Blindsided Read online

“I was a little punk when I was younger,” he said, “I lived on the streets when I was a kid. Shit happens.”

  He couldn’t believe he’d just told her that. He held his breath while he waited for the inevitable judgment, the wariness. He didn’t get it.

  “Oh Nate,” she said.

  Her voice was so filled with emotion that Nate turned to look at her. Her eyes were filled with such sadness that his heart constricted.

  “Hey, don’t cry,” he said. He reached his finger out to catch a tear on his knuckle. “It’s ok. I’m fine now. It was years ago.”

  Her voice shook and she avoided looking at him, looking at their reflections in the darkened window. He spun around to hold her against his chest.

  He barely heard her when she said, “I don’t like thinking about people hurting you. About you in pain. And where were your parents?”

  Nate sighed. He hated this, hated saying it. But fair was fair. He buried his nose in her wet hair, inhaling the sweet scent of her.

  “My parents kicked me out when I was fourteen,” he said.

  “Fourteen?” Chelsea said, lifting her head off his chest, her eyes opening wide in shock, “Good lord, why?”

  “Because I was always in trouble, I didn’t go to school. And like I said, they weren’t exactly the best parents. My dad was never home and my mom was pretty much useless once she started taking pain pills all the time.”

  “And you lived on the streets all that time?” she asked, incredulous. He nearly laughed. His teen years were out of the realm of experience for most people.

  “Yeah. That’s where I met Sean and Bill,” he said, stroking her wet skin.

  It had all been so long ago, had been so instrumental in the formation of his personality, he didn’t even feel the pain of it anymore. Usually.

  She started to say something else, then stopped herself, chewing on her bottom lip instead. Finally, she rested her head back on his chest, little hands stroking his arms gently.

  Her hot tears burned his chest. He was so overwhelmed with emotion he could barely breathe. He had never had anyone care about what had happened to him as a kid, and plenty of people had seen the scar, knew how he’d lved.

  Here was a woman who deserved much better than an aging rock star with a self destructive streak and she was crying about years-old violence. Tears burned his eyes and he clenched them shut. And that was the woman he’d chosen to love. A woman who didn’t cry when she’d told him about the worst months of her life, but who got torn up about a wound he barely remembered getting.

  ###

  Chelsea stopped crying and shook her head. Unbelievable. She was in love with him. Against all her better judgment, she had fallen for him as hard as was possible. But there was no other explanation for her tears over a scar. She cared about him, a lot. She had once again fallen for a bad boy, but this time it was worse.

  She’d never loved a bad boy before, never given her heart to one. But Nate had hers all wrapped up. He’d overcome horrible obstacles to become the reformed bad boy he’d always claimed he was and that had cemented it. It was terrifying and exhilarating. What the hell was she supposed to do now? She wiped her eyes and made up her mind. She’d revert back to lust. He was tantalizing, there was certainly nothing to cry over when it came to his body. Lust was easier, cleaner than the messy rush of emotions zinging through her veins.

  His erection still poked up from the water, and pushing aside her feelings and her tears, she slid down in the tub and gripped his shaft with her hand. She slid her tongue over the tip and swirled it around. A tortured sound escaped his lips as he struggled to breathe.

  “Chelsea, what are you doing?” he said, voice strained.

  She looked up at him, her hand still stroking him.

  “What does it look like I’m doing?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

  He sighed deeply, a tormented sound, then put his hands under her arms and easily lifted her until she was settled in his lap.

  “Sweetheart, getting a blow job from a girl with tear stains on her cheeks is not my idea of a good time,” he said into her hair.

  He kissed the top of her head and stroked her back, his touch gentle, soothing.

  Damn him. She’d tried to distract herself from her feelings and he’d just made them ten times stronger.

  ###

  “Jesus, aren’t you ready yet?” Chelsea yelled back to the bedroom where Nate was still packing. “I’m supposed to be the one who takes nine years to pack.”

  The weather had turned back to rain and gloom and their moods had followed suit. Even the thought of getting back to traveling wasn’t cheering her up. She hated going anywhere on someone else’s terms. It killed the whole in-control thing she was after.

  Oh, and she was in love with Nate and there was no way to make it work. That was bound to make even the most cheerful of people grumpy and Chelsea had never claimed to be that. Since it was his fault, she might as well take it out on him.

  “Would you calm down?” Nate yelled back, “The plane’s chartered. It won’t leave without us.”

  He was grumpy too today, but she had no idea what was causing his grouchiness. Whatever it was, it meant that they were grumbling and growling each other the whole morning. They weren’t helped by the early hour or the weather. Chelsea realized she preferred the passionate, yelling arguments they’d had to this low key dissatisfaction, but she wasn’t sure how to shake Nate from his grumpiness. Maybe she’d work on hers and see if that helped.

  She tried pulling him into a hug when he had appeared in the kitchen with his bag, and while he didn’t pushed her away, he felt tense in her arms. She stroked his back and asked him what was wrong. Instead of answering, he just shook his head and kissed the top of her head in a distractedly. Well, it was all she had in her at the moment. He was just going to have to stay grouchy.

  They were quiet as Nate drove to the small municipal airfield tucked behind the sprawl of SeaTac. The charter plane was like nothing even a seasoned traveler like Chelsea had ever seen. When she thought of charter planes, she thought of the three or four passenger types that she took to remote places. This was a luxury model with four leather seats, two cocktail tables, a bar and a TV that looked more like a movie screen than a normal television.

  “Just how much money do you make?” Chelsea asked when they stepped inside.

  Her surface grumpiness had lifted in response to the outrageousness of the interior of the plane. It was just too extreme.

  Nate seemed a little less tense when he said, “I’m a rock star baby. Stick with me, we’ll go far.”

  Chelsea laughed and shoved him affectionately. He over dramatized it and tossed himself into one of the leather seats, neatly landing her on top of him.

  “You okay now?” she asked, nuzzling his neck.

  She inhaled deeply, loving the scent of him. Sadly, she realized she had a limited amount of time left to enjoy that scent. She took another deep inhale and sighed.

  “Careful, babe. You’re going to hyperventilate down there,” he said, hugging her more tightly. “And yes, I’m fine. I just hate going to LA. Sorry I took it out on you.”

  He apologized by spending the entire trip kissing her senseless.

  ###

  Chelsea arrived at the club about an hour before the opening act was scheduled to begin. Nate had gone ahead to do sound check and have some sort of band meeting while she had hung out in his ridiculously large house. She’d spent the afternoon looking at old pictures of the band and generally nosing around in Nate’s stuff. The thing was, none of it seemed to belong to the Nate she knew. It was more like what she would have expected from a rock star’s house than the house in Washington, but it wasn’t Nate. Maybe that’s why he had gotten so uncomfortable when Tony had recognized him. He really wasn’t the guy people recognized, even though he had the same face.

  There was already a long line at the front of the club, and for a moment she stood on the sidewalk across the street, unsure
of what to do. Did she have to wait outside with the rest of the fans? She realized with a start that since she and Nate had been together almost every moment since they had met, she hadn’t bothered to get his cell phone number, so she was stuck out here wondering what to do. Wonderful.

  A movement around the corner caught her eye. A big panel truck was pulling away from a driveway on the side of the building. Of course. A back door. Chelsea crossed the street, breaking through the line and making her way to the loading dock. A few of the fans in line gave her dirty looks, but she ignored them as best she could. The women were especially annoyed with her, eyeing her casual jeans and tank top with disdain. Most of them wore mini skirts, tottering heels and tiny tops. They clearly thought she had no chance of getting to go backstage to see the band. She hoped like hell that Nate had told people to expect her. Walking back through the line and joining up at the end was not something she wanted to experience.

  She approached the door trying to exude confidence, using the same sort of ploy she used to get into the closed rooms of museums. If she looked like she belonged, she usually got away with it.

  Apparently, her luck with closed museum wings did not hold when it came to getting backstage at concerts. She filed that piece of information away for future use as a bald man who was as wide as he was tall stopped her with one beefy arm thrown across the doorway. She had gotten into such a long and purposeful stride that she almost clothes-lined herself on his muscles.

  “Sorry honey, no one backstage,” he said with a bored shake of his head.

  “But Nate’s expecting me,” she said, knowing as she said it that it sounded utterly ridiculous.

  She could hear the other women behind her sniggering. If this man didn’t let her through she was going to have to walk back past them and deal with their snide remarks and pitying yet self righteous stares. Ugh.

  “Sure he is. Sweetheart, he hasn’t let groupies backstage in years,” the man said.

  He seemed to think she was pathetic, but ordinary, as if this sort of thing happened at least once a day. Until then, Chelsea hadn’t had a firm grasp on just how huge Blindside was, how famous Nate was. Good god, the man had women chasing him down. And he was spending the week with her.

  “I’m not a groupie,” she said, injecting her voice with as much indignation as she could muster, which was quite a bit. “I’m Nate’s girlfriend. Can’t you just go get him?”

  “If I interrupted him for every chick who said she was his girlfriend, he’d never get through sound check,” the man said.

  Chelsea opened her mouth to protest being called a chick, when she was interrupted by another man, this one less wide, but still muscular. He looked vaguely familiar. He stepped under the man in the doorway’s arm and lit a cigarette.

  “Hey darlin’” he said, looking her up and down with an overtly sexual smirk on his face.

  Chelsea may have found him attractive if she wasn’t infatuated with Nate, but she couldn’t figure out why he looked familiar. His open scanning of her body turned her off. The man was taking her clothes off piece by piece with his eyes and it was creeping her out.

  “Do I know you?” she asked.

  The man shook his head.

  “Try to picture me behind the drum riser. I get overshadowed by Nate, but come on, I’m Sean, the drummer. Guess you’re not one of those drummer groupies,” he said, “But come on, give it a try. Once you go drummer, you never go back, I promise.”

  Ew, Chelsea thought. Sean continued to leer at her and Chelsea decided to cut to the chase before he decided to do something even more forward, like touch her.

  “Sean, I’m Nate’s girlfriend, Chelsea. Please tell me he told you about me and you’ll get this guy to let me in. Or at least go get Nate,” she pleaded with him.

  She really hoped she wasn’t going to have to resort to flirting with him. The thought was so disgusting she wasn’t sure she could even do it.

  When he heard her name, Sean’s eyes went wide.

  “Ah, no wonder Mr. Stone is so fucked in the head. You’re a little cutie.”

  “Uh, thanks. I think,” Chelsea said.

  She felt vaguely like she needed to take a shower.

  “Well, let’s get in there. Nate’s wondering where you are,” Sean said.

  He tossed his cigarette on the ground and stomped it out.

  Chelsea followed him into the building and narrowly resisted the urge to turn around and stick her tongue out at the bouncer and the gaggle of woman standing in line.

  ###

  “Chelsea!” Nate said loudly. He left the microphone he was fiddling with and joined Sean and Chelsea backstage. Chelsea looked a little shaken up and Sean looked annoyed. That could mean only one thing.

  “I see you met Sean,” Nate said “Did he hit on you too much?”

  He wrapped an arm around her shoulders in a way that even he could recognize was proprietary and kissed the top of her head. She wrapped her arms around his torso as if they belonged there and nuzzled her head against him. Ah, warm Chelsea. Life was good.

  “Uh, yeah,” Chelsea said, clearly restraining herself from saying anything more.

  “Well, that’s Sean for you.” Nate said with a smile and a roll of his eyes.

  He was so happy to see Chelsea that it terrified him.

  Sean gave him the finger and started to walk away.

  “Nice meeting you,” he called back belatedly.

  “You too,” Chelsea called back.

  She still seemed a little shaken by the whole thing. He’d never had it happen to him personally, but Nate could imagine that being visually undressed by Sean was a totally unique experience.

  “He’s really a nice guy,” Nate said as he looked off after his friend.

  “I’m sure he is,” Chelsea said as she looked up at him.

  Her face belied her true feelings towards him. Nate hoped she would grow to like him. Sean could be a pain in the ass, especially where women were concerned but he was part of the package. Nate wondered briefly if Sean would be even more of a problem than his own self destructive behavior or Chelsea’s constant running.

  “Well, you ready for your first concert?” he asked her.

  He hoped so. He wasn’t sure he was. All day he’d imagined Chelsea morphing into some groupie before his eyes. It had been so clear in his head. He’d come backstage after their set, and instead of being met by Chelsea in her jeans and shirt, he’d get some glammed up version in heels and a miniskirt and no interest in him, just in Nate Stone, rock star. A person he didn’t even want to be anymore. He’d told Chelsea he didn’t like LA, and that was true, but not the whole truth. But how did you tell your girlfriend you hoped she didn’t turn into a blood sucking groupie? You didn’t. You just hoped for the best.

  “You bet,” she said with a smile.

  He hugged her tight and hoped like hell that she’d be the same when he got offstage.

  ###

  Chelsea stood backstage watching the opening act, some local band made up of four guys younger than her. They looked like children at a recital, playing their instruments and singing off key harmonies together. The audience seemed to be merely tolerating them as a necessary trial to be gotten through before the real fun began. Nate had disappeared for some pre-show ritual.

  Chelsea wasn’t at all sure about Sean. He seemed almost alarmingly predatory in his sexuality, but in retrospect, he hadn’t persisted when she had obviously shown no interest in him. That was a good sign. He was important to Nate, and it would suck if she hated him.

  Being without Nate for the afternoon, Chelsea had found herself banging her head against the wall as she tried to think of some way for the two of them to work, but so far she’d come up with nothing. Even though so much had changed in her heart, in reality, nothing else had. Without Nate to distract her, her panic had come fast and furious, and when the car had come to take her to the show, Chelsea had nearly cried with relief.

  Broken out of her reverie
by the lackluster clapping of the audience, Chelsea started clapping belatedly. Thankfully, the opening band’s set was finished, leaving just a set change between and her first live performance of Blindside. She was excited but nervous. Nate seemed hesitant to involve her in this side of his life, and she hoped this wasn’t a horrible idea.

  “You must be Chelsea,” a voice behind her said.

  Chelsea turned to look at the owner of the voice and found a woman about her height with dyed black hair and a large amount of black eyeliner. Her lips were painted blood red and her upper body was encased in a red corset. Given her get up, the woman should have looked scary, but she looked fun and inviting.

  “Yes, that’s me,” Chelsea said, feeling a little unexotic as they shook hands.

  “I’m Madeleine, like the cookie. Take a bite of me and you’ll remember your whole childhood,” the woman said. “I’m Bill’s wife. Call me Maddy.”

  Chelsea nodded again, a little taken aback by the incongruity of a Proust reference in a rock club. Maddy was beautiful, but the longer she looked at her, the more she could see the hallmarks of her age, a certain wiseness to her eyes, even if there were no crow’s feet, and a certain confident set to her jaw. She was probably closer to Nate’s age than her own.

  “It’s nice to meet you. Do you come to all the shows?” Chelsea asked.

  “Only when they’re in town,” Maddy said. “I used to go on tour with them, but now we have two kids in school. I miss it though. It’s just marginally more exciting to be on tour with a band than at home with kids, you know?”

  “Yeah, I can see how that would be true,” Chelsea said.

  “But you never stay home, do you?” Maddy said with a laugh. “Nate said you’re hardly ever in the U.S.”