Rock Hard

by Paige North

  My thumbs shake, poised to reply.

  I shouldn’t.

  Before I can decide what to do, the phone begins ringing.

  Instead of answering it, I decline the call. My fingers tremble. If he were anybody else, I might answer it and chat. But I know myself, and I know I’ll unravel too easily. I’ll give into the full lull of his seduction, just because he’s Jayce Owens. As someone who hasn’t had a boyfriend in ages, I should stay away.

  Shortcake?

  Identity—confirmed.

  Driving right now. But thank you

  for the opportunity today.

  Radio silence.

  I need him to respect me for keeping my distance. Instead, the little dots of text composition begin their wavy dance, and I’m hinged on his next words. I have to stay strong. I can’t give in, or he’ll have full control. My weak and thirsty body would betray me otherwise. Finally, he replies.

  I have more.

  More what?

  More opportunities…

  What-what? Is he talking about extracurricular opportunities, like getting me into bed?

  On one hand, I have to say I feel flattered. Jayce “Tennessee” Owens could ask anybody out. He could have a different woman every night if he wanted to. More than one a night. So, why me? On the other hand, bedding Jayce Owens could be the experience of a lifetime. No one would believe me, but it wouldn’t matter, because I’d have that memory my whole life. Then again, maybe he’s a total dick in real life, and I should follow my instinct to stay away.

  I’m talking about music. I just watched

  your YT channel. You’re talented

  as all get out. I want to collaborate

  on a song with you.

  I stare at the screen. Collaborate. This changes things. I can’t reply. I don’t know what to say or do. Collaborate. Collaborate. Collabor—

  You still there?

  Yes.

  I have your address. I’ll send

  a car for you at 8 pm tomorrow.

  Be ready.

  Yes, sir.

  Looking up, the normal buzz of traffic putters by, regular cars carry regular, struggling people going about their regular, struggle-filled lives. Then, there’s me in my regular car telling myself to stay regular, to succeed the hard way, to not take advantage of amazing opportunities when they come along.

  I cannot be that stupid.

  Some people kill for these chances.

  Okay, I reply, biting my lip. I stare out the window. What the fuck just happened? Jayce Owens bamboozled you, that’s what happened. He watched my YouTube channel? Holy shit. Suddenly, I release a high-pitched scream in the silence of my car, followed by singing a line from one of my favorite Dixie Chicks songs—to find a dream and a life of their own…

  Worthy of a Grand Ole Opry performance.

  Zoe sits on the bed cross-legged, staring starry-eyed. “Can I go with you?”

  “I don’t think that would be professional.” Looking in the mirror, I fuss with my hair and the strap of my little black dress. I don’t want to appear too business-like, but I don’t want to look like an overly eager groupie either. This dress’s flirty, swishy hem says elegant but sexy. It says I appreciate my feminine wonders yet I’m fully committed to working my serious ass off in the studio.

  “I don’t care about professional. I mean, can we double team him?” Zoe cocks an eyebrow. “Could be fun.”

  “Zo…” We both laugh. “I’m pretty sure it’s not like that. I have no idea what to expect.”

  “So, you think he really does want to collaborate, or is he pulling your chain?” she asks. “Because either one would be amazing.”

  I try on the black heels with the strappy laces. “I don’t know.” I know my résumé and accolades are pretty good, or I wouldn’t have risked everything to come to Nashville. But there are so many talented singers in Nashville.

  “You’re talented, Elena,” Zoe says. “Any day now, Mr. Logan is going to let you sing on his stage.”

  “Thanks.” I smile at the thought of singing at Hammerhill’s one day. Their reputation for talent is unparalleled, and it’s sweet that Zoe thinks I’ll hit it out of the park.

  In eight months, Zoe’s become more than a roommate. More of a good friend, which is nice considering I lost most of mine when I told them I was leaving. All my friends in New Hampshire were practical people who got jobs in town, the way you’re “supposed to do” when you graduate college. So my dream was a little different. So what? Were they jealous, or do I really have zero chance of making it out here?

  “I’ll just hear what he has to say,” I tell Zoe. “If Jayce is all business and really wants to work with me, then it’s worth the meeting.”

  “But if he just wants to carve another notch on his bedpost, then you call me, okay? I’ll gladly take it from there. Deal?” Zoe smiles a Cheshire cat grin then moves to the window. “Whoop, your car’s here. Oh, my God, it’s a stretch limo. Baby bird, you’re so lucky! Alright, give ‘em hell.” She hugs me then disappears into her room and closes the door. For a moment, I think I hear her scream into her pillow.

  Poor Zoe. She’s talented, too. I want her to get her big break.

  Outside, I lock up, fiddle with my hair, and walk up to the black limo. An older man tilts his flat cap and holds open the door. “Miss Wallace? I’m Fermin, your driver. I’ll be taking you to your meeting today. Please no texting your location to anyone this evening, as Mr. Owens cherishes his privacy.”

  “Oh. Of course. Thank you so much,” I say. Whoa, I have an actual driver in an actual limo who’s taking me to a private club tonight. A Nashville club where the Jayce Owens will be waiting when I arrive to talk to me about collaborating on a song together.

  Is it too early to call my “friends” back home and tell them they can all suck it?

  As the car zooms off through the streets, I can’t help but smile. I’m living other girls’ fantasies. During the twenty-minute ride, I allow myself the luxury of feeling like a star, like all my hard work has been worth it, like all my arguments with my parents have redeemed me, like all my late nights of waitressing at the honkey-tonk when I have to wake up early the next morning were moment of training for this.

  We arrive at a well-lit club on a dark street. There’s a line of people out front waiting to get in, and man, do I know what that feels like. Sometimes you never get in and have to try a different club. But Fermin drives the limo to the back of the building where a separate entrance boasts a large man in denim jeans, white button shirt, coat jacket, and ten-gallon hat. “Evenin’.”

  Fermin slips him cash, and I hear him tell the man that the young lady is here to see Jayce.

  “Right this way, miss.” The beefy man offers me his arm. I say goodbye to Fermin who smiles and tips his hat, then I’m whisked into the interior of the club. Beefy Man ushers me down a backstage corridor, down a dark hallway where a sexy cowboy has a sexy woman pinned to the wall, and they’re tied in an intimate knot of quiet drinks and conversation.

  My stomach does somersaults. Suddenly, self-doubt creeps in and I feel like I don’t belong here. I’m a quiet girl from New England. Not used to big city dazzle or industry professionals gathered in private clubs to discuss new business deals, but this is why I came to Nashville—to push my boundaries, learn new things, experience life. I just never thought I’d be doing this so soon.

  We turn a corner and wind our way through the club. The place is all black walls and shimmery white curtains hanging from tall ceilings and private rooms and a stage featuring a mostly ignored golden starlet crooning about muscadine wine. Tucking into a quieter corner of the club, I feel like we’re about to exit the other side of the building when finally, Beefy Man pulls back a curtain and guides me in with a show of hand.

  The room’s empty.

  “Should I wait outside, or…”

  “Have a seat, Miss Wallace. Your host will be with you shortly.” He smiles politely, and I take a seat on
soft, plushy leather, sliding along the booth so I’m not sitting right on the edge. But I am on the edge, because this is crazy. Getting invited here, this whole scenario, just plumb crazy.

  On the walls are framed photos of some of the most celebrated musicians in country music—Vince Gill, Tim McGraw, Kenny Rogers, Hank Williams, Jr., Tammy Wynette—along with sconces spewing gas-lit flames. A waitress asks what I’d like to drink, and I’m so nervous and cotton-mouthed, I order plain ice water. She gives me a sympathetic look.

  I breathe in and out slowly waiting for Jayce to arrive.

  I breathe in and out a lot.

  Because seventy minutes later, I’ve drank four glasses of ice water, listened to the starlet’s entire set for the evening, and my nerves are on the verge of collapse. I don’t know who Jayce Owens thinks he is, but you don’t just invite a lady to a club then take forever to arrive. I was already unsure enough of what to feel, debating whether or not to come, and this inconsiderate no-show has just reminded me that I have better places to be.

  I bet this was all a scheme to get me excited about seeing him.

  Well, too bad, because this girl don’t play.

  Wait, why am I using the words don’t play?

  Checking my phone again to see if he’s texted a legitimate excuse for being late, I see he hasn’t, and it’s already near 10 PM. I sling my purse over my shoulder and open Uber to order a ride home. This is humiliating at best. I’m heading toward the entrance to this private cove when a hand reaches in and parts the curtain.

  He stands there—blue jeans, dark blue button-down shirt, tanned skin, cuffs rolled up, cowboy hat, and shoulders so broad his presence immediately takes over the room. He’s older than me but still young, super hot, and larger than life when he’s not working in the studio. Even though I’m still pissed, I can confirm he’s the sexiest cowboy I’ve ever seen.

  “Goin’ somewhere, Shortcake?” he drawls. “I was just achin’ for dessert.”

  3

  Jayce

  “I didn’t think you were coming.” She frowns and glances at her phone.

  “Label management had me on the phone the last thirty minutes. It happens.”

  “I’ve been waiting for eighty.”

  Touché. I have no other reason for being late, other than I was in the middle of writing a song when I noticed the time. Tipping my hat, I slide into the booth and immediately pick up an assortment of intoxicating scents—her hot skin, vanilla body spray, and something…primal. Damn. “Best things come to those who wait.”

  “Then, good things should be due soon.” In a huff, Elena makes room for me in the booth. “Since I’ve been waiting.”

  Quincy, best waiter at Vanguard and guitarist extraordinaire, appears in our private cove and slides my Jack straight on the rocks across the table. “Your usual, sir.”

  “Thanks, Quince. Let’s get this party started.” I wink at Elena and take a swig, loving the smooth, sweet aftertaste. “You should hear Quincy play sometime,” I tell Elena. “Real soulful voice and an attitude to match. So, what are you drinkin’?” I ask, peering into her glass. “Water?”

  She sips from it all daintily. “Yes, you said this is a business meeting. I don’t usually drink during meetings. Or ever, actually. I mean, I barely drink. Except sometimes.” Nervously, she glances away. She’s so darn cute. When she looks at me again, she checks me out without being forward about it. Maybe I was wrong about her being a beginner.

  “Sure, but that don’t mean you can’t enjoy a little kickback. Here, try mine. It’ll take the edge off. Tennessee Honey, extra sweet.” Just like that cleavage I’m dying to dip my tongue into. My eyes soak up her tight curves. Good God, that hair, that dress, those legs and heels…

  “That good, huh?” she asks. Manicured nails rake through her hair. They weren’t manicured yesterday. Her hand rests lightly at the quartz pendant around her neck again, calling even more attention to her round tits. “I’ll have to try it. Maybe later.”

  Delaying her attraction to me. I can take it. “So, what’s this necklace about? There’s gotta be some reason why you touch it so much.” Every time she feels nervous, as a matter of fact. Both times I’ve talked to her.

  “This? Oh, it was my grandmother’s. When she passed away, my mom and I found tons of trinkets, fake jewelry and stuff in her drawers. I don’t know.” She looks at it with admiration. “It sort of speaks to me. I know it’s probably worth like ten cents or something. But I don’t care.”

  “Worth more than that if it belonged to Grandma. Hell, I still have a sock monkey my grandma knitted for me. Keep it in my closet, actually.”

  “No, you don’t.” She laughs.

  “Swear to God. It sits right up there next to my G.I. Joe and My Little Pony.”

  “Stop.” She laughs, her smile lighting up the room, as water nearly dribbles out of her pretty little mouth. My cock twitches. “You’re messing with me.”

  I lift my glass. “A toast…to quartz pendants, grannies, and Dolly Parton.”

  Elena eyes me suspiciously. “What does Dolly have to do with anything?”

  “She’s my grandma.”

  “No, she’s not. Stop.” She tilts back her head to laugh, and I get a great shot of her slender neck and the pulsating spot on her throat that I want to kiss.

  “Swear to God.” I swig back the rest of the shot and ask for another. Grew up around alcohol. Takes a bit to affect me, not something I’m proud of.

  Staring at Elena, I take in the truth—she’s all class. I see it in the way she holds herself, the way she crosses her delicate legs, sips water like she’s pacing herself. She’s East Coast middle-class, whereas me, I’m Tennessee Hills poor, and no amount of money can ever erase that.

  “So, why are we here, Mr. Owens?” Elena rights herself back to center.

  I know she’s dying to get to the heart of the matter, but I can’t stop drinking her in. “We are here, because you have the voice of an angel, I want to work with you, and you look damn fine in that dress.” I feel the soft frilly edge of her sleeve hanging off her smooth shoulder.

  “In that order?” She watches my fingertips closely. Clucking tongue is a good sign. She’s loosening up instead of denying her attraction. But she’s still sitting too stiff, though not as stiff as my cock.

  “No, the dress definitely comes first.”

  She gives me that look women like to give, like I’m out of line. But I’m not. Because I can’t help being attracted to her. That’s the way God intended it, and it ain’t ever gonna change.

  “Shortcake, I’m a man. What do you expect?” I take another swig of my drink. Need to get under that dress tonight. Between her legs would be better. Nails digging into my back would be best.

  “Mr. Owens—”

  “Jayce.” I remind her. “Look, hon, I wasn’t joking about your YouTube videos rocking my socks. Your voice is trained and clear, and you’ve almost mastered the country sound, even though you’re not country. Vermont?”

  “New Hampshire.”

  I nod. “Music degree from Such-and-Such?”

  “University of New Hampshire.”

  “Same thing. Alright, look. My producers didn’t think another ballad on the album was necessary, but I beg to differ. I’ve been thinking about this, and what I think the album needs is a duet. It appeals to my female audience, and seventy-eight percent of my audience is female. So, we do one song together. If we don’t click, you lose nothing. You still get paid, come back for vocals when we need it, and I’m thinking we will. Click, that is.”

  That little smile unfurls on her lips again. “I’m good with that.”

  “Excellent.” I smile. “And if it works out, you’ll come with us on the road maybe. You up for touring?”

  “I—”

  Now I’m the one giving her a warning look. If she knows what’s good for her career, she’ll say yes without hesitation. Especially since I still don’t see a ring on that finger, and I’ll be damne
d if she’s had any kids. Far as I can tell, with that voice, she’s prime to start a career in country music at any given moment. Ain’t no better way to do that than go on the road with an established outfit.

  “Are you offering me a job, Jayce Owens?” Absently, she taps the side of her glass.

  “What I’m saying is, we’ll take it slow. Start with a one-song collaboration, then see how it goes from there.” Reasonable. No commitment, just enough to get her to agree.

  She rests her chin in her hand, elbow propped. “Funny, I didn’t think of you as a go-slow kind of guy.” That beautiful tongue clucks again.

  Shortcake might be playing innocent, but she’s a tease, hard to get, and it’s exciting as all hell. I should take her into my hands right now and see how that tongue tastes laced with honey whiskey.

  “Let me tell you something…” I lean into her and sense a change in breathing. She’s holding back her desire, but she’s one note away from bending. “From the moment I saw you, I had to talk to you. From the moment I talked to you, I had to touch you, and now that I get to touch you…” The back of my hand gently caresses her arm. Soft skin, pretty light hairs that stand up at my touch, goose bumps giving her away. “There’s little to stop me from going the whole way.”

  Her green eyes flare; resolute is firm. “Even offer me a steady job?”

  I suppose I can’t blame her for trying to stay focused. I like that. “Elena, you’re talented, but make no mistake, the fact that you’re driving me crazy has nothing to do with your skills. Well…skills do factor in.” Chuckling, I finish my drink and signal to Quincy for another. “There is that oral test we talked about.”

  “Ah, yes, the aural ‘listening test’ you didn’t think I’d pass with flying colors.”

  I’m focused on her pretty cock-sucking lips. “I have no doubts, Shortcake.”