time I’d gone to a bar to celebrate with a band, I’d ended up puking my guts out. I did not want a repeat of that.

But now I was starting to have second thoughts about Arnold’s offer. I almost had half a mind to text Dave, but something held me back. Pride, maybe.

Arnold poured himself an Old Fashioned and sat down next to me on the couch.

“You know, I was a little apprehensive about playing with Wicked Crimson. But having the chance to meet you has changed my mind,” Arnold said.

I frowned. “Why didn’t you want to play with Wicked Crimson?”

“I worded that wrong. I don’t have a problem with playing with Wicked Crimson. But in my opinion, we shouldn’t have opened for them.” Arnold grimaced, taking a long sip of his drink. Unlike the other two members of Killing Kiss, who had matured and grown into their aging bodies, Arnold still seemed to be clinging to the memory of his nineteen-year-old self. He disguised his receding hairline with a bandana. He wore dark glasses to mask the crow’s feet around his eyes.

“Is there something wrong with opening for another band?” I asked.

“It’s demeaning when the band you’re opening for is below you,” Arnold said. He sighed. “I don’t want to talk badly about Wicked Crimson. I know they’re your employers. But, I mean, you seem like the kind of girl who understands music. I’m sure you can see that Wicked Crimson isn’t exactly famous because of the high caliber of their songs.”

“Then what do you think they’re famous for?”

“It’s obvious, isn’t it? Jack Maverick,” Arnold said.

I leaned away from Arnold, my face twisting in disgust. “That’s not true. Just because Killing Kiss is older than Wicked Crimson doesn’t automatically make them better. I think you guys are equally amazing.”

“Not at all,” Arnold said. “I mean, Wicked Crimson’s music is fine—but it’s overproduced. And the lyrics are clearly written by a songwriting team.” He chuckled a little. “Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if Jack lip-synched through the show. Oh, but I guess you wouldn’t know about nuances like that.”

“You’re wrong about Wicked Crimson’s production and lyrics,” I said. I was struggling to keep my temper even. Arnold’s superiority complex was bugging me enough on its own. The fact that he was also minimizing the work done by Ava and the band? Absolutely un-fucking-acceptable. “They work really hard to make that music.”

“I’m sure they do,” Arnold said casually. “Anyways, let’s not talk about Wicked Crimson. You sure you don’t want a drink?”

I shook my head, rising to my feet. As politely as I could, I said, “Arnold, thank you for inviting me to your tour bus. I think I’m coming down with a headache. I should go.”

“Jesus, did I offend you or something?” Arnold asked. “Honey-,”

“Also, please don’t call me that. My Dad calls me that,” I said.

“Aster, I’m sorry that you got upset over what I said. Come here.” Arnold reached out and grabbed my wrist.

My eyes widened. I tried to yank my hand away, but Arnold only gripped me harder. His fingers constricted around my small wrist, hurting me.

“What the fuck? Let go of me,” I demanded. I tried pulling again, but it was to no avail. Arnold was larger and stronger than me. It was fruitless trying to overpower him.

“Not until we talk this out,” Arnold said.

“I don’t want to talk to you.”

He pulled me until I practically fell into his lap. He smiled at me. I cringed—his breath smelt like booze and bacteria. “In that case, we can just fuck.”

“Fuck you!” I said, spitting in his face. I tried to reach for my phone to text Dave, but Arnold grabbed my free wrist. “Are you fucking insane?”

Arnold’s eyes narrowed. He wiped my spit off his cheek with his shoulder. “Am I insane? You’re the one who’s been teasing me all day. I bought you lunch. I even signed a fucking napkin for your father. And now you won’t put out?”

“I thought you were being nice. I don’t owe you anything because you paid for my twelve-dollar sandwich,” I snapped.

Angling my body, I managed to drive my knee into Arnold’s crotch. The shock of pain caused him to release my wrists. Stumbling out of his lap, I made a run for the door—but Arnold recovered quickly, and before I could get to the front, he grabbed me again.

“You bitch!” Arnold roared.

My heart pounded in my chest as he pulled me back into his body, his arms wrapping tightly around me. I tried to scream for help, but Arnold put his hand over my mouth. He pushed me up against the wall of the bus, his eyes blazing with anger as he stared at me.

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