Pretty Remedy

by S. E. Hall

  “Mr. Riley? That dollar?” Mr. Waterman asks.

  I squeeze Rhett’s hand, anxious little butterflies about to carry me away. I’ve been waiting for this day, the exact moment, to put into motion the plan I’ve dreamed of for years.

  Ozzie’s skeptical, his brows bowed into one suspicious line as he hands over the bill.

  “And now, sir, if you’ll sign at the three red flags, you’ll become Crescendo Records’ new COO and a forty-nine percent shareholder. Not that Mr. Rhodes warrants much credence, but he did draw up of these contracts, as delegated specifically by Ms. Kelly.” Mr. Waterman explains. “I assure you, I double-checked them, and everything’s in legal order.”

  Rhett’s mouth brushes my ear. “You are the exception, the prettiest damn remedy in the whole world, and the most astonishing person I have ever fallen into.”

  “See, you know the pretty words.” I blush fiercely, loving his beautiful mouth as much as his dirty one.

  “By the way”—he tilts my face up to meet his eyes, and the sensual glint there conquers me once and for all—“I’m so down with being a bird.”

  “Really, a bird, you say?” I tease.

  “Fuck me.” He groans, raw and exposed. “But yes, hell yes.”

  My father jumps to his feet, red-faced and screaming, “Enough! Reece, this is ludicrous. You are merely proving my point with these shenanigans. You can’t sell half of everything I’ve worked for to the chauffeur for a dollar! I’ll never allow it! This company belongs to our family!”

  “Please quit tossing the word family around. You have no idea what it means,” I counter with a cool lift of my chin. “And I can do whatever I want. Grandpa ensured that.”

  “You wait until your mother—”

  “Notices?” A sardonic laugh escapes me. “Mother will hardly care what happens here—you trained her not to, remember? As long as the money keeps rolling in, she’ll be no more concerned than she’s ever been. And the money will keep rolling in, if you cooperate.” My anger falls flat, and I allow my vulnerability to come through. “Dad, I don’t hate you. I have no intention of taking what you have, in fact, earned. Any portion of royalties up to this point will be paid to you fairly. I just can’t work with you moving forward.”

  “Insanity,” he grumbles, looking around the room for support and finding none, except from Warrick, who’s of no consequence. “You’ll ruin everything your grandfather spent his life building.”

  “Maybe.” I shrug. “Thankfully, he had more faith that I could handle it than you do. I think between me, Ozzie, and Mr. Waterman, we’ll be just fine, but I appreciate your concern. Retire peacefully, please. Play some golf, spend some time with Mom, and I’ll see that you’re taken care of. Cause any trouble for Crescendo or Rhett, and I’ll fight you tooth and nail. That’s all I can offer. I hope you take it.”

  He doesn’t respond, staring at me with… an odd mix of anger and shock. He didn’t think I had it in me.

  Surprise!

  “Oz?” I grab his attention—no, scratch that, it seems I already had it—his thoughtful, dare I say glistening, gaze fixed on me. “You got it from here?”

  “Always, sweetpea.” He takes a second to mouth “I love you,” then he points at Rhett and very much aloud gnarls, “I’m still looking for a reason to kill you.”

  I roll my eyes and laugh. “Get to operating, Chief. Start with house cleaning and changing all the security.” I look one last time at my father. “Bye, Dad. Maybe I’ll see you on the holidays? I hope so. Come on, Jarrett, we’ll practice tomorrow.”

  “Where we going?” Rhett asks.

  “I don’t know. Where you taking me?”

  Where else would three musicians, buzzing from an empowering morning, go besides the Grammy Museum?

  I’ve been before of course, but the boys haven’t, and watching them holds my interest much more than the exhibits. Jarrett has a child-like exuberance, spinning in circles, talking loud and fast. Then there’s Rhett. He takes it all in with silent, considering appreciation—especially the historical drum sets.

  “That’s the kit Ringo Starr played on the Ed Sullivan show,” he says almost to himself. “Liz would be foaming at the mouth if she saw this.”

  “She likes the Beatles, huh?” I ask.

  He laughs. “Yeah, lil’ bit.”

  “And you?”

  “Nothing not to like about the Beatles.”

  “But?” I ask.

  “But there’s others I like more.”

  “Which are?” Every bit of information I pry, and I do mean pry, out of him is another little treasure that belongs only to me.

  He shifts to fully face me, his steel-blue eyes searing into mine. “Guess.”

  This is a test. Where the hell is my number two pencil? It’s important, imperative, to him that I nail this; his need for affirmation that our connection isn’t an illusion is suffocating. If he’d have asked me to guess a genre, or maybe even a drummer, I might’ve stood a chance. But a whole band?

  Jarrett comes to my rescue, hand on my shoulder. “Dude, give her a fighting chance. How about any one in your top five?”

  “Deal.” Rhett’s bottomless stare still bores into me. “I’ve got five in my head. Pick one of them, Reece,” he says to anyone else listening, but to me, he’s begging.

  The tiny hairs on my nape perk, and my nervous gulp gets stuck. Okay, take what I know about Rhett and informed musical respect, carry the one… I can do this. He’d appreciate a passionate songwriter, a great drummer, a folksy feel (like the Civil Wars). He’d choose a band that needs every member to complete the magic, not a one-pony show. And he’d definitely prefer a group that never broke up, but… there just aren’t a whole lot of those to choose from.

  His gaze drops to my mouth. He’s waiting, hanging on for the words that will either deflate or vindicate him and everything he’s almost afraid to believe about us. No pressure.

  I close my eyes and summon every instinct I’ve always relied on. A one in five chance are good odds, right? After a fragile prayer, I whisper, “Fleetwood Mac.”

  “Hot damn!” Jarrett whoops and claps me on the shoulder harder than I think he realizes. “Okay, I’m gonna get outta here and catch y’all much later, ‘cause I’m pretty sure my brother’s about to fuck ya right here. Nice job, Reece.”

  Gradually I open my lids and look at Rhett. The sexy smirk of impressed admiration I find sends my stomach into spasms.

  He holds out his hand, palm up, and I slide my clammy one into it. “You get me, so you know what happens next,” he says.

  The juncture between my thighs begins to ache beautifully, and it’s a struggle to breathe. “Uh huh.”

  He grabs the back of my neck and hauls me to his mouth, kissing me with feral abandon. Just as my legs threaten to give out, he leans away. “You ready?” He breathes heavily. I nod and his mouth curls into a predatory promise. “Oh, I don’t think you are, but I’ll get you there.”

  “The second thing, boy, is the clincher, and it’s a tricky one.” He laughs, a brittle, dusty sound that pains me too. “’Cause if you’re a gentleman, it won’t happen ‘til after you’ve sworn to always take care of her. But it reminds you she’s the one, so keep working to keep it. When you’re sound asleep, bone tired, and you wake up for no reason at all… turn your head. If she’s left the bed and you can’t sleep without her beside you, thank the Lord right then and there. He got you where you’re supposed to be, with her. Then you get up, go find her, and show her exactly how much she means to you.”

  I wake with a start, a sheen of sweat on my skin, the dream of my grandfather’s words vivid. Beside me is an empty space. She left the bed.

  My first thought is… what the hell is with these sappy reflections? But obviously my grandfather was plagued with the same affliction, and I’m not a bit ashamed to resemble him in any way. Then the Rhett I recognize kicks in, and my next thought’s of dragging her back to this bed and starting my morning right. Not
sure she’ll be agreeable though; wherever she is, she’s got to be sore.

  Last night was the single most gratifying experience of my life. The second the name of my favorite band—not the fourth, fifth, but the band—left her lips, something in me snapped, and I’d never wanted a woman more. But with Reece, I want every part of her to be mine, only mine.

  I’d fucked her, rough and sloppy—sweaty bodies slapping against each other, her screaming my name pushing me to go faster, deeper ‘til we both howled in volatile release. Then I’d taken her gently, learning each inch of her silky flesh, her soft kisses endless as I slid inside her slowly. Her sweet pussy, swollen and snug, had gripped me mercilessly as she’d whimpered a bit with each thrust, yet demanded in a hoarse whisper that I never stop.

  Goddamn.

  Maybe I should never stop fucking her.

  I hear her talking as I get closer to the kitchen, and I stop. While I’m more than okay with the glowing review she’s giving my performance, it better not be to my brother.

  “So more than once, never with a shirt on, and he’s still here. Those are all good signs, right?”

  I brace myself, because if it’s Jarrett who answers, I’m not gonna be happy. And why the hell is she still worrying about those things? Have I not made it clear, on a man-card-threatening level, how I feel about her?

  Obviously not. That shit changes now.

  No one answers her aloud, so I walk around the corner, pleased to find she’s alone and talking on the phone. I sidle up behind her and curl my arms around her waist, chuckling as she startles with a squeal.

  “Landry, I gotta go. Rhett’s up and just scared me to death.”

  She’s quiet, listening, as I brush her hair aside and kiss down her nape. She hasn’t showered and her skin smells like sex with me, and that has me pushing my rock-hard dick into her back.

  “Hang up,” I growl, sliding one hand inside her panties. She’s wet for me. “Now.” I thrust a finger inside her.

  “Gott-a go,” she pants, flinging the phone onto the counter.

  “Good morning.” I add another finger.

  She moans her reply, rocking against my hand.

  “You wanna come, don’t you?”

  “Yes.” She rolls her hips faster.

  “Not gonna happen.” I deny her my hand and flip her around to face me. I chuckle before I can stop myself, because she is not happy about being deprived and her adorable scowl is aimed at me.

  “What was that for?”

  “Got your attention. Seems we still need to get a few things straight, Teaspoon. Obviously you’re not picking up on my tongue-clicking, and I’m too fuck-tired for any interpretive dance.” I grab her hips and hoist her up on the counter, pushing her legs apart and stepping between them. “Tell me, Reece, who’s your man?”

  Her cheeks flame bright pink, and she tugs on her bottom lip with her teeth. “Well, I wish it, if he’d—”

  “He would. Say it.” I run my hands up the tops of her thighs.

  “But it’s only... I mean—”

  “He still would. Say it.” I pull her forward and step closer, my dick hard and coaxing between her legs. “Say it.”

  “You,” she mutters.

  I grab her chin and demand her gaze. “You’re goddamn right I’m your fucking man. Have been, will be, looking like always. You already knew this, so stop second-guessing. You need affirmation, come find me.” I lean in, rubbing harder against her. “I’ll give it to you. We clear?”

  “Yep.” Her lazy smile illuminates her beautiful face, and I take the languid, soul-stroking kiss that only Reece can give.

  “Keep ‘em closed.” She snickers, trying to cover my eyes even though she can’t reach them.

  I laugh. “They’re closed, babe. Don’t hurt yourself.”

  It’s Wednesday evening, and the three of us—her, Jarrett, and me—got a lot of work done today, so I feel pretty good about where we’re at for the show tomorrow night. I’m tired and ready to go home to eat, shower, and sleep inside Reece, but with the excitement in her voice, I’d never deny her a full-blown reaction to the surprise she has planned.

  “Okay, open!” she squeals.

  Especially when this is the surprise. “Who put it together?” I ask, staring at my drums set up right here in the studio.

  “Ozzie and the new helper he hired, his nephew Theo. Do you like it? I was iffy on how you’d feel about other people setting them up without you, but—”

  “I love it. Thank you, Tea.” I walk closer, half to make sure they put my babies together correctly but more just craving the feel of sitting behind my own heads. My sticks are even lying on top of the bass. I pick them up and roll them through my fingers. Been too long.

  She sashays over, the little skirt that has been driving me crazy all day swishing over her thighs. “Why don’t you play me something?”

  “Might not sound like much with just the drums, but how can I say no when you ask me like that? Come ‘ere.” I widen my legs and pat the stool between them.

  “You can’t play with me sitting there.”

  “I can, and I will. Now come here.”

  She scoots between my legs and looks over her shoulder at me, still doubtful.

  “Who’s here besides us?” I ask.

  “No one.”

  “Nice to hear.” I wink. “Because if you name the song, we’re gonna christen my drums my way.” I dip my head to lick one long stroke up her jawline to her ear. “You, bent over them.”

  “Have you—”

  “No, Teaspoon. Just you.” I grit out the answer to her unfinished question in a purposeful, seductive timbre.

  “Then how do you know it’s your way?”

  I shake my head with a stifled laugh. Always with the questions, this girl. “Got a hunch. Get the song, and we’ll see if I’m right.”

  “And if I get it wrong?” she asks, fidgeting.

  “Then I’m gonna lay you on your back, spread you open on my bass, and take you that way.” I nip her lobe, and she moans softly. “Ready?”

  I count it off, easily reaching around her, and beat out “Clocks” by Coldplay. Not quite as good with just the percussion, but recognizable I’d say. As if it matters—I can’t lose.

  She glances over her shoulder, jade eyes smoldering, and licks her lips. “‘Clocks,’ Coldplay.”

  The sticks go flying over my shoulder. “Stand up,” I grunt, flipping open the button on my fly as she does. I lay her down on her stomach, just how I want her—cheek flat on the head and ass up, reaching for me. “Grab over the edge, far as you can.”

  I kick the stool out of the way, drop to my knees, and lick up the back of her leg while my hand coasts up the other. What her legs lack in length, they make up for in silky softness… and the slight tremble that runs through them every time I touch her. I flip her cute lil’ skirt up onto her back, and a rumble barrels up my chest at the sight of her little white panties. I barely get the lace pulled to the side before I’m sliding my tongue through her sweetness then spearing it inside her.

  “Rhett,” she moans, squirming against my face, begging for more.

  “Mmm,” I hum, knowing she loves the vibration. I replace my tongue with two fingers, working her as I rise to get my jeans and boxers down with the other hand. But some things… you really do need both hands. “Hold on, babe. I’m hurrying.”

  She grumbles at the loss but shimmies her panties off eagerly and lays back down just as I had her as I take care of business. Gloved now and hungry, I tap the inside of her ankle with my foot, and she broadens her stance, popping her ass up higher. I can’t resist grabbing each firm, tiny cheek and massaging roughly. Yeah, this is definitely my way. I rub the head of my dick over and around her clit, pressing in, teasing her, thriving on her desperate whimpers

  “Rhett, please,” she begs and wiggles impatiently.

  “Please what?”

  “Now, please!” She tries to push back, to take me in herself, and she’s
so damn wet, if I wasn’t holding my cock, she’d succeed.

  “Lean way over for me.” I help push her up, wanting her ass as high as possible; it’s perfect. Her toes can’t possibly be touching the ground now, just the drums holding her up, and it’s the sexiest fucking thing I’ve ever seen. My girl, my drums… my pussy.

  “Like that?” she pants.

  “Just like that. Good girl.” I groan, driving into her halfway, then play with her ass cheeks some more, opening her up to thrust all the way in. “There she is.”

  I lay across her back, sucking and biting her neck while plunging through her gripping muscles again and again, but raise slightly as my gluttonous girl pushes up on her hands for leverage and bucks against me in counter rhythm, crying out for more.

  “Harder,” she growls, banging her hand on the drum as she meets me thrust for every brutal thrust. “Fuck it, Rhett, fuck my pussy like you love it!” somebody who feels like my Teaspoon, smells like my Teaspoon, but most certainly does not sound like my Teaspoon screams.

  Goddamn, that’s hot, and the slow roll of release starts up my legs and spine ‘til I’m ready to explode inside her tight heat. I find her clit and torment it, my other hand yanking her into me by the hip. “Get there, babe.” I flick her trigger faster and feel her start to pulse, in and out, short, tight little grips around me. ”Yeah, there it is, there it fucking is.”

  With one long, loud cry, she thrashes her head from side to side, propelling herself on and off my dick frantically, and I can’t hold on another second. I roar as we come together, then collapse onto her back, catching my breath along with her.

  “So how do you like my drums?” I ask when I have the air to do so.

  In raspy, nervous honesty that enslaves more than scares, she whispers, “I think I love your drums.”

  Our first official gig as Fostered Fusion is tonight, and I surpassed “hot mess” straight into “scorching shambles” hours ago. We’re only doing two songs, which we’ve rehearsed plenty, and I have the utmost confidence in the boys. I’m only concerned about whether or not I can really do this. I got so comfortable in the background, with my chance never coming—even though I was heiress to a record company , yeah, makes total sense—and my father all but convincing me I wasn’t good enough, that I think it may have actually crept in and got stuck in my subconscious.