by Candy Sloane
Control yourself, Valerie. You’re the one who insisted this only be about sex. Remember?
She had rejected him ten years ago when he asked for more, and he would reject her now if she did. He had beautiful women lined up and waiting for him in L.A. Sure, he could stay faithful to her for one sexual tryst, but he could never stay faithful to her forever, commit to a life with her with a ring and a vow, not when he could have any gorgeous woman he wanted. He’d just seen every last bit of her and hadn’t said a word about how she looked, which just increased her self-consciousness. Of course, he was her best friend—she couldn’t expect him to lie.
When she finally stepped out of the bathroom, she found Alec lying on the just-made bed, strumming his guitar. His clothes were rumpled, his hair was a mess, but the look suited him.
These days few looks didn’t. She’d been able to view him as impartially handsome for years, but now every time she saw him, it made her woozy. He was hot—too hot to be sitting in this room with her and too hot to be lying on their bed.
And most definitely too hot to have just done what he’d done to her.
She sucked in a breath. He was still Alec. Even though his jaw, peppered with shiny brown stubble, and the way he bit his lip slightly as he strummed away made her crazy. He was still Alec. She said a prayer to the rock gods that he kept his shirt on.
“I haven’t heard you play in so long,” she finally said, not allowing herself to pause and think before joining him on the bed.
This was how things were supposed to be between them—casual, normal, no whirring thoughts filling her mind. No insatiable desire gnawing at her belly. She lay back and closed her eyes, floating away on the sound of his expert fingers on guitar strings.
His expert fingers… Her ears heated, realizing he hadn’t cleaned up like she had, yet. She was still all over those fingers, and now she was a part of the music he was making. She wondered if he’d thought it, too, or if sex with her hadn’t turned him into a total lunatic.
“Yeah.” He didn’t look up from the guitar. “FaceTiming our practice just isn’t the same. Remember this?” He started playing the first notes of “Every Breath you Take” by The Police.
“I used to love when you’d play that.” She closed her eyes, losing herself in the sound. It was the song he’d played for his senior solo in high school. Valerie could remember him practicing and practicing in the band room. Even when he was learning it, even when it was shaky, she’d lapped up every note. “It might be my favorite thing you’ve ever played.”
He made an attempt to keep going, but when he missed a few chords and changes he stopped.
“I’m way rusty on that.” He reset and noodled around a bit, finally playing a G into an A into an E and repeating them, weaving them into a song; the tempo was as slow as he had been when he was getting his footing with her against the vending machine room door.
Wow, maybe now she would only view her life as B.F. and A.F. Clearly she’d underestimated Alec’s capabilities. He’d put some sort of spell on her. Maybe he was her sexual messiah, her personal Cock-fucius.
“What do you think of a B-minor for the chorus?” he asked, his fingers still strumming.
“Nice.”
“It’s new. I just started it last night.”
The calm breaths she was attempting while in his proximity started to choke her. It could be coincidence, but she knew that like her—even more so than her—he used his music to feel.
What do those notes mean?
Why do I care?
“It’s a lot sweeter than what you usually write,” she said, pushing her thoughts aside. There was no doubt about that. If he was using music to illustrate his feelings, this song said contentment, plain and simple.
Chronic Disharmony was a rock band, and while their songs were catchy enough to hit the charts, they were way faster and harder than this.
Her abdomen clenched at the thought of those words—faster, harder. She couldn’t believe she’d just said those words to him while he screwed her against a vending machine. Jeez, the song she would have written to show her feelings would probably be closer to “Flight of the Bumblebee.”
No matter how much she tried, she was not as calm about this as he was. But then, he was used to this. Used to having his way and going away. That was how he’d always put it.
The memory of him inside her overtaking her, she saw the appeal.
“I have a reputation to protect.” His expression was pure as he shifted the guitar. “Don’t tell anyone.” He chuckled. “Sweet is not in Chronic Disharmony’s wheelhouse.”
Don’t tell anyone, one of her rules. It brought a guilty acid into her stomach. She hadn’t even been able to keep it. She’d demanded it of him and spilled the details to Cynthia the first chance she’d had. Now that she really knew what being fucked by Alec Rogers was like, would she ever be able to keep her mouth shut?
“I need to tell you something,” she started.
“Uh-oh,” he said, stopping mid-strum.
She sensed something in his gaze, fear or worry. It was not like Alec, and it only made her guilt surge.
“The condom wasn’t mine.”
He laughed, the sparkle returning to his eyes. “Considering what just happened, I was expecting something a lot worse. Like maybe you faked your orgasm, or I was the worst sex you’d ever had.”
Is he kidding? If he could even think that was the worst sex she’d ever had, what kind of sex was he used to having? She decided to tackle his first statement and ignore his second. She was already having enough trouble forgetting about all the women in L.A. who came before her and all who would surely come after—she grimaced—literally.
“Um, no, my orgasm was definitely not fake.” As she replied, the parties involved seemed to hum to life again, like just the word and him so close might mean it was imminent—down, girl.
“I didn’t think so,” he continued with light, easy laughter. “If so you missed your calling. You should have been in the drama club instead of band.”
“Right.” She managed to laugh, too, even as the guilt creeped up from her stomach to her throat. She needed to tell him. Tell him that she was the weak one.
“So, the condom was Cynthia’s.” She spoke quickly so he couldn’t interrupt her before she got it all out. “And she gave it to me because I told her about you.”
He lifted an eyebrow.
“About us,” she added. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to, it’s just she was there last night when we were in the closet and—”
“Breaking one of your own rules?” he interrupted. “You certainly aren’t leading by example.”
He didn’t seem angry, but that didn’t change the way breaking what she now viewed as their promise made her feel. Telling Cynthia took her right back to high school again—sharing sticky gossip just so she didn’t explode from knowing it. That was how it had felt that morning, and maybe part of why she’d told was that she couldn’t go to Alec. She’d needed a confidante and it couldn’t be him anymore, not about this.
“You’re seriously not mad?”
“You’re going to have to do better than that to get me angry, Val. When women kiss and tell with me, or not kiss and tell”—he winked—“it’s not with one of their best friends from high school. It’s usually with the Enquirer. I’m fine.”
Val stared at him. He was way better at dealing with all of this than she was. Not that she was surprised.
“Besides, knowing Cynthia like I do, she’s trustworthy,” he continued. “So, sure, tell her all about it. Tell her everything I just did to you.” His voice went low. “Every sordid detail.”
He leaned closer to her, close enough to kiss, close enough that she could smell herself on him. She understood it was not unintentional. Perhaps he was seeing if she’d break yet another of her rules, or perhaps he was letting her know he could tell she sort of wanted to.
“You can tell someone, too,” she said instead, pulling back slight
ly. If she kissed him right now, she was going to climb on top of him and force him to make that noise. That strangled breath he’d made when he entered her. Like her body and air was all he needed in this world. “I mean”—she pulled back from him even farther—“if you want to.”
He smiled and reached for his phone, clicked into it, and stared at the screen. “She was expecting me to tell her you said hi, too, not this, but what the hell?”
“Not your mom!” she screamed, slapping the phone out of his hand.
“For someone so intelligent and driven, you are still insanely gullible.” He smiled, his eyes running over her face, his pale lips puckering slightly.
She couldn’t blink. She couldn’t even breathe. She could do nothing but get lost in the way he looked at her. Had he always looked at her this way?
“Sorry, I’m not thinking as clearly as usual.” Of course he wasn’t going to tell his mom. Seriously, Val, get it together.
“Any reason why?” he pressed, even though his deep brown eyes told her he knew.
She wanted to hold his gaze, but she couldn’t. She looked down at her hands, her now seemingly useless hands.
“Hey.” He patted her leg. “We’re just two best friends hanging out on a bed together. You can tell me anything.”
“We aren’t supposed to talk about it,” she said, chastising herself as the words came out. But Alec did this to her. His warm and open face, his calm and sweet ways had tricked her into saying exactly what she shouldn’t have said.
“Ah, you’ll just think about it until it makes you crazy—good plan.” He waited, leaving the door open.
She could share the way she felt right now, but what was she going to say? Better and worse than she ever had. More certain and more confused than she’d even known were possible.
Thankfully he started playing again after a minute of silence. He knew her well enough to fill their empty spaces, which seemed so much emptier now, with music.
Music was just one of the languages they used that no one else understood. Another was how with only a look, they could know exactly what the other was thinking. She wondered if Alec could tell. If, even though she was choosing not to speak, he could see every shooting synapse of her mind. Every part of her that wondered, what if?
He stopped strumming with a start and turned to her. “Why didn’t you ever come and visit me?”
Crap. Even though it wasn’t what she’d been thinking, she knew it was something he’d always wondered. He’d asked her to stay with him in his big L.A. mansion. Invited her to shows over and over the first few years he was in the band. After a while he stopped because who wants to be rejected all the time? Especially when she’d dished out that first rejection that had almost ruined their friendship.
“I always thought you were too busy,” she replied. She could never say the real reason. If he saw her next to the women who hung on him, was able to compare face to face, breasts to breasts, ass to ass, he might not bother with her anymore. Even as a friend. She thought of the ex-cheerleaders who were hanging all over him that morning. It was how she’d felt next to them in high school. How she’d felt alone at night in her room when she heard the echoes of their taunts.
Barking.
The nickname stuck even as she got her braces off, grew into her gangly body, and her skin cleared. No matter what she did, it followed her like a suffocating shadow. She hated how she’d been cut down by a stupid nickname. She hated how, being back with all these people, she still could be.
“That’s a terrible excuse, Val.”
“You could have come to visit me,” she tried. Better he see her stacked up against other women in the symphony. Women she could actually compete with.
His eyes went dark, his usually proud chin lowered. “I know,” he said. He had his own reasons for staying in L.A. Reasons she knew were probably the same as some of her own. They didn’t belong together in the real world, even as friends. He was famous and beautiful and she was plain and normal, numbingly normal, and putting them in the same room would only illustrate that.
The only reason it hadn’t yet this weekend was because this was not the real world.
But there were also the secrets she knew about him. The secrets that might have been the real reason he’d never come to visit her. She knew his past better than anyone, she knew that he’d tried to give himself to her, and she knew that she’d said no.
“We could start visiting each other now,” he suggested.
“What’s changed?” she asked before she could stop herself. She didn’t need him to reply; the answer was everything.
“Well, I’ll be in L.A. for six months recording our next album, and now that I’ve been in the same room with you again,” he said, his gaze intensifying so fiercely his dimple shook, “FaceTime is not going to cut it.”
She swallowed.
“I should have insisted on seeing you before now.”
She managed a laugh. “You’ve never been able to make me do anything.”
He looked away, his hand circling the neck of his guitar. Was he thinking about that day? The day he’d left for New York, the day she’d said no?
She’d apologized so many times when she was trying to get him to speak to her again, but it was clear it still hurt him. When someone as closed off as Alec finally opens the door and gets it slammed shut, does he ever really recover?
“We can go to the beach,” he said, thankfully bringing the subject back to her visit. “You’ll love it.”
“Sounds perfect,” she said, leaning back on the pillow, trying to picture walking along the beach with him. Would they hold hands?
“And don’t worry, when you come to L.A. your rule about being the only woman in my life will still apply.”
Was he saying what she thought he was saying? Did she want him to be saying it?
“It’ll be just you and me hanging out for as long as you want to stay,” he continued.
Hanging out. No, he wasn’t saying what she thought he was saying. He was being polite. It made her a little sick that she’d even thought he could see her that way now.
“I’m there, unless I’m in London.” Her response was two-pronged. To remind her to forget those fantasies and to indicate to him that she had better things to do than just hang out.
“London.” Alec’s eyes went dark. “I guess I forgot.”
Was he upset she might be going? Would he have been two days ago?
“They have cell phones in London.”
His gaze met hers, the doubt in his eyes hypnotizing seconds into minutes. “I guess FaceTime is going to have to cut it,” he finally said.
Her mouth turned to dust. Was he working to forget some fantasies, too?
She glanced at the clock, anywhere to escape his eyes. “We’re going to be late for cocktails.” She couldn’t believe how the afternoon had gotten away from her, from them.
Alec stood, walked over to his suitcase, and pulled out a three-quarters-full bottle of vodka. It must have been what he was using to fill his flask.
“No, we’re not.” He smiled. “Also, I think I know where we can get some ice and mixers.”
She managed to smile back, but her face was on fire, and the hairs at the back of her neck poked out like needles. That room, the feeling of him rocking inside her when they were in that room, was all she could see.
“Not Coke,” she replied quickly.
He laughed.
“I’m seriously never going to like Coke.”
“I did my best.” He fluttered his eyelashes.
That brought a laugh from her. “Pretty sad even that couldn’t flip me.”
He paused, straightened his shoulders, and finally cleared his throat. “Does this mean we’re talking about it? Because I don’t know about you, but I’d really like to.”
She tried to breathe. He wants to talk about it? Maybe she’d had him all wrong. Maybe he was the guy who wanted to cuddle and murmur into her hair. Crap, why can’t I stop thinkin
g about that?
“I guess,” she said, needing to say something.
“I’m not going to get crazy on you or anything, but I always talk to you about the women I’m with. What happened between us shouldn’t change that.”
She understood what he was doing, but in that moment she didn’t care. She wanted to relive it with him. God knew she’d be reliving it with herself nightly, and whenever she had the time to take a bath.
“Okay.” She reached out for the bottle, needing a little liquid courage.
He headed to the bed and handed it over, taking a spot beside her. He sat back against the headboard and laid his black-jeaned legs out in front of him.
She took a swig, the familiar burn calming her.
“For starters”—his eyes were tight on hers—“you give a fucking amazing blowjob.”
She almost spit the vodka all over him. She swallowed her drink and stared. She knew when someone gave you a compliment you were supposed to say “thank you” but she couldn’t. It was too much.
He didn’t speak; he was forcing her to.
Grasping for anything, she finally said, “Who are you comparing me to?”
His face pinched.
She was trying to give him the crap she always did, but clearly she’d miscalculated. “Sorry, I was joking.” She shrugged. “I guess I don’t know how to do this.”
He exhaled. “You talk to me about guys all the time.” His fingers widened on the bedspread.
All the time was not that accurate. He talked to her about women, and she said whoever she was seeing at the moment was “fine.” She never gave details. He asked for them and sometimes she acquiesced, but for the most part he told her things.
Things she saw now had been fueling what had just happened between them more than she’d realized.
“Here’s a tip.” He took a finger and tapped it against the center of her nose. “When I’m telling you how sexy you are, don’t bring up other women.”
“Right,” she replied, feeling a blush down to her bones.
“You could reply with your own compliment about how sexy I am,” he suggested with a lighthearted smile, “or…” His face turned serious, his eyes had the power to give her a heart attack. “You could just say thank you.”