by Sarah Grimm
I imagined that sex with Joe would be incredible. Off the charts, even. What I never expected was how it would change me. I know that sounds cliché but, something inside of him speaks to me on a level I’ve never experienced before. His focus on me was complete, leaving me no room to hide. Not from the way he made me feel, or even how I made him feel. We laughed and made love, then did it all over again. The things… In the hard light of day I should be embarrassed, but how can I be? I can never be embarrassed by the things I do with Joe. He draws out my every desire, even the ones I kept hidden from myself. Not just my sexual desires, but also my desires for life. He makes me…happy. He makes me the person I was before cancer.
Joe makes me want to follow through with my promise to take risks, make love in the rain, dance beneath the stars, and cherish every moment. He makes me want to embrace life for however long I have left. And as I swear to follow through on this promise to myself, I’ll make one other promise. Along the way, I will teach Joe how to do the same.
I’ll find a way to drive away the darkness and replace it by light. Do away with the sadness and bring back the joy. Life is precious; you can’t treat yourself like an afterthought. If we’re going to dance, let’s dance.
Number of days since I decided to live: 60
Number of days since I met Joe: 17
Current level of panic: 4/10
TWELVE
April 20
Joe propped his back against the couch in the rear lounge and watched Emma. Her eyes were closed, her face relaxed. She was asleep, sprawled across the blanket he’d tossed to the floor before having his merry way with her. Facing him, her head propped on her hands, not a stitch on. Her body glowed in the soft light. With every curve highlighted, every part of her on display, he sat and looked his fill.
Christ, what this woman did to him. She was terrifying.
He’d meant to take her slow and gentle, savoring every caress, every touch of her hands across his skin, every stroke of their bodies coming together. It had taken only the barest brush of her lips against the scratches the stretched from his right collarbone diagonally across his pec to throw those good intentions out the window.
He was sick of the shit, sick of it all. The so-called friends she spoke of, the fakes and fanatics. He had told her the truth today on that stage; she was his favorite place to be. With her. Anywhere with her. In ten years, she was the only one who had ever touched him. He’d needed that, needed her. To help chase away the demons. To do the job the whiskey no longer could. So he had taken her hard and fast—taken her six ways from Sunday—and she’d let him. Anything he’d asked of her, she’d given. Anything he gave, she took. He’d wanted to forget and he had. Lord, he had. He’d lost himself in her.
He had no control where she was concerned. She wove a spell around him, brought him to his knees. Even now, need pounded through him. He wanted nothing more than to roll her beneath him and bury himself inside her again. Experience the sensation of her warm, wet heat closing around him, taking him deep. The sweet friction of her lean body pressed against his.
Sweet hell. And someone had told her she was out of her league. They had no bloody idea.
Joe stood and grabbed his jeans where they lay across the back of the couch. In her sleep, Emma said his name. Just his name and he was squatting at her side, pulling the blanket over her and whispering words of comfort. Words he couldn’t hear over the rush of emotion flooding him. Christ, he was a goner.
Pulling up his pants, he walked away from her, shutting the door behind him.
He discovered Kirk and Gary in the front lounge, talking quietly while on the muted television the boys of Top Gear played rugby with cars and a giant ball. Joe grabbed a mug from the cupboard and filled it with hot water from the coffee maker. He added a tea bag and honey. No one spoke until he had sipped the brew, soothing his tired throat. Eighteen months of near nightly performances—vocally, he was at his limit. “What did you find out?”
Gary stood. Not a good sign.
Shit. Gone was the contented bliss of a few moments ago, replaced by tight muscles and a burning sensation in the pit of his stomach. Joe sipped his tea, waiting for the ball the drop.
“Bobby cornered her at the after party.”
Kirk swore.
Joe tightened his grip on the mug.
“Told her she wasn’t your type,” Gary continued, his hands opening and closing at his sides like he wanted to hit something. “That they could have a little fun, you wouldn’t care, you were into—”
“Sharing.” Of course, it had been Bobby. “Fucker.” Joe set the mug aside instead of throwing it against the wall as he wanted to. Anger burned like acid until he clenched his teeth so tightly his jaw popped. The temperature in the room seemed to rocket.
The bus started to move, slowly pulling away from the arena. Joe moved faster. He whipped open the door and was forced to hold on or lose his balance as the bus slammed to a halt with a squeal of brakes.
“Remember what I taught you,” Gary called out as Joe vaulted into the parking lot.
He’d taught him to inflict pain, and that’s what Joe planned to do.
The second bus sat idling a good thirty feet away. Rage fueling his every step, Joe closed the distance in record time. Flinging the door wide, he stomped up the steps, the slap of his bare feet the only sound.
Three sets of eyes stared at him as he rounded the corner and stepped into the front lounge. Joe only cared about one of them. “You motherfucker.”
Bobby launched to his feet. “Fuck. Look, I’m sorry man, I just—”
Joe plowed his fist into Bobby’s face, welcoming the shock of pain that burst through his hand.
Bobby stumbled back, blood gushing from his nose. “Goddamnit!” He covered his bloody face, voice muffled and thick. “You had to hit me in the face?”
Joe couldn’t recall the last time he was this angry. His body shook with it, heart pounding a furious beat in his chest. His own band mate—his brother. This was the man who’d put the haunted look in Emma’s eyes, who’d pressed his dick against her while propositioning her. “I could fucking kill you right now, Bobby. You ever put your hands on her again and I’ll go for more than your face.”
His meaning was unmistakable as he glanced at the bass propped on the end of the couch: a hand-carved sapele and ebony fretless five string. The thing Bobby loved most.
“You wouldn’t!”
Joe lowered his voice, tone menacing. “I will not only destroy it, I’ll shove the pieces so far up your arse it’ll require a surgeon to remove them.”
“What the shit, man, she’s just a—”
“Shut the fuck up, Bobby,” Steve warned.
Too late. Joe already had him by the front of his shirt, fist pulled back and ready to swing.
Zach caught him by the elbow before he could follow through. “Whoa, Joe, he doesn’t know what he’s saying. He’s drunk.”
Steve stepped between them, pushing Bobby back, putting distance between him and Joe. “That’s no excuse and you know it, Zach.”
“Yeah, I do, but you really want to watch Joe pound him?” He released Joe’s arm. “Seriously, Joe, he’s not worth breaking your hand on his face.”
“No, but Emma is.” Joe wiped the back of the hand in question across his mouth. “He knows better than to go after what’s mine.”
“Do you see this?” Bobby said to Steve. “He’s lost his damn mind.”
“I see it,” Steve replied. “And I’ll advise you to shut it.”
“Lost his damn mind,” Bobby muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose then staring at his bloodstained fingers. “Hey, Joe, did you leave it in your girl’s snatch?”
“You are a stupid bastard, Bobby,” Steve hissed, then hopped onto the couch and out of the way. “He’s all yours, Joe.”
Joe took two steps in Bobby’s direction, who was smart enough to evade, then snagged the bass instead of pounding in his face the way he really wanted to.
Bobby sobered. “No!”
Zach began to swear.
Steve sat back down. “He asked for it.”
“Joe,” Bobby pleaded. “Don’t. Don’t hurt her. Not my baby.”
God he was sick of Bobby’s bloody bullshit. The man had no boundaries, no moral sense at all. He went after anything and everything he wanted, most times on a whim, and didn’t care who he hurt in the process. This time he had crossed the line. Hurting Emma was the last straw.
A crack of thunder shook the ground beneath the bus. The skies opened up, the sound of pounding rain against the roof near deafening.
Joe turned and headed for the exit. He leapt from the bus, welcoming the cool drops against his overheated skin. Winding up like a discus thrower, he flung the instrument as far as he could. The resounding crack as it hit the asphalt wasn’t near as satisfying as bloodying Bobby’s face a bit more would have been, but the roar that followed was close.
Gary and Kirk stood in the door of their bus. Joe squeezed past them, shaking the rainwater from his hair. “Let’s get out of here, Clay.”
His driver nodded and shifted into gear.
“Feel better?” Gary asked, no expression on his face.
Joe rolled his shoulders, attempting to dislodge the tension. “Fuck, no.”
“I do.” Kirk took his usual seat and looked out the window to where Bobby was scooping his bass off the parking lot. He smiled broadly. “He’s been asking for it for months.”
Joe began to pace, which wasn’t easy to do in the small confines. He rolled his wrist, opened and closed his aching hand.
“Head or gut?” Gary asked.
“His nose is bleeding like a bitch.”
Gary’s eyes lit with a quick flash of humor.
Joe grinned. “It felt good. Satisfying.”
“All that adrenaline and endorphins coursing through your body, I don’t doubt it.” Gary tipped his head to where Joe was cracking his knuckles and shaking his hand. “They’re starting to wear off and it doesn’t feel so hot anymore, does it? Let me have a look. It’s easier than you think to break the small bones in a hand when hitting someone. Especially when you go for the face.”
“Bastard’s got a hard head,” Joe mumbled. “I’m fine. Nothing’s broken.”
“Except Bobby’s nose, I hope.” Kirk was still smiling. It looked good on him.
“Take a seat.” Gary pointed at the corner of the couch nearest the table, upon which a first aid kit rested.
Joe circled the table and sat down sideways, his back against the wall. One foot on the cushion, the other on the floor, he faced the front of the bus, resting his right hand on the table. He closed his eyes. “What’s with the first aid kit? Did you think I was going to let him land a punch?”
“You were pretty pissed off.” Gary began scooping ice into a bowl. Joe didn’t need to see it. He could hear it. “People get sloppy when fueled by rage.”
He was still pissed off. “You taught me better than that.”
“Maybe. The kit is for the scratches on your chest, though. They’re not pretty, the one looks a tad bloody, make sure you clean them good.”
Joe had washed them with soap in the shower, but opened his eyes and pulled the kit closer. Removing an alcohol swab, he tore it open and scrubbed his skin.
Gary placed the bowl of ice on the table. He picked up Joe’s hand, flexing it, moving it this way and that, pressing his fingers between the knuckles. “The scratches are curtesy of the girl who climbed the barrier?”
“Yeah.” Joe winced when Gary hit a sore spot. Gary tortured him by working his fingers even deeper. “Christ.”
“Your hand’s fine,” Gary pronounced.
“Told you.”
“Best to be certain. Ice it, you don’t want it swelling too much. You have to perform for the masses again tomorrow.”
Their current number one hit had Steve and Zach on electric guitar, and Joe playing acoustic. Joe tore open another swab before pushing his right hand into the ice. “Sure thing, mom.”
Gary frowned. He took his place at the end of the couch and crossed his legs at the ankles. “Your girl has a decent swing of her own. For a split second there, I thought she was going to mar your ugly mug.”
“So did I,” Joe admitted, setting the alcohol swab aside. He’d managed to break open the one scratch. It oozed a bit.
Kirk straightened. “Emma took a swing at you?”
Gary and Joe smiled.
“She did. Gare here didn’t even try to protect me.”
“What do you think I was doing, taking you sparring all these months?”
“Trying to give me a release other than whiskey,” Joe replied honestly.
“It helped your reflexes, too. She damn near connected.”
Kirk crossed to the refrigerator and removed a bottle of beer. On his way back to his seat, he picked up Joe’s mug, holding it in a manner that asked if Joe wanted it.
Joe tipped his head.
Kirk handed it over. “I wish I’d seen it.”
“No you don’t.” All the humor left Joe.
Gary shook his head. “Her eyes were wild, like a cornered animal.”
“Bobby,” Kirk guessed.
“I get the feeling he was just a small part of what had her running out of the arena like all the demons in hell were hot on her tail.”
Joe frowned at Gary. “He was the one who pushed her over the edge.”
The rear toilet flushed. They fell silent and waited to see if Emma was coming out of the room or not. The door opened and she stepped out wearing a tank top and tiny shorts, wrapping the blanket around her as she walked.
She was an exhausted and tousled mess. Joe couldn’t contain his smile. “Hey, Sunshine, did we wake you?”
She shook her head. “I got cold.”
He motioned her over. She took the spot between his legs, turning onto her side to face the others, her legs curled up next to her. He wrapped his arm around her as she snuggled against his chest.
“What were you all talking about before I interrupted?”
“Taking you to the gym with us tomorrow,” Gary replied. “I think you’d make one hell of a sparring partner.”
“I got a bit carried away, didn’t I?”
“You took a swing and missed. There are worse things.” Kirk’s gaze settled on the table. “Wait until you find out what Joe did to Bobby.”
“What?” Emma sat up and narrowed her eyes at his hand soaking in ice. “What is it about men that they think they have to pound the shit out of each other?”
“Says the woman who took a swing at me.”
She grinned. “You’ve got me there, but—”
“He touched you,” Joe stated matter-of-factly.
“Who told you?” His refusal to answer her question caused her to frown. “Now you’re hurt. Because of me.”
“He’s fine,” Gary informed her, making it sound like she was overreacting. “You know rock stars, all delicate and soft.”
Kirk jumped in. “Joe lives for the attention, why do you think he sings? Standing out front like ‘look at me, I’m all fabulous and shit’.”
Joe glared at both of them, but it worked. Emma laughed, relaxing against him. Her thumb made slow sweeps across his ribs.
“I’m fine,” he reassured.
“What about Bobby?”
“He’ll heal.” Joe tipped his head back and rested it against the wall, soaking up her touch. “I’m not too sure about his bass, though.”
April 30
“Gary, it’s Emma. I…need a ride. I don’t have any money for cab fare because…I was…robbed. I was robbed.”
Beautiful, Em, way to trigger his protective side. She’d start the voice message over, but what would be the point?
“Don’t get all scary ogre on me, I’m all right.”
Except for the headache making itself known, her second in ten days. Probably due to lack of proper rest which, ironically enough, is why sh
e’d fallen asleep at the beach and had her bag stolen. At least she’d had her cell beneath the edge of her towel or she’d really be screwed. As it was, she was out her laptop, bankcard, about fifty bucks cash, shirt, sunblock and favorite pair of Chucks. Oh, and her backstage pass as well as her passport. Because hey, as if replacing everything else wasn’t going to be problematic enough, she had to try to refill a prescription without proper identification. Perfect.
Two uniformed police officers stood a few feet away, waiting to take her report, but she had to call Gary first. No way was she pulling up to the arena in a cop car. She wouldn’t be allowed in, anyway, not without her pass.
“I’m at…” Emma pinched the bridge of her nose and wracked her brain. “North Beach. Near the entrance. My head hurts and I have nothing but my bikini and a towel.” Why was she telling him this? She glanced at the two officers, the younger one staring at her in a way that made her uncomfortable. Wrapping her towel around her waist, she admitted, “I’m feeling a little bit vulnerable right now so…if you could send a car to pick me up, that would be great.” Shit. “Okay, I’ll…wait. I’ll wait right here.”
She disconnected.
The officers asked her a billion questions, including if they could see her I.D. Yeah, because a woman who had just had her belongings stolen would have that. Really? What made it worse, the entire time the older officer typed the information into his iPad, the younger ogled her breasts. He was obviously not a size-based guy, as there were much larger specimens on the beach, but hers happened to be right there in his face, highlighted by her turquoise bikini top. He was skeeving her out so bad that when the big black SUV pulled up alongside of them and Gary stepped out—not normal, everyday Gary, but puffed up, scary Gary—she damn near cried with relief.
He did his bodyguard thing, scanning the area around him, then stepped to her side, gently taking hold of her elbow. “Emma, are you all right?”
“Sir,” skeevy cop said, not allowing her to answer. “The young lady has reported that she was robbed this afternoon—”
Gary gave the cop a look and he shut up. Yup, big scary ogre Gary was that terrifying. He even made a man with a gun on his hip take a step back.