A sigh floats to the sky as his teeth squeeze the delicate skin on the back of my neck, and his free hand snakes around, joining its rough twin. He’s magic. All sleight of hand, tricks, and illusion, he fills me with one hand while circling my swollen clit with the other. He plays me like a hi-hat. Keeping the beat as a cry tears from my throat that’s part porn flick, part horror movie.
The force knocks me backward. He slips his hands from between my legs and locks them around my waist, holding me upright while I pant and whimper my way back to life. “Burnin’ It Down” still murmurs in the background. AJ's lips brush against my ear. “Goddamn, baby,” he growls, letting my earlobe slide between his teeth. “That was so hot; I’m tempted to fuck you right here."
I arch my back, pressing my backside against him. A hard ridge rises beneath the heavy denim of his jeans. When my center heats a second time, I silently pray that he makes good on his threat. “What’s stoppin’ you?”
He turns me around to face him, still nipping at my neck, but doesn’t give in to the need that has my body crying out for him. “I want you to stay with me.”
“I wasn’t plannin’ on runnin’ away.”
“No.” He lightly shakes his head, running his thumb across my cheek. “I want you to stay here, in my house. Move in with me.”
"But you hardly know me."
"I know you’re the one I want. Life’s too damn short, Casey. I don’t want to waste any more time.”
When shit with Davis hit the fan, I knew I deserved it because of the way I left things with Austin. Eye for an eye. But I’ll never know what I did in my life to deserve AJ. The magnetic connection I’ve felt from day one is unexplainable and unavoidable. It scares the bejesus out of me. Every time I look at him, my heart wants to burst from my chest and jump right into his hand. I spent five years alone, never coming close to meeting anyone who makes me feel the way AJ does. Every look owns me, every touch overwhelms me, and every smile makes my heart smile just as wide.
It can’t last. It’s just too perfect. Disaster looms on the horizon.
I can feel it.
15
AJ
Casey sits so close to me at the kitchen table that our thighs brush together as we eat. Or, rather, I eat. She nibbled the edges of her burger and declared herself full. Now, it’s getting cold on her plate while I wolf down my third. They’re burned to hell on one side, a result of our little rendezvous at the counter, but hell if I care. I’m just happy to be fed. And the beautiful girl in my T-shirt doing the cooking was the perfect appetizer.
“Why don’t you park the truck in the garage?
“I can’t.” I stuff the last of my burger in my mouth. Ketchup clings to the corner of my lips. I wipe it away and bring our plates to the sink. She cooked, so I’ll do the dishes. Eventually.
“Why not? You got some kind of tricked out muscle car in there?”
A loud bubble of laughter bursts from my chest. “Jill is the car fanatic of the family. I just fix them.” Her gaze darts to the door in the kitchen and back to me. In her eyes, I can see my cryptic answer burning a hole in her brain. “That’s where I keep the victims!” I say with evil laughter.
“Nuh-uh!” She laughs, but there’s a nervous edge to it. As if there’s a slight possibility that I might actually have a room in my house with bodies piled up to the ceiling.
“Come on. I’ll show you.” I extend my hand, but she only looks at it. “I’m not a murderer, Case.” I chuckle. “I promise.”
She slips her petite hand in mine, letting me pull her off the chair. The garage door hides in a little mudroom right off the kitchen where I keep my washer and dryer. The naked light bulbs flicker to life as we enter, and Casey’s eyes gleam when she sees what’s inside.
“This is my studio.”
Thick foam panels cover each wall, the ceiling, and garage door. They are meant to absorb the sound, so I don’t bother my neighbor when I play my drums. I can’t park my truck in here because it’s sealed shut.
She walks farther into the room, taking it all in. Her hand grazes over the mixing board against the wall. It’s similar to the one I use at The Wreck but has far fewer knobs and faders. This one is for personal use. My little toy to play with when I feel like laying something down.
“Do you know how to play this?”
With dancing blue eyes, she ogles my collection. Hanging on the wall is a Jackson V guitar. The deep onyx finish gleams in the sporadically placed recessed lighting. The corner is nicked, but that’s fine with me. It went for a bargain at a closeout sale, and I couldn’t resist. It’s just like the one Randy Rhoades himself played. Jameson was jealous as hell when I came home with it. He’s the guitar player in the family, and my collection blows his away.
Next to it hangs a Gibson Les Paul. The bright yellow center fades to a dark orange hue around the edges in a beautiful sunburst paint job. It glimmers with a faint glittery finish that picks up every shaft of light that filters into the room. Another amazing yard sale find I couldn’t pass up. This would be why I have nothing in my house. Musical hobbies are expensive.
With both of those two electric beauties hanging side-by-side, Casey still stops in front of an old acoustic in the corner. A vintage Gibson sits in a rack all by itself. A relic collecting dust that no one’s even looked at in I don’t know how long. Every dent and scratch in the old worn wood tell a different story from my childhood. I can still hear my dad plucking the strings singing “Dust in the Wind” while my mother hummed along. Of all the things in this house, that’s the only thing that means anything to me. That and the photo on my fridge.
“I can play a little.”
I gently lift the Gibson from the rack. Sitting on a stool, balancing it on my knee, I’m ten years old again. My father is sitting on the couch next to me. The huge, clunky guitar takes up the majority of my lap and the space between the frets is too wide for my little fingers, but my old man is patient as I try my best to play the song he’s attempting to teach me. The only song I had learned to play from beginning to end before the drums caught my eye and I gave up strumming for banging.
Trying to remember the chords in my head, I place my fingers on the frets and play. I close my eyes and let the sound take over. The simple notes of Tesla’s famous love song fill the garage. It transports me back in time. It’s not perfect, but it’s there. Every note. Every chord. Just the way my dad taught it to me.
“That was beautiful.”
“I’m not much of a guitar player, and I’m definitely not a ballad guy,” I reply, placing the Gibson back in its spot.
“What kind of guy are you?” Her playful tone makes my dick jump. The smirk etched in her face sets a mosaic of dirty thoughts spiraling through my mind, including, but not limited to, setting her on top of the monstrosity of a kit in the center of the room and banging her like a floor tom.
“I like my music like I like my women—loud and dirty.”
I return her smirk with one of my own as I squeeze through a small open space and sit upon my throne like the king I am when I’m surrounded by this much awesomeness.
Hi-hats, splashes, rides, crashes, bass drums, toms, snares—they all sit in a systematically placed circle with a swivel stool in the middle. A low-key re-creation of Neil Peart’s Time Machine setup. Well, as best I could get it anyway.
“This is my baby,” I say with a grin. A combination of acoustics and electronics, it’s much larger than your standard percussion kit. It has twenty individual drums, eighteen cymbals, and a jungle of hardware to navigate around the setup. It’s a beast, and I’m hella proud of it.
This is my church. I don’t need a higher power. I don’t need prayer books, hymnals, or the blood of Christ on my tongue. This is where I feel holy.
“It looks complicated.”
I drag Casey through an opening in the kit and set her down on the stool between my legs. The clean, floral fragrance of her skin hits my nostrils and travels straight to my dick, which I
’m positive she can feel growing along her backside. “Here,” I murmur, slipping a stick into each hand. “Now cross your arms like this.”
With both our hands on the sticks, I cross our arms over her body. “This stick hits the hi-hat ...” A tinny ting-ting-ting sound fills the room as I tap the stick on the hats “And this one hits the snare.” A ratta-tat-tat snaps to my right as I let the stick bounce against the skin.
Together, we do a standard jazz beat, nothing fancy, but she laughs with that amazing giggle that tickles my spine every time I hear it. “See? Easy.”
“Mmmhmm. Sure it is, drummer boy. Bet I know how to make it hard for you.” She wiggles her ass into my crotch a little before standing up and shimmying out from the set. Not only did she throw down a challenge, but she also left me with a massive hard-on.
Behind my kit, the world melts away. All my shit dissolves into the atmosphere as I wail away with all my might. It takes me to another place. One where I’m the master of my fate. The captain of my soul. Nothing matters. Nothing hurts. The beat takes over, and I’m untouchable.
In my mind, the sound of Alex Lifeson’s guitar riffs and Geddy Lee’s bass line brings me home as I add the fills and rolls, going off on my own tangents and inserting my own flair to the song in my head. No one can hear it but me, but that’s fine. I’m the only one who counts, and I know it’s epic.
My eyelids crack open, and I see her sitting on the edge of her seat, lips parted, eyes wide as she anxiously watches. This is everything. My woman, my drums, my house. All I’ve ever wanted in one place. If I was an emotional man, I might just shed a tear, but that Y chromosome keeps me from being a total pussy.
We lock eyes as my abuse on the kit continues. She stands, fingering the hem of her Ozzy tee—my Ozzy tee—letting her tongue graze along her lower lip.
Smash! Crash! Bang! Bang! Bang!
My feet pound the pedals, my arms flail, and the cymbals crash all around me. Crossing her arms over her body, she lifts the hem of the shirt. Slowly. She cocks her head to the side, watching me with her fiery blue gaze as the shirt rises past her taut stomach.
Adrenaline shoots through my overheated blood. Even the dull sting in my shoulder doesn’t calm my racing pulse. I’m amped. On fire. Both in my arms and in my pants. One turquoise eye peeks over the hem of the shirt, disappearing behind it altogether as the tee leaves her body and wisps to the floor.
I’m still going. Sweat pours down my face. My gaze burns into her exposed flesh in front of me. Little pink nipples stand at attention in the cool room, begging my mouth to warm them. I have no idea what I’m even playing at this point; I’m just banging everything in sight until this game is over and I reap my reward.
A dimpled smirk grows on her face. Her eyes gleam with mischief as her thumbs hook into the lacy strings of underwear around her slender hips.
Crack!
The snapping sound of wood echoes through the room. Chunks of the splintered drumstick fly everywhere; I look down in awe at the mangled stick in my hand and then back up at her. “You’re evil.”
“Me?” Lashes flutter above her innocent, girl-next-door grin, dimples and all. Casey’s arms fly at her sides as she does a twirl and heads for the door.
I jump up from the throne and scurry between the massive floor toms, trying my best not to knock everything over in my haste as Casey runs from the room. “You’d better run!”
Her giggling echoes through the empty house, bouncing off the plain white walls, followed by the pitter-patter of bare feet on the hardwood floors. The house isn’t that big. She doesn’t get far before I’m right behind her. “Gotcha!” I hook my arm around her middle and pull her against me.
Golden tendrils hang wildly over her face as she turns to face me. “You got me, AJ. What do you intend to do with me?”
Her breath fans across my lips as I tuck the strands of hair behind her ear. "I'm gonna keep you. Forever and ever, cowgirl,” I whisper, walking her into my bedroom and closing the door behind us.
16
Casey
“Greetings, guys and gals!” Marisa slurs as I open the door to our apartment. The sun is still in the sky, and she’s already half in the bag.
“Ooh, you have the glow of a woman who’s just been gloriously fucked!” She tips the bottle of booze to her crimson lips, swallowing down a swig of straight whiskey. “And the limp,” she adds with a snort. The bold green shadow swept over her lids makes her eyes pop against the vibrant red bangs cut straight across them. All dressed up and nowhere to go.
The strange man sitting next to her on our couch offers me a rotten smile as I enter. A spider tattoo creeps along his lanky neck. Every guy she comes home with looks pretty much just like this. The ladies are buxom, but the guys are foul. To each his own, I guess.
“You wanna join?” he asks, adding the emphasis on the last word. At least, I think that’s what he asks. The thick Scottish accent and the half-empty bottle of Jack between them make him hard to understand. This guy is her spirit animal.
“No, she doesn’t.” AJ stomps through the door and drapes a possessive arm over my shoulders.
“Relax! Lee’s just kidding. Ain’t ya, baby?” Marisa coos, fingering the bullring in Lee’s nose. If this guy adds one more piece of metal to his face, he’s going to pierce himself shut.
He mumbles something incoherent then pulls her by the ears and fuses his thin lips to hers.
“You got some mail on the table,” she warbles around his grimy mouth. Staying at AJ’s is looking more and more like the best decision for all of us. I don’t know if I can handle another one of Missy’s get-togethers where I’m stuck in my room while she makes it impossible for me to ever want to sit on my own couch again.
“Classy as ever, huh, Miss?” AJ says, following me into the kitchen, but Missy’s long ago stopped paying attention. The guy’s already on top of her, grinding her into the sofa cushions as we speak.
A small pile sits on our tiny pub table. I go through the envelopes until one catches my eye. A certified letter from Texas. The fancy stamp in the corner says The Law Office of Roger Dixon. “It’s from Gran’s lawyer,” I say to no one in particular, tearing the letter open.
“Holy Jesus H. Christ!” My hand flies to my heart as I fall back into the chair behind me. I have to read the letter again to make sure I’m not hallucinating.
“What is it, babe?” For a second, I forgot AJ was even there. I forgot about Marisa and her beau, regardless of the moans traveling from the couch twenty feet away. Hell, I almost forgot to breathe.
“Gran had a will.” I’m determined to force my heartbeat to slow down to a manageable pace, but it doesn’t seem to want to listen. “She left me everything ...” As the words leave my mouth, the lights in the room appear to dim before my very eyes. If I don’t relax, I’m going to pass out right here on this stool. “Including the ranch.”
There has to be some mistake. Mama is Gran’s direct kin, not me. Grainger Ranch has been in our family for generations. Why on God’s green earth would she leave it to me? If anyone deserves it, it’s Austin. He’s the one who’s still there after all these years, the one who was with Gran on her last days, taking care of things when her wayward girls took flight.
My gran was full of piss and vinegar on her best day and stung like a hornet on her worst. She had a head for business better than any man I’d ever known. Me, on the other hand? All I know is how to strum a guitar and mix drinks.
“Okay,” AJ starts. “What’s the next move then?”
I look up from the paper into AJ’s steel gaze. He’s flipped again. My funny, sexy man is hiding behind an emotionless shield. He’s seen this scenario play out already. In his own life.
“I don’t know. I guess I have to go to Texas.”
Nausea hits hard when I think about going back there without Gran. My choices are limited, though. Gran trusted me, so I can’t let her down. This is my chance to make everything right.
“It’s the
right thing to do.” He nods, trying to keep his face unreadable, but his feelings show through the cracks. He takes a step forward, entering my personal space. “You gonna come back to me, cowgirl?” His knuckles graze my cheek.
The tenderness reflected in his gaze is enough to break me. I knew this would happen. I just knew the minute I opened myself to another person fate would intervene. Karma is a cold-hearted bitch, that’s for damn sure. “I’ll try.”
I’d love to give him a definitive yes, but I have no idea how long I’ll be gone or what’s waiting for me out there. Texas is my home. Grainger Ranch is my birthright. I just didn’t expect it this soon.
I fold the letter and slip it back into the envelope before going to tell Marisa the news. The last thing I want to do is get in the middle of her action, but I’d also like to get my stuff and get out of here before atomic punk starts shedding his clothes.
“Miss,” I whisper, approaching the couch. “Hold up a sec.”
Lee raises his pockmarked face with a creepy grin. “Change your mind, then?”
“Settle down, killer.” Marisa slides out from under him and pushes herself to a sitting position. “What’s up?”
“I’m going back to Texas for a while. I have to settle Gran’s estate.”
Her orange-red brows shoot up to her hairline, and her bold green eyes get wide. “You’re leaving me?”
Marisa has her puppy dog pout down to a science. We’ve been roommates for five years. Missy was the first friend I made when I moved to New York. She may be flighty, but she’s been with me through it all. She knows all my secrets, even the ones I swore I’d never tell. Leaving her breaks my heart, but I have to do what’s right. Whatever happens, we’ll always be besties.
“Just for a while. I’ll send you some money as soon as I can to cover my half of the rent.”
“You sure this is just about the ranch?”
“What else would it be about?”
Sweetest Obsessions - Anthology Page 12