by Salsbury, JB
“You’re asking the wrong person.”
I slip away, ditch the condom, clean up, and crawl back under the covers, wrapping myself around her from behind. This time, my eyelids feel heavy and my body sated.
She holds my forearm at her belly. “I’m afraid that…” A yawn rips from her throat. “No one will ever compare to you after this.”
My eyes pop wide open.
She hums sleepily. “Unless…” Her voice is drowsy, as if she has one foot in dreamland. “There is no one after this.”
My pulse slows a little and I squeeze her. “Your first and your last.”
Damn if saying those words doesn’t settle my racing pulse. I kiss the back of her head, even as I feel her hand fall loose at my arm and her breathing even.
I say against her sweet-smelling hair, “I’m never letting you go.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Ethan
The next couple days play out the same. Hurry up and get to the venue, wait while shit gets done, hurry up to sound check, wait for the VIP meet and greet, hurry up to the stage, wait for Taylor to get on the bus, hurry up and get our fill of each other, sleep, and do it all over again.
Three days later, I wake up in an underground parking facility owned by Arenfield. The artificial lights make it impossible to know what time of day it is, but my phone tells me it’s five o’clock in the morning.
“Taylor.” I kiss the sleeping goddess next to me. “We’re home. Wake up so we can get the fuck off this bus.”
She rolls to her back, her lips already tilted up into a smile even with her eyes still closed. “What’s wrong with the bus?”
She lifts her arms, stretches, and her perky boobs expose themselves. Unable to resist, I dive down, latch onto one warm nipple, and suck until it pebbles against my tongue. She squirms, her hands slip into my hair, and she holds me in place while I flick the tender tip with my tongue before moving to her neglected breast. I crawl between her thighs, forgetting the urgency of getting off the bus until I reach for a condom.
“Shit, no more condoms.” I rest my forehead against hers, breathing hard and trying to cool my blood. Being cradled between her naked thighs isn’t helping, so I roll away from her and throw my forearm over my eyes. “Heard anything from your dad?”
Talk of Prophet is the perfect boner-killer.
“No.” She sighs. “I texted him that I’d be staying with you and he just texted me back the thumbs-up emoji, but ya know, it felt more like he was giving me the bird.”
I shouldn’t be happy that her dad is ghosting her, and yet I’m smiling like a motherfucker inside because the more he rejects her, the more she wants to be with me. That too probably shouldn’t make me as happy as it does.
Being on tour is one thing, but bringing Taylor home makes things between us feel more… more. Not that I haven’t had women in my house before, or women in my bed. But Taylor is different. And what if when I bring her into my personal space, add her into my real life, she learns something about me she doesn’t like? What if I fuck up and say the wrong thing, which I’m sure to do eventually? How many chances will she give me before she peaces-out on my ass? And once I have her in my space, in my life, will I only become that much more dependent? Will I ever be able to let her go if she chooses to walk away? The answer to that question is a resounding HELL FUCKING NO. And I treated Paul like a psychopath stalker when really the unhinged-Taylor-addict is me.
“Are you sure you’re cool with me crashing with you until the tour picks back up?” She chews her lip, her expression worried.
“Let me put it this way. If you chose to stay with Prophet, your bed better be big enough for two.”
“You and my dad under the same roof in one thousand square feet of space? One of you wouldn’t come out alive.”
I kiss her hard and fast then launch my naked body out of bed. “Get up, grab your shit. Let’s go home.”
Taylor
A perfect, sunny Southern California day, we pull out of the darkened underground parking into the bright light and not-so-fresh air of downtown Los Angeles. And I mean we literally have the sun on our skin, because Ethan put down the top of his 1965 blacked-out Ford Mustang convertible. The engine growls as he weaves through downtown LA, taking us to the I-10 West toward Santa Monica.
I pull my ball cap down securely as we hit freeway speed. Ethan’s hair is a whirling dervish and I’m grateful he’s wearing dark sunglasses to protect his eyes from the sting of his whipping hair. When he shifts into fourth gear, he grabs my hand, pulls it to his thigh, and holds it there.
A Dead Kennedys song plays on the old turn-dial radio and I wonder which station in town still plays old punk rock. The sun warms my shoulders and I sink into the comforting smells of home—eucalyptus, exhaust, and hot asphalt. As we get closer to the coast, a briny scent is added to the mix. I perk up in search of the first sight of the Pacific Ocean.
Although I was born and mostly raised in Los Angeles, I was always in the city, only venturing to the beach when my mom had the time to take me, which was next to never. So when we hit Santa Monica, Ethan takes a right onto the Pacific Coast Highway headed north and I’m lost in the great expanse of blue water that stretches from the road to as far as I can see. The scent of the air changes again.
As we get close to Malibu, we wind up a narrow road that gives me small town vibes, and soon all the other houses and cars are in our rearview. Feeling as if Ethan has driven us through some kind of Narnia-like closet, we head up the winding road to a modest-sized house nestled into the Malibu bluff.
He shuts off the engine and pulls his keys. “This is home.”
The house is not at all what I expected. It can’t be more than a few thousand square feet, and it’s not all modern lines, glass, and LED lights. The low sloping terracotta roof, dark wood beams, and buff-colored stucco walls give it an Old California flair. Spanish tile mixed with hand-painted accents give it a warm, homey feeling I wouldn’t have expected from one of LA’s most eligible bachelors.
We meet at the hood of his car and he uses two fingers to lift my lower jaw back into place. “You like?”
He takes my hand, leading me through a wrought-iron gate into a patio filled with tropical plants and a trickling fountain. He opens the door with a single key. I expected more locks or a keypad entry. When I step inside, I’m not hit with the smell of dust and stagnant air, but rather fresh flowers with an underlying hint of lemon cleaner. The place is spotless. Every available table is adorned with flowers in vases, and the décor is not at all what I expected.
I lean down and inhale what I think is some kind of lily. “You are full of surprises.”
He drops his keys on the table and chuckles. “Kenneth gets the place ready for me whenever I’m coming home.”
I lift a brow. “Kenneth?”
“My housekeeper.”
“Like I said, full of surprises.”
He fingers through a stack of mail, ignoring all of it. “You thought I’d have some hot little French maid toiling about?”
“Kinda. Yeah.”
He hooks me around the neck and pulls me to him, his big body warm from the sun. “Come on, I’ll show you around.”
As I thought, the house isn’t huge. Two bedrooms, three bathrooms, all decorated in comfy, cream-colored, overstuffed furniture, wood, and hand-painted tile. But the best part is the outdoor living space. Patios wrap around the house with an indoor-outdoor feel, including an outdoor kitchen and a pool-hot-tub combo with one-hundred-eighty-degree views of the ocean.
I’m standing beside the pool, looking out at the big blue expanse, when he comes up behind me and wraps his arms around my stomach. “Better than the bus?”
“You could say that.” I shake my head, stunned I’m standing here with Ethan fucking Crow’s arms wrapped around me. Life is such a trip. “How did you manage to find so much privacy in Malibu?”
“Luck. The canyon behind me is protected from development and we’re t
hree hundred feet above the beach.” He pulls back, turns me around, and kisses me softly. “Hungry?”
“A little. I’d love to take a bath in that gigantic tub in your bathroom.”
He rubs my back with a sly grin pulling his lips. “You need help with that?”
I hook my hands behind his neck. “Absolutely.”
We kiss with the ocean breeze against our skin—
“Shit.” He fishes his phone out of his pocket and frowns. “I have to take this.” He presses a quick kiss to my lips. “Take your bath. Raincheck?”
“Sure.”
He winks and presses his phone to his ear with, “Neil. What’s up?” And walks back into the house, closing the door behind him.
I’m having an out-of-body experience, yet I’m fully aware I’m still in my own body. Will this ever feel real?
Eventually I pull myself from the view, grab my bag from the back of Ethan’s car, and head toward the bathroom that’s bigger than my bedroom at my dad’s place. A wash of sadness comes over me when I think of my dad. I expected more fight from him, not this frustrating silence.
Walking down the hallway toward Ethan’s room, I slow when I pass the door of his den/music room that is nothing more than a space filled with guitars, a piano, and, now I realize, pocket doors. They weren’t closed, they are now, and from behind the wood, I hear Ethan’s voice sounding less than happy.
I tell myself it’s not my business and continue on to the bathroom, enjoying the Cinderella experience and not thinking much about tomorrow or the next day.
I expect Ethan to finish up his call and join me, but when my fingers turn to raisins and the bath water was cold, I get out and put on my nicest pair of jeans and a white tank top. I shake out my wet hair and leave it to dry naturally, then with bare feet, I head out in search of Ethan.
I spot him at the far end of the patio, his long legs stretched out in front of him and a beer in his hand. “Liquid breakfast?”
His pinched forehead smooths when he sees me coming and a tiny smile tilts his lips. “Come here.”
I drop into his open arms, curling up against him. “Everything all right?”
He takes a long pull from his beer. “It is now.” He punctuates his response with a squeeze. “The fridge is full of food. I don’t know what you’re in the mood for.” His voice lacks its usual color. “The stylist is coming by at two to bring you some options for the Music Awards—”
I shoot upright so quickly, I almost knock the bottle from his hand. “The Music Awards!”
His eyes narrow. “Yeah.”
“Ethan! You said it was an event. You said ‘I have an event to attend.’”
“Right.”
“The Music Awards aren’t an event, they’re the event of the year. Oh my God.” I move away, pacing, chewing the shit out of my lower lip. “I can’t go.”
“What do you mean you can’t go?” he says, slightly laughing.
“This isn’t funny. Every media outlet will be there, cameras everywhere…” My pulse speeds and I lose my breath. “I’m… no.” I shake my head. I thought I could do this when I thought it was some industry dinner or some fundraiser for the rich and famous, but… “What the fuck, Ethan?”
He leans forward, his elbows to his knees. “I can see this is going to be a problem for you.”
“Yes, it’s a problem for me.” I hold out my hand and we both watch the five digits quiver. “I’m shaking!”
“Fine.” He shrugs, drinks from his beer, and relaxes back into his seat. “We won’t go.”
“Thank you—wait, what? No. We?”
“I’m not going if you’re not going.”
“So my options are go to the Music Awards with you or become the most hated woman in the music industry for keeping you away from the award show?”
He points at me with the long neck of his bottle. “Yes.”
I groan and drop my head. He takes advantage and pulls me back to his lap. “I’m going to make you look bad—”
“Impossible. Besides, I make myself look bad enough. You can only make me look better, trust me.” He kisses my temple.
“I’ll trip or say the wrong thing or—”
“You don’t have to say anything. Just hold my arm and I’ll take care of the rest.”
I turn my face into his pec, where I say, “I can’t believe I’m considering this.”
“We’ll have fun. And all the guys will be there with their women, you won’t ever be alone. Promise.”
Whatever. The sooner we get it over with, the sooner we’ll be back on the road working sixteen-hour days and smack dab in the middle of my comfort zone.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Taylor
I thought I might get restless during the couple days off before the award show. I was wrong.
Preparing for this kind of event is so much more involved than just finding the right dress. Every day, a new person shows up at Ethan’s house to polish me—literally. Facial, full body scrub, spray tan, mani, pedi, and I got my first real haircut—by a celebrity stylist no less. Ethan’s overgrown shaggy locks always seem to fall in the right place, and now I know why. Mine does the same.
I tried on a million dresses with million dollar price tags—slight exaggeration, but only slight. Black lace, red silk, sequins, all of it made my head spin. When the stylist pulled out a simple white silk slip dress made by someone called Alexander Wang, I knew I’d found my dress. The best part? The dress hem hits the floor, so it won’t be too obvious that I’ll be wearing what the stylist-to-the-stars called “kitten heels.”
Ethan and I spent most of the days apart—him rehearsing at the Staples Center and me getting poked and prodded at his house. Every night we’ve spent together having dinner outside—sadly no swimming, because apparently pools and spray tans don’t mix—and tumbling into bed where we spend our nights making love.
After tonight, the awards show will finally be behind us and reality will settle once again.
“How’s it going in here?” Ethan says as he walks into his bedroom, beautifully shirtless with a sexy smile.
“Good—ouch.” I hiss as my hair is pulled tightly into rollers and my face spackled with makeup by two different people. I glare at Ethan. “You’re lucky I like you. How do women do this every day?”
He pays no mind to the woman tapping a sponge on my face, stepping close so that she stops. He kisses me gently on the lips. “I owe you. I know this is a lot.” He goes in for another kiss.
“Please don’t mess up her—okay.” The makeup artist makes a frustrated sound as his lips land on mine. “I’ll just redo that.”
He chuckles against my mouth before pulling away without a single apology. He flops onto his bed and looks at his phone, the epitome of calm while my stomach is in knots.
“Can we go over the plan one more time?” I close my eyes while the woman paints what feels like a drag queen’s worth of powder on my eyelids.
“Again?” There’s humor in his voice. “Red carpet, a few photos, a few questions, the show. You’ll stay with Bethany, Ash, and Jade while we perform. And we have to hit the Arenfield after-party, but we don’t have to stay long.”
That all sounds reasonable, so why am I such a mess?
I know why. I don’t fit into his world. I’m not a celebrity. I work on the backline, in the shadows, never center stage. I wasn’t made for this kind of attention. I’ve always been aware of the divide between their kind and mine. Hell, it’s taken days of preparation and God knows how much money to make me look like I belong for one night. All further reminding me of how much I do not.
Does Ethan care about that? Does he find my inexperience and lack of confidence annoying? Does he feel like he has to babysit me?
Feeling a surge of insecurity, I keep my mouth shut and breathe deeply through my nose while telling myself I will get through tonight for him. And after tonight, the next time will be easier, and if there’s a time after that, it’ll again be easier u
ntil I eventually get accustomed to this once-a-year production.
Two hours later, I’m staring at myself in the mirror of Ethan’s walk-in closet, hardly recognizing the girl staring back at me. I get up close, inches from the mirror, and wonder how my face can feel covered in mud and yet not look made up. My eyes look bigger and bluer than their usual gray, and my lips have doubled in size yet still look like mine somehow. I see not a single freckle on my nose, and my eyebrows are fuller and shaped in a way that seems to open up my whole face. My shoulder-length bob was given beachy waves that match the simplicity of my gown. I feel like a motherfucking goddess.
Ethan knocks on the door. “You ready, babe? Car’s here.”
I stand back again, finger the loaned string of tiny diamonds on my neck, and watch how the matching diamonds on my wrist catch the light. My stomach flutters and my pulse quickens. I look like a woman who belongs on the arm of a rock god like Ethan Crow.
I slide open the closet door and I’m met with wide eyes and a slack jaw. His gaze takes me in from the hem of my dress that kisses the floor up to my bare and very tan shoulders. His eyes linger on the shimmering jewels adorning my throat, then his eyes lift to mine.
“Holy fuck,” he whispers, swallows hard, and blinks. “You’re a goddamn knockout.”
“It’s a mirage.” I hold out my arms. “Under all this is… well, some very expensive underwear, but under that, it’s just me.”
“Just you”—he prowls forward, his eyes on my mouth. His tall body is in a cranberry designer suit tailored to fit perfectly, his black shirt open at the neck. Classy with a rock star edge—“is the sexiest part about it.”
His kiss is a whisper that doesn’t match the hunger in his eyes. I lean in for more, but he backs away quickly.
“Don’t ruin your makeup.”
A flush of stupidity washes over me. Of course. Makeup. “Right.”
The words are a reminder that Ethan has plenty of experience with women who wear makeup and spend God-knows-how-much on their faces. I’ve never even used moisturizer and now I have a fifteen-step skin regimen.