No One to Hold

by Arell Rivers

  He pulls Rose tighter to his side. She smiles at him, touching each of her fingers to her thumb repeatedly.

  Clenching my teeth, I manage, “How nice for you. Both.”

  This can’t be happening. When did Rose get back together with him? She’s supposed to be on her way to LA, to my—our—house. I love her. I can’t believe this. It’s high school prom all over again. Rose has closed her eyes. So, that’s how it is? She can’t even bring herself to look at me?

  Gruesome interrupts, “Now that you’ve met Rose’s boyfriend, it’s time for you to get back to your adoring fans.”

  She physically turns me around to face a tween girl who is looking adoringly up at me. Rose’s boyfriend. But I must do my job and tend to my fans, no matter how much I want to punch out The Fucker and grab my girl away from him. All of my muscles tense in the desire to do just that.

  Sucking in a pained breath, I muster what I hope resembles a smile and sign the girl’s concert program. As I hand her paper back, I’m surrounded by a small handful of women. Again. I sign their programs, T-shirts, pose for photos, whatever, as quickly as possible.

  About halfway through taking care of the group, which seems to be growing, Rose follows Gruesome out of the room, arm-in-arm with The Fucker. I look on in disbelief.

  How the hell could this have happened right under my nose? No wonder she never said she loved me. Unbelievable. Martinez has the right idea; fuck ‘em and leave ‘em. I need a drink. Or twenty. Now.

  The last person in the cluster is a blonde woman, and after I sign an autograph for her, she says, “Care to join me at the bar, Cole?”

  She’s familiar, but I can’t place her. Whatever. She’s going where I want to be. “Perfect. Let’s go.” I grab her hand and stalk out of the backroom.

  Why did Rose come here with that douchebag? What is she doing with that Italian dick right this second? How can she do this to us? I come to a halt at the bar and catch the bartender’s eye.

  Blondie stops behind me, puffing. “You sure do walk fast, Cole.”

  I grunt in reply. I didn’t walk fast enough to catch Rose, that’s for sure. About ten other women from backstage, including Gruesome, join us at the bar. I order a round of shots for everyone. Rose doesn’t even deign to make an appearance. She’s probably too busy with The Fucker. Real nice.

  After a couple of drinks, Gruesome comes over and says, “Congratulations, Cole. Your song was a big hit. Your surprise comeback is going to be all over the media tomorrow. Just like I planned.”

  Comeback? I didn’t realize I had gone away. I force out, “Thanks.”

  “Listen, I need to run. Everything’s covered here. Be a good boy.” She kisses me on both cheeks and pinches my ass. Ugh. At least she’s gone. Given my less than welcoming vibe, all the other women have wandered off too, except Blondie.

  The bartender comes up to me and Blondie quickly says, “A bottle of Dom Pérignon.” My eyebrow rise at her, but I nod toward the bartender, putting up two fingers. I can get drunk off champagne, no problem.

  Both bottles are put down in front of us, accompanied with two flutes. The bartender opens the first with a little flourish. I grab both bottles and head toward a secluded table in the corner. Blondie follows me, carrying the glasses. Taking the glasses from her, I pour generous amounts of the bubbly and hand her one. Quickly downing mine, I pour myself a second.

  Before I can bring this one to my lips, Blondie says, “A toast to the successful launch of your newest single.”

  God, it’s like my performance was days ago instead of only an hour. I’m incapable of speech, so I clink my glass to hers and down this one. I pour a third.

  “You were amazing up there. Your voice was pitch-perfect. Were you nervous? You haven’t performed since, well, months.”

  I look at her. She’s taller than average, of average weight and looks. Nothing extraordinary like Rose, with her gorgeous mane of brunette hair, expressive blue eyes, perfect ass. I close my eyes.

  Blondie repeats, “Were you?”

  I clear my throat. Thinking about Rose isn’t going to make her appear here, especially since she’s with The Fucker.

  “Excited.”

  Blondie nods in appreciation of my one-grunt response, smiling as big as if she just won the lottery. I chug my third glass of champagne, then refill both our glasses, putting the empty bottle on the floor and motioning for the next one to be opened. The server comes to do that, and I ask for a bottle of scotch. Somehow that liquor seems appropriate; it’s my drink of choice for mourning, and it feels like something died inside me.

  Following my sixth—or is it my eighth?—glass of alcohol, Blondie starts to run her hands over my chest. She leans into me, nipping my earlobe and breathing deeply. “You smell divine, Cole.”

  “Thanks, er.” Shit. I don’t know her name. “What’s your name, darlin’?”

  “Starr.”

  Again, bells go off in the dark recesses of my mind, but things are too foggy. “Have we met before, Starr?”

  “We have,” she whispers in my ear. “You gave me my name. At The Ice Lounge.” She giggles.

  I sort of remember meeting her. Didn’t we dance? Whatever.

  I finish my latest round and go for another glass. Her hand moves down my chest, descending toward my belt. I’m just drunk enough to enjoy Starr’s touch, but not that far gone that I want to betray Rose like this. Even if she did leave with that prick Marco. I grab Starr’s wrist and place it in her lap, shaking my head. She pouts, but moments later she’s smiling up at me and rummaging through her purse.

  “Selfie?” She asks while handing me her cell phone.

  I take her phone and figure out where the camera button is. My fingers feel like lead, but I manage to get off a couple of photos before returning the phone to her. She reviews them and smiles again. “One more. I’ll take it this time.”

  Shrugging my shoulders, I look at the camera she’s holding out. Right before she takes the photo, she kisses me on my lips. “Hey!”

  Giggling, she deposits her phone back into her purse and reaches across me for the champagne bottle, her tits brushing against my thighs as she does so. “Shall I top you off?” What a question. Although I’m quite drunk, the sting of Rose’s defection still prickles. Betrayal. I down the remnants of the liquid in my glass and essentially shove it at Blondie-Starr, motioning toward the bottle of scotch.

  Leaning over to me, she kisses that sensitive spot on my neck that always makes me hard. The alcohol has slowed down my usual response, but I’m getting turned on. Especially when her hand makes its journey southward once again.

  “Let’s get out of here,” she purrs.

  Why not? Rose is off with her boyfriend. Shit, Starr’s biting my ear lobe. “Yessss.”

  We stand up, grab the open bottles of champagne and scotch, and head for the elevators. I don’t want to take her to my suite, though. I had it prepared for Rose.

  “What floor are you on?” I ask.

  “Why can’t we go to your room? Rose looked awfully busy with that other guy tonight.”

  How does she know about Rose? This is a bad idea. I’m about to call it all off when she says, “Never mind. I’m not in this hotel. Just a short taxi ride away, right around the corner from the Lasso the Moon Wedding Chapel.”

  She grabs my hand and places it on her tit, looking up at me meaningfully.

  I sense someone behind us and turn to see Wills. “I’s got it from here,” I tell him, my hand still on her tit.

  He purses his lips and says, “Rose is—”

  I cut him off. The last thing I want to do is talk about Rose. I spit out, “You can goooo.” Wills closes his eyes and walks away from us. Good.

  Starr and I quickly make our way to her hotel. I down another glass of scotch and force the memories of Rose to disappear. Starr takes off my shirt, then strips, standing before me in only her fuck-me heels. There’s nothing wrong with her. She’s just not the woman I want, even if the ri
ght one’s with another guy. My cock is sound asleep.

  Looking southward, Starr says, “Cole, let me take care of you.”

  She plants kisses all over my naked chest and works my jeans and underwear down my hips. On her knees, she tries to coax my limp dick to wake up.

  I reach down and put my hand on her cheek. “Slar,” I slur. She pauses and looks up at me. “‘S not you. ‘S me. This—” I motion between her and me—“isn’t gonna happen. C’mon, stand up.”

  She stands and presses her bare form against me. “Why not? I’m here and willing. I want to be with you.” She rubs against me. My body doesn’t react.

  I pull away from her, keeping my hands on her shoulders. “Darlin’, I’m shitfaced. Not gonna happen.” Not to mention I’m in love with my girlfriend. Who is off with The Fucker. I frown.

  “What did that bitch Rose do to you?”

  That comment gets my attention. “How do you knows about Ro - Rose?” I smile, hearing the rhyme. I return my jeans and underwear back into place.

  “Let me get you another scotch.”

  I should follow up with her about how she knows about Rose, but I can’t seem to hold any thoughts. I take the drink and swallow about half. I’m so very tired. It’s been a fucking long day.

  “Come over here,” she pats the bed.

  A quick nap sounds good. I kick off my shoes and lie down. Starr wraps her body around mine.

  I WAKE UP TO the sound of the shower running and sunlight streaming through the multicolor curtains. Where the hell am I? I turn my head on the pillow and feel queasy. Shit, I’m still drunk. And I’m in some random hotel room.

  It’s a dick move, but I quickly right my clothes and head down to the lobby. I ask the front desk to call for a taxi, which thankfully pulls up within a minute. Ten minutes later, I open my penthouse door.

  “Rose?”

  Of course she’s not here. Images from last night flood my alcohol-saturated brain. She left me for The Fucker, Marco.

  In under sixty seconds, I’m in the shower. Soaping up, I try to remember last night, after Rose left with Marco. I recall drinking at the bar with Blondie. What was her name? Moon? Sky? Something celestial.

  Scrubbing furiously, I also recollect the look on Wills’s face when I told him to get lost. Then back at Blondie’s hotel, where she tried to seduce me. I passed out in her room. How much did I have to drink? I remember some shots, two bottles of champagne and a bottle of scotch. No wonder I’m still drunk.

  Wrapping a towel around my waist, I walk over to the bed and check my phone for the first time in hours. The screen shows a bunch of texts and missed phone calls. I’m surprised to see one from Rose: I’m sorry about Marco. We have to talk.

  Does she want to rub The Fucker my face? How did my life get so messed up?

  The phone rings in my hand, startling me. It’s Gruesome. Great.

  “Hi, Greta.”

  “Someone was a naughty boy after I left last night.” I grimace as her voice pierces my skull.

  “Listen, Greta, I’m in no shape to play guessing games. What do you mean?” I rasp, clasping my throbbing head in my hands.

  “I thought I would have at least gotten an invitation to the wedding, Cole.”

  “WHAT?”

  Instantly sober, I collapse on the bed.

  “Or at least let me handle the public disclosure of your marriage. Now I have to deal with Emilie’s people, too.”

  “What are you talking about? I’m not married.” I check my left hand to verify that there’s no ring.

  “That’s not what the marriage certificate on the Internet says.”

  “WHAT?”

  “It says here that you and Starr Nelson were married at three a.m. this morning.”

  I was passed out in Blondie’s hotel room at three a.m. That’s her name—Starr. “I most certainly did not get married last night, Greta.”

  “And there are photos. One of you two kissing, and another where you’re both smiling and holding champagne flutes. Another of you two getting into a taxi. And one that’s clearly of you two in bed.”

  “Greta, I don’t know what the fuck this is all about, but I’m not married.”

  “I remember this Starr hanging out at the bar last night.”

  “She was there,” I whisper.

  “What aren’t you telling me?”

  A whole hell of a lot. “I spent some time with her last night. But we did not get married. You’re my publicist. Fix this.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

  “Okay. Let me see what I can come up with. I’ll strategize and have Rose give you a call with the details shortly.” Greta disconnects the call.

  My heart stops.

  Rose.

  Fuck.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck.

  TO BE CONTINUED . . .

  Read the next installment of Rose and Cole’s story in

  Hard To Hold, Book #2 in The Hold series,

  available now! For information, go to http://bit.ly/NoOneToHold.

  Cole at 22

  I TURN MY GAZE out into the audience as I strum the last chord on my guitar. Good night. Over one hundred people here.

  “Thank you,” I say into the microphone, looking directly at a cute brunette. She holds my stare, licks her bottom lip and catches it between her little white teeth, prompting me to quirk a small smile in her direction. My last set for the night at Above The Bar is over, and it looks like I’ve found my fun for afterward.

  “Great job, as usual, buddy.” This from Dan O’Connor, my best friend since the first day of freshman orientation at NYU.

  “Thanks, Dan. Hey, why don’t you go and get us a couple of beers while I chat up that little brunette over there.” I nod toward her table. “She’s been sending me hot and bothered signals all night. I want to hear all about your job prospects, so I’ll tell her to sit tight and wait for me.” I hand him a couple of bills for the beers.

  “Think you’re going to get lucky tonight, huh?”

  Quirking my brow, I make no response. I’ve filled out in college; I’m no longer that scrawny guy I was in high school. Not to mention that NYU’s gym is very well appointed, both with equipment and a never-ending stream of cute co-eds eager to help me with whatever exercise caught my fancy. Fully clothed or totally naked. Yeah, some really good times were had in that gym. I’m going to miss it.

  As I make my way over to her table, three sets of eyes greet me. “Good evening, ladies. I hope you enjoyed the show.”

  Not waiting for their response, I lean down toward my evening’s entertainment and whisper in her ear. “I need to catch up with my buddy, and then I’m going to rock your world. Wait for me.” With a nip on her earlobe, I walk away.

  Dan joins me at a table, depositing beers in front of both of us. “All set?” My crooked smile is his reply. He bursts out laughing. “Seriously, dude, how long did that take? What the hell did you say to her?”

  “I told her the truth.”

  “You’re one lucky bastard, you know that? I’m going to buy me a git-ar so women fall down at my feet, too.” We both chuckle.

  Changing the subject, I ask, “So, have you heard back from any of your interviews?”

  “Yeah.” He takes a long sip of his beer. “I got two offers. I think I’m leaning toward the one in LA, but the opportunity here is tempting, especially since you’re going to stay in the City.” He hands me a cigarette and we both light up.

  Dan and I both are majoring in business with a special emphasis on the entertainment industry. I also have a second major in performance arts, while Dan’s interests lie in television production. He’s been interviewing with a bunch of networks here on campus, and even had callbacks in Hollywood as well as in NYC. His dream is right at hand, and I couldn’t be more excited for him. We discuss both offers in detail. In the end, we both know that the better fit for him is in LA.

  Dan helped me with my
decision to stay in the City to work on my music career. Since I’ve been singing at Above The Bar for the past year, I’m pretty confident about my career choice. I fucking love singing in front of an audience with my guitar or at a piano. Even though I have been the lead in most of the musicals at NYU, I don’t feel the same connection to performing other people’s material. I know, without a doubt, that this is the direction I am meant to take.

  When my parents were less than thrilled about my decision, Dan was my sounding board. Dad wanted me to use my business degree to get a corporate job in the music industry. He told me that I could continue to sing “on the side,” as if music were some sort of hobby to me. Music is as necessary to me as air, food and sex . . . though perhaps not in that order.

  With Dan’s help, I explained all this to my parents—minus the sex part—and we struck a deal of sorts. I have the next three years to make my mark in music. If I don’t, I promised to seek out a job as a suit in the industry. I’m positive that I’ll never have to purchase that suit and briefcase.

  “I’m going to miss you, buddy. Don’t forget your poor, starving singer-friend when you’re the head honcho of that television station of yours,” I joke.

  “Fuck that, Cole. I’ll create a TV show around you and your sex life. It’ll be top ten forever.”

  “You’d better go to a premium channel for that, buddy. I don’t want my sex life watered down for mainstream television consumption.” We clink the necks of our bottles and take swigs.

  “I can’t believe that we’re going to be on different coasts after graduation.” I shake my head.

  We’ve been through so much together over the past four years. He was there when I picked up my first guitar. I found it surprisingly easy to transfer my knowledge of the piano to the guitar. However, that doesn’t mean that I played great at first. Oh no. He suffered right along with me through some excruciatingly bad practice sessions. It took some hard work, but now I consider myself a pretty good player. Piano is still my first love. When I write songs, I come up with the lyrics first and then the melody sort of pops into my head in the form of piano music that I then adapt to the guitar.