by Elle Greco
“That’s right,” he snapped back. “I won’t let you go.”
My breath quickened, and my heart stuttered. My hands fisted around the side of the mattress when he pressed his lips against the top of my shoulder. I closed my eyes, fighting against the desire that edged into my body. He ran his tongue up the curve of my neck, pausing at the sensitive spot just below my ear. “I’m speaking the truth, you know that. And I think you feel the same damn way.”
At his words, I relaxed into him. Not because he was right (which he was), but because I was tired. Tired of fighting back feelings that had taken root when we were kids, then blossomed into something more when we were on tour. Tired of being denied things that I wanted, things that I needed. Tired of denying myself minor pleasures when the big stuff—like my college education and a roof over my head—had been ripped away. I. Deserved. This.
He pulled me away from the edge of the bed, shifting his body so that my back hit the mattress. He dropped his mouth to mine, his tongue teased my lips open, and then he took a tentative taste of my mouth. Sweet. Gentle. And not at all what I expected. I melted into the mattress on a sigh when his hand reached under my extra huge T-shirt and hit the bottom swell of my breast. His thumb swept up and brushed my sensitive nipple, and my body tensed with need as the pleasure of his touch coursed through me. In one swift move, I pulled the shirt off, and then his hands moved over each breast, caressing one and then the other.
My fingers inched over his mocha skin, the muscles of his abs flexing in response to my featherlight touch.
Rafe wasted no time getting my sweatpants off. His hand swept down my stomach and over my panties, his fingers slipping around the edge of the fabric. Guitar-nimble fingers dragged up my wet slit. I sucked in a breath as he came up to my clit, pressing the sensitive nub, charging my body with feral electricity.
Oh. My. God. Rafe and I were about to do it. Rock God Rafe wanted me. Me. Skinny, frizzy red hair, pasty complexion, no ass, no boobs, no curves. Me.
I closed my eyes, the waves of pleasure taking root deep inside me. Willing myself to turn off my brain, I allowed myself to give in to the indulgence. Allowed myself to be pulled into Rafe’s orbit. His fingers dipped in, each stroke bringing me closer to orgasm. His mouth moved down my neck to my breast, grazing my nipple with his teeth. His fingers played faster, changing the rhythm from slow and sensual to wilder and more urgent. My hips bucked and ground into his hand, riding him harder, wetter, more frantic. His mouth on my breast, his tongue teasing my nipple, his fingers deep inside me. My body seized as anticipation of release built.
Suddenly, the incessant vibration of a cell phone, followed by Rafe’s growl of “Fuck,” yanked me right out of it. I lost his mouth, his hands, the warmth of his body as he rolled out of bed, phone in hand.
“Reesie? You okay?” he asked, his voice rough.
Shit.
I watched his back muscles tensing and relaxing as he listened. “Reesie, it’s four in the fucking morning here, you know. Yeah, I know you’re stressed. You told me that last night.”
He sat at the foot of the bed, his back still to me. Elbow on his knee, he rested his forehead in his hand. “I can’t just come to New York every time you have a freak-out, Reesie.”
She needed him in New York. Again.
“I got my own shit going on,” he continued.
Guess that was one way of looking at it.
Frozen in Rafe’s bed, the needy ache of our unfinished moment moved from my vagina toward my heart, where it settled with a squeeze. God, I was such an idiot, thinking… I don’t know… That maybe there was something growing between us. That maybe I was someone special to him. That maybe I was... I don’t even know what I was anymore. Not to Rafe. Hell, not even to myself.
Yanking myself out of my stupor, I sat up, and my arm instinctively lifted to cover my exposed chest. Rafe shifted his body to face me, phone still clamped to his ear.
I lifted my feet to swing them off the bed, but his hand caught my leg. His head was moving back and forth in a no.
Like I was staying in his bed? After this? Oh, hell no. I kicked my leg away from his hand and launched myself out of his bed like a shot. I picked up my T-shirt from the floor and shoved it over my head, not caring that it was inside out.
“I gotta call you back, Reesie, okay? Let me call you after I get some sleep. Yeah?”
He launched his phone toward his pillows and caught me around the waist before I made my exit.
“Jett? What is it?”
“You are seriously going to ask me that?” I snapped back.
I will not cry, I will not cry, I will not cry.
“Yes, I am,” he said.
I motioned to the phone lying dormant on his bed.
“Jett, Reesie’s got some shit going on. She’s alone in New York. She’s scared. She needs someone right now.”
“And it has to be you?” I asked.
I closed my eyes at the desperation that leaked out along with the words.
He pulled me closer. “Jett, let me explain.”
“No, you don’t have to explain anything,” I said, squirming my way out of his hold.
God! Idiot. I was an idiot.
I knew they were still a thing, but I just… what? Forgot? How convenient. More like avoidance, but there was no more avoiding it now.
“I mean, I know that you both are… and I’m not the one…” My eyes became wet, so I blinked a few times and took a breath.
He ran the back of his hand against my cheek. Soft. Sweet. “That’s where your head went?” he asked.
I shook my head, so he dropped his hand. “I’m just… it’s all too fast. And too weird. This… thing… whatever… it’s just not… we’re just not… you know?”
After stuttering out that stream of meaningless words, the silence growing between us felt like an insurmountable wall. It drove home the point that I wasn’t Reesie Allen, not by a long shot. I was Jett Benson. Awkward and frizzy-haired. More comfortable in a book than in my own skin.
“Curious, Beanpole,” he said, breaking the silence. “What do you think this is?”
Before I could answer, he leaned in and press his lips against mine. It wasn’t all tongues and teeth and fire like a minute ago. It felt bittersweet, like longing. For me, at least. It felt like a goodbye.
“It can’t be anything,” I whispered when we finally broke apart.
“Right. It’s nothing,” he said.
I stood ramrod straight and stared as his muscled back walked out the door.
19
“Mr. Delano is ready for you,” said Mike’s assistant.
In the three minutes I was waiting, she had gotten me a coffee and a bottle of water, and had let Mike know I was here. If she wasn’t so efficient, I would have thought she was an actress playing the role of administrative assistant. Plus, she was drop-dead gorgeous.
I followed her through the massive mahogany door. Mike rounded his enormous desk to greet me, which he did with a kiss on both cheeks.
“Good, you have coffee? Water? Excellent,” he said, waving to two comfy-looking club chairs in front of his desk. “Please sit.”
I did exactly that, placing my beverages on the small side table nestled between them. “Your call surprised me this morning,” I said as I settled in.
“Not as surprised as I was to get the contract,” he said.
“Did you read through it?” I asked.
“Three times,” he said. “It was to the point. No bullshit.”
His confounded expression worried me. “So, what’s wrong with it?”
“Nothing,” he said. “That’s the problem. It’s almost too generous.”
“Really?” I asked.
“You have total creative control,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief. “Gee even wrote in an out clause for you. A fucking out clause.”
His eyes met mine expectantly. I didn’t know what to say exactly. I knew Bobby was making contractual concessio
ns, but were they too good to be true?
Mike’s eyes went back to the papers on the desk in front of him. “It’s a three-album deal, but the only thing he’s tying you to is the EP. That’s it. You’re not happy after its release, you can cut and run.”
“Really?”
I wasn’t expecting that.
Mike’s eyes came back up. “Look, En Fuego can cut and run too. It’s not that one-sided.”
I wrinkled my nose. “No gotchas?”
“Not one,” he said. “I was ready to do battle. But what can I counter? The money’s more than fair for a new artist. He’s not trying to own a piece of your publishing. I’ve never seen a contract like this. Are you really that good?”
My eyes dropped, and my face warmed. “I don’t know,” I said to my hands.
“It’s either that or you have something he wants.”
“Mike, I’ve got nothing. Not even a car.”
“But you have access to Rafe, Dion, and Vince.”
“And?”
He tapped his pen against his temple. “Trying to poach Grimm’s label maybe?”
“Well, you would know if that’s possible better than me,” I said. “You wrote their contracts.”
He gave me a quick nod that said those deals were ironclad.
“So, you recommend I sign it?” I continued.
“If this is what you want for your career, yes. There’s not much for me to negotiate. We can try for a bigger cut, but this is a sweetheart deal,” he said.
“What about my songs—does he have any ownership over what I write while I am under contract?” I asked.
Mike shook his head. “En Fuego gets right of first refusal, but if the label turns a song down, you are free to sell it when the contract expires. In short, it doesn’t look like Bobby’s trying to screw you.”
I let out my breath. “Okay.”
He paused for a moment. “Just be ready for him to call in a favor down the line. This contract doesn’t hold you to anything like that, but this industry has a long memory. And they hold grudges.” He uncapped his pen. “With that in mind, are you sure this is what you want?”
I nodded.
“Then you should sign. But first, I’ll work on setting up a publishing company. You will want to put this through a corporate entity. It’ll protect your assets.”
I snorted at that. He smiled. It was a nice smile. His face wasn’t severe exactly, but it was serious, with brows that angled in and slight wrinkles making straight lines in the center of his forehead. His smile relaxed all of that.
“Right,” I said, biting my lip. “Sorry. This is all a little overwhelming.”
“It was for me too at first, and I went to school for it,” he said. “But I expect you’re a quick study.”
His eyes lingered on mine. I shifted in my seat and cleared my throat. “So, in terms of your fee—”
“I’m setting up an escrow account for you. My office takes ten percent out of your payments. You don’t have to worry about paying lump sums and all that. Fact is, you need someone to negotiate for you, and I’ll take a cut like an agent,” he said. “You’ll want to bring in an accountant as well. These deals have tax implications. The corporation will help with that. But I want you to have a second person with eyes on the money.”
I nodded. Lawyers and accountants and tax implications? I just wanted money to finish UCLA.
“And Jett?” he called. My gaze went back to him. “I appreciate you putting your trust in me. And find an accountant you can trust. That’s key—to have a team behind you that you have faith in. But even though you trust us, keep your own eyes on your money. Know what you are signing. Know what goes into your accounts and what comes out and where it’s going. Trust us, but only to a point.”
It was expert advice. I nodded. “I will.”
“It starts with this contract,” he said, holding up the stack of papers. “I want to go over this with you before you sign it so you know exactly what you are signing. You free tonight for that dinner?”
“Um, I—” I stammered. “I’m supposed to meet with a stylist.”
“How about after?”
“It’ll be late.”
“I work late, so I eat late,” he said.
“But I’m supposed to be in the studio, like, tomorrow,” I said. “I need a contract. And Rafe…”
Shit. Rafe.
Mike’s head came up from the paperwork. “What about Rafe?”
“He wants a song,” I said.
“Rafe wants a song?”
“I mean Rogue,” I corrected myself. Rafe proved this morning that he didn’t want a thing from me. “He wants to grab it before I sign with Bobby, so I’ll need a contract for that too.”
“Right, Rafe,” Mike said after clearing his throat. “That could hold up the En Fuego deal. Look, I’ll talk to Bobby, let him know our intent is to sign but that we need time to do this right. He’ll accept that and move forward on our word, so that should buy us some time. He may make us sign a letter of intent, but that’s nothing. In the meantime, I’ll call Rafe and see if I can get that song worked out fast. You do not hand it over until that contract is signed. Got it?”
I relaxed my shoulders, which had crept up to my ears in the past few minutes. “Okay.”
Mike’s face went stern. “But I am not going to risk the En Fuego deal for this, so Rafe needs to move fast. Bobby’s offering you the deal of a lifetime. Rogue Nation and Grimm Records are not going to fuck that up for you.”
“They’ve fucked up enough for me,” I said. “Agreed.”
He relaxed back in his chair. “Perfect. So think you’ll be done by nine o’clock? How about Parma? The publishing company docs will be ready for your signature.”
I bit my lip. “Yeah, about that… I’m sorry, Mike, I’m sure I am misreading this… Well, no, Nikki misread it first, at the Pacific Dining Car the other night. And now I think I am misreading it…”
“You’re not misreading it,” he said, holding my eyes.
“So, you’re not going to charge the dinner back to me?” I asked.
His lips tugged up at the corners. “That’s not how dates work, Jett. I’d be paying.”
“Right,” I said to my lap. “It’s just… I mean, you are drop-dead gorgeous, okay? Like, seriously. But my heart—”
“Belongs to Rafe,” he finished.
My head rose sharply. “I wasn’t going to say that.”
“Maybe not, but I saw the way you looked at him,” he said. “Was hoping I was the one misreading that.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Don’t apologize for that,” he said. “I just hope he realizes how lucky he is.”
I shrugged. “I don’t really know if he feels the same way.”
“He’d be an idiot not to.” This time, his smile was sad but no less radiant, and I felt a slight tinge of regret. Rafe and I were complicated. Something simple would be a welcome change.
Mike cleared his throat. “So, I just need a name.”
“For what?” I asked.
“Your publishing company.”
“Oh.” I wasn’t expecting this.
“If you need a few to think about it, I can move forward with the paperwork and add it in later today.”
“Derelict,” I blurted out without even thinking.
Mike’s head tilted. “Derelict? For the name?” I nodded. “You’re sure?”
God, what was it with dudes second-guessing every damn decision?
“Yup,” I said, standing up. “Derelict Inc. That’s what brought me to this point.”
“Okay,” he said, still sounding unsure. He stood and rounded the desk again. After more awkward cheek kissing, I was on my way out the door.
His office building was on La Cienega, several blocks from En Fuego’s offices but just a block away from Melrose. I wasn’t expected at En Fuego for a while and had time to kill, so I wandered over to Melrose to do some window-shopping. Maybe in a few days,
I could do some actual shopping. I didn’t do retail therapy. But after I almost made the biggest mistake of my life with Rafe—he was still hung up on Reesie, and I was just a warm body to pass the time, obviously—I was seeing the appeal of shopping. It might not mend a broken heart, but hell, it was a nice diversion.
I turned the corner and came to a dead stop in front of a recently opened used book- and-vinyl store. The store was simply called World’s End, and the smell of musty paper greeted me when I walked in.
The inside was cluttered and eclectic. It was like someone had moved their massive book and vinyl collection to a storefront because they ran out of room in their house. The bookshelves were mismatched and chipped. The vinyl was organized in milk crates on folding tables.
Björk was playing on the sound system, and a woman with enviably straight, glossy jet-black hair was humming along to the music, her face intent on something on her computer screen. Her eyes slid to me when I tripped over an ill-placed footstool.
“Welcome to World’s End,” she said, peering at me over her chunky black-rimmed reading glasses. She was ultracool hipster in an old-school kind of way.
“Nice shop,” I said, running my fingers along spines of books on the shelf in front of me.
Her eyes assessed me. “Thanks.”
Framed concert posters, all vintage, covered the wall behind the folding tables filled with albums. The Eurythmics, Dexys Midnight Runners, The Police, Pet Shop Boys, Madness, Joy Division. It was very specific. All British artists from the ’80s.
I glanced back at her. No one just opened a weird used book- and record store on a prime corner on Melrose.
“I’m Lydon,” she said, and I noticed she had a faint British lilt, so slight it was easy to miss.
I blinked, unsure if I’d heard her right. “Lydon?” She pointed to a framed photo of Public Image Ltd, with lead singer John Lydon (aka Johnny Rotten to Sex Pistols fans), that seemed to hold a place of honor on the wall above the counter. Then she hiked her shoulder up in a half shrug. She turned back to her computer.
“So you too?” I asked.
She didn’t look up. “Me too what, darling?”
“Had a parent who named you after a musician,” I said. “I’m Jett, as in Joan. My sister was named Nikki for Nikki Sixx, and my other sister is Presley…”