Rise by Cassandra Robbins
GIA
Past – Eighteen Years old
Minneapolis, Minnesota
“You sure you don’t want to come in?” Ammo inhales and hands me his joint. I wave it off as he exhales.
“Stop asking. The answer is still no.”
He grins and opens the door that leads to the arena. “Come on, bring that camera, catch the magic.” he winks.
“God, Ammo.” I laugh, shaking my head. “I’ll just wait out here or we can finish the shoot tomorrow.”
“Nah.” He rolls his neck. “I’m feeling good today.”
God, I wish he had said tomorrow, but whatever. Maybe I’ll try to take a quick nap. As usual, I’m tired. Partying all night and getting up two hours later to shoot the band is killing me.
Which sucks.
I’m young. I should be having the time of my life. I’m traveling with the Stuffed Muffins. Staying in luxury hotels, with chauffeurs, bodyguards, and people who will do anything just because.
And I’m not enjoying it. No matter what kind of happy face I try to put on, or how glamourous this world is, I came here to be with Rhys, not be uncomfortable, insecure, and exhausted.
Nothing has turned out like I planned. After that day when he came to my room, I’ve barely seen him. And if I do, he’s surrounded by groupies or Rafe. Not sure whom I hate more. That’s a lie—I hate the groupies. Rafe’s just an asshole, but at least he’s honest about it. The fucking groupies, on the other hand, are nothing but gold diggers trying to steal my man and my life.
Even Ammo is growing on me. He’s arrogant, but I like that. He’s also fun and extremely talented. God, if only I could turn off my feelings for Rhys and switch them to Ammo. So much easier, besides my brother killing him and all that.
I bite my bottom lip, my heart racing as I watch a couple of skanks throw me a dirty look, then laugh as they open the doors. I hear Nuke’s drum solo and a bunch of yelling.
Fucking groupies or “models.” I snort. That’s what they call themselves since they post themselves on Instagram. I roll my eyes and concentrate my thoughts on the shoot I had this morning with Ammo and my masterpiece.
Sex, Drugs, and Rock & Roll. That’s what I’m calling my book. Gone is the idea of selling it to Rolling Stone.
The photographs I’ve taken deserve to be in a book. My only problem is getting Rafe to agree. I might be forced to call in my brother on this one, but I’ll wait until I have it ready. I bite my bottom lip to stop smiling at the visual of Axel, Blade, and Ryder making Rafe an offer he can’t refuse.
It’s too fantastic really. I grab the elastic from my wrist and twist my hair back into a low bun. Sliding down the concrete wall, I sit on the floor and pull my coat tight around my neck. It’s not freezing in the concourse, but it’s not warm either.
Cynthia, the band’s personal stylist, dropped by my room last night with this fabulous black three-quarter-length Sherpa coat. I’m assuming it was from Nuke, since he was horrified when I pulled on my designer jacket before we landed in Minnesota. In my defense, I was born and raised in Southern California and have never experienced this kind of cold weather.
I should blow off Ammo, grab my bag, and go back to the hotel to sleep for a couple of hours before the concert tonight.
Or be brave and go inside to take pictures of the sound check. But the thought of seeing Rhys—and hearing him sing—makes my heart hurt.
Who am I kidding? I’ve parked myself outside the arena doors in hopes of seeing him.
Sighing, I let my head rest on the cool wall, my mind going a mile a minute. I’ve taken so many pictures that when I close my eyes, my brain still thinks I’m photographing. I’ve shot the crew, stadiums, fans.
Yesterday I got the band coming off their jet. It was like vintage rock ‘n’ roll. As if I stepped back into time and was photographing The Doors or The Beatles.
I captured everything that is purely the Stuffed Muffins: their charisma, the hysteria of the fans, and the wild energy that follows them with every step they take. It’s what I love about being a photographer. No one can lie to the camera—it sees all.
My leather bag vibrates and I ignore it. I can’t deal with whoever’s on the phone bringing me down.
Eventually, I’m going to have to talk to my mom, but not today. And it might not be her anyway. That call feels like a Julianna call, and that’s worse than my mom. I never should have told her the truth about what’s been happening, but I needed her help.
Unfortunately, she’s a literalist. I know this and still vomited out everything to her. But this morning I can’t deal with her lecturing me about Rhys, lying to my mother, and how all of this is going to bite me in the ass.
Yeah, I can do without her caring-yet-harsh dose of reality. Instead, I’ll people watch, hoping that will block out any negative thoughts.
The concourse is full-on happening. The smell of nacho cheese warming up makes my stomach rumble in protest since my main diet lately is Jägermeister, Jack Daniel’s, chips, and the chocolate I grab from the bar in my room.
I look over at the concession shop. Too bad it isn’t open yet. A pretzel sounds good right about now. I need to start eating better. Not that a pretzel is good for me, but at least it’s substance. I grab my bag and retrieve my cigarettes. It’s stopped vibrating, which tells me that call was definitely Julianna. Not only do I need to eat, but I’m also starting to worry that I might be a smoker. I knew I was in trouble when I bought a pack yesterday. Freakin’ expensive.
And that depresses me. How am I going to pay Julianna back? I hadn’t factored in Rhys’s whole situation as… the Rock God. I know she would never ask for it, but that is not how I work. If I borrow money, I pay it back.
And thank God I did. Besides the hotel and transportation, I’m on my own unless I hang out with Nuke or the band.
Which I’ve been doing and look at me. I’m sure smoking is not allowed, but I need one. Also, the Xcel Energy Center isn’t open yet, so maybe the no smoking rule isn’t in effect? Whatever, if security stops me, I’ll play dumb. I need something to settle me down right now.
I take a nice deep inhale, letting the nicotine calm my nerves as I try not to obsess about being a shell of my former self. I’ve allowed Rhys Granger to drag me down. Like an idiot, I can’t even be mad at him. I’m pissed at myself for not being able to kick this crazy addiction I have for him. It’s like we’re both waiting, for what I don’t know, but that’s what it feels like.
At least I have my photography. If anything, I realize that college is a huge waste of time and money. If you want to make it in this world, you have to go out and do it.
My photos are art, history, they speak for themselves, and no matter what happens, he can’t take that from me. No one can. I lean my head back and close my eyes, letting the slight heat from the cigarette warm my lips.
“Smoking? Nice.” My pulse leaps into my throat and my eyes dart open. I almost drop my cigarette.
“Damn it, Rhys.” I leap up only to grab ahold of him because my legs are slightly numb from the cold floor, and I guess I’m forgetting how to stand around him now.
“Let’s go.” He reaches for my bag, tossing it to me. I try to figure out if I should put out the cigarette or keep it on principle. Not letting go of my arm, he drags me with him.
“What are you doing?” I pull back, which does nothing except make me stumble. Never in my life have I felt less graceful, and that’s ridiculous. After all, this is Rhys whom I’ve known forever. Yet, in reality, the man tugging me along is the Rock God—hot and strong and completely unpredictable. Merely touching him makes my arm feel like it’s been singed, as if my body ignites as soon as I’m near him.
“We need to talk,” he grumbles, ignoring the two men running behind us and calling his name.
“Rhys, I think they want you.” I jerk my arm back, which does nothing, but he does stop.
“Dude, you can’t leave, man.” A dark-haired, thin rocker guy with a crazy mullet runs up panting as if he’s finished a marathon.
“Dallas, I was there an hour ago. I don’t want to be around them right now.”
“But—”
“If anyone asks, Gia’s with me.” His hand slides down my arm and I shiver as his warm fingers take my cold ones. The poor guy looks confused as his eyes dart from my face to Rhys.
“You’re really leaving?”
“Yep, see you tonight.” Rhys takes the cigarette from me. I’ve been holding it like an idiot. He takes a drag and drops it, snuffing it out with his boot.
“I don’t want you smoking.” He looks down at me and my heart flutters. His brown eyes are almost black in this light. His hair is wild, and all I want is for this moment to never end. If I could stop time, I would.
Wait, did he just tell me I can’t smoke?
“Granger? You need a coat, man. You’ll freeze your balls off.”
“I’m not afraid of the cold.” He smirks, but they’re right—Rhys is only wearing a faded black thermal.
“You need a coat. What are you do—” I say to his back since we’re on the go. He bangs the doors open. A mob moves in, almost as if they’re attacking us. It’s the only way I can describe this madness. They’re like a pack of hungry wolves, stalking him. Screaming at how much they love him, and can they have his autograph. People are taking pictures with their phones while I cover my face with my hand.
Usually, Rhys will talk to his fans. Not today. He maneuvers us forward, not engaging. His hand tightens on mine and I cling to him with both hands, giving up on hiding my face. Clearly my boots were not made for the ice.
“This is just fucking insanity,” I yell at his back. My only answer is his hand squeezing mine as he leads us to a large, black SUV.
The celebrity chasers are screaming at us, so I bury my face in his shoulder. When he opens the passenger door, I jump in. Thankfully the SUV is covered in frost, so as soon as he shuts the door, no one can see inside.
Jesus Christ, they’re ten times worse with Rhys than they are with Nuke. He gets bombarded.
I can’t believe this, but I might actually feel bad for him. Which is ridiculous because this is what he wanted. This is what he’s worked so hard for, dreamed of, but at what cost? Because what I’m seeing is a man who has everything, and yet he’s drowning.
This is why my brother decided to leave the band. He knew what he wanted, and it wasn’t to be a rock star.
Inside the SUV it’s like a freezer. In all the madness, I barely registered how bitter cold it is outside. Rhys looks over at me, both of us slightly panting, allowing me to see our breaths.
“You okay?” His brown eyes sweep my face.
The craziness ceases, and it’s just us. Suddenly I’m not cold anymore. Beneath his stare, I’m on fire.
“Yes.” It comes out raspy.
His eyes dip to my mouth.
Oh God, this is it. This is when he kisses me. I can feel it, thick, powerful.
Rhys Granger wants me.
I lean slightly forward, forgetting that people are chanting his name. Not even caring that they’re scraping the snow and frost off the front of the window.
Kiss me.
I close my eyes. His body heat caresses me as I wait.
Kiss me.
“Gia,” his voice rumbles, forcing my eyes open.
What the hell? I’m almost too confused to understand that maybe I was reading him wrong. I stare at him.
“Put your seatbelt on.” He turns on the engine. The defroster blasts on, causing me to jump. The warm air blisters my already-sensitive cheeks, which burn from humiliation. What is wrong with me?
He places a hand on my seat’s headrest to look out the rear window, his eyes locking with mine for a second as my heart leaps to my throat. Then he looks back, and I turn to watch the sea of strangers chant their love for him.
God, I’m no better than the groupies. To be honest, I am a groupie. I’m following a man around believing that he’s the one. With some difficulty, I try to buckle myself in, but my poor fingers are numb.
Warm hands push mine away. As if I’m an annoying child, he quickly buckles me in, then spits out, “Did Cynthia not get you gloves?”
Cynthia? Who’s Cynthia? My brain is crazy right now. God, Cynthia is the band’s stylist. I’m losing it. Wait, is he insinuating he was the one who got me the Sherpa coat?
Rhys glances at me, frowning. “Gia? Do you have gloves?”
“Did you have Cynthia buy me this coat?”
He ignores my question, lays on the horn, and puts it in drive. “Let me know if I’m going to hit anyone.”
I put my numb hands under my legs hoping that he turned on the heated seats. My ass is starting to warm up, so I guess he did. People wave and surprisingly do move out of the way at last. Maybe they’ve figured out he’s actually leaving.
“Holy shit.” I stare in shock. “Oh. My. God.”
A woman and her friend are jumping up and down. One pointing frantically at the friend who’s topless with Rock and God tattooed, one on each breast.
“What?” He smirks at me. “You wouldn’t tattoo my name on your tits?”
Rhys slows down and gives the girls a double honk, causing them to scream, “We love you!”
“Um. No. I would not have Rock God tattooed on my breasts. I don’t even like tattoos,” I grumble, gazing out the window at the gray morning. It looks cold, although the snow is white and pretty.
His mouth twitches. “Tell me something, Brat. This lying, does it just come naturally?”
My stomach flips, which bugs me because he’s not being nice, but the way he says Brat makes me instantly wet, even if he is an egomaniac.
Arching a brow at him, “You’re used to ‘yes’ people, Rhys. You’ve become a superstar. I told you I’m not impressed.” I reach for my bag to get my sunglasses. Sure, it’s gray outside and completely not needed, but whatever.
He turns and flashes me a grin, then throws back his head to laugh. My eyes hungrily travel down his neck, and I try to breathe. It’s been so long since I’ve seen him laugh, smile, or be interested in something.
“You’re right.” He nods and grins, gunning it onto the freeway.
I’m kind of surprised he owns it. Clearly all hope isn’t lost on him, because what makes Rhys Granger incredible is not that he’s beautiful; it’s that he’s got this charisma that makes people tattoo shit about him on their body.
He’s gifted, brilliant, and imposing.
No wonder people worship him. He makes everyone want to be near his greatness, listen to his gift of music, and get caught in his sphere.
My stomach flips, and I bite my bottom lip so I don’t scream I love you. Instead, I turn my head and pretend to watch whatever landscape is whirling by.