He came back to me quickly, the fullness more even pleasurable than the first deep stroke.
"God. You're perfect, Shelly May. Absolutely perfect." Shay withdrew again, faster this time and my world spun out of control.
I wasn't sure when I started begging and was even more unsure when I started screaming his name, but Shay answered with harder strokes, grasping my hips, thrusting urgently, his hips meeting mine with a sharp, satisfying impact. "I'm there, baby," he said over and over. "I'm there. Come with me. Come with me."
Every muscle in my body tightened, yearning for release. Tension coiled in my belly until I felt as brittle as glass ready to shatter at any moment.
One hard thrust, then two and I was flying, soaring out of my body as waves of pleasure washed over me again and again, tearing the breath from my lungs and sending rippling contractions through all the muscles in my body.
Above me Shay shuddered once deeply and groaned his release, calling out my name as he came.
We lay there unmoving, glued together with sweat and satisfaction, the only sound my panting and his we tried to catch a normal breath.
At last he raised his head and smoothed a damp tendril of hair away from my face. "You OK?"
I opened my eyes to look at him. I could just make out his features in the dim light spilling into his small bedroom from the main part of the bus. His dark hair was plastered to his forehead and his skin was flushed, eyes bright, lips red. He was smiling. I imagined I looked about the same.
"Yeah," I said a little breathier than I intended. "Fine." I shifted a little. He was a big guy and my arms were beginning to ache from being bound above my head.
He pressed a quick kiss to my forehead and reached up to free me from the headboard, then sat up to finish untying the stockings. He frowned, rubbing the blood back into my wrists.
"Sorry. Guess I got a little carried away there."
I sat up, too. "No harm done. I'm tough."
He looked at me with a smile on his lips and tucked a piece of damp golden hair behind my ear. "Yeah. You are, aren't you? I never imagined."
I brought my knees up to my chest, suddenly a little self-conscious. "What did you think I'd be like? Some delicate little flower?"
Shay stood up, grabbed a tissue and cleaned himself up. He shrugged. "I don't know. It's funny, I guess. You see someone on TV and hear them on the radio. And then they're just different in person. I still can't believe this happened." He laughed a little shaking his head. “Shelly May. In my bed.”
Alarm bells went off inside my head and I stiffened. People always wanted the image, the cute girl singer they saw on stage, not the real person I was the other 20 hours of the day. I thought Shay would understand, being a performer himself. Did he like me and want me or had this whole thing been his quest to get inside Shelly May’s panties so he could brag to the world about nailing a celebrity with the reputation of a saint, his own personal Dangerous Liaisons?
"So I'm just a face on an album cover or a voice on the radio?" I asked, standing. "This whole thing was just some sort of juvenile fantasy-fulfillment thing for you?"
I was hurt. We didn't know each other well and there was really nothing between us but lust. But I had thought we had a connection, that we were two people who wanted this because there was a genuine attraction. I wanted to believe that if we had met on a college campus somewhere, or were strangers in bar, neither of us famous, the night would have ended the same way.
But, no. I was his long-ago teenage wet dream. Even if he had hated my guts and found me totally repulsive in person, he still would have brought me back here, just to be able to say he'd fucked the girl from the poster.
"Shelly May, wait," he said as I started gathering up what was left of my clothing and tugging it on. "That's not what I meant. Will you stop and talk to me?"
He put a hand on my arm, but I jerked it away and searched under the bed for my boots. "No, I get it. Really. I'm your trophy fuck." I buttoned my shirt and shoved my feet into my boots. "That's fine."
Hot tears of anger pricked the backs of my eyes, but I refused to cry in front of him. It was stupid. Shay Rogan meant nothing to me. Less than nothing. I just wanted to get out of there before I embarrassed myself further. It was stupid to think anyone who knew my albums before they met me could think of anything else, even in bed.
I stomped out of the room and down the narrow corridor towards the front of the bus.
"That's not what I meant. Not—"
I didn't even look outside before marching down the steps and slamming the door behind me. There were a few fans milling around and one of the guys from the security team made sure no one got too close to my bus. Some of the fans called out to me excitedly. Shelly May had a reputation for taking care of her fans, always sweet and willing to chat. She signed photos and t-shirts and happily posed for pictures. Tonight, though, I wasn't in the mood. I went straight to my bus, not even looking at the crowd, and slammed the door.
I was stupid, I told myself. Stupid to think that Shay, or anyone else for that matter, wanted anything from me but what they saw on the stage or heard on the radio. I was a product to be bought and sold. A persona. A commodity. Shay had wanted the image of me, not the real person.
I took off my boots and climbed into bed wearing the remnants of my stage costume. I hated that I had been so easily fooled. I hated that even after years of being in the business, I could still be so naïve. I hated that his scent still perfumed my skin and that I could almost feel his warm hands on my body. I hated knowing that even after he'd used me so completely I still wanted him and if he continued on the tour, I would be unable to resist his pull. He had some power over me, a way of tapping into my innermost fantasies and holding me captive that frightened me and thrilled me all at once. He was an obsession, a drug I knew I'd never be able to quit on my own. He had to go.
Maybe it was time for Shelly May to go, too. Disappointment and disillusionment had changed me in an instant and I didn’t want to be to be the stupid, naïve young thing who fell for a handsome face and a hard body any more. Maybe it was time to leave Shelly May behind and figure out who Michelle Waters was.
One thing was for sure, though. I would never, ever, speak to Shay Rogan again.
Chapter One
Every time I walked into the waiting area of Belle Records and sat on the hard, uncomfortable couch in the waiting area, memories of the first time I'd ridden the elevator up to the top floor of the fancy chrome and glass building perched in the heart of Music Row came rushing back.
Daddy had been by my side, holding my hand, doing his best to calm my nerves and assure me that if this record exec wasn't smart enough to see how talented I was, well, then someone else would. It was only a matter of time—inevitable, really—that I would get a record deal, take Nashville by storm, and live happily ever after, just like all the people in the framed photos lining the walls. The legends were smiling down at me, holding their gold and platinum records and shaking hands with the man who had made it all possible. I had been 14 and had believed every word with the total faith that only the very young and maybe a few saints, ever possess.
It had been years since the day I signed my first contract and my life changed forever, but as I glanced about the room, I noted that many of the same pictures were still on the walls. Of course I knew all the names of artists there now. I had met most of them and shared a stage or a publicist or a glass of champagne with them at an awards show at one time or another during the intervening years. I was one of them.
There was one framed photo I refused to look at, though. It was on the east wall about half-way up. Belle Records had signed Shay as soon as he’d returned to Nashville, after he’d been fired from my tour. That’s what I got for giving him a chance. He’d gotten the deal because I’d put him in front of my audience as an opening act.
Luckily we ran in different industry circles, him being a new act on the scene. There was a hierarchy in Nashville, a pecking ord
er. And you didn’t penetrate the upper echelons with a few party songs and a spread in Playgirl Magazine. It had been fairly easy to ignore him whenever Music City threw a party. It didn’t mean I had forgotten, though.
I folded my trembling hands in my lap and looked up at the photo of myself that hung just over the desk of Robert's personal assistant. It was the Rolling Stone cover that had come out just after my second album. I hardly recognized the sweet-faced blond girl with the ringlets and big, bright blue eyes free of make-up or artifice.
Joy shone from her face and at the risk of sounding melodramatic, I'd always thought of her like Eve, enjoying all the fruits paradise had to offer, ignorant of the constant struggle, the press following every misstep and every pimple. That girl was oblivious to what lay ahead: the lonely nights on the road, missing out on normal teenage things like football games, cute boys and school dances; the crushing pressure that came once you realized that people, lots of people, depended on you for their livelihoods. She was completely unaware that once she became a public figure, there were no off days, no real privacy and very limited freedom. All the girl with the glowing cheeks and golden voice knew was that she got to go on stage, wear pretty outfits and sing.
That cover shoot had been kind of like losing my virginity. Once it had hit the newsstands, my life had no longer been my own and I had never been able to look at music the same way again. Singing wasn't just a passion after that day. It was a job, a business, and a responsibility that I'd taken seriously from that moment on.
I glanced at the clock perched above the picture of Dolly Parton. I'd been waiting for almost 15 minutes. I'd been in to see Robert, the head of my label, a hundred times and had always been ushered right into his office, as if I were royalty. I wondered idly if it would be my last visit, since my sales had been on a downward slide for a couple of years now.
The thought of being released from my contract had always terrified me, but I'd learned over the years to set aside fear, nerves and doubt to perform what was expected of me. Whether it was on stage, at a meet-and-greet, or in the waiting area of the label president's office, I performed my part to perfection. I was poised and confident on the outside, a trembling ball of nerves on the inside.
"They should be about ready for us," my manager whispered. He was sweating. Paul had only been with me six months, though everybody know knew it was really Daddy calling the shots and making decisions about my career. He’d normally be right her e by my side, but there had been a meeting with my new PR lady he just couldn’t miss. I'm sure Paul was wondering, as was I, if this day was about to be his last in my employ. It wasn't the money that bothered me. Daddy had helped me invest most of my earnings since my first royalty check. It was the thought of letting him down, letting everyone down, that churned up my insides.
"We'll be sure to bring up that contingency clause, if it comes to it," my agent, who had been with me since the beginning, replied. "Don't worry, Michelle," he said, squeezing my hand. "Everything is going to work out just fine."
I looked into his kind blue eyes and nodded. "Of course." The lie rolled as easily off my lips as it did his.
"Can I get you anything Michelle? Sweet Tea? Diet Coke?" My personal assistant, Kaylee, asked.
"No, I'm fine, thanks," I replied. My stomach rolled. I didn't think anything would stay down anyway.
The receptionist's phone beeped and Robert's voice came over the intercom asking her to send me into his office.
My manager walked ahead and opened the door to Robert's office for me and I swept inside, my trademark smile pasted to my perfectly made-up face.
Robert stood and walked around the desk to shake my hand and kiss my cheek. That was a bad sign. Usually you only got the kiss at funerals and at the delivery of bad news.
"Michelle. So good to see you. You look as beautiful as ever."
Flattery. Another bad omen. I smiled anyway, smoothing my tailored white Donna Karen blazer. "Thanks, Robert."
"Please, have a seat," he gestured to the chairs gathered in front of his massive glass and steel desk. The men waited for me to sit, and once I was settled, my manger took the seat on one side of me, my agent the other. Robert sat down, folded his hands on the desk and leaned forward, a serious expression on his tanned, Botoxed face.
"We were reviewing the numbers for your last album, Michelle." He picked up a pen and idly flipped it between his fingers, never taking his eyes off me. "They were not what we'd hoped."
Robert was being diplomatic. The album had bombed. From critics to fans to sales, it had disappointed. I wasn't very fond of it, either, to be honest. There wasn't one break-out hit on the whole dang thing. My heart hadn’t been in it and it showed.
I nodded. "I was hoping for better things, too."
He smiled, but it wasn't a warm smile. My manager fidgeted beside me, making me even more agitated. If it was one thing I couldn't stand, it was twitchy people. Twitchy people made me twitchy.
"You've been with us a long time, Michelle. I've watched you grow up here and blossom from a little girl into a world-class artist. You're like a daughter to me."
Right. A daughter he was about to can. I nodded, my heart sinking. They were going to release me from my contract. I knew it, and so did my manager and agent. I steeled myself not to show any reaction to the news.
"Your fan base has either grown up or moved on without you, Michelle. We needed that album to find a new audience and bring back some of the fans who remember your earlier hits. That just didn't happen."
"It did very well in Germany," my agent pointed out.
Robert ignored him. "We want to keep you here, Michelle, but we can't keep losing money. That's three albums that have not performed to expectation. We can't afford to gamble on a fourth. Not in this economy."
I nodded. "I understand." I leaned forward, prepared to shake hands, kiss my music career goodbye and walk out of the office for the last time, head held high and standing tall until I could get home and figure out what the hell I was going to do next. I was officially a has-been at thirty years old.
"Some of the executives here wanted to cut their losses and move on to the next big thing." Robert paused, his eyes narrowing. "But I've come up with something I'd like you to consider."
I was instantly suspicious. Robert was a slick as they came. "What?"
"I know you like to stick close to home these days, but I'd like you to tour the Midwest and the South, play some of your older stuff and a few of the newer songs. You have always been a popular live act and I think we need to remind people out there how much they like you."
I sat back in my chair. I really, really didn't want to tour again. I'd spent a good chunk of my teen years and almost all of my twenties schlepping from city to city, sleeping on smelly busses, eating bad food, and performing every night until my voice was so used up I could barely speak, let along sing. Though I still worked just as hard at my music, I had become a homebody, recording tracks in my home studio and riding horses on the small ranch I'd purchased just east of Nashville. Every time I'd had to tour the past few years, it had become harder and harder.
"Thanks for the offer, Robert, but I don't think I can do it."
I felt my manager stiffen beside me.
My agent interjected. "Can we have a minute, Robert?"
"Of course."
I got up and followed my agent out into the waiting area.
"You realize this is your last chance, right?"
I nodded.
"There are people counting on you, Michelle."
My manager nodded.
"I really think you ought to give this a chance. We'll make sure you're not out more than a couple of months. I'll make sure you have top billing and all the label support necessary."
My head began to pound as the familiar weight of responsibility settled on my shoulders. I wanted to retreat into retirement gracefully, but my decision didn't affect just me. It was my staff, the musicians who always traveled with me, the ex
pectations of fans and of course Belle Records that had given me my start and had been my home for more than half my life. I owed it to everyone to do what they asked, especially if it meant salvaging a career that had been stalled out for the past several years.
Daddy's words echoed through my head. All those conversations about how I was the talent and the star, but there were dozens of people I never even saw who depended on me for a paycheck. That's why I'd never canceled a show despite being sick or tired or just not in the mood to play. I'd always shown up, done the show, posed for photos, attended the meet-and-greets or whatever else was expected of me with a smile on my face that no one in the world knew was just a mask. And it was the reason I knew I was going to give in now and do what Robert was asking.
"Ten dates. 20 tops. That's all."
My manager nodded and led the way back into Robert's office.
"We'll do it," he said, getting out his Blackberry. "But we want to hire our own road manager, have full creative control of the set-list and show effects, full publicity and label backing and our own road crew. No rentals."
Robert nodded. "We can iron all that out later. But you won't be the sole headliner, Michelle. We're pairing you with another artist and you'll be co-headliners."
Well, it wasn't as humiliating as going back to being an opening act. I'd actually done a co-tour with a couple other big names in the past and hadn't minded so much. It took some of the pressure off me since I didn't have to carry the box office alone. "Who?"
"Shay Rogan."
My smile faded and I actually felt the blood drain from my face, at just the mention of his name. I stood up and offered my hand. "It's been nice working with you, Robert, but I don't think we have anything else to discuss."
There was no way I could possibly tour with Shay, the single biggest mistake in my life, both personal and professional. The fall-out from our night together—the pictures, the rumors, the humiliation—had almost sunk my career. Daddy had been livid when he saw the first tabloid photos of me leaving Shay's bus that night and for months afterward I could hardly look him in the eye. Daddy had insisted Shay be replaced as my opening act immediately and I hadn't argued. It was what I'd wanted, too. Within hours Shay had been on a Greyhound back to Nashville. Ever since, my opening acts had been women.
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