by Liora Blake
He says it so matter-of-factly, without even the slightest hesitation, like he’s said it a million times before. Maybe he has; maybe he’s practiced saying it, or said it in his sleep. I haven’t heard it before, though, not like this. I can feel his cock between my legs and the weight of his bare chest against mine, a posture that would usually make me think those words are sex-induced bullshit. Except this is Simon, the man who looks me in the eye whenever possible, and in those eyes, he can’t hide a single thing.
It as if he can hear my thoughts, because he rises up on outstretched arms and looks down at me. Eye to eye, it’s there.
The truth.
The boy loves me.
Then I can’t breathe steadily, because he is poised to slide his thick length inside me, where I need him, and in anticipation, I’m afraid of everything: losing him, letting him in, loving him back. He lets one hand slither between our bodies and presses it over my heart.
“Your little heart is beating like crazy.” He presses harder, as if the weight will slow the wild beats. “Don’t be scared; you don’t have to say it back. Even if you never do, it won’t change a thing. Just trust me to love you, Devon. That’s all you have to do.”
My eyelids flutter, because my instincts are shouting to look away. I nod my head up and down, the words I need eluding me. When I do, he slips inside, just two thrusts. The first to part me, the second to drive in to the hilt. Simon seems to know he needs to do this just right, because when he starts to move it is nothing but slow and deliberate perfection. I want to burst in the first minute, just from the way his hips are crushing mine, my legs spread so wide that my clit rubs against him firmly and repeatedly. When I close my eyes, I pull my arms around his neck to force him closer and consider that all I’ll ever need is this: him riding me hard, grunting in my ear, and letting his body take mine.
“You feel that, baby?” The only thing I can offer in response is a little sobbing moan. He starts to drive even harder, shortening the strokes but escalating everything else. “You’re getting fucked just right by the man who loves you. Just give it up, let me feel you come.”
Then he starts to go harder, there is an audible roar in my head, the sound of blood rushing away from my heart. And when I lose it, the noise I make starts out low, dense like the rumble of a thunderbolt, then crackles apart into something wilder until I can’t give any more. When Simon pitches forward, lost to his own release, his open mouth lands against the top of my breast, and, in the fervor, he bites down. I can feel the throb of my flesh under the sting of his teeth and instead of pulling back, I arch into the pain and the heat of it.
His jaw goes slack and opens his eyes, spying the mark on my breast. The brand is angry red, the flesh still holding the slight impression of his teeth. In one tiny spot, the skin is broken, and there is a minute seep of blood.
“Oh God. Fuck. Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
I purse my lips together then shake my head adamantly.
His breath hovers over the spot for a moment. Then he sweeps the tiny streak away using the tip of his tongue. That gesture, him tending to my wounds, is more loving than any words could convey. He says everything then. That he has loved me for so long it runs deeper than I ever could have known.
23
In the morning, I don’t stir from bed until I hear him get out of the shower. When I pad into the bathroom, he’s shaving in front of the mirror, with only a towel wrapped around his waist. His hair is still damp and a few drops of water glisten on his chest.
Good God, if there’s anything sexier than watching your man shave, I don’t know what it is. It’s so damn male, so intimate to be there when he does, I can’t think of another place I would rather be right now. Spying me in the mirror, he drops his gaze to shake the razor clean in the sink bowl.
“Morning, sunshine.”
“I’ve decided we should stay. Like, forever.”
He shakes his head and grins. “Yeah? Sounds like a good plan to me. I’ll let you call Trevor and tell him I’m bailing on this tour with four days’ notice. Good luck with that.”
I veer around him and swing my body up to sit on the countertop. “He’ll survive. Aren’t guitarists a dime a dozen in LA? You’re not even very good.”
“Oh no, I’m very good, I think you know that. Practically irreplaceable.”
My heart sinks then. There’s the real problem. Simon and his unique brand of being so exceptional. I consider how to possibly replace him for the next two months. Ugh, it already sounds unsatisfactory.
“That’s the rub, isn’t it? You being irreplaceable. What are we going to do?”
Simon shakes the razor clean again and looks at me out the corner of his eyes.
“You’re irreplaceable to me, Dev. But we’ll meet up a few times and work out our frustration on some unforgiving hotel mattress. Then you’ll move in with me when I get back and we’ll get reacquainted without interruption until we can’t move.” He shrugs his shoulders nonchalantly.
“I love how you just asked me to move in with you like you were talking about what to have for breakfast.”
“It’s that simple for me. I don’t deliberate my breakfast decisions. Unless it’s pancakes, then I give it a ton of thought. Because pancakes, especially chocolate chip pancakes¸ require a long-ass conversation.”
He takes a final pass over his jaw with the razor then inspects his work, pausing to wipe the last bits of shaving cream off his face. As the sink drains, he moves to stand in front of me.
“You could come with us. Kate will be there; you’d have a partner in crime.”
“Two months without any income? Not very realistic.”
Simon leans down to prop his arms on either side of me. “Please note how I’m tilting my balls away from you at this moment. Because when I say this, I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if you kicked me in the nuts. But you know I’d cover you, right? You could come with us, take the time off, and I’d take care of your bills. Not an issue for me.”
I roll my eyes and then lunge one of my legs forward sharply but pull it back. Simon flinches but doesn’t move.
“Would you give me an allowance, too? Hand me a stack of mad money every week?”
“Shit, no. Mad money, you’d have to earn. I’ll make a chart so you know what everything’s worth. Make me a sandwich, five bucks. Do my laundry, ten bucks. Go down on me, twenty. Dressing like a slutty Girl Scout will earn you a couple hundred. But only if fresh-baked cookies of my choice are also included.”
I give him a quick sucker punch to the stomach, and he almost dodges me, but decides to wrap me up in his arms instead. Propping his head on top of mine, he sighs.
“Just saying, the offer is on the table. I’d take care of you.”
“Not yet.” Before I shut it down completely, I wrap my legs around his waist so he’ll know that I am only saying no to this. The rest feels like an easy yes.
When Kate calls about the casual gathering she’s arranging on the day Trevor and Simon depart for the tour, I want to claim we’re too busy and won’t be able to make it. Even if “busy” in this case only means that I’m determined to keep Simon all to myself right up until the second he has to leave. I want to stay wrapped up in bed with him, burrowed under the covers with the shades drawn tight so the outside world can’t intrude, as if we’re quarantined on a sick day or something. Sick is close to the truth, though. Heartsick counts as an actual affliction, I’m sure of it.
I begrudgingly agree to a compromise. One hour. That’s all I’m willing to give up. They get him for eight weeks straight, so I’ll be damned if I allow one minute more.
Strolling into Trevor and Kate’s house, Simon has his hand in mine, and I realize this is the first time we’ve announced ourselves this way. As a real couple, complete with the body language that shouts our status. No one casts a second glance, though. Not Trevor or Kate, not bandmate Phil or tour manager Rob. Even the ever-suspicious Damien, Trevor’s longtime manager and best f
riend, barely lets his eyes flicker toward our intertwined fingers in acknowledgement. I let out a sigh of relief. When Simon hears it, he raises his brows and smirks my way, as if he’s resisting the urge to say, “See? All good, sunshine.”
We mingle a bit until Kate solicits my help to open a few bottles of champagne. While toasting to Simon leaving is not anything I support, perhaps a little alcohol will dull the ache watching him go. Just as I work the cork free on the first bottle, the corresponding pop vibrating in my ears, I look up to find Simon across the room laughing and tossing his head back. When he does, I catch sight of who he’s deep in good-times conversation with.
Lacey.
Kate’s sister has her hand on my boyfriend’s forearm, smiling and shaking her head so jauntily that all her strawberry blonde waves bounce around, creating the world’s most annoying halo effect. All while wearing a tight aqua-colored cowl-neck sweaterdress with knee-high black boots. I can see every curve on her body, as can anyone else with two eyeballs. You know who has two perfectly functional, magnificent, shimmering gray eyeballs? Simon. I’ve seen them up close.
My lip curls up. A growl follows, but I’m not sure if it takes place in my head or if I actually make the sound aloud. Gripping the champagne bottle tightly about the neck, I barely restrain the impulse to chuck the cork at her head.
“Don’t.” Just behind me, Trevor issues the command in a low voice. “Whatever you’re thinking about doing or saying, just don’t. If you go after Lacey, it’ll upset Kate, and I don’t want anything getting to her right now. Let it be.”
Another growl from me, clearly out loud this time. “Why? Name one good reason why I shouldn’t go over there and forcibly remove her hand from his arm. What is she even doing here?”
“Dust storm,” Trevor says.
“What? Dust storm? Is that code for something?” I tilt my head in his direction but don’t shift my gaze from Lacey.
“That’s what Kate calls it when Lacey’s ex stirs up something shitty. As in Dusty, creating a dust storm. All I know is Lacey showed up here yesterday after driving basically straight through from Crowell. From what little Kate said, apparently Lacey hooked up with Dusty again and it didn’t end well. As fucking usual.”
Even I don’t understand why Lacey would stoop to any kind of relationship with Dusty Frank. Two drunken dances with him at the wedding and I could see he wasn’t much beyond a ten-gallon hat and a corresponding overblown ego. The man’s entire aura bellows “asshole.” And—I’m only going to say it once—Lacey is gorgeous. Too pretty for a place like Crowell, really. All her trendy outfits and deftly applied mascara likely go to waste in a town where cowboy boots are the only fashion mainstay.
But for a woman who supposedly bolted from her hometown after some kind of messy hookup fallout, she looks awfully put together right now. Smiling, flipping her hair around, and dressed like she’s planning to hit a high-end martini bar later. Only a woman like Lacey could manage to avoid the hot mess of sweatpants and holey T-shirts that the rest of us would succumb to in the same situation.
God, she’s just so . . . girly. Not a girl’s girl, that’s different. But she’s a girly girl. Prom queen, head cheerleader, and town beauty maven all rolled into one. In the week we spent in Crowell before the wedding, I think she must have done her nails three times. The first day they were painted cherry red, at the rehearsal dinner they were pale pink, and at the ceremony they were done in a French manicure. Each time they were shaped perfectly, not a hangnail in sight, polished and gleaming, just as one would expect from a woman who manages the local beauty supply store.
Trevor tugs on the end of my hair, pulled back in a low ponytail, to get my attention again. “Plus, you and I both know there’s nothing to worry about with Simon.”
I shift to see him better and when Trevor sees the expectant look on my face, he rolls his eyes. “Once I was able to mentally bleach the image of you two on my couch out of my brain, the whole thing made sense. Explained why the kid’s been annoyingly chipper lately. He, like, whistles and shit all the time. It’s irritating as fuck.”
A doofus smile covers my face. Trevor crosses his arms over his chest with a sigh and nudges his chin toward Simon.
“I should have seen it, I guess. The way you two were always at each other and wouldn’t let up. Like some cheesy fucking movie or something.” He looks away for a split second, then drops his arms from his chest. “I can’t believe I’m gonna say this, but he’s a good dude, Dev. So . . . I’m happy for you.”
By following that statement with a playful slug to my shoulder, Trevor makes amends for all the words he said a few weeks ago. He knows as much as I do that before they leave, we need to put this brother-sister drama to rest. Done. With us, it’s that simple.
Kate ambles back into the kitchen, hollering for everyone to join them and when everyone has a glass in their hand, we toast to safe travels and good shows. I toss back my champagne and when I tip my head forward again, all I can see is the curious tableau in front of me.
Although Kate has raised her glass, she’s never brought it to her lips. She hands it off to Trevor and he proceeds to knock it back in two gulps, which is weird because he pretty much hates champagne, preferring a good beer over almost anything else. Usually when bubbly shows up, he passes his off to Kate—not the other way around. Glass drained, Trevor sets it on the counter without moving his gaze from Kate. Then he puts one kiss to the center of her forehead. Gently and dotingly. In absolute, utter lovesick, swoony reverence.
Holy shit. That didn’t take long. Without needing either of them to blow up any pink or blue balloons, I’d be willing to wager a large sum of money on Kate Mosely being good and well knocked up.
“Oh my God,” Lacey croaks from the spot next to me, where she sidled up after I made sure to claim the space next to Simon.
I lower my voice to a stage whisper. “Right? Thank God. I thought I was the only one who saw that.”
Lacey lets out a snort. “Nope.”
When I turn to see Lacey, she’s smiling in Kate’s direction. But in an instant, that smile starts to wane, drifting and melting from her expression until it seems there is a muddle of emotions she’s sorting through in a rush. Happiness. Admiration. Envy. Longing. Regret. Loneliness.
By the time her body catches up to all those feelings, Lacey’s shoulders have slumped and her hips have pressed into the countertop edge for support. And then I can see exactly how much whatever happened with Dusty Frank has wounded Lacey, the extent to which he’s stomped all over her prom-queen hopes and dreams for a happily-ever-after. All the pretty clothes and the perfect polish are merely a smoke screen, and when her usual luster dims, only the sad Lacey underneath is standing there. I’m not sure what to do first: hug Lacey until she can’t breathe or drive to Crowell and show Dusty Frank what a good foot-stomping feels like.
For now, all I can offer is a refill. I lean across the counter and grab up the bottle of champagne, pouring until Lacey’s glass is full again. And because I know exactly how deep it cuts when a not-good guy pilfers your pride, I’ll keep on pouring until the bottle is empty or Lacey’s slurring her words, whichever comes first.
The first week is bearable. I stay busy, cleaning up my house, catching up on all the things I’ve neglected. The second week I start to get punchy, missing Simon in a way I don’t quite understand. By the third week, there is a strangely anxious sensation covering my skin and making my mind fuzzy.
On day twenty-five, I drunkenly mumble that I love him on the phone. He calls just as I finish my third glass of wine while steeping in a hot bath, trying to think about anything other than him. After ten minutes of him dirty talking me until I can’t resist the pull any longer, we sit in near silence, just each of us holding on to the sound of the other’s heavy breathing. That’s when he whispers my name, and it feels like he is right there again. He chuckles softly when I respond by saying I love him, probably because he knows I’m drunk. What he doesn’
t know is that when I started drinking, it was to drown out the chorus in my head that screamed I missed him so much because I love him. Then the alcohol went and acted as a truth serum.
When Kate calls the next day, I’m still debating why he laughed when I said it. After twenty-odd hours of deliberating it, I’m almost convinced it’s because he thinks I’m a dipshit. That I’m a slobbering drunk who can’t stop the insincere words that tumble out of my mouth. Worse, that he doesn’t believe I could love him.
Kate sounds tired, bored by the inconvenience and monotony of life on tour with Trax. She spends most of the conversation begging me to join them or at least meet them for a few days. I spend a good deal of time trying not to demand that she confirm if she’s pregnant or not.
“Devon. This is serious. If I’m forced to show ID to one more idiot security queen, proving Trevor actually married me, I’ll come unglued. That and the groupie shenanigans will be the death of me. I’m exhausted and don’t possess the inherent kind of patience required to deal with it. You’re the only person who could possibly appreciate my brand of snark in this situation.”
“Not sure if the two of us together, feeding off each other’s snide attitudes, is the best way to deal with it. Might make it worse.”
“Don’t care. Come on, don’t tell me you aren’t climbing the walls to see Simon. Everybody wins in my scenario.”
It’s true; “climbing the walls” is an eerily accurate description of how I feel.
“How’s he doing?”
Kate snorts. “Oh, you know Simon.”
Yes, I do. I know the Simon who left me three weeks ago with a last kiss that made me dizzy for the rest of the day. I also know the Simon from before, the one who made an Olympic sport out of charming, seducing, and undressing eager women. Who knows which version Kate is talking about.