by Paige North
So I linger in the living room, checking out the art on the walls and managing to catch a few words here and there.
“…then take away the goddamned bottles, Ethan, I don’t care. Do whatever you have to do.” Silence, as Jayce listens to whoever “Ethan” is on the other line. He growls—like, actually growls—clearly losing patience. “Then, you need to isolate Mama, convince her…”
I check out silver-plated framed photos on neutral gray walls. Jayce with Blake Shelton, Jayce with Loretta Lynn, Jayce with Dolly Parton. But none in the whole room or adjoining hallway display anyone I don’t recognize, anyone who might be family or friends.
“I can’t come now…working on new album. You’re going to have to talk to her. Get her the fuck out of there.” He pauses as he listens, then says, “No, do not. Do not call Domestic Violence from that line. I don’t need the media showing up and making it worse…make the call anonymous…”
I feel terrible standing here listening in on what’s obviously a sensitive topic, so I begin tiptoeing back to the hallway, making it my plan to stare at the recording studio and appear as though I was checking it out this whole time. What’s going on with his mother? Ethan’s obviously his brother. A quick Wikipedia search on my phone confirms that Ethan Owens is Jayce’s younger brother, also a singer, according to TMZ.
Then, because Life wants to blow my cover, Siri makes a loud dinging noise, alerting the world to my presence. “…Sorry, I didn’t get that,” she coos in her sexy robot voice.
Shut up! Ugh. I set my phone to vibrate and debate whether I should wait to be shamefully discovered in the hall like an interloper or return to the bedroom. Jayce mumbles quietly that he has to go, will call later, and I know he’s going to come looking for me.
A few moments later, he appears in the hall in boxers and no shirt. HOLY. HELL. Smooth tanned skin, washboard abs, delicious pecs, and biceps to wrap my hands around. Even with two hands, I wouldn’t be able to grip just one. Speaking of which…I gave him a blowjob last night. Yes, I did. A messy, yummy one, too.
“Hey, sorry I was wandering around your house,” I say, touching the walls as if checking out the exquisite paint. “These are nice walls, by the way. I love the…texture.”
“Elena.” He looks nervous and runs a hand through his flippy hair. Every time I see his arm lifted, showing off more of his body, I can’t believe I’m with Jayce Owens, the same Jayce Owens who brings hot chicks onto the stage to serenade them, the same Jayce Owens who sang “Need Your Love” at the First Lady’s birthday party last year and made her blush right in front of her husband. “I have to get to the studio. Rick’s waiting for me. You’ll be there later?”
Oh, we’re in a hurry, I see. I guess there won’t be any romping under the sheets. I have to say I’m disappointed, though I understand.
“I am. I mean, yes. I’ll be there.” Is he being abrupt because he doesn’t want me here? Because he’s the one who asked me to stick around and be his muse, even offered me money for it. Oh, my God—that. I have to decide what to do and call Mr. Logan when I get home to discuss it. “Though I may need to work extra hours today, to make up for last night.”
Jayce isn’t listening. He looks like there’s a hundred things on his mind, none of which he wants to tell me. He ticks his mental to-do list off his fingers. “…first bring the new song, then the radio interview at noon, then I have to call Ethan back.” When he realizes I’m still in his hallway, examining his body from head to toe, he adds, “Well, don’t forget what I mentioned yesterday.”
He hasn’t forgotten. Not that I’m ready to take his money.
“I’ll think about it,” I say. “Hey, are you…are you okay?” Maybe he’ll tell me what’s wrong. I’d like to think that we’re at least friends. It would make me feel less like a call girl if he opened up to me. “You can talk to me, you know. About anything.” Not that I was eavesdropping about your mom and domestic violence or anything.
“It’s just some family tension. No big deal. Thanks for asking.” He breezes past me, gripping my shoulders and planting a kiss on top of my head.
No big deal? Sounded like one.
I guess that’s my signal to go. Probably best, though I’m thwarted. He can trust me. I’m not one of these people who’ll tell-all to the media, if that’s what he’s worried about. I’m not used to this lack of intimacy with someone while being so physically intimate with them at the same time.
“Oh, and Fermin will be here in a sec to take you wherever you need to go. Thanks for hanging out with me.” He drops his boxers, grabs a towel off the dresser, and my crotch begins to melt at the sight of his completely naked, sculpted body. “It was a fun time.” He smiles.
Yes—fun time.
And cold shower time.
Good Lordy.
My apartment couldn’t look more foreign to me. I know I’ve spent eight months living here, but it doesn’t feel like home. Nowhere does at this point. I feel lost of my identity right now. I thought I knew who I was, but Jayce has pulled new traits out of me I didn’t know I had.
Yes, I remember last night. Yes, I remember being way bolder than usual. I also recall the way he molded me, guided me, like I was a chess piece and he was a champion player, pushing me where to go. Our whole dynamic has left me a little unsettled. Unsettled, but intrigued.
A lot intrigued.
Too intrigued, as a matter of fact.
At Bluebird Studios later in the afternoon, I pause at the front door, determined to stay focused today. Do not flirt with Jayce. No kissing, no touching, no hanky panky of any kind. Especially after the way he dismissed you today. You’re here to work, Elena.
When I walk in and see Dotty’s anxious face, however, I wonder if everything’s okay. Then, I see Rick Santos, red in the face, gripping chunkfuls of his styled hair, and I know it’s been a stressful day. He asks why I’m late, destroying my positive mood. I didn’t realize I was, but I guess he’s referring to the extra hours I said I’d work, though we never finalized the schedule.
“So sorry, Mr. Santos. I’m going to figure out my schedule today.” If I know what’s good for me, I’ll give both him and Jayce precedence over my honkey-tonk job, but what Jayce and his manager discard me when they’re done with me, and I lose my gig with the bar?
It seems as though lately, life’s been all about Jayce and his career and less about furthering mine. Then again, maybe spending time in his home studio will give me more time to work on my music. It’s a gamble, but what do I have to lose? My waitressing job? I can always find another one if I have to, though Hammerhill’s does have a great reputation, and I’d hate to lose it.
Here’s another thought—maybe Jayce is an egomaniac who tosses women from his bed when he’s done with them, and I shouldn’t waste another precious moment of my time. Keep moving on the same track I was two weeks ago before I met Jayce. So torn.
After a quick honey lemon tea in the break room to start my session, I return to the studio. Jayce and I work on his ballad together, one that sounds suspiciously about me. Sweet honey lips, dessert in a kiss, what are you doing to me? Our voices blend so beautifully, I can’t imagine this song not being a big hit with a little more work. But then, Jayce gets frustrated, smacks a chair, and wants to change the melodies. What is his problem?
“I think the other way sounds a lot brighter, which is what you’re trying to achieve. This way sounds too pop,” I suggest. Honestly, I don’t care which melody he goes with, but secretly, I wish he’d listen to my suggestion. I mean, I do have a degree in music, even if I don’t have platinum records hanging on my walls. I know what makes a melody sound more unique.
We butt heads for a while, until finally, we start meshing nicely with an alteration in his melody, and before we know it, we’re singing and playing guitar together like Faith Hill and Tim McGraw. There’s a deep connection and beauty in the way we sound that’s different than any duet I’ve ever done. Even if Jayce and I never amount to anything r
omantically, even if we discover we’re only shooting stars in the night, fired up, soon to burn out, I’ll always have this musical moment to fill my soul.
After work, I shy out the door, keys in hand, but Jayce rushes out after me. “Leaving so soon?”
“I have to clock some time at home with my roommate. You know, to prove I live there before she rents my room out to someone else.” To get away from you for a while so I can think about the direction my life is taking.
“Want to go out for a bit? Walk around, see the city?”
“Jayce,” I shake my head, “I see the city all the time. I live here.”
“Bet you don’t. I bet you work that ass off so much, you don’t take time to see anything.” With his hands on his hips and a baseball hat today, he looks sexier than ever.
I move past him and head to my car, pray for the strength to say no to him. I really do want to go out with him, see if he’ll redeem himself for this morning, but I can’t be the spineless suck-up who’ll bend to his will. “I can’t. I have to go.” I yank open the car door, but he grabs it.
“You okay?” His deep voice is filled with concern. It’d be worse if he didn’t care. I should at least listen to what he has to say.
I face him straight-on. “I don’t know what’s happening. You send your driver to pick me up, take me to clubs and dinners and places you swear you’ve never taken anyone before, you ask me to stick around for inspiration, you hold me so tightly, I feel like something might be wrong with you, but then you tell me it’s time for me to leave, and then, to make it worse, you won’t open up to me when I know you’re not okay.” Feeling a wave of tears coming on, I turn my attention to the summer sky in streaks of dark blue, purple, and bright orange.
I hear him sigh behind me.
He takes a strand of my hair and hooks it behind my ear.
I love when he does that and wish he wouldn’t.
“Let’s go out. I’ll explain.” He takes the keys from my hand and closes my car door, and within a minute, I’m being led around the back of Bluebird Studios, sinking into the softest leather seats of the most beautiful silver and black car I’ve ever seen.
Way to stick to your guns, Elena. “What kind of evil sorcery is this?” I marvel at the dashboard and all the controls.
“A C7 Stingray Corvette. You like it?”
“Like it? I love it.” I’ve never been much of a car girl, but this is sexy. I suppose a drive around town in this would somewhat forgive his erratic behavior. After all, I don’t know exactly what I’m feeling either.
We drive through Nashville, past the Grand Ole Opry, south and around to the west part of town, near my work. He doesn’t say much the whole way. Our windows are open, so it’s a little hard to hear anyway. When he gets off the highway, he slides the windows up. “Fans,” he explains.
I get it. Higher chances of being recognized when you’re stopping at red lights. Still, wouldn’t it be cool to be seen with Jayce Owens? Soon, he’s pulling into Centennial Park and winding his way up to the Parthenon, the amazing exact replica of the Greek temple in Athens, only it’s intact and supposedly has stuff to see inside. I wouldn’t know, because, well…I haven’t been inside yet.
“You haven’t been here, have you?” He gives me side-eye with a sly smile.
“I’ve driven by it a million times.”
“But you haven’t been here yet,” he confirms.
“No, I have not.”
Jayce laughs and pulls his Corvette into a spot, comes around to open my door, and takes my hand. “Then, it’s time you see it. You can’t live here and never see her.”
Her? “Isn’t it closed at this time? It’s past nine o’clock,” I say. He probably means to just walk around the outside perimeter.
“I know a guy.” Jayce leads me up the massive steps to the front door, confirms it’s locked, then angles around the side of the architectural marvel. I can’t help it and touch each and every ridged column, imagining what it must’ve been like in those times. Imagining what Nashville residents must’ve thought when they saw this temple going up in their city.
Oh, he knows a guy, huh? I should’ve known.
Near the back is an older security guard, a weathered man who’s seen a thing or two in his day. He tips his hat at Jayce, who looks at me for a moment, then steps aside to talk to the man. Both nod and laugh, then Jayce shakes hands with the old timer. Before I can put two and two together, the man fishes around his set of keys for the right one and opens a side door to the Parthenon.
The Parthenon.
Jayce Owens just wended his way into a national treasure after hours, Nashville’s oddly out-of-place pride and joy. The man reaches into the room and switches on a panel of lights that illuminates the outline of a shallow room. It’s still dark but enough to see. “Come on,” Jayce says. “Mr. Finklein’s got us covered.”
Okay, trespassing is wrong, and I don’t care who Jayce thinks he is, we shouldn’t be here and no amount of tipping should’ve gotten us inside. But fine, I’m excited, and yes, I’m still going to enjoy this, because Mr. Finklein was nice enough, and hell, who else can say they’ve been inside the Parthenon after hours?
“I can’t believe you just paid your way in.” I laugh giddily.
“Happens all the time. Not because I can, but because business hours are impossible for me. I’d get tackled by fans, and that’s no way to enjoy a museum. Besides, this way, it’s quieter, less people around.”
Something about the way he says that tells me I’ve just walked into a trap. “Quieter for what?”
Over his shoulder, he gives me a cunning smile. “Oh, nothing.” Reaching out, Jayce opens the door to a larger chamber, lets me through, and suddenly, my breath catches in my throat. I’d heard of this but had completely forgotten. Inside the room, a massive golden statue of the goddess Athena rises toward the ceiling. In one hand, she holds Nike, the winged goddess of victory; in the other, a shield and spear.
“Ho-lee-shit.” I immediately forgive him for any weirdness between us. After all, we’re both going farther and deeper down this vortex of emotions than we ever intended, I’m sure.
“Perfect summary of the last ten days,” he says, admiring the statue.
So there. Confirmation that it’s been a rollercoaster for him, too. “So, what did you want to explain to me?” I venture, moving around the corded off section of the figure. Will he tell me he has a girlfriend, he’s married to the mob? Will he tell me what’s going on with his mother?
“It’s hard for me.” He swings my hand softly. “I haven’t let anyone in this far in a long time. So when I saw you in my house, coming out of my room in the morning, it threw me off.”
“Okay. I can understand that. Is that all?”
“No. My life’s complicated. There’s a lot of stuff, nothing I’d want to burden you with, trust me.”
“I don’t mind listening, Jayce. I won’t judge either.”
He turns up an easygoing smile tinged with gratitude. “You know why I brought you here?”
“Because it’s amazing?” I go back to checking out my surroundings.
“Yes, but also because this statue intimidates the hell out of me.”
I look at him. “I didn’t think anything intimidated you.”
“Women do. If they’re the right ones.” His sexy eyes turn to me, and he reels me into his body in one, swift move. His thumb slides across my lips, his eyes study them carefully.
My lips part when I think about kissing him again. Is he saying he’s intimidated by me? I’m nothing to be afraid of – I don’t tell people off, and I’m not doing a very good job of sticking to my guns, either. “I’m nothing like Athena,” I say.
“Oh, yes, you are. You’re like her more than you realize.” He pulls me in for one of those long Jayce kisses that immediately renders me weak in the knees. I hold onto him to keep from sliding. His tongue searches mine, and he nibbles on my lower lip then lets it go, only to kiss me again.
He must mean he’s scared of us, scared of what we might become. I get that. I felt the same when I left his house this morning—belonging neither to him nor myself. I could always try to figure out where I belong in his world. Or…I could go along for the ride and stop analyzing.
His hands slide up my sides, feeling my short girl curves. They reach around and grip my ass. He squeezes and lets go, squeezes again, gripping my muscles and releasing each time, feeling my cheeks bounce. I’m nervous because we’re in a public place, not that anyone’s around, but what about caretakers or janitors? What about security cameras? What if Mr. Finkelstein, or whatever his name is, is watching us right now?
Right there, at the base of the statue of Athena, goddess of love and beauty, Jayce presses his body into me, pinning me to the base. I feel his hardness growing the more we kiss. Maybe it’s because we’re in public, but the kiss feels different—more alive, infused with energy. More urgent and hot as hell. The air feels electric, rife with danger, and I know I’m about to experience something new. On one hand, I’d be embarrassed if someone caught us in this knot, his hands on my ass, his body splitting my legs apart, his fingers sliding up my inner thigh.
He hasn’t even reached my pussy yet, and he says, “You’re so wet already. God, I love it.” The words rush into my ear, and my whole body illuminates like a sound control panel in the dark. Goosebumps travel over my shoulders. I want him. I don’t care that there’s an old man standing just outside the back door—I want him.
“Jayce, what if…”
“There’s no one here, Shortcake, and Mr. Finklein knows not to come in.” Of course. I heard it in the laugh they shared. In some crazy way, the old man’s presence does make me feel secure…along with Jayce’s money—the way it can make people watch unlocked doors a little more closely. Security is a beautiful thing.