Page 17 of The Pursuit of Happiness (Satan’s Angels #2)

Slater

The next months are going to be torture.

I mean seriously, I have to fake date the girl I’m in love with, who also can’t stand me and hates my guts because she thinks I set her up and recorded us having sex.

I have been pining after Aria Kane for years and she’s never given me the time of day and of course when she finally does, she doesn’t remember any of it and somehow thinks I would be capable of drugging and recording her to ruin her chances of winning the Muse Award.

Fuck. The. Award. I wish I could chuck the fucking thing into the Bermuda Triangle.

I don’t care about it at all. My bandmates do, but I don’t.

No, what I cared about that night at the club was that Aria Kane willingly spoke to me and didn’t reject me.

Well, she did in the beginning, but she warmed up to me after.

What a sick joke the universe has played on me, giving me what I’ve wanted for years only to take much more in return.

Because of that night, she may never fully trust me. It pained me deeply that she actually thought I was capable of drugging her and setting her up like that. I would never do such a thing, especially not to her.

There were moments today when it felt like she was warming up to me more, slowly letting her guard down, but everytime I hinted at the fact that I don’t want this to be fake between us, she shut me down or looked like a deer petrified in headlights.

Am I ever going to be able to accept the fact that she just isn’t into me?

I have never wanted anyone as bad as I want Aria.

My attention has never centered around another woman for this long.

I don’t know what it is about her, but it’s just something that makes it impossible to focus my attention on someone else.

Sure, I’ve been with plenty of other women the entire time that Aria Kane didn’t know who I was or that I even existed, but I never really dated anyone.

I guess that’s why the media is going so crazy over our fake relationship.

I hurry down the hall to the studio my bandmates and I occupy.

We hangout here all the time, even when we aren’t working.

There’s Rogan, one of our guitar players, Nate, our bass player, and Miles, our other guitar player and lead singer.

Out of the three of them, I’m the closest with Nate.

He’s like a brother to me. He started this band and fate threw me into his path.

We were instant friends and our relationship only grew from there.

He sees the side of me that nobody else does, the side that hurts.

When I open the door and find them all laughing over demolished, extra cheese pizzas, it takes one look at my face and Nate knows something is up.

Rogan and Miles however, are oblivious. Rogan was there at the club the night that the tape was recorded.

I asked him if he knew what happened when my memory got shotty, but he was just as lost as I was.

“Look who’s back from his date,” Rogan teases.

“Dude, you’re all over the gossip mags and the tabloids,” Nate grins.

He knows how I feel about Aria and has always supported my pining.

He preached patience to me and now fully believes Aria and I are in a committed relationship, just as everyone else suspects.

I hate having to keep secrets from him and the others, but Selene had strict orders and besides, I feel so horrible about what this whole thing has done to Aria’s reputation, I’ll do whatever I have to do to help fix it.

Even if it means lying to the people closest to me.

I plaster a fake smile on my face as I stride over to the red leather couch and drop down on it, lifting my legs and resting my feet on the table, “The paps were following us around all day.”

Nate nudges my shoulder playfully with his, “I told you she wouldn’t be able to resist you forever, bro.”

I feel that guilt rise back up my throat.

The guilt of lying to my closest friend and the rest of my bandmates.

I suppress it as best as I can, not wanting to make them suspicious that my newfound relationship with Aria is as fake as a pornstar’s tits.

“You were right,” I agree. I spot a bottle of whiskey open on the counter and grab it, taking a swig to give myself something to do.

I feel Rogan’s eyes on me, intense and slightly suspicious as if he sees right through me. I avoid his eyes and turn my full attention on Miles, “What have you guys been working on?” I ask, changing the subject.

Miles lights a joint that he pulled out of his jeans pocket and takes a long inhale. He exhales and grins, “A whole bunch of shit you won’t get to hear because you’re one of Satan’s Angels now.”

They all laugh at my expense, but I don’t find it funny.

They think I joined Satan’s Angels temporarily because I have separation anxiety from my new “girlfriend,” but what they don’t know is that my working with them is part of the arrangement.

I have nothing against Satan’s Angels or their music, but that isn’t stopping my friends from making me the laughing stock of our group. What’s so bad about a girl band anyway?

“They fucking suck,” Rogan chokes out a laugh as he snatches the whiskey from my hand and takes a few large sips.

I feel a sudden burning defensiveness in my gut.

Aria, Brody, and Ivory are three of the most talented artists in our genre and it has nothing to do with gender.

My protectiveness over them and their music isn’t just because I’m in love with Aria Kane, but because I respect them as artists and as people.

I mean shit, Brody Drake literally got up on stage in front of thousands of fans and confessed her deepest and darkest of emotions and then went public dating her…

sober coach? I’m not really sure what the dude’s job description was but I know it was something along those lines.

It doesn’t matter what his job was, she still got up and did that.

And now the girls are nominated for the same award that we’re nominated for so if Rogan wants to say they suck, what does that say about us?

Nate takes one look at my face and tries to lighten the mood, “Give me that, moron.” He snatches the bottle out of Rogan’s hands like he snatched it out of mine and takes a small sip before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“You do realize they’re in our category for the Muse Award, right?

That means that we’re on the same level as them.

So if you’re saying they suck, you’re saying we do too,” he scolds, a light note to his voice so as not to get too serious.

Rogan’s mocking expression falls, “They might not suck, but Aria Kane does,” he wiggles his brows and mimes out giving a blow job and I just about lose it.

I take my feet off the table and lean forward to snap at him but Nate places a hand on my chest to ward me off, “Bro, not cool,” he shakes his head at Rogan.

I’m not the confrontational type. I never fight with my friends or with anyone for that matter.

I’m the even tempered one with the golden retriever personality and the dimpled smile to make the old ladies blush.

So while it is totally not within my character to snap at my friends, I find it impossible not to when Rogan talks about Aria that way.

Especially after everything that she’s been through with the media ripping her apart.

Right now, I want to tear him apart. My hands are balled into white knuckled fists with rage and I want so badly to open my mouth but Nate gives me a warning look and whispers, “Don’t. ”

Nate turns back to Rogan, “Dude, that’s his girlfriend. Show some respect.”

Miles gives Rogan a look of surprise as if dumbfounded he would cross that line, “Yeah, what’s the matter with you?”

Rogan rolls his eyes, “Are you guys seriously gonna sit here and act like her face isn’t all over the news and the tabloids for being a slut?” He pauses and then continues, a wicked gleam in his eyes, “Oh I’m sorry, it wasn’t just her face that was in it. It was her ass, her tits, and her pu-”

Now I lose it. For the first time in the history of our band, I lose my fucking shit. Nate doesn’t even try to stop me as I leap out of my seat and round the table to strangle Rogan, “Shut your fucking mouth,” I seethe.

He rises from the floor to face me head on and laughs, “You’re getting defensive because you know I’m right.”

I fist the collar of his t-shirt in my hands and use my leg to hip toss him into the coffee table, the glass top shattering beneath his weight.

He falls into the leftover pizzas and the remnants of weed that were on the table and I instantly drop to land a few punches on his face but Miles grabs me by my shirt and yanks me away.

He and Nate hold me back and Nate snaps, “Rogan, get out.”

Miles adds, “What’s been up with you, bro? You’ve been acting so fucking rude lately.”

Rogan’s eyebrow is cut most likely from glass, a small bead of scarlet trickling down his brow and into his green eye.

He pushes off the remnants of glass and into a seated position before he rises to his feet.

His hands are cut in some places, shards of glass sticking out.

Good. I want him to bleed and I want him to be uncomfortable after what he just said about Aria.

Best friend or not, I won’t let anyone talk about her that way.

Not when she was drugged and is being destroyed by the media for something that isn’t even her fault.

“Maybe it’s because our bandmate is ditching us to play the drums for his girlfriend,” Rogan snaps, not letting go of his anger.

I take a step forward to do God only knows what, but Nate slaps a hand to my chest, “It’s temporary. Besides, we can still work on our own music,” Nate argues.