They couldn’t keep their hands off each other. Now was a perfect example. They had places to be but couldn’t resist a little loving in the early afternoon.
Beck disposed of her dirty, sweat-caked clothes in record time. He kicked off his boots and soon was as naked as she, the differences between their bodies on full, mouthwatering display.
“Care to join me?” she asked, stepping into the tiled stall.
Silly question. As steam exited the shower, Beck entered.
“Soap,” he grunted.
“You learned a new word? Very good.” Sawyer barely managed a straight face. She dangled a sponge in front of his face. “Loofah. Come on. Say it with me. Loo-fah.”
“You know what happens to smartass women when they poke a hungry bear?”
Beck cupped her breasts, teasing her nipples, making her heart race. His idea of punishment was her idea of heaven.
“Bear? You aren’t furry enough. More like a naked Thor.” When Beck raised an eyebrow, Sawyer snickered. “Sorry. Hard to concentrate when every superhero fantasy I ever had is right in front of me.”
Beck ran his lather-coated hands over her shoulders and down her back. Sawyer sighed and licked her lips.
“You once compared me to The Hulk.”
“My mistake.” She kissed his muscled chest. “In fact, you need a name all your own.”
With a half-grin, Beck trapped her against the wall. As his tongue teased the curve of her ear, his hand slid between her legs and whoosh, every cohesive thought left her brain.
“What name did you have in mind?” he asked.
“Hm?” Sawyer gasped. “What?”
Beck knew she was at his mercy. However, like any good superhero, he’d vowed to use his powers only for good. Right now, his mission seemed focused on giving her so much pleasure, she forgot every word in the English language. Except one.
“Beck,” Sawyer gasped as he sank to his knees.
Her head fell back, her fingers grasped his shoulders, and the world narrowed to one thing, one man. He was the center of everything. Only Beck.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
♫~♫~♫
THE HIGH SCHOOL auditorium was packed, every seat at a premium. After months of practice and anticipation, tonight was the launch of what many hoped would become an annual event.
An extravaganza written, composed, and performed by the Eatonville High School Music Club.
Buzzing voices of excited parents and relatives mingled with the sound of instruments, on key and off, as unseen musicians warmed up for the performance. Children, already bored, ran around the hardwood floor in no particular direction, bobbing and weaving as they played with their friends and did everything in their power to elude their exasperated mothers and fathers.
“Nervous,” Talia asked as they took their seats.
“Me?” Sawyer shook her head and lied through her teeth. “Why should I be nervous? I don’t have to perform.”
“Thank God,” Tilly said, then coughed. He settled into his chair with an innocent smile.
“As Beck said, tonight is about his students,” Sawyer reminded them.
“He looked a little green around the gills when I saw him out in the lobby. Worse than a virgin on his wedding night,” Tilly snorted. “Always been the calm in a storm. Guess mentoring a bunch of kids is different.”
“Beck wants them to succeed.” Glancing at the stage, wondering when the show would start, Sawyer folded and unfolded the pleats on her skirt. “After all the time and effort, he thinks of them as his own.”
“Sharon didn’t want to come?” Tilly asked Talia.
“She’s in San Diego, an annual retreat with her mother. Though I suspect this year is more about Grandma time with baby Julia. Fortunately, the school’s geek squad is on the job.” Talia nodded toward one of six cameras set up in strategic areas around the room. “I promised to buy Sharon a digital copy.”
“Nice way to generate some revenue for the music department,” Tilly said.
“Here we go,” Talia whispered as the room grew dark.
The few stragglers rushed to their seats as a spotlight hit the middle of the stage. A second later, Beck stepped to the microphone.
Dressed in a black sports coat with a white shirt and red tie, he opted for jeans instead of dress pants and a pair of buffed black boots. Another side of Beck, Sawyer realized. The teacher.
“Ladies and gentlemen. The performances you are about to hear represent something we need more of in the crazy world we live in. Dedication, passion, and selflessness. The performers, your daughters, sons, friends, are the future, and you should be proud.”
“We are,” someone shouted over the applause.
The crowd laughed, then quieted, their attention focused on Beck.
“Last year, I issued my students a challenge. Write an original piece of music. The point was to look inside themselves, deeper than they thought possible. You can love music, but when you create the melody and write the words, you discover a new appreciation for the process.”
“Everyone’s hanging on Beck’s every word,” Talia whispered. “He makes me want to take up an instrument, and I’m more tone deaf than you.”
Sawyer felt a surge of pride. She had no right, but she didn’t care. He was her husband, damn it.
“I didn’t expect fifty hit songs out of the gate. And I was right. The music was raw and needed a lot of work. To say the least.” He smiled when the audience snickered their understanding.
“Many of you suffered through the growing pains right along with your children. The sour notes, the months of frustration. I won’t compare writing a song to childbirth, not if I want to walk out of here alive.”
A woman Sawyer didn’t recognize stood and shouted with good humor, “Damn straight.” Other mothers laughed along.
“The pains of birth aside, songs are a writer’s babies. We nurture and feed them. And then, with trepidation and a sick stomach, we send our children out into the world.”
Beck paused to let his words sink in.
“Music is a subjective medium. What gives one listener joy may affect others like fingernails on a chalkboard. Whatever your response tonight, I ask you to open your heart, feel the joy, and be proud. Your kids are amazing.”
Applause, loud and raucous, followed Beck from the stage. If his goal was to warm up the audience, he succeeded.
The next two hours flew by, representing a variety of music styles and a few hybrids thrown in for good measure. One young woman performed a rap song set to a rumba beat, a tribute to her love of Drake and her Cuban ancestry. Another young man played a bluegrass number on the oboe that had the entire audience tapping their feet and clapping along.
Archie Fields, who helped bring Sawyer and Beck together with his skateboard and a bag of chicken manure, teamed up with a friend for a drum and guitar instrumental Sawyer could only describe as enthusiastic. They might never play Carnegie Hall, but they had a great time.
In the end, the happiness radiating from their faces, from all the performers, was what really mattered.
“Beck’s a genius,” Talia sighed.
Sawyer wouldn’t argue. As she stood along with everyone else, admiration for Beck filled her until she was ready to burst.
The students took their bows, first individually, then as a group. Finally, Archie, looking slightly uncomfortable, but determined, stepped to the microphone.
“We—” He cleared the catch in his throat and continued, “We want to thank everyone for coming. Your support means a lot. And we want to thank Beck, um, Mr. Kramer. He’s the best. Really. The best.”
The kids behind Archie cheered.
“First day of class, Beck told us we can do anything if we work hard. Don’t worry about perfect, nothing ever is, he said. Don’t think everyone believed him. Turned out, he was right. Look what we did!” Archie shouted, beaming. His friends screamed their approval.
“He said tonight is about us. But we wouldn’t be here if he hadn’t believed.” Archie looked toward the wings. “Would you come out on stage? Come on, Beck. Please?”
Beck didn’t look thrilled, but Sawyer knew how his mind worked. He couldn’t ignore Archie, especially when the kid used the magic word—please.
“Remember,” Beck warned. “We’re back in class on Monday. Embarrass me, and I will make you pay.”
Archie grinned, blushing at the catcalls from his friends.
“We wanted to get you a present. You have about a million pairs of drumsticks.”
“True.” Beck smiled.
“So, we pitched in and bought something you don’t have, something you’d never get yourself. A guitar.”
Beck seemed stunned when a girl in a pretty pink dress handed him the present.
“Does he play?” Talia asked.
“Guess so.” Sawyer shrugged. The things she learned about Beck were never-ending.
“Are you surprised?” Archie asked Beck with an eager, hopeful expression.
“Yes.” Beck’s eyes crinkled at the corners as he ran his hand along the body of the guitar. “I don’t know how to thank you. All of you.”
“Play a song,” someone yelled.
Before Beck could answer, the audience started chanting, “Play a song, play a song.”
Sawyer grabbed Talia’s hand and waited. She knew the significance of the moment, even if no one else did. Performing was once Beck’s life. When he walked away, the pain burned a hole deep in his heart. He told himself he didn’t miss the spotlight, and she believed him to a point.
Embracing part of his old life didn’t mean he needed to forsake what was new. Both were possible. He simply needed to take the first step.
As if reading her mind—something at which he excelled—Beck nodded. When the audience cheered, he grinned, a bit of the cocky rock star sneaking through. Waiting while Archie rushed to bring a chair, he put the strap over his one shoulder, removed the red ribbon from the neck, and tuned the strings with the skill of a pro.
The curtain closed behind him, leaving Beck alone on stage. He adjusted the microphone and took a seat.
“Been awhile.” He plucked one note, then two. “In case you forgot, I’m a drummer.”
“We remember,” Talia piped up then slunk down in her seat. From the corner of her mouth, she said, “I was caught up in the moment.”
Sawyer understood. Her palms were damp, and she told herself to breathe. Last thing she wanted was to pass out from lack of oxygen and miss Beck’s song.
“Never was a lead singer,” Beck muttered.
“Stop stalling. Sing Rapid Fire. Unless you forgot the words.”
Whoever called Beck out, the jab at his memory seemed to do the trick. He lifted his head and looked directly at the audience.
“Grateful as I am for my past success, I’d like to share a song I finished just the other day. It’s called, Something New.”
“Did you know Beck was writing again?” Talia demanded.
Sawyer knew. However, tonight was the first she’d heard that Beck finished a song he considered good enough to share.
The first chord of music quieted the room. After the second, no one spoke or moved; they barely took a breath.
Deceptively simple and completely seductive. Sawyer felt each note as if she were the strings coming to life under Beck’s fingers.
“I wasn’t looking for you,” he sang, his voice strong and confident. “All I wanted was tried and true. You asked can we be friends? My only answer was, until the end.”
Sawyer gasped, but no sound came from her mouth. The song was about her—about them. Beck sang their story, telling her with words and music what was in his heart. Helping her realize what was hiding in hers.
The song pulled at Sawyer, practically daring her not to tumble into its thrall. Her throat tightened, and her eyes filled. She refused to cry. Beck wouldn’t want her tears.
“I wasn’t looking for something new.” He paused, his gaze finding Sawyer. “All I wanted was you.”
A second passed, then two. Finally, the crowd jumped to their feet, screaming and stomping. Sawyer stayed seated, unsure of what to do. Either the building was shaking or did the quivering come from deep in her soul?
Sawyer rubbed her chest. The ache was unmistakable, but the reason wasn’t as clear. Had her heart finally healed, or was it on the verge of breaking all over again? And if both hurt with equal intensity, how was she supposed to tell the difference?
“Beck wrote you a love song,” Talia sighed.
“I know.”
“You don’t sound happy. Why?”
Good question. Sawyer wished she had the answer.
“I need some air.”
“But—”
“Go on,” Tilly told Sawyer. The big man crossed his arms. “If Beck comes looking for you, what should I say?”
Sawyer didn’t care for the judgmental slant of Tilly’s head. Nor the admonishment she saw when looking into Talia’s eyes. They were her friends and should understand she needed a few minutes to gather her thoughts and settle her emotions.
“Tell him the truth,” she said. “I went to get some air.”
“Then you’ll be back?” Talia asked.
“Where would I go?”
Without waiting for an answer, Sawyer headed across the auditorium, toward the exit. Some friends, she huffed. What did they think she would do? Run like an overwrought adolescent with more hormones than sense? Not likely.
As the thought sank in, Sawyer’s steps slowed. Perhaps they were right. Not the running off part. However, her hormones were raging and for a second, her common sense seemed to have flown out the window.
Sawyer smiled and nodded, but only half-listened as people stopped to congratulate her for Beck’s accomplishments. They were a team. When one did something amazing, the other was expected to take a small bow. Everyone would think her odd if she didn’t bask in a bit of his reflected glory.
Beck was her husband. The details of how they joined their lives couldn’t be called ideal. Her memories of the event were vague and if not for a marriage certificate containing both their signatures and the platinum bands around their ring fingers, she wouldn’t be sure the ceremony hadn’t been a surreal, booze-induced dream.
Rushed and ill-advised, after a major stumble right out of the starting blocks, she and Beck found a way to make the best of an unusual situation. Some might say they flourished. And Sawyer would agree.
Why she asked herself, was she headed in one direction when her husband waited in the other? No good reason. As Talia pointed out while stating the obvious, the man wrote her a love song. A freaking tribute to her and his feelings.
Sawyer rubbed her chest in anticipation of the pain brought on by her jumbled thought of Beck. She waited. And waited. The ache didn’t materialize. Blood pumped faster through her veins; her breath caught in her throat. But not because she hurt. Just the opposite, she felt wonderful.
Beck loved her. The knowledge made her giddy, yet calm. Her heart raced with joy, not panic.
“Well, I’ll be,” she whispered to herself. “I love—”
Someone grabbed her arm. The grip harsh, damp, and desperate.
“Sawyer, thank God I found you.”
“Mills?”
The sight of Mills Hale at a high school auditorium in Eatonville, Nevada was so incongruous, Sawyer blinked, certain she was seeing things. When Mills blinked back, she knew he had to be real. No one else could manage twitchy and creepy with such awkward ease.
“What are you doing here?”
“We need to talk.”
“No, we don’t.”
Sawyer tried to pull away, but in his desperation, Mills found an extra level of strength in his spindly noodle arms.
“Let go. Now,” she warned.
“I can’t.” His grip tightened. “You have to forg
ive me. I’m not to blame.”
“And I’m not a priest. Find someone else to hear your confession.”
Sawyer preferred not to make a scene and give the citizens of Beck’s hometown something to talk about for the next month other than tonight’s performances.
Sometimes a woman had no choice; to save herself, she needed to knock a man on his ass. Before Sawyer could act, Mills turned from desperate to pathetic.
“Please. Let me explain,” Mills begged, almost in tears. “Please?”
Sawyer realized taking him down would be like crushing a fly. Sure, the bug annoyed her, but in a world of daily annoyances, he seemed harmless enough.
“Talk,” she said. “I’m listening.”
“Not here.” Mills blinked. “Somewhere private. Maybe outside. I have my car; we can go for a drive.”
Sympathy was one thing. Complete idiocy, another. Sawyer wasn’t about to leave the building with Mills. And she sure as heck would not get into his car.
“Please,” Mills whined.
Sawyer could take care of herself. Still, she knew when to use her brain and when to rely on someone else’s brawn. Beck was her first choice, but he was busy backstage. Her gaze landed on Tilly. Perfect.
Catching his eye was simple. The man saw everything, all the time. One beckoning wave, and he was by her side in a half-dozen long, purposeful strides.
“Do we have a problem here?”
Wisely, Mills dropped her arm. Not so smart, he sidled behind Sawyer, using her as a human shield.
“Who’s he?” Mills wheezed.
“I’m the housekeeper,” Tilly said. With little effort, he wedged himself between Sawyer and Mills. “Who are you?”
“The brother-in-law.”
“Former brother-in-law,” Sawyer corrected. “Mills insists he isn’t guilty and wants to tell me why. Alone. I’ll listen if you’re my backup.”
Tilly, armed with the bare facts, turned into a man of action.
“Equipment closet.” He placed Sawyer’s hand in the crook of his arm and started toward the far end of the room. “Now,” he barked in his best ex-master sergeant’s voice when Mills lagged.
As Tilly unlocked the closet door, Sawyer remembered he taught self-defense at the high school once a week. Made sense he would have a key.
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