“Enough to know that Aish means fire in Hebrew.”
As his grin grew devastating, she helplessly asked, “Why? How many do you speak?”
The bunkhouse was huge and cavernous. But their voices grew quieter and quieter. His eyes were warmer than a campfire.
“Let’s just say Aish is one of the few words I know in Hebrew.”
“Como un Americano,” she chided gently.
He stepped closer to her and there was hardly room in her chest for breath. “And you’re a gorgeous nerd,” he said.
She wondered if she was glowing in the reflection of his dark, sparkling gaze.
They settled on his bed at the foot and the head, facing each other and separated by the pizza box. Sofia and Aish used the torn lid as plates and his bath towel as a napkin and they passed the wine bottle back and forth, the glass growing slippery with the grease from their fingers. The rich smells of tangy sauce and spicy sausage helped to block out the cloying odor of John’s cologne. He was always heavy-handed with it, and his bed was next to Aish’s. Aish, an only child, loved John like a brother, he said unabashedly.
Sofia had to cover her mouth to prevent a piece of meat from flying out when he got her laughing. He drew a picture of what it was like growing up wealthy, handsome, the only child of adoring parents in the California sun. He painted it with family dinners and surfing before school and two people telling him he was capable of whatever, whenever.
Sofia planned to stay quiet about her own family. But then she found herself telling a story about her next-door neighbor, Carmen Louisa, who’d found Sofia when she was hiding in the grower’s vineyard. Carmen Louisa had lain down with her in the dirt, taken apart an ugly grape flower that looked nothing like a flower, and explained why it was the most beautiful sight in the Monte del Vino Real.
“Why were you hiding in her vineyard?” Aish asked her.
Again, despite herself, Sofia described how the queen had been roaring through the vineyard in a golf cart, screaming Sofia’s name because the ten-year-old had hacked into the queen’s computer and broken up with all of her lovers over email.
Aish laughed so hard she had to grab his knee to keep him from tumbling to the floor.
She told him, shyly, about her plans to be a winemaker and he told her, reaching for his guitar, about his dreams to be a rock star.
She watched him test the strings. “You could be a winemaking rock star.”
“Why would I do that?” he asked as he adjusted a knob.
“Your uncle admires you very much,” she said. While she’d been able to avoid Aish this week, it had been impossible to avoid her boss and his constant references to his talented nephew. “He’s built something he loves; he probably would like to know that, once he’s gone, it’s going to continue to thrive in the hands of someone he loves.”
Aish strummed his fingers over the strings while he looked at her. Finally, he said, “I never thought about it that way. About...legacy.” His mother, father and uncle had started their own businesses in California, the land of fresh starts. How freeing it would be to grab for the opportunity in front of you without the pressure of history guiding your hand.
How directionless.
Aish pressed his fingers to the fret and strummed a beautiful note. “I wrote a song for you.”
Surprise sparkled through her. “You did?”
“Actually, I wrote three.” He bit into his full lower lip. “This is the best. I hope.”
Once, thirty male coros sang to Sofia from the top of a Semana Santa float. It had been embarrassing. Now, with Aish’s inescapable gaze, this had the potential to be excruciating.
But when he began to play, he wasn’t looking at her. He looked down at his strings, his dark hair trailing over his cheek and jaw, and picked out an evocative melody that floated through the bunkhouse. Still focused on his guitar, he began singing.
Make a map and show me
Where you want to be
Make a map and I’ll show you
Where you can find me
I’ll always be there
Hanging around
You won’t need a compass
Not lost, just found
Sofia loved music, loved the fast percussion of Galician music and the scratchy moan of old American blues albums, loved David Bowie in his Ziggy Stardust days and the folklore tunes that girls still sang in her village as they walked arm in arm to school. She had strong opinions about music, knew what she liked, and had decided at twelve that the last great year in music was 1988, when Jane’s Addiction released Nothing’s Shocking. After that, music died.
So while she was predisposed to hate all modern music, she knew her massive pounding crush on Aish worked in his favor. Still, she was overwhelmed by how delicious his voice was. It was like flan, warm and smooth and soft. She wanted to bathe in it. She wanted to smooth his voice over her skin. His voice surrounded and overwhelmed her like his ghostly twin, and now she had two gorgeous and tempting Aish Salingers to contend with.
Make a map and show me
Where X marks the spot
Make a map and I’ll be there
I can be caught
Watching his beautiful mouth sing as his nimble fingers played, she couldn’t believe he had this voice, this ability to play a guitar and write an evocative song, on top of everything else he had: beauty, strength, ease, charm, sweetness. Uncommon good fortune.
Beyond a meaningless crown and a bad attitude, what did she have? How could this song be for her, a girl he fucked inside a wine tank?
His eyes lifted to hers.
I found you in the day
Without a star in sight
I need my North Star
Lead me with your light
Please make a map and show me
The way to your heart
Cause you’ve got my map and already
You’ve got a head start
You’ve got a head start
You’ve got a head start
You’ve got my map and already
You’ve got a head start
The bones of his face, she realized staring at him, were actually quite brutal—long nose, high cheekbones, a carved jawline that could cut concrete. It was the tanned, velvety skin, the plush lips and the devoted eyes that made him look...safe. That made him look loving.
“It’s beautiful,” she sighed as the song strummed away, not caring that she sounded like every groupie who would come after her.
“I’ve never written a song that fast before.” His voice rumbled out of him. “I think you’re my muse.”
“Am I?”
“Yeah.” He rested his long arms over his guitar. “My North Star.”
She could feel her heartbeat in her fingers and toes as he stared at her. She wanted him to touch her. Instead, he gripped his left forearm with his right hand, and looked down into the shadows between his arms and the guitar.
“I’m not trying to get in your pants again,” he murmured toward his lap. His knuckles turned white as he clenched his arm. “I’ll wait as long as you want to show you—”
She launched off her knees and tackled him, grabbing him by his hair to bring his mouth up to her as the guitar thunked between them.
He grunted in surprise. And then opened for her.
She’d been starving for his mouth, and now it was there, open and talented beneath hers, twisting to give her pleasure. He tasted like pizza and wine and spice, some secret ocean spice she couldn’t get enough of, and she ripped her mouth away to bury her nose in his neck, to greedily inhale what she’d been missing for a week.
“Fuck,” Aish groaned. “Wait...” He had to push her away, his hot hand against her naked shoulder, as he pulled the guitar from between them and propped it against the bed. The instant it was steady, he grabbed
as Sofia leapt, falling back among his covers. He caught her head in his big hands and brought her lips back to him, tasting them and then licking inside them, holding her mouth captive for what he wanted to do to it. Sofia had never felt anything better than Aish Salinger’s tongue stroking against hers. But she wanted to feel his fiery heat against her skin. She pushed against his chest, ripped out of his hands until she was upright and straddling him, and whipped her pajama top over her head.
“Jesus,” Aish breathed as he looked up at her. “Jesus.” In her frenzy, Sofia had forgotten that she was self-conscious about the size of her breasts, the small scoop of an A-cup with dark, tight nipples. Now she was in bright, fluorescent barn light, but when she tried to lurch down to him, he pushed her back, a hot hand against her sternum. It felt like he could span her torso if he spread his hand. He stared at her, and she knew she was panting and that her nipples were hard and she made her eyesight go blurry in case there was something awful on his face.
“You’re gonna make me blind,” he said. When she focused on him, he was staring into her eyes. He raised his other hand and lightly stroked his thumb over her nipple. “How do you say star in Spanish?”
“Estrella,” she said, trembling as he continued to stroke her nipple, her body growing wet with the thick feel of him between her thighs.
“Right. Estrella. Mi estrella. You’re so bright I can barely stand to look at you.” He let go and lifted up on his hands so he could tongue at her nipple, sweetly, delicately, making her shiver, before he wrapped his arms around her and pulled closer, brought the heat of him closer to the heart of her. He sucked on her and she buried her fingers in that soft, thick hair, rolled her hips to make him ease the ache.
“Your cock is so hot through your jeans,” she purred into his ear. “Like fire. Mi fuego. Que calor. You’ll burn me up from the inside.”
She bit his ear and he crashed her back on the bed, his weight holding her to the Earth. “Stop it,” he moaned, licking the words out of her mouth. “I’ve listened to Spanish my whole life, but when you speak it, my dick feels like it’s gonna explode.”
She’d never laughed before as she got naked.
He was velvet end-to-end, endlessly long and strong as he stretched over her. But any impulse to laugh ended when he kissed her belly button then determinedly slung her thighs over his shoulders.
She actually squeaked when she looked down, caught the resolute gleam in his eyes as his mouth hovered over her. He was separating her with those long fingers.
“You don’t have to... I don’t...” she murmured. “I’ve never...”
When he smiled and licked his bottom lip, she thought, Maybe I could...
“Tell me what...”
“I don’t know what I like...”
“Wet and tasty, cinnamon-sweet, do you like it like...ungh...”
“It’s never felt like this, I don’t...”
“God yeah, pull my hair, show me...”
“Oooh, there, your tongue, yes, yes, unh...que fuego, demasiado calor...”
“Deep, gonna tongue fuck you so deep...umm, estrella, baby. Fuck...”
“Me gusta eso, eso. Mi fuego, más, más. Te necesito.”
And as pleasure ripped away her words, she screamed into the bunkhouse, filled it with the glory of what he did to her, the first to care enough to seek it from her, and he scrambled up her body, slipped on a condom and was inside her, hot, hot heat and fire for only a moment before he also was coming, his shout helpless and a little defeated.
His body trembled as he pulled off the condom and then pulled her into his arms. He muttered against her temple, “Stay with me. Be with me.” He squeezed her tight. “Need you.”
Unable to speak, Sofia just nodded against his naked shoulder.
It was simple. It was inevitable. She was his. And he was hers.
September 8
After a sleepless night thinking about Sofia’s accusations, her anger, and the haunting feel of her in his arms, Aish dragged himself out of bed at 5 a.m. and called Devonte. He’d been making notes on the morning’s script and mainlining espresso when Devonte stumbled in with a still-yawing makeup girl twenty minutes before the bus was supposed to leave. She’d barely had time to cover the yellow bruises under his eyes and flat iron his hair. The sprint to the bus had made Aish feel like hurling.
Maybe it was time to start working out again.
Now, Aish had to nudge a snoring Devonte awake as the luxurious passenger bus came to a stop beside a vineyard.
Canceling their private transportation was probably cruel to his overworked manager. But as much as that news story wanted to put the blame on Sofia for the interns threatening to go home, Aish knew it was his fault, too. He was so good at wooing a crowd that he’d been offered acting gigs, and yet, here, with his music career on the line, he was forgetting to entertain. He was only around the interns when they worked; he’d skipped the “fun” activities and took most of his meals in his room. Solitude was a hard habit to break.
But he needed the interns to stay so he could keep the cameras on. He needed those cameras sending sparkly vibes to the public. He needed the public to keep him in their good graces long enough so the label would accept a reputation-cleansing fourth album.
He needed Sofia to give him a chance to apologize.
And none of that was going to happen if Sofia kept thinking of him as a “selfish, self-involved man-child.”
So he’d canceled their car and torn up his room looking for the intern schedule and buttoned his long-sleeve cuffs at his wrist.
He walked off the bus and stood outside with the group in the morning sunlight, getting a few “good mornings,” which was progress over the shocked stares when he got on. A low, hazy fog lingered among the rows. Like California’s Russian River Valley where his uncle grew grapes, the Monte had cool nights and warm days, which made for great grape growing. But the day was warming up fast and Aish could tell it was going to be another scorcher.
In a vineyard was one of the few places he didn’t miss his best friend like a missing limb. John hated the work, and once Young Son had made it, never returned to Laguna Ridge Winery with Aish to lend a hand whenever their recording and tour schedule allowed it.
Aish sometimes thought the repetitive, exhausting, exhilarating work was what allowed him to withstand a decade of nonstop rock ’n’ rolling. John never needed a break from the booze or the drugs or the sex or the limelight. Especially not the limelight, which, as the years went along, started casting John in an uglier glow.
Aish felt a stab of guilt at the uncharitable thought toward his best friend. His brother. He needed to clear up any public doubts about John and he wasn’t going to do that focusing on what his best friend had done wrong.
Instead, Aish would focus on helping Sofia. He could help the interns see her talent, help the world see how interesting and compelling she was. Squash the rumor that they were going to pull the plug early on the internship, forcing him to lose his one best chance with her.
This morning, she looked unbearably sexy in oversized canvas work pants, a long-sleeve white T-shirt, and swept-aside bangs as she began to motion to vines trained on wire trellises. But his heart sank when he realized she was doubling down on the stilted-somber performance. Nothing of what he’d said yesterday had sunk in.
A few gnats buzzed above her soft, sun-streaked hair.
Aish began to sidle around the group to get closer to her. Devonte caught his arm. “What’re you doing?”
“My cue’s coming up.”
“No, it’s not. What’re you up to?”
Aish tugged his arm away and kept moving. Devonte muttered behind him.
From the other side of the group, he could see Namrita trying to head him off. But he was closer to Sofia.
Within handholding distance from her, he stopped and adopt
ed the look of a captivated audience member. Sofia side-eyed him but ignored him.
He raised his hand and gave a swipe at the gnats above her head.
Sofia startled back, brown eyes wide. “Aish!” she said, under her breath.
“Sorry,” he said quietly. “Just...” He pointed at the gnats that had regathered above her.
She huffed and kept talking.
He let his eyes wander over her face. With her hair short, her delicate cheekbones were more prominent. Her eyes bigger. Her skin was as fine as porcelain with a healthy olive tan.
Holding her close yesterday, stroking his nose into her soft hair, filling his lungs with the spicy-sweet scent of her, had overwhelmed him. Memories had carpet-bombed him, tried to convince him of the insane: that she still wanted him, that he was essential to her. He lost all sense when he touched her. Always had.
Sleepless in his bed last night, that senselessness tried to convince him that he could make the insane true.
But here and now, Sofia was academically and long-windedly taking the group through the history of vineyard trellising.
Aish waved away the gnats again.
“Aish!” she said with more irritation. A few of the interns chuckled. They probably thought the down-on-his-luck rock star was as high as a kite.
“Sorry,” he said. “I thought they were annoying you.”
“Something is annoying me,” she shot back.
This time, she got a genuine laugh from the group.
“Forgive us. He’s regressing.” And she said it just right, pointing her thumb at him, good-natured exasperation on her face. Aish couldn’t have scripted it any better. Amelia, the wine blogger, was scowling, but the French hotel exec gave them a warm smile.
Sofia launched into the warming global climate and how it had changed Monte winegrowing. He could hear the pride, history, and resolve bubbling behind her words. Could the others?
When he looked around, most of the interns were eyeing him. Waiting to see what stunt he pulled next. And the cameras in the cordoned-off media area...shit. They were stuck on him. They probably missed her whole fucking speech.
Might as well get it over with.
Hate Crush (Filthy Rich) Page 9