by Layne Harper
When she speaks, I can hear the smile in her voice. “Aaron Emerson, as soon as this tour is over, I demand that you never leave my side. I require your undivided attention and don’t even think of going anywhere without me.” She giggles. “Better?”
“Smart ass.” I laugh feeling better but still just as confused.
“I do have one question. Isn’t it putting the cart before the horse to think about committing to a one man show if you aren’t sure you can still play the guitar?”
I realize that she voices one of things that is making me feel uneasy. “Yeah. I guess that could possibly be an issue, but I’m going to be fine. We’re doing the Botox injections and rest. I’m sure that I’ll be back to playing soon.”
Believing in the power of positive thinking, I don’t let myself question that this will not be the outcome. It has to fucking be. The thought of not playing my guitar is so gut wrenching that I can’t let myself go there—especially not in my sin city. Putting MK on speaker, I fire a text off to Grace asking MK’s question just in case.
“Tell me what you’re wearing.” I change the subject.
“I’m so sexy right now. I’m in nothing but a LSU sorority shirt from my senior year rush and pair of Gap sweatpants.”
“I’d love to rip those sweatpants from your gorgeous long legs and pull that shirt over your head, kissing those perfect titties.” Grabbing my cock through my pants, I’d give anything to be deep inside of her right now where the real world doesn’t exist. “Take your shirt off and FaceTime me.”
“No,” she responds sounding shocked.
“Yes,” I reply as I unbutton my pants and pull my zipper down.
“Aaron, stop it. I’m not having virtual sex with you.”
“Yes, you are. Do it, MK.” I end our call and dial her back on FaceTime. She answers with pursed lips and raised eyebrows. Her hair is up in a loose knot right on the top of her head. No makeup hides her gorgeous natural glow or her scar. I feel homesick.
“Do you watch the news? Celebrities are always getting hacked and their pervy pics and videos wind up being broadcast to the world. Do you think for a moment my grandmother and mother want to see video of me talking dirty to you while you jack off in your hand?”
I hold the camera so she can see my long, reddish-purple dick who is missing his favorite girl.
“Seriously, Aaron. That’s all because I told you I was wearing sweatpants?”
I bring the camera so she can see my huge, shit-eating grin. “Take off your shirt. Just show me one boob,” I coax.
Her arms cross over her chest. “You’re out of your mind.”
“Your fault. You make me crazy. We’re not recording this. There will not be a video for someone to steal. It’s just you and me.” I show her my hand moving up and down as I grip my dick.
Then to my surprise I hear her moan as her eyes hood. “You know I think that’s hot.”
I believe I was able to make her late for work one day doing just this. “Show me how hot you think it is.”
The phone is silent for a moment before she replies, “I’m going to walk into my bedroom.” The camera shows movement as she crawls on her mattress. “I’m going to trust you that this isn’t being recorded, and no one will ever watch this.”
I adjust the camera so I watch her and she can see me pleasuring myself. “This is just you and me, sweetheart. No recording. Nothing for anyone to steal.”
“I’ve never done this before, Aaron. I might suck at it so be patient.” Her warning is so cute that I laugh.
“I’ve never done this either so we’ll figure it out together. I do know that you must take your clothes off first.” The camera tumbles for a second, and I see her ceiling. “Show me what I want to see,” I demand.
A few moments later, I get the perfect shot of two round breasts with the prettiest light-brown nipples. “Fuck, sweetheart,” I moan as I grip my dick harder. “God, I love your tits. They’re begging my lips to suck them until you come from the pleasure. Slip your finger in your pussy.”
The camera shakes, but then I hear a louder moan as she shows me her closed eyes and slack jaw.
“Tell me how it feels.”
“Wet,” she replies with a lick of her lips. “I’m so wet, and it’s all your fault. It does crazy things to my body when you talk dirty.”
“Show me my favorite place.” My dick pulses as the camera moves down. Her finger disappears knuckle-deep, and then lazily slides back out. It’s glistening in the ambient light from MK’s bedside lamp. Her pubic hair is wet and clumped together in tight spirals, and my tongue involuntarily swipes over my lips longing to taste her.
“Come on your finger, but pretend it’s me,” I coax as my hand drops to the base of my cock and forcibly up to the head. “I’m fucking you, sweetheart. It’s me that’s inside you.”
I need lube, but I’m not stopping to go and dig some out of my bag so I use the second best substance—spit. Her pleasure sounds are all the music that I hear inside my head. The rest of the usual chaos is quiet. “Tell me how good I feel inside you.”
“Can I get my vibrator?” she asks.
“Sure,” I reply as I pump myself faster at the idea of watching something else slide inside her swollen pussy. I hear the vibrating sound and watch as she positions the flesh-colored penis at her entrance. “Spread your lips, and show me it disappearing inside you. Hold the camera right by it.”
The image makes me lose my mind. Her engorged clit brushes along the top of the dildo as it moves. Her muscles twitch with pleasure. Moisture drips down her lips and makes a dewy sheen on the inside of her thighs.
It’s the hottest shit I’ve ever seen. No porn can compare to seeing the woman you love this turned on for you. “Pinch your nipples as you fuck your toy. I’m going to come with you so you’ve got to tell me what you’re feeling.” My voice is domineering and in control. She seems to respond.
The toy slides in faster. “You’re so hard inside me,” she moans as she writhes in pleasure on her sheets. “I want you. I want you to fuck me and make me forget about everything else but us.”
“It’s just the two of us, sweetheart.” I grab my dick and beat off with a crazed intensity. My balls draw up tight, ready to explode. “You and me. Fuck the rest of the world. It doesn’t exist. Am I hitting your clit?” I arch up ready to blow my load all over my chest.
“In just the right spot.” She’s quiet for a second, and her pleasure pants turn into a very loud moan. “Oh God, Aaron, I’m going to come. Like right now. Come with me.”
“I’m right there. Sweetheart, I’m driving into you. My dick is hitting your sweet spot, and you’re spraying it with your wetness.”
“Aaron . . .” she calls as the camera goes askew. “Oh God . . . Oh God . . . Aaron, I’m coming.”
“Me too. Me too.” I tell her as my hot liquid sprays out of the head of my dick and onto my stomach. Looking down, I see the incredibly large mess that I’ve made, and I love it. My girl does this to me. “Show me your face.”
The camera moves to her heavy eyes and contented smile. Brown hair is splayed in a crown around her face. My heart stops as I gasp. She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. “You’re fucking gorgeous.” I move my phone to my stomach. “This mess is because of you.”
She curls into her pillow. “We’re no longer virgins. I stole your cyber virginity.”
I have no idea why that makes me all gooey inside, but it does. It’s only been a day since I’ve seen her, but I miss her like I’ve never missed anything before.
“I’ve a show to do.” I move the camera so she can see my face.
“You need a shower first.” She smiles looking dreamy.
“Dear God, woman. The things you do to me.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
MK
October
MK Landry @NoPinkCaddy
Do you ever feel like you’re drowning on dry land? #Overwhelmed #NPCGrandOpening
I’d like to say that I took Vince’s advice and enjoyed every moment of the next week, but it was a blur. Kitchen is complete, the bohemian furniture I’d sketched is a reality and positioned beautifully in the store, bookshelves are in, and shelves are hung. I haven’t slept much and when I have, it’s been fitful. My dreams are filled with disasters—a Hurricane Katrina like storm hit and my store flooded, I was robbed and everything including my kitchen was stolen, and the strangest one of all, my store was crammed full of paparazzi chanting Johnny Knite.
My cuticle is so raw from picking at it, that it’s now wrapped in a bandage. My stomach is constantly upset. When I do manage to eat food, I usually must visit a restroom soon after. My temper is short. I’ve snapped at Bella twice, and all she was trying to do was offer a suggestion. I hate me. I know I’m being difficult, but I can’t seem to find any way out from this stress other than completing the store. I’ve worked late every day this week.
Tonight, I left at six, which is early in comparison. The lack of nutrition has caught up with me, and I feel much older than my thirty-one years. My knees and back ache, and I feel light headed when I stand too quickly. A good night’s rest will hopefully do the trick.
It’s Friday evening, and I’m already dressed for bed. I feel like there’s not enough of me to go around.
When Bella and I were little, we’d take bubble gum and chew it until there was no flavor left. Then we’d place one side in between our front teeth and pull the other side until it was nice and thin. Our goal was to get it arm’s length before it tore. I feel like the piece of gum, stretched so thin that I’m ready to rip in half.
My laptop rests on my legs. Even though my eyes are blurred, I’ve got a bit of work to do before I can take one of Bella’s sleeping pills. I’ve neglected my site since we began filming, and I promised myself that I would post something, anything, tonight.
Just as I begin uploading pictures of the store, my gate calls me. When I answer, a voice says, “Miss Landry, we’re here to deliver your furniture.”
My lip curls. “I didn’t order furniture.” I’m already standing and heading outside to get to the bottom of this. I greet the delivery person in a long-sleeve shirt and cotton pants—no bra—at my gate.
He shows me a pink slip of paper. At the top is the store logo and below it in typed print reads: couch, chair, coffee table. There are ID numbers next to each item, but they mean nothing to me. “Who ordered this?”
“Look, lady. I don’t know, but you’re my last delivery tonight so can you open this gate so I can bring the stuff in?”
“Okay,” I mumble as I do what he asks and move to the side.
Fifteen minutes later a linen sofa is positioned in front of my kitchen island. The most gorgeous shade of aqua velvet is upholstered on a fluffy chair made for me to spend long hours snuggled in. But, then there’s the coffee table. My old marble coffee table was a thrift store shopping coup. It was fabulous and gorgeous. But my new table is truly something special. It’s a slab of marble, but the corners are rounded and finished off in chrome with chrome legs—the perfect mix of modern and traditional, just like me.
I watch the delivery guys close my gate. Then I rush inside, feeling rejuvenated, and throw myself on the couch. This is mine, and I can’t believe Aaron bought all of this for me.
Pulling out my phone, I send him a text.
Me: There are no words other than thank you. I can’t believe this beautiful furniture is mine.
Running into my room, I grab my laptop and settle into my new fluffy chair. I take a selfie and Tweet it to my followers.
MK Landry @NoPinkCaddy
Happy Friday night to me! Look at how cute I am in my new chair #UnexpectedGiftsAreTheBest
A few minutes later I get a reply to my Tweet from a name I recognize.
Johnny Knite @RealJohnnyKnite
@NoPinkCaddy You look rather stunning in that chair. #GivingIsBetterThanReceiving
Oh my! Aaron is on social media, and he’s acknowledging me. Does he realize that this makes it very hard to deny that our relationship is over?
MK Landry @NoPinkCaddy
@RealJohnnyKnite Is this you and not your publicist? #Dying
Johnny Knite @RealJohnnyKnite
@NoPinkCaddy don’t get used to it. I’m bored and missing NOLA. #TouringMakesYouMissHome
My phone and laptop begin blowing up like it did the evening I announced our breakup, and he dropped his new album. It’s mayhem. Instead of hiding under the covers this time, I sit back and note that this very moment marks the end of my old life and the beginning of the next chapter. Yes, filming Burnt Sugar should have marked that occasion, but only a small number of people in the world knew about it—just fans of my site and followers on social media. Aaron just chose to acknowledge our relationship in a way that couples did long ago by buying ad space in a newspaper to announce their engagement. Except the announcement is in every single newspaper around the globe.
My anonymity is gone prematurely. From this point on, I will be forever associated with the name Johnny Knite no matter what happens in our relationship.
I should be freaking out, but I’m not. We’re in such a good place, even if it has been a short time, that I’m genuinely okay.
As the tweets scroll past, I see his name again.
Johnny Knite @RealJohnnyKnite
@NoPinkCaddy how’s the store coming? When do we get to watch you on TV? #BurntSugarRocks
I smile at his Tweet. He’s trying, and I love him for it. Relationship part one, I didn’t want followers because of his fame. My motto was alis volat propriis. Now, I’m understanding that being in a relationship means we’re partners. I can’t bring him new fans, but I can stand by his side and support him in his career. That’s what he’s doing now. He’s being a good boyfriend not doing charity work on my behalf.
MK Landry @NoPinkCaddy
@RealJohnnyKnite you kill me. Premier in January. I’ll be sure to remind you. #BurntSugar #FameForGoodNotEvil
My phone rings, and it’s Aaron. “I did good, huh.”
Laughing, I respond, “Is that the first time you’ve Tweeted?”
“Obvious?” He laughs. “That was fun. I didn’t upset you, did I?”
“No. Why?” I ask.
“I know you were pretty adamant about wanting to do your career on your own terms and without my help. But I just thought why not send you a bit of public love.”
“That’s sweet. I’m sure I’m also going get a few of your stabby, jealous fans, and hopefully, it will take a few days for the paparazzi to arrive. Thank goodness, I have my fence.” I laugh.
“Par for the course.”
Changing the subject, I ask, “Where are you tonight?”
“Denver, Colorado. It’s cold already here. My balls are shriveled.”
“Poor balls,” I quip. “Did you shop online for my furniture?” My hand runs over the bumpy natural material.
“Yup. I did good.” He’s so cocky that I shake my head.
“You did real good.” I pause for a second. “I love it. It’s really beautiful, and the rounded edges on the coffee table didn’t escape me.”
He sighs. “I hate the mark on your face.” Then be begins backtracking. “Not because it takes away from your looks because it doesn’t. It’s just a reminder that I should’ve gone home with you. I didn’t, and you got hurt. Then, I walk into your carriage house, and it’s empty, making me feel like an asshole. I can’t repair the scar, but I can throw money at the empty living room.”
Smiling, I look at the phone, my heart beating double time. “Whatever your reasoning, I’m happy. You make me happy. I can’t wait to see you on Monday.”
He sighs. “Oh God, you have no idea.”
“How’s your hand?”
He sighs again. “Shit. I had to get another round of injections in Phoenix. It did it again. I thought I was going to have to cancel the show, but the Botox worked.”
This is the first time I’ve
asked in a couple of days, and I had no idea. My heart flutters with worry. Sitting up straight up in the chair, I ask, “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Nothing you could do, and I know how stressed you are with the store. You don’t need my problems.”
My heart clenches. “Aaron, your problems are my problems. I want to know.”
The phone is silent. “Sorry. I’ll tell you next time.”
“What did Doctor Odom say?” My finger goes to my cuticle, but I’m stopped by the bandage.
“Doctor Odom is back in New York. He sent one of his associates to replace him. I like him better. He has more personality.”
My knuckles whiten as I grip the phone. “Why didn’t you tell me that? I want Doctor Odom working with you. In my research, I found he’s the best.”
“I have to be in New York to see Doctor Odom, but because of the nature of this disorder, he has trained people that tour with the musician. It’s all good.”
Sighing, I hate this. I want Aaron to receive therapy from the best—not the guy trained by the best, but I let it go. “Okay, so what did this guy say?”
“He said to quit playing my guitar all together, so I stand on stage like a douche wearing a guitar that I don’t play.” He pauses. “You know what an idiot I feel like clapping my hands over my head and leaning against the mic stand like a pretentious asshole.”
“But, Aaron, at least you’re still performing. Those fans don’t care that you’re not playing your guitar. They want your throaty, haunting voice. They want to sing along and watch your lips move as the sounds that they’ve jammed out to on the radio and in their cars for years, move their souls.”
He’s quiet for a moment before he replies, “I know. It’s just not the same.”
“What are you doing about writing music?” I haven’t wanted to ask the question. This is a sore spot, but if we’re sharing then I need to know the good, bad, and ugly.
“I’m playing some,” he admits. “I’m not supposed to, but I can’t stop myself. I’m talking to Sam, and she’s helping me. I’ve never asked for help before.”