Roxy (Pandemic Sorrow #3)

by Stevie J. Cole

  I was undeniably in love with him, and he liked me. No matter if he left me, I’m sure Jag would make sure the baby was provided for, but other than the fact that this kid wouldn’t be supported by WIC and have CPS knocking down the door every other month, it was no different than what I’d been raised in.

  Addiction.

  It is ugly.

  It is hard.

  And it ruins lives.

  My entire existence had been altered, eternally marred by the pain, by the repercussion of drugs, and this baby’s life would be no different. Rich, poor—it didn’t matter if you knew the people you loved wouldn’t be around.

  I couldn’t change the fact that Jag would be the father and that this child would have to deal with the stress, the shame, and the heartache of having a father who was constantly one hit away from death. This is why I had no business getting involved with him, and now I wouldn’t be the only person to suffer.

  I had been careless and ignorant; I had listened to my heart instead of my common sense.

  Jag could pretend he was sober all he wanted. And I wanted to believe it because as ashamed, as foolish as I felt for feeling it, I loved him. He was like a missing piece of me. Something about the way he made me feel, the way he smiled at me, the way his hand felt when it brushed over my cheek… it was different. It was something beyond my comprehension as to why everything was different with him. I felt like it belonged, I felt like life was better, was more complete. I didn’t feel so broken when he was there. And I hated that. I was no one. Nobody. And he was—I mean, he was Jag Steele.

  He was fame, he was rock, he was a person that everyone knew and loved. He had everything. Every-fucking-thing. How in the hell could a bartender from Van Nuys ever keep his attention? Better yet, how could I save him from himself? How could I tear him away from the drugs he felt made him who he was, and the thing I knew would soon enough take his life? And even if he could get past the addiction, could I really expect somebody like him to stick around to raise a kid with some average girl?

  I closed my eyes. I couldn’t think.

  He came back from tour in four days. Then he went on tour for ten months. I couldn’t help but laugh out loud. He wouldn’t even be here when the baby was born.

  The best thing I could probably do was just not even mention it to him. Just find a way out and pretend like Jag Steele was never a part of my life.

  In a moment of shock and panic and utter fear, that made the most sense to me: build my walls back up and shut him out so that he couldn’t hurt me, and so I couldn’t hurt him.

  Chapter 21

  I was brushing my teeth, and I glanced up at my reflection. I watched the blue foam covering my lips drip down my chin when someone knocked on my door. I stared in the mirror before looking at the clock in my bedroom.

  It was eleven o’clock at night.

  I quickly rinsed my mouth and wiped my face before making my way out into my living room.

  Another soft knock.

  I peered through the peephole and saw Jag standing at my front door. I didn’t try to dull the smile when I yanked the door open. I was happy to see him, relieved that he’d come by as soon as he set foot off the tour bus. I liked when he surprised me because it made me feel like I was the only thing in the world that mattered to him.

  The corners of his eyes crinkled. He didn’t say a word, he just walked in, wrapping his arms around my waist and taking my mouth in a claiming kiss. He backed me inside and used the heel of his boot to slam the door closed. His fingers laced in my hair and he pulled away from my lips, tightening his hold on the strands entwined within his fist.

  “Don’t ever,” he shook his head, “do that to me again, okay?”

  I was lost.

  I’d missed something, because I had no idea what he was talking about.

  “Do what?” I searched his eyes.

  “Leave me. Don’t ever leave me again. I can’t stand it.”

  A slight laugh escaped my lips and I shook my head. “What are you talking about? I didn’t leave you.”

  “Do you have any idea how hard it was for me to finish out that tour after you came back here?” His lips crushed over mine again in a desperate, needy motion. A slight groan vibrated from his mouth to mine, and I swallowed it down.

  Jag grabbed the back of my head and looked at me, his eyes moving over my face like he was taking in some piece of exotic art. “I don’t like being away from you. I’ve never felt that way—no one’s ever done this to me. Don’t leave me.”

  The way he said it was almost like a plea, and the look in his eyes seemed helpless, like he was in a battle with himself. And I was certain that battle was between me and drugs, between which one he wanted more.

  “Promise me, princess,” he kissed me again, his knees knocking against my thighs as he walked me back toward my bedroom. His tongue swiped around mine and then he whispered it again. “Promise me.”

  I nodded and talked over his lips. “I won’t leave you.”

  His mouth captured mine in a deep, hard embrace, his hands brushing down the thin cotton shirt I was wearing sending each nerve ending into overdrive. This kiss was heated, passionate, sensual, and it made me feel like I was fulfilling some type of intense craving for him. It made me feel wanted in a way I didn’t know existed. Jag was gifted with making you feel like nothing else in the entire world mattered to him except for you, and in that moment I almost slipped up.

  “I—” The rest of that sentence was devoured by another hungry kiss.

  My pulse quickened and adrenaline coursed through me at the thought of what I’d almost said.

  Jag pulled away, lifting my shirt over my head. “What?”

  I shook my head, heat shading my cheeks.

  His warm fingers trailed down my bare breasts, stopping to massage my nipples before his hands lowered to the waistband of my pants. “Tell me.”

  “I… missed you.” I love you. Fuck you for making me love you.

  Each side of his mouth twitched up, pleased. “Missed is not enough. It hurt to be away from you.”

  When he was sweet like that it crippled me. He looked so hard, but comments like that flowed so effortlessly from his mouth, and I couldn’t help but give in. He easily made me believe that there was nothing else in this world for me besides him.

  I grabbed his shirt and tugged it over his head, immediately unzipping his jeans and pushing them to the floor. All sense had vanished and left me with nothing but raw animalistic desire. With one swift tug, Jag pulled both my pants and panties off, pushing me back onto my bed.

  He stood over me, just staring at me, his breath heavy and hard and coated with a raspy growl.

  The tips of his fingers traced down the slopes of my breasts, down the curve of my hips, and feathered light strokes across my stomach. When I realized he was rubbing over his unborn child, completely unaware that I was pregnant, guilt rippled through me. I swallowed, not sure if I was going to cry or not, and my nerves tensed.

  He must have felt my muscles stiffen under his touch because one corner of his lip lifted and he chuckled, “That tickle?”

  Lowering his head, he gently kissed my stomach. “There’s something about you…” Another light kiss pressed over my heated flesh and tears pricked my eyes.

  Part of me thought it was some unannounced bond, something far deeper than I could understand drawing him to me because of that baby, and the sweetness of that moment tore at me.

  I loved him, and I couldn’t leave him.

  I needed to help him.

  Jag’s fingers trailed down between my thighs, easily slipping in and causing that last bit of tension to melt from me instantaneously. A loud sigh fell from my lips and my body sunk deeper into the mattress. The warmth of his mouth laid over me; his tongue circled my clit and a groan vibrated against me, then he moved away.

  “Sorry, I can’t take it. I need you right now. I can’t wait.” He kissed up my neck, biting down right below my ear. “I promise
it will be just as good as if I’d fucked you with my mouth for thirty minutes.”

  The heat from his dick pressed against me and, painfully slow, he pushed into me, his head hanging and a breath rushing from his lungs when he finally settled all the way inside of me.

  He stopped, holding himself there for a brief moment with his eyes locked on mine, and then he moved again, each stroke slow, sensual, fluid, and somehow still raw. His lips continued to press kisses to my mouth, my neck, my ear; each breath that fled him rushed across my skin, sending chill bumps over my flesh.

  Jag had been rough, hard, unrelenting every other time we’d had sex.

  Jag fucked, and this was not fucking.

  The way it felt made my body weightless and made me feel something I still can’t explain…a connection, an intertwining of our souls—something poetic like that, but words could never do that feeling justice. It made me feel like we belonged to each other in a way neither of us had belonged to anyone else.

  In that instance it was just us. And it was right. It was fate.

  The moment someone makes love to you with such emotion that you can’t deny what is happening, in a way that makes you question how you ever breathed without that person…in that moment you are owned and no logic, no reason exists.

  Chapter 22

  “You just want to take some food back? I just had to get some air,” Jag said, squeezing my hand as we rounded the corner.

  “Sure. Doesn’t matter to me.” Guilt was mounting and about to crush me because I hadn’t mentioned the whole, “hey, by the way, while you were finishing up your tour I took fifteen pregnancy tests, all positive” thing.

  “I kind of feel like some fast food. It’s been a while since I had a greasy-ass burger.”

  I shrugged. “Fine with me.”

  “What’s wrong with you?” He stopped walking and looked at me.

  “Nothing.”

  “Bullshit, Rox. You’re all subdued and quiet. That’s not you.”

  “I’m just, I don’t know. Just glad you’re home.”

  He kissed me, pleased with that response.

  We resumed walking back toward his car, and then someone screamed out his name.

  “Jag Steele! Jag Steele.”

  “Fuck,” he groaned, turning around and forcing a smile.

  Several girls sprinted toward us, perm-grins smacked over their lips.

  “Oh, my God. Oh, my God. It’s really you!” One groveled.

  “Holy shit. Jag. Steele.”

  Then one just teared up, cupping her hands over her mouth in disbelief.

  We stood there. Jag smiling, me frozen, and the girls foaming at the mouth.

  One finally swallowed and took in a gulp of air. “Can we get your autograph?”

  “And a picture?” the other one chimed in.

  “Of course. Love my fans,” Jag said, releasing my hand.

  The girls dug through their purses to find something he could sign. One handed him a receipt, the other handed him an envelope. He scrawled his name over the items, then looked at the other girl.

  “Just…” She kept digging through her purse. “Just…sign my…Shit, I’ve got a sharpie, why the hell don’t I have some paper or something?”

  Jag smiled down at me, then glanced back at the girl who was now dumping the contents of her purse out on Ventura. “You want me to sign your shirt or something?”

  She nodded.

  After he’d taken pictures and talked with them for a few minutes, they left, and we were on our own again.

  I tried three times to bring up the whole pregnancy thing, and every single time I got my nerves worked up, someone else would stop him, begging for a picture or an autograph. In total we had been stopped eight times during that little outing before we made it back to his car.

  “Damn. This is what it’s always like?” I asked, stunned at his patience.

  Jag opened my door and shrugged. “It gets worse when there’s a tour going on.” He chuckled. “How about we just stay locked up in the safety of my house for the next few weeks? Sound good to you?”

  “Yeah. Sounds great!”

  Chapter 23

  “Here, keep this on your head, princess.” Jag placed a cool washcloth on my forehead and brushed a few stray strands of my hair behind my ear. “You still feel sick?” he asked, denting the bed as he sat on its edge.

  “I’m fine.”

  He looked at me, narrowing one eye. “You want me to run you a bath? I’m sure I’ve got some of that bubbly shit girls like somewhere, or I could send Beth to get some. She’s going by the store today anyway.”

  Beth was his housekeeper, and she ran all of his errands.

  At first, when I’d found out he had someone that did his shopping for him, I thought it was all part of that “I’m too good to do anything for myself” attitude, but I’d figured out he had someone do stuff like that for him because he couldn’t go anywhere without being bombarded by fans. He had no privacy, and I guess you don’t really need everyone to know what kind of toilet paper you use.

  I shook my head. “No, that’s sweet of you, but really, I’m fine.”

  “I’m gonna go get you some water.” He got up from the bed, his shoulder grazing the doorway as he walked out into his living room.

  Guilt tore through me. He’d been back for three weeks, and I hadn’t gotten up the guts to tell him I was pregnant. I was pissed at myself because there was no reason for me not to tell him, but fear had me paralyzed. I was in love with him, but it was still new and scary and I didn’t know the best way to break that to him. I didn’t know what it would do to him, to us, and really I was still trying to accept it. I was trying to hold onto the way things were, how perfect they were, while ignoring how often he snuck to the bathroom to get high.

  And honestly, Jag was fragile and I didn’t want to break him.

  Looking back, I shouldn’t have gotten pissed about him hiding the drugs because we were both trying to hide something from each other, but judgment and rational thought don’t exist when you think your heart is about to be shattered into a thousand miniscule pieces of shrapnel.

  Jag came back in and set a bottle of artisanal water on the night stand before crawling across the bed. Lying down, he snuggled up to me. His hand lay across my stomach and he delicately rubbed across my skin, like he knew.

  I studied his fingers. His nails were perfectly manicured, lacquered in matte black polish. They were soft, except for his fingertips; those were rough and calloused from the strings of his guitar. Everything about him was hard and soft, rough and smooth, a complete oxymoron. And I loved that.

  Jag drew in a deep breath of my hair. “God, I love that, the way you smell. You smell like you and that is the best scent ever created.” He fell silent for a second and then mumbled to himself, “How the hell did I ever get you? You deserve so much more than a fucked-up rocker.”

  I wasn’t being fair to him. I had to tell him.

  “Hey.”

  He nuzzled his face deeper into my hair. “Hmm?” His response was lazy, almost drunk sounding. I was about to shatter this little daydream of his.

  “You know how things don’t go exactly like you plan sometimes?” Everything inside of me shook.

  He sat up.

  One of his deep brown eyes narrowed, and his head tilted to the side. “Yeah. That’s life…”

  “Well,” I choked. My throat felt like it was closing up, my heart galloped, and I couldn’t find the words I needed.

  “What, Rox?” He squeezed my hip.

  “I…” My stomach turned and hot spit filled my mouth as acid made its way up my throat. I stumbled off his bed, covering my mouth with my hand and gagging as I ran to the bathroom, attempting to slam the door closed on my way through. I made it to the toilet just in time to vomit frothy yellow bile into it. I leaned over, panting and fighting back the urge to throw up again. My eyes watered and my stomach burned from how many times I’d gotten sick. Hormones got the bett
er of me, and I started crying.

  I heard Jag’s bare feet slap across the tile as he chased after me. “Hey.” He stopped behind me, bent over, and rubbed my back. “You okay?”

  I stared at his tanned feet, at the contrast from the stark white marble floor and nodded as I flushed the toilet.

  “Why are you crying? Huh?” He pulled me into his lap and I collapsed in sobs.

  “Roxy?” He swept my hair to the side and his expression grew worried. “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m terrified…”

  “Oh, baby, it’ll all be okay. You can come visit me. Hell, if you want to, just quit and come with me.”

  Baby? I didn’t like that. I liked him calling me princess, because I was anything but and I needed someone to believe that I was. And Jag, for whatever reason, believed that I was.

  “Don’t call me baby.”

  He snickered. “Okay.”

  “I like princess.”

  “But I—”

  “No, I don’t care how many girls you’ve called that. I don’t want to know. I like it.” Swallowing, I confessed to him why that name meant so much to me. “My dad…when I was eight, one of the churches donated Christmas presents to us. My favorite present had been a princess dress-up costume. I put it on and twirled around, singing that I would be a princess one day. You know what my father said?”

  Jag shook his head. An apprehensive look fell over his face.

  “He was drunk, but even if he’d been sober, he probably would have said the same thing. He told me, ‘You’re a little shit. Little shits can’t ever be princesses. Go ahead and get that outta your head.’”

  For a second I thought I may cry again, but I forced those tears down. I refused to let that man hurt me anymore.

  Jag angrily shook his head. After he took in a few deep breaths, he said, “That’s bullshit. You are a princess.” A soft grin shaped his mouth. “I swear, with you, that is the truth. You’re untouchable, a complete rarity.” He kissed my forehead, glaring it me with depth. “You know how I know you’re a princess, huh?”