Rock

by J. A. Huss

  It’s long and deep. But everything about it is good.

  “Get in,” I tell Missy. She does, searching for her seatbelt as I close the door and walk over to the other side.

  “You’re not sitting in back, RK,” Gretchen says.

  “The fuck I’m not,” I mumble, getting in next to Missy. Her hands are all over me as Gretchen huffs about not being a chauffeur and some other bullshit that I can’t be bothered to listen to.

  I put my arm around Miss and she leans into my chest. One hand tucked behind my back, one lifting my shirt up, a fraction at a time. And even though I just came inside her five minutes ago, I’m ready for more.

  Gretchen talks the entire ride but I don’t understand a word she says. Melissa’s mouth is on mine, then biting my shoulder, then she’s scooting back and lowering her face to my stomach, still lifting my shirt up with that one hand.

  When Gretchen stops in my driveway, Missy and I give off half-hearted waves as I push her up against the front door and stare down into her blue eyes. “You know what?” I slur the words just a little.

  “What?” She laughs back.

  I have so many thoughts in my head at the moment. About her, her music, the bar, this town. What it felt like to come home after five years. How alone I felt. What it felt like to go to her show tonight. To be included. Part of something again.

  “I missed you,” I say.

  “I missed you too.”

  “No,” I say. “I mean I missed you.” I place my hands on each of her cheeks and bump my forehead against hers. “I missed how you started that band. I missed how you worked out those songs. I missed all the mistakes, and all the triumphs. I missed the stressing out over money. I missed the conversation you had to have with Teej to get a spot. I missed picking out the guitar you play, the strap, the picks. I missed you making a decision about what you’d wear on stage. I missed you squealing to whoever is your best friend these days about your first show. I missed the applause, I missed TJ’s proud face afterward, I missed the first blown amp, the first time someone said, Hey, are you the chick who plays at Float’s? I missed everything, Melissa Vetti, rock star. And I’m so fucking sorry. Because life would’ve been so much better if we’d done it together.”

  She pouts her lips and nods her head. I can see a little gleam of light in her eyes as she tries not to cry. “I missed your life too.”

  “Yeah,” I whisper. “It just would’ve been so much better if we’d done it together.”

  She looks up at me and smiles. “We’re together now, RK. And that’s all that matters.”

  I lean down and take her lip in my teeth, not biting hard, but just enough to make her squeal. One hand palms her breast while the other fucks with the door lock. It swings open and she goes tumbling backward, but I catch her around the waist, walk up forward, and kick the door closed. I get the alarm wrong twice, and I’m ready to panic that the sheriff will fuck up our sex plans, so I key it in very slowly to stop the frantic beeping.

  Missy is laughing hard now, the mood back to the fun we were anticipating. I lead her into the family room.

  I don’t turn on the lights but I don’t need to. The moon is bright and it shines right through the wall-sized windows leading to the deck. I take her over there, stand her in the silver shadow, and kiss her as I unbutton her pants. I bite her lip again and then drop to one knee. “Put your hand here,” I say, placing it on my shoulder. “And give me your foot.”

  She does as I ask and we grin at each other as I slip her boot off. “Next one,” I say. And we repeat that. I tug her pants down, bringing the strip of fabric she’s calling underwear with them, and then say, “Step out.”

  She steps.

  I stand back up and lift the tank top over her head, then palm both breasts before letting my hands slip under her arms, around her back, and undoing the bra clasps. I slide the straps over her shoulders and let it fall to the floor.

  And then I step back and look at her. “You,” I say, taking my shirt off and tossing it aside. She swallows hard and stares at my chest. I kick off my boots and undo my jeans, take them off, my boxer briefs with them, and stand there as naked as she is.

  “You,” she says back.

  I reach for her face again, letting my knuckles caress her cheek. “Us.”

  She nods. “Us.”

  “Come here,” I whisper, taking her hand and leading her over to the polished wood coffee table in front of the couch. “Sit here,” I tell her softly. She sits on the coffee table and I sit on the couch a few inches in front of her.

  I lean back into the cushions and wrap my fist around my dick. She shoots me a questioning look. “Open your legs,” I say, beginning to pump my hand up and down my shaft. I can tell she blushes at my request, even in the dim light. “Do it,” I urge quietly.

  Missy takes a deep breath and closes her eyes as her thighs spread open. She smiles, but bows her head, like she’s embarrassed.

  I reach forward and tip her chin back up. “Look at me.”

  She does. “RK—”

  “Shhh,” I say. “Just look at me. We missed a lot in the past five years. I don’t want to miss this. Not one moment of it. So just look at me and don’t stop. I just need to see you, Melissa. I just need to see that you’re real.”

  She nods, her eyes and her attention only on me.

  “Now reach down between your legs and touch yourself.” I get the lip-chewing over that one. We both smile. “Do it,” I say. She bows her head again, but I’m there to tip her chin up. “Don’t look away. Just look at me and I’ll look at you.”

  We stare at each other, our eyes melding us together as she reaches down and begins to stroke herself. I don’t watch that. I don’t need to see that. And when I pump my cock a little harder, she doesn’t watch what I’m doing either.

  We only see what’s behind our eyes.

  “I love you,” I say, scooting forward a little so my free hand can reach between her legs. We bump against each other. Our knees, our hands. And then I slip a finger inside her. She closes her eyes and opens her mouth, but then remembers the rules and meets my gaze again. Her free hand caresses my thigh and she scoots forward a little, scissoring our legs together, hers outside of mine, opening herself up to me.

  She slides her hand to the inside of my thigh as I pump her, and me, just a little harder, and stretches her arm out until she’s cupping my balls.

  “Fuck,” I say.

  She opens her mouth like she wants to say something too, but she shakes her head just the tiniest bit. “What are we doing?”

  “Loving,” I say. “Not fucking. Loving.”

  “I want to climb into your lap and never leave,” she says.

  “Do it.”

  She lifts her knee, placing it on the couch next to my leg, then does it again with her other one. My hands go to her hips, gripping that spot where they fit so well for slow dancing. Her hands press down on my shoulders as she hovers over my lap.

  And then she sits down. My cock finds her entrance easily. It’s wet and open. Ready for me to fill her up. She bites her lip again and I know she wants to close her eyes and just moan because that’s my first reaction too. Just let the pleasure take over. Just close off the world and sink into the ecstasy.

  But we don’t. Because we’ve missed enough and we’re not going to miss this. So we watch each other. She moves. Up and down, her breath getting louder. Her body getting warmer. Her eyes getting heavier.

  And I play with her hair. And kiss her chin. And bite her lip.

  But our eyes do not wander. Our bond does not waver.

  I come inside her. She comes all over me.

  And we see every second of it. Our reflection in each other’s eyes.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The tapping on my window wakes me up. I open my eyes and look out at the rising sun. The air conditioning is blaring in my face as I turn.

  Dr. Chancer smiles at me as he takes a sip of his coffee. I tab the window butto
n and it rolls down.

  “You know”—he laughs—“I’m not complaining, because you’re really making my Monday mornings a lot more interesting. But we’ve got to stop meeting like this.”

  What the fuck? I look around and realize I’m in my truck, parked over at the medical offices in Granby again.

  “Rock?” Chancer asks.

  “Yeah,” I croak out, looking back up at him.

  “Did we have an appointment today? I haven’t checked my schedule since Friday, so maybe—”

  “No,” I say. “No. I’m fine. Well…”

  “Hmm,” he says. “Did you… black out?”

  I think back. “It’s Monday?”

  “I’ll take that as a yes. Where do you last remember being?”

  I look down at my clothes. Rock pants again. I move a little so I can see my shoes. Rock shoes. I hold my hands in front of my face. They are crisscrossed with white climbing tape.

  “Are you wearing a harness?”

  I look down at my chest, bare. And a climbing harness around my hips. “Um.”

  “Hmm,” Chancer says again. “Looks like you had a good time at least.” He laughs. “And you’re alive so you must’ve done well.”

  I don’t know what to say.

  “Well, Rock. I think you probably need to go talk to Margie Sanderson again.”

  I look up at him, squinting into a glare shining between a crack in the pine trees. “Maybe.”

  He opens my door, like he’s not giving me an alternative option, and says, “Last thing you remember?”

  “Saturday night,” I say. “At my house with Melissa.”

  He nods as I turn the truck off, pocket my keys, get out, and close the door. “Go talk to her. You can stop by my office if you need me to check your throat, but I can already tell you’re getting better there. Your voice sounds good. Much better than the first time I saw you.”

  I nod.

  “You probably need a shirt?”

  I look down at myself again, then inside the truck. There are ropes and a t-shirt sitting on the passenger seat. I reach in through the open window and grab the shirt, slipping it over my head. It’s the same Something Corporate shirt I was wearing on Saturday.

  I finger the harness around my hips, considering taking it off, realize I don’t even know how and then forget it. I just follow Chancer into the building, calling out a, “Thanks,” as I go up the stairs and he heads to his office on the first level.

  I slowly walk down the hallway and stop outside the door, reading the plaque that says, Dr. Margie Sanderson, PhD, LP.

  What the fuck is happening?

  The door opens and Margie is there. She smiles. “Dr. Chancer just called. Said you might try to make a run for it.” She smiles bigger. “I’m here to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

  I let out a long breath as she stands aside and beckons me in.

  “Well,” she says, admiring my climbing gear. “Looks like you did something fun recently.”

  “I think I already told you, I’m not a rock climber. I have no idea what the fuck is going on.”

  “Take a seat, Rock.”

  “RK,” I say, annoyed. “Don’t fucking call me Rock.”

  “Why not?” she asks, sitting in the second of two chairs. “Sit,” she says again.

  I sit, resting my elbows on my knees and scrubbing my face with my taped hands.

  “Why do you hate it when people call you Rock?”

  “I don’t hate it. I’m just not Rock here.”

  “Who is Rock?” she asks. “What does that mean? You’re not Rock here? Lots of people must call you that. Your manager? Does she call you that?”

  “Yeah, but that’s all she knows. She only knows Rock. You guys all know RK. I’m not Rock to you guys.”

  “Is there a difference between the two people? Is Rock someone different than RK?”

  I roll my eyes. “No. Not really. If you’re saying I’ve got like… split personality or whatever, I don’t. I’m Rock, lead singer of Son of a Jack. But that guy is not who I am in Grand Lake. Here I’m just me. Rowan Kyle Saber.”

  “So,” she says, crossing her legs like she’s getting comfortable. “So, there’s Rowan Kyle. RK. And Rock. Three different…” She hesitates. “For lack of a better word, and don’t take it literally, three different people.”

  “Whatever. Lots of people have nicknames. Lots of people have stage names. I just don’t want my friends and family calling me by my stage name. I don’t think that’s unusual. P!nk’s family calls her Alecia, not P!nk. Slash’s family calls him Saul, not Slash. So you guys should call me RK, not Rock.” I throw up my hands. “It’s not rocket science. And it doesn’t mean anything.”

  “Well, it might mean something.” I go to object, but she continues talking. “You know what I find interesting, RK?”

  “What?” I growl.

  “That you didn’t ask me what’s going on.”

  “When?”

  “The last time you were here. Did you come to Grand Lake thinking it was Melissa who died on prom night? Or Melanie?”

  “Why?”

  “Because,” she huffs, “everyone knows you thought it was Melissa who died. You made quite a scene at the funeral.”

  I think back to the funeral and oddly find most of it blank. I played the song. I do remember that.

  “And then you just took off, never to be heard from again until a couple weeks ago when the Grand County Sheriff escorted you down from Steamboat Springs. How did you get to Steamboat Springs?”

  “What? What kind of question is that? I was in a fucking accident, right? I was in the hospital where they repaired my throat and then they sent me up to Steamboat for rehab.” I stare at her for a long second. “Right?”

  She nods and then quietly asks, “What kind of accident were you in, RK?”

  I rub the heels of my hands into my eyes, the frayed and dirty tape biting into the skin.

  “RK? What kind of accident was it?”

  “The car went off the road. Just like on prom night.”

  “Do you remember prom night?”

  “How could I forget?”

  “Then why did you think Melissa was the one who died?”

  “Because…” I clear my throat and look her in the face. “Because Melanie was the one I took to prom, not Melissa. But I didn’t know that at the time.”

  “I think everyone told you that the night Melanie died. I know Melissa did. She told you it was Melanie who died, not her. I was there, RK.”

  “I didn’t believe her. Melanie had a bad habit of tricking me into thinking she was Melissa when we were kids. I just didn’t believe her, I guess.”

  “Do you remember talking to me the night Melanie died?”

  I shake my head. “No.”

  “Well, you did.”

  “So?”

  “We were in this office, RK. Do you remember that? I was here, you were here, Melissa Vetti was here. It was all very dramatic. Tears and yelling. Not something most people forget.”

  “OK,” I huff. “Well, I don’t recall.”

  “My real point is, you were not in the hospital. So if the car went off the road on prom night, how did you survive without injury?”

  I just stare at her. For like, a whole minute at least.

  “How could you be in a car that careens off the side of a mountain and not get injured?”

  I still have nothing. I wait to see if she will say something else, but she just looks at me. Waiting. “How?” I ask. “Tell me then. How did it happen?”

  She shakes her head. “Nope. I’m not going to be the one to tell you that. You’re not even trying, RK. You’re not even trying to figure this out. But you know what?”

  “What?” I growl again.

  “There’s a library in Grand Lake. They keep digital copies of all the newspapers. One trip down there will make a world of difference for you.”

  “Is that right?”

  “That’s right. It’
s closed Mondays, but I have it on good authority that Mrs. Schaffer is down there today preparing for the summer reading program.” She smiles. A beeping noise sounds as someone enters the outer office. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have an appointment. But RK?”

  I look at her as she stands up, dismissing me.

  “I think you need to start asking more questions. I think it will really help if you actually participate in your recovery. And I think you owe your friends and family an apology for taking off again. For being a clueless fuckup, as the kids today say. The whole town has been looking for you. I’m sure they’ll be relieved to learn that you were off climbing sheer mountain cliffs.”

  She looks down at my harness and then says, “Have a nice day.”

  I stand up and walk through the open inner door, trying not to look the waiting patient in the face.

  “And RK,” Sanderson calls after me. “No more walk-ins. Schedule ahead if you need to talk again.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  There’s a library in Granby but I drive to the one in Grand Village instead. It’s right next to the town park, two blocks off the lake, because I have this overwhelming desire to be home. The hours on the door do in fact say it’s closed on Monday, but the lights are on inside and when I cup my hands to my face and press my forehead against the glass I can see Mrs. Schaffer bustling around.

  I knock, because it’s locked.

  Mrs. Schaffer smiles and waves. I don’t wave back even though I know it’s gonna come off as rude. She twists a key in the lock and pushes the door open. “Hello, RK,” she says in her old-lady librarian voice. “Margie said you might come by. Come on in.”

  I walk in without a word and stand there while she locks the door back up.

  “Now what can I help you with?” She clasps her hands together in front of her floor-length dress. Her eyes, which might once have been bright and blue, are now dull and gray, kind of like her hair. She has the proverbial reading glasses on a gold chain hanging around her neck.

  I clear my throat. “I wanted to read about… that… night.” I want to say ‘Melanie’s death’ or ‘the prom night crash’. But I’m fucking spinning right now. I’m afraid to say anything. I’m afraid everything I think is true… is wrong.