“Good?” he asked, resting his cheek against her leg.
Arms flung over her head, her luscious body limp with blissful satisfaction, Sawyer cracked one eyelid long enough to take in his smug smile.
“Need your ego stroked?”
“My ego? No.” Like a big, hungry predatory cat, Beck inched up Sawyer’s body. He lay next to her on his side. “However, another part of me could use some attention.”
Sawyer’s smile widened. Pushing him onto his back, her hand pressed against his chest, her lips teasing his ear.
“Your turn,” she whispered.
Unwilling to miss a second, Beck propped himself against the headboard, his head sinking into two fluffed pillows. He smoothed Sawyer’s hair from her face, tucking a long sable-colored strand over one shoulder.
“The swirly thing you did with your tongue? The move that made my toes curl? Mind if I give it a try? I’ve always been a fast learner.”
Sawyer’s turn to sound matter of fact as he suffered. Beck didn’t argue—turnabout was fair play. She took his silence as a yes—smart woman. White teeth flashing, her head moved lower, lower, lower—
Beep, beep, beep.
Beck’s eyes popped open, the alarm breaking into his dream.
“Mother fucking son of a bitch.”
For a second, murder in his eyes, he considered hurling the phone across the room, smashing the flashing, blaring bastard into a thousand pieces. Instead, like every morning, he took a deep breath and reminded himself that a bit of momentary satisfaction wasn’t worth the trouble.
Beck rolled out of bed, shuffled to the bathroom, turned the tap—full-blast freezing cold—and stepped into the stall.
Bending his head, he counted to ten, then twenty, letting the spray run down the back of his neck. He rested one hand on the tiled wall, the other hung at his side, the muscles of his arms tight and tense.
With increasing frequency—almost every night now—Sawyer slipped past the pitiful barricade he set up in his mind, past his defenses, into his subconscious.
God, he was tired of the dreams.
The beginning was always a rush, the middle, heaven. Her pleasure was a given while something always interrupted his orgasm. Whether a figurative bell in his head or the literal blaring of the default alarm setting on his phone, he wound up the same way—with a raging erection. In the same place—surrounded by the solitary four walls of his shower.
Opening his eyes, Beck stared at his dick. Down, boy. Not the least surprised, he found the plea was to no avail. Ice-cold water wasn’t the solution, as he’d learned again and again. If he wanted to get out of the house and to his job on time, his choices were limited to one familiar option.
With a resigned sigh, Beck poured the liquid body wash into his hand, grabbed his cock, pumping hard and fast. He didn’t have long to wait—dreams of Sawyer always brought him to the edge. A picture of her naked body—culled from his imagination, not reality—flashed through his mind. Two more pumps, and he came on the shower wall.
Beck moved his feet shoulder-width apart, using the handheld showerhead to wash the tiles. He didn’t know the exact amount of his bodily fluids he’d watched swirl down the drain in the past months. The idea of a sperm count equation almost made him smile. Almost. Lord save him from that precise piece of information.
Turning off the taps, he grabbed a towel. Freshly laundered, Beck realized as he dried his face. He told her not to bother—once a week would do. But Sawyer wouldn’t hear his arguments. He worked hard at a physical job. Clean towels every day were a must.
Dressed in worn jeans and a plain black t-shirt, Beck laced up his work boots and headed down the hall, taking two flights of stairs at a brisk jog. Still early, he hoped to eat a quick breakfast and leave before running into—
“Sawyer.”
Placing a plate in the dishwasher, she sent Beck a warm smile. The perfect housemate. Considerate, conscientious, neat. Built like a freaking brick shit house.
Sawyer’s dark hair hung down her back in a simple braid. She was dressed in Khaki cargo pants and a pale-yellow shirt. The logo of her store, a bright red poppy, and the name Hale’s Nursery in gold, was embroidered in the upper righthand corner.
“Good morning,” Sawyer beamed.
“You’re up early.” And chipper to boot, he grumbled to himself. No sleepless nights for her.
“I have a shipment coming in at the store. I told you last night. Remember?”
Pouring himself a cup of coffee, Beck rubbed the back of his neck.
“Right. Daffodils.”
“Dahlias,” Sawyer corrected. “Doesn’t matter. I let Ringo out into the backyard for his morning romp and filled his bowls.”
“Thanks.”
“Sorry, I don’t have time for our usual morning run.” Sawyer dropped her keys. With a sigh, she bent over at the waist. “Tomorrow, without fail. I promise.”
Don’t look at her ass, Beck warned himself. Don’t look at her ass. Naturally, his gaze landed without fail on her ass. Cursing under his breath, he gave up and enjoyed the view.
Slinging her bag over her shoulder, Sawyer hesitated.
“Something wrong?”
Averting his eyes, Beck gave a casual shrug and took a box of cereal from the cupboard.
“Thinking about the job,” he said.
“Okay. How does pizza sound for dinner?”
“I’ll pick one up on the way home.” Beck didn’t ask Sawyer’s topping of choice. He knew what she liked.
“See you later.” With a wave, she disappeared out the garage door.
Alone in the kitchen, Beck went through the motions of eating, while he breathed in the mingled scent of toasted bread and citrus. Like a well-trained dog, his mouth watered.
Beck lifted a spoonful of Wheaties to his mouth, chewed, and sighed.
“When did my life go to hell?” he lamented, watching through the window as Sawyer backed her pickup truck out of the driveway. “And when, God help me, did I fall in love with my wife?”
CHAPTER ONE
♫~♫~♫
SOME DAYS, BECK wondered how he survived the years away from his hometown. Not that he regretted his decision to leave. He’d jampacked enough wild living between his eighteenth and twenty-third birthdays to fill an aircraft carrier while traveling the world, playing concerts in front of jam-packed, sold-out stadiums. In between, he was blessed to record a couple of number one records—one of which he co-wrote.
Razor’s Edge. So many memories of his old band—his former bandmates—were good. The bad Beck chose to forget, for the most part, or tucked them away in the far reaches of his mind.
Stretching his back, he marveled at the hot Nevada day. Though at one time he planned to make his living as a musician—late nights, dark recording studios, artificial stage lights—in his profession as a builder and contractor, he never grew tired of days spent basking in the sun.
Whether sweating through hours of manual labor or less physical, though at times as strenuous in their own way, business meetings with bank managers and clients, Beck discovered the lifestyle suited his temperament more than the often-artificial world of a rock star.
Occasionally, he missed the music, missed Razor’s Edge and the camaraderie of the early days. The ache of the empty space left by his friends’ absence never completely healed. As for the thrill of playing before an eager, appreciative crowd? If he were honest, sometimes he missed the rush.
Small or large, a seedy dive bar or a sparkly eighty-thousand-seat stadium, nothing matched the excitement of a pair of drumsticks in his hands, controlling the beat, the rhythm, of each song.
Nothing equaled the joy of performing with four other musicians who automatically anticipated each other’s moves in a kind of mental choreography few people outside their tight circle could understand.
Words couldn’t do the experience justice. However, if he tried, beautiful, breathtaking, and r
are came to mind. And ultimately, unsustainable.
The brush of success had been heady, sitting on the cusp of greatness, knowing all the years of hard work, the ups, the downs, the sacrifices, were about to pay off.
A man in his early twenties didn’t project himself too far into the future. In some ways wise for his years while arrogantly stupid at the same time, he rode the wave, enjoying the perks of limousines, plush hotel rooms, and private jets. Wide-eyed and green as grass, Beck quickly took to the rock star lifestyle, unconcerned—unaware—how tenuous and fragile fame and fortune could be.
The fall to earth—fast and hard—came as a shock, leaving him whole of body but mentally bruised. However, Beck was lucky. Blessed with an even-keeled, roll with the punches sort of personality, he embraced the good times and accepted the bad with equanimity. Unlike some, he landed on his feet, slightly battered, but infinitely wiser from the experience that, in retrospect, he wouldn’t have missed.
Don’t be fooled. Beckett Augustus Kramer was nobody’s fool. When pushed to his limit, he didn’t hesitate to push back. His temper might sit at a low boiling point ninety-eight percent of the time, but his wrath, when unleashed, had the heat of Dante’s Inferno and the power to level the biggest of dickwads.
Today, with his nightly sex dream out of sight, out of mind, and muscles humming from hours of placing Spanish tiles on the roof of one of five projects his company currently had underway—with another six in the planning stages—Beck’s mood was riding high. Another week and the new-construction home would be move-in ready.
Landscaping would take place after his crew and equipment were gone. Though prettying up the two-acre property wasn’t his responsibility, Beck didn’t hesitate to recommend someone he trusted to find a balance between the owner’s often unrealistic wish list and the reality of living in a water-challenged area. That someone was Sawyer. His wife and unwitting tormentor of dreams.
Beck and Sawyer met just over a year ago on a job site, becoming fast friends. A professional association between Kramer Construction and Hale’s Nursery seemed like the perfect fit.
He sent work her way, she returned the favor. Now, their company names were tied together in the community, like peanut butter and jelly or milk and cookies.
No one in the town of Eatonville seemed surprised when they married—no one except Beck and Sawyer.
“Hey, boss.”
Pulled from his thoughts, Beck turned his gaze to where Chet Roundtree straddled the roof’s apex as he applied a coat of sunscreen to his mahogany-colored skin.
Second in command, the only person, other than himself, he trusted to keep a project on track, Chet was a life-long resident of Eatonville and one of Beck’s oldest friends.
Normally, they worked at different job sites. But with rain in the forecast, Beck needed an extra set of expert hands to ensure the roof was finished before the expected deluge.
“What’s up?” Beck asked, reaching for another tile.
“Your rule about treating women right on the job? No whistling, no catcalls?”
Why men needed rules, on or off the job, was a mystery to Beck. Show respect every day, all day, no matter a person’s gender was a simple tenet his mother taught him from birth. Too bad not everyone was blessed with a loving but firm role model like Sandy Kramer.
Beck laid down the law before he made a new hire. Man, or woman, step out of line, and you won’t draw a paycheck from him for long.
“Someone causing trouble?” Beck demanded.
“We have a good bunch. They keep an eye on each other—self-police—call out any troublemakers.” Shaking his head, Chet grinned. “Doesn’t hurt that when you want, you can put the fear of God into the Devil himself.”
“I am a badass.”
“You’re a pussycat,” Chet corrected. “By the time new guys figure out your secret, they’ve either adjusted their attitude or moved on down the road.”
“Did you have a point? Or are you just in the mood to shoot the breeze?”
“My point is the gorgeous lady down below. Been giving me the eye ever since she parked her lovely self under that old elm tree in the front yard.”
Frowning, Beck looked over his shoulder. Scanning the area filled with piles of two-by-fours, bags of cement, several toolboxes, he easily found the out of place item—a tall, leggy blonde.
Beck’s stomach clenched, his heartbeat picking up by several ticks. He didn’t need to see behind her dark sunglasses to know the color of her eyes—bright, intelligent green. Before she smiled, he knew exactly how her lips would curve upward, showing a set of straight, white teeth.
“Well? Any of your rules state I can’t chat her up—with respect, of course.”
“What makes you think she’s interested?” Beck asked, without taking his gaze from the woman.
“Obviously, she can’t keep her eyes off me.” Chet stood, brushing the seat of his jeans. He flexed his impressive muscles. “Who can blame her?”
“You are a handsome devil,” Beck said, telling the truth. “But you’ve misread the situation.”
“What makes you think so?”
Carefully but with purpose, Beck made his way to the ladder propped against the roof.
“The lady is here for me.”
“You’re a married man,” Chet reminded him, peering over the edge, a frown marring his brow.
Beck simply shrugged, his boots hitting the ground with a thud. Mind racing, he walked around the house, his steps faltering for a moment when the woman’s head turned to track his progress.
The emotions swirling through him were mixed, covering a wide and varied spectrum. Happy, confused. Worried, Beck felt the rush of each feeling before he settled on one. Cautious. Seemed the way to go when about to confront a piece of his past he thought long buried.
Stopping, keeping several feet of buffer between them, he paused, took a deep breath and gazed at the face of the first woman he’d ever loved.
“Hello, Beck.” She smiled, and the memories, good and bad, came flooding back.
“Joplin.”
CHAPTER TWO
♫~♫~♫
Beck didn’t know what to expect—how could he after five years? However, when Joplin threw herself into his arms, he caught her, the feel of her wonderful and familiar. Despite himself, he grinned.
“I’m a sweaty mess,” he warned but didn’t set her aside.
“I don’t care,” Joplin sighed, holding on. “I’ve missed you.”
The sound of tears in her voice, genuine, heartfelt, kept Beck’s instinctive response—then you should have stayed in touch—lodged firmly in his throat. Holding her close, the flash of anger fell away. The bitterness and resentment weren’t as easy to shed. For now, he let himself be happy to see her.
“I’ve missed you, too.”
Stepping back, she lowered her sunglasses. The green eyes he remembered so well swept him from head to toe.
“My how you've grown.” Laughing, teasing as only an old friend could, Joplin squeezed his thick bicep. “What happened to the scrawny young man who couldn’t bulk up to save his life?”
Beck’s lips quirked into a self-aware smile. He used to lament his slight frame as he tried and failed to add brawn to his brains.
“Chalk up the change to manual labor and the backside of my twenties.”
“We’re all a little older.”
“Yet, you look the same, as if time stood still.”
Where Joplin Ashford was concerned, the words, at least on the surface, were true. When they met six years ago— Six years? Where had the time gone? —she was fresh-faced, bright as a penny, and so damn eager to make good. Some had dared to call her a girl but only once after they felt the sharp edge of her tongue for their trouble. She considered herself a woman.
Neither observation, girl nor woman, had been completely accurate.
Like Beck—like everyone in his old band Razor’s Edge—Joplin f
ell into a gray area; an in-between stage where she believed she had all the answers but was too young—too foolish—to realize the truth. She didn’t have a clue about how life really worked.
“Older and wiser.” Joplin shrugged. A twinkle he remembered well entered her clear green eyes. “I hope.”
“Wisdom doesn’t automatically come with age.”
Beck thought of his current situation, stuck in a marriage of convenience, as a perfect example. Though stuck wasn’t accurate. The last thing he wanted was to pull free from Sawyer. Just the opposite. One change, an adjustment of their circumstances, of her feelings toward him, and he would stay by her side—happily—for the rest of his life.
“Speaking of wise choices. Can we move out of the direct sunlight?” Joplin squinted before replacing her dark glasses. “Even with SPF 50, my skin fries quicker than most. The curse of my Irish roots.”
“The office is air conditioned.” Beck nodded toward the long trailer he moved from job site to job site. The company name, Kramer Construction, emblazoned in blue and gold.
“Hey,” a voice called from the roof. Chet, perched with his feet hanging over the side, frowned down at Beck. “Aren’t you going to introduce me?”
Even behind the barrier of black lenses, Beck could feel Joplin’s questioning gaze. The slight upward turn of her lips told him, whatever the story, she was amused.
“Joplin Ashford meet Chester Knowles.” Beck lowered his voice, “Chet thinks you’re interested in him.”
“Does he?” The question rolled off her tongue deceptively sweet.
“Saw you staring.”
The explanation was lame, as if a woman’s innocent glance was all a man needed to consider her fair game. Sometimes Beck wondered why females didn’t band together and annihilate men altogether. They, and the world, might be a better place.
Joplin’s method for dealing with less evolved members of the human race was less permanent but very effective.
ALMOST BLUE Page 2