Badass In My Bed: Badass #2

by Rae Lynn Blaise

  “I’m sorry you don’t get more time for yourself.” I can practically see dark circles forming under his eyes, purple smudges of exhaustion. I know how he feels.

  “You’ve got to work hard to maintain momentum at this stage. People have short memories. If you stop for too long, they forget.”

  “No one could forget you—your music,” I try to cover my slip up. “I wonder if more people knew the work that goes into a dream coming true, if they’d give up and run in the opposite direction.” I kiss his collarbone.

  “Probably not. The grass is always greener.”

  That’s true. “Busy can be good. It makes the time pass faster.”

  “Really, it’s a nice problem to have, and I know I’m lucky to be getting paid for making music. It’s the dream, and I’m living it.”

  “Me too.” And in this economy, even.

  His gaze wanders over my feature. “I appreciate it, but at the same time, I’m so sick of living out of a suitcase. I miss home.”

  I pat the sheet. “Not that this one’s bad, but there’s nothing better than your own bed. Where’s home?”

  He snuggles a little closer to me. “I’ve got a place in LA.”

  It’s so far away. “You live there?”

  He nods. “I bought a McMansion. I’m such a cliché—a rock star with a mansion in The Hills.”

  “I bet it’s beautiful.”

  “Yeah, although I’m starting to forget what it looks like. I wish I could have seen your place before I left.”

  “It’s nothing special. An old house that’s been fixed up with a bit of polish and stainless steel.” I’m glad he hasn’t been to my house. I need one place free from memories of him to find sanctuary in.

  “You know, I’ve got a big party in Hollywood on Friday. Lots of horrible industry types. A bunch of spoiled pop stars who use auto tune.”

  “Sounds awful.” I shudder then shiver at how good that feels with him still inside me.

  “It will be. You should be my date. We can make sure none of them take themselves too seriously.” His cock starts swelling inside me again—a new feeling that makes me gulp air into my lungs because this time he’s not aroused just by my body. He’s aroused by the thought of us.

  “Would I even be allowed in? Maybe I should start practicing my duckface now.” I try to lighten the mood, even though my head and my heart are screaming for joy and terror at once.

  He grazes my nipple with the back of his fingers. “We’ll roll up and remind them what real music is like—and it’s not about how you look. It’s how it makes you feel.”

  I snort. “Yeah, because you’re really hard on the eyes, Dylan.”

  He bats his eyelashes. “I like to think I’m more than just a pretty face.”

  “You are,” I say seriously. And you make me feel dangerous, breathtaking things.

  He lies down and wraps his arms tightly around my torso. “What would it be like though, our lives if you came with me?”

  How can I answer? How can I allow myself to imagine this? “I’d have back problems from jealously tackling all the fans constantly throwing themselves at you.”

  “Sure, but that would only take, like, three hours a day. Do you like swimming? I have a pool.”

  “I do, as it happens.”

  “It’s settled then. You’ll tell your conductor to go fuck himself, you’re having a vacation, and come with me. Emphasis on ‘come.’”

  If only. The thought makes me smile, but I have to be realistic. “I know you’re joking. Even if you weren’t, I have my own commitment on Friday.” And for the rest of my life. “It’s the opening gala for the symphony where all these important supporters come to a cocktail party and the symphony players have to schmooze with the patrons.”

  “Is that fun, at least?”

  “Maybe for some people. I hate it. It makes me feel gross, like we’re charming people into giving us the money to continue playing music we’d be playing anyways. If the patrons want to donate, they should donate without the pomp and politics of it all.”

  Dylan kisses my shoulder. “I’m getting the feeling this isn’t just about the symphony.”

  He can read me so easily. “My father used to parade me around things like this all the time. It made me feel like I was being pimped out, or something. A performing monkey clapping for dollars. I just want to play music.”

  “I know how you feel. Sometimes the sponsors act like they own us. I get tired of smiling for the cameras, posing with one stupid product or another I’ve never used in my life, and I’m suddenly paid to pretend I can’t live without it.”

  “They pay you to be fake, and I only get paid if I can convince the stodgy patrons that our versions of the classics are the real deal.”

  We both get quiet realizing how far apart our worlds really are, and yet in some ways, they’re exactly the same. Both of us cogs in machines much larger than ourselves.

  “I believe I made you a promise.” The kisses he leaves on the back of my neck send spirals of pleasure straight to my clit. Apparently, the back of my neck is one of my hot spots.

  “Oh?” I play dumb as tingles wind up my spine.

  “I think you should get on top and use my cum as lube.”

  “No woman would need lube with you, Dylan.”

  “There are no other women.” He thrusts in and out twice before pulling out and flipping me onto my back again. His cum and mine run down my thighs like warm honey. The added slickness enables him to rub the top of his cock everywhere between my legs, sliding over me, making my legs rubbery.

  I smile. “But I’m beginning to see the benefits of your lubrication.”

  He surges forward and claims a deep, rough kiss that makes my head spin. “Get on.”

  More wetness coats my inner thighs when I spread wide to straddle him. He’s right, it’s fucking hot, and I want it, want more of it. I lean forward, accidentally shoving my breasts into his face.

  He pushes them together and licks back and forth, lavishing my nipples with attention, making me ache for him again for a moment before realizing I can have both. I reach between us, reposition him, and slide down every rigid inch until we’re sealed together again.

  He lies back, grabbing my hips and grinding me on his cock. Every ab tightens, and those long, luscious “V” muscles become more defined with every rotation of his hips.

  I want to remember him just like this. I’m on top, in the power position, but he’s the one in charge, effortlessly manhandling me toward another orgasm. He sits up and bends his legs, reaching for my clit with one hand. The other works around my pussy, coating it with cum before raising his eyebrows with a wicked expression and reaching around to my ass.

  Oh my God.

  My ears buzz with the din of a hundred conversations I can’t make out. To be honest, I don’t really care what’s being said. Most of it’s pretentious pedantry anyways, or conversations on repeat, the same things being rehashed. The arches of my feet throb as I walk over to the corner for a breather.

  I’ve done nothing but charm affluent patrons the whole night. There’s a pun floating around here somewhere about patronizing patrons, but I’m too exhausted to fully exploit it for a cheap laugh, even to myself. Plus these heels are killing me.

  Everyone in the symphony is here, dressed to kill, because when beating around the bush about needing funding, you must look like you don’t need money. We work the patrons hard, flattering without being obvious, grateful without being obsequious, highlighting their contributions and import, trying to seem genuine when acting like they alone are keeping us going.

  Their contributions do mean something to me, but the altruism feels phony when flattery is part of the package. Why can’t we just celebrate our shared love of music together?

  But that’s not tradition.

  We charm the potential patrons harder and harder, aiming to get their patronage by making the whole affair feel enticing and lavish while not-begging for their finan
cial support. You can never outright ask for their help or relax your guard. Every word must be measured and doled out in terms of what this person needs to hear to donate.

  Multiply that by about fifty—the amount of people I’ve personally schmoozed—and I’m beyond ready to go home.

  Wonder what Dylan’s doing right now. His party’s tonight, miles away from mine, both physically and in mood. Here, ladies drip diamonds with condescending sneers. The men wear tuxes and tails and lecherous smiles. I’ve caught more than one set of eyes snapping up from my chest. His party will have money as well, but I bet the guests are more interesting and cool. Rappers, musicians, celebrities cutting loose instead of standing around trying to show off their knowledge of the classics and which symphony played it better.

  Dylan would be wild at a party. I bet he’d even perk this place up and stir up a little excitement. A reality star rocker at a fundraiser for the arts? Goodness gracious. He’d be the center of attention and get things going, make things happen. His lifestyle must be so different from this. I bet people aren’t forced into stiff suits and uncomfortable dresses unless they want to be in them.

  If I was with him in California, I could be comfortable. I could wear sneakers, his old t-shirt, and a pair of jeans. I’d be able to eat and drink and sit without the boning of a corset digging into my ribs. He’d hold my hand, we’d laugh, and it would feel easy. He’d probably get me to do something crazy, like jumping into a pool fully clothed while rock stars and supermodels laughed and joined in.

  Maybe that’s not my scene either, but at least I could relax and actually have fun.

  I take a glass of champagne from one of the waiters, but it’s just a prop. I’ve already had one glass, and despite the party-like atmosphere, I’m not here to unwind. One wrong verbal step could unravel hundreds of thousands of dollars of patronage.

  Dylan said he had to do basically the same song and dance for the tour’s sponsors. Such different worlds with the same problems echoing through them.

  I take a step backward, trying not to wince at the shooting pain in my foot. When I get home, I’m throwing these shoes out. Shifting my weight reminds me of the stiffness in my legs. My thighs still ache from the last time I saw Dylan on Sunday.

  We’d said goodbye with one more round of lovemaking, more frantic than tender, even though feelings were growing more complicated on both sides. We knew it was goodbye, and that fact made every touch feel like not enough. I was desperate to make the most of it. I knew how quickly those memories can fade, and I wanted as many as I could stuff inside my mind—and body.

  A grim acceptance was in the room with us. I didn’t ask him to stay, and he didn’t ask me to go with him. If he had, I might have gone with him and damn the consequences.

  I shake my head and force myself to focus on the party, hoping my pleasant smile doesn’t look too plastered on and insincere. This is where I’m supposed to be, right? A dream come true.

  So why do I wish I was on the other side of the country at someone else’s party?

  The champagne is cold and delicious as I slug back another gulp despite my one-drink-rule. Blaine catches my eye and gives a subtle headshake.

  Damn it. I nod, straighten, and lower my glass to an accessory, relaxing when my Maestro gives me a half-smile before turning back to a woman with a crepe-y neck who’s had one too many face lifts. The season hasn’t even begun yet, and I’m already tired of toeing the line.

  And the biggest performance is yet to come.

  My choice weighs heavily on me, dragging my mediocre mood down into the glossy, tiled floor.

  “Why do you get to stand by yourself in peace and quiet?” Paul keeps his voice low as he approaches, looking handsome in his suit, hair slicked back into his customary ponytail. He looks so happy to see me I feel a little guilty about making fun of his car to Dylan the other day. After all, this is a tough business. Just because he’d hoped to be more doesn’t mean I should discount having a friend in the symphony.

  I smile and pick up my glass again. “I’m lubricating my voice.”

  “I hear that,” Paul says, more rasp in his voice than usual. “Just be careful of having too much lube.”

  I blink hard, biting my lips to avoid smiling.

  Paul doesn’t even realize what he’s said. He rubs his watery eyes. “My allergies are acting up from all the perfume in here.”

  “I’m not even allergic, and it’s making my head spin.”

  “Even the most expensive perfumes end up being overbearingly cloying when there’s this much of it in one space.”

  “Too bad they can’t open a few windows. Turn some fans on.”

  He laughs. “And mess up someone’s hair? You’re dreaming. But you’re new. This should still be shiny and wonderful. There’s no way you can be jaded yet.”

  I shift my weight to my other foot, trying to ease the pressure, longing to kick my heels off and feel the cold tile against my soles. Maybe I can sneak away to the bathroom and do just that. “I used to do things like this with my father. I hate feeling like I’m selling myself. Promotion makes me nauseous. It’s the main reason I prefer ensembles to a solo career.”

  “You’re not attached to the spotlight?”

  “I care about the music, not fame or glory. I don’t really care if I ever see my name up in lights.” In fact, that seems worse, having people want to know everything about you all the time. That kind of constant scrutiny would be exhausting. I wonder how long I could reasonably lock myself in a bathroom stall and hide out. Not long enough. “But nights like this, I’d be cool with running away from it all.”

  Paul grimaces and subtly pulls at his collar as though it’s choking him. “I hate these things, too. If one more person brings up Yo-Yo Ma when learning I’m a cellist—”

  “Thank God I’m not the only one.”

  “Don’t look so happy about it.” He sips his drink.

  “Misery loves company, Paul.”

  “I’ll pay you to fake a seizure so we can get out of here.”

  I wish. Part of me wonders how much he’s offering. “I’ve already put in two hours and seventeen minutes. Not that I’m counting. Might as well see it through to the bitter end.”

  He nods at someone across the room. “Yeah, these parties are ships we all have to go down with. At least Blaine has to join us in the trenches.”

  “He is really good about putting the work in. I like that he doesn’t act like he’s above anything. Despite the fact that we all know he’s the main attraction, he mingles like another member of the symphony.”

  Paul nods. “Our last Maestro was a nightmare. He treated the entire ensemble like we were all his personal cross to bear, acted like he had no time for us, and he didn’t even have the excuse of directing as well.”

  Somehow, Blaine manages everything with a modicum of grace, despite the sometimes surly demeanor. “Then I’m glad I missed him.”

  He finishes the little bit of amber liquid in the bottom of his glass. “I’m glad there’s no weirdness between us.”

  The sudden change in conversation takes me by surprise, but I’m glad for it and answer honestly. “Me too.”

  “And you can’t tell me who this guy is?”

  “You’ll find out soon enough,” I hedge, unsure what to say, unsure what to think. I was such a simple girl before this last half year. Now complications overwhelm me.

  “Well, whoever he is, he’s a lucky guy.”

  Discomfort creeps into me, heating my skin. “Thank you.”

  Paul’s smile turns ever so slightly brittle. “Oh, speak of the devil, he’s coming over.”

  How does he know? “Who?”

  “Maestro. He’s coming over. Must have heard us talking about him earlier. That, or we’ve been standing still too long, shirking our duties, and we’ve become sitting ducks. Look lively.”

  In sync, our postures get even more rigid, and we turn to Blaine with eager-to-please smiles, braced for the worst as only
musicians talking to their directors can do.

  I have to admit, with his dark hair tousled and the champagne giving his stern eyes an uncharacteristic sparkle, he’s looking particularly dashing tonight. His black jacket showcases his wide shoulders, and the vest reveals his trim waist. He smiles genuinely, transforming him from “cute with potential” to “incredibly handsome.”

  “Hello, Rachel.”

  “Hello, Blaine.” Of course he’d stop by when I was with Paul—someone he told me not to give ‘the wrong idea,’ by hanging out with too much.

  Blaine turns to Paul with a friendly smile. “How are you?”

  “I’m fine, thanks. How are things going for this season?”

  Blaine nods, smile fading. “Really well. If everything stays consistent, I believe we’re going to exceed expectations by a considerable amount.”

  “That’s great,” I say, mustering enthusiasm. Truly, I am happy to hear that. It’s my future too, after all.

  “Paul, will you excuse us for a moment?” Blaine takes my arm before Paul responds and leads us to the door of a little patio, decorated with tea light candles and Calla lilies.

  How much trouble am I in now? I straighten, defiance filling my spine, making it rigid. If he tries to tell me again who I can and cannot see, he’s going to get a rather large piece of my mind. Paul and I have an unlikely alliance at this point. If we can be friends—such a rare opportunity in this field—then whose business is it?

  Blaine runs his hand through his hair. “I’d like to thank you for your poise and decorum this evening. You’ve been remarkable, pleasant, and engaging. I couldn’t have asked for more.”

  Slapping me would have been less of a surprise. “Oh?”

  “More than a few patrons have asked about you specifically. It looks like we’re going to get another chair.”

  “Do they know…”

  He shakes his head. “But I can’t see that changing when they find out. I was right about you, Rachel. You’ve got what it takes to be a vital part of this symphony. It really means a lot to me. You know that right?” His hand caresses my shoulder, gone before I can compare his touch to Dylan’s, disconcerted by the whole thing.