Their fingertips brushed as Emme slid the cigarette from his hand, in between her fingers. She ran her thumb over the filter, which was warm and damp like his mouth had been against her neck. She watched his face, the tensing of the muscles in his jaw, the peek of his tongue as he licked his lips, and she lifted the cigarette to her mouth.
Emme inhaled, filling her lungs with the same burning smoke that had filled his. She held her breath for a moment, feeling the swirl of smoke in her lungs, in her head, even in her sex. She could smell her own arousal, heavy and thick beneath her clothes, and the warm laundry scent of him. When she exhaled, smoke from her lips trailed across Tom’s cheek almost like a caress. She handed the cigarette back to him, the filter stained red from her lipstick.
Tom brushed his thumb over her knuckles, one light touch, as he took the cigarette. When he raised it to his lips, his tongue flicked out against the red lipstick stain, and he moaned low as he inhaled. His brow wrinkled as if in pain as he breathed her scent, her mouth, the smoke, all of it. Emme held her breath with him, exhaled when he did.
Tom took one last drag, then offered her the cigarette again. Emme declined, and he stubbed it out. They stood in silence for a long moment. When Tom finally spoke, the words sounded like they’d been dragged from him.
“I want you,” he said. “God, I want you. More than I’ve ever wanted anything. But I don’t want you to regret it. I promise, I’ll stay away from your room at night no matter how hard you make it. But if you come to mine …” He took a breath. “If you want to come to mine, that is. If you want me.” He cleared his throat.
Emme took pity on him and spoke, reaching up and tracing his stubbly cheek with her thumb. “Shh. We have a show to play.” His stubble scratched against her palm as he turned his face into her hand. “Now go upstairs and finish the sound check, and worry about later when it comes.”
Chapter Six
Tom wanted to crawl out of his skin.
Emme had scheduled breaks into their tour schedule; just a few days here and there to do laundry, rest her voice, sleep more than three hours in a night. It was humane of her, and rare for a band on tour, but she said she knew herself and knew what she needed, and sometimes, she needed to rest.
Tom didn’t do resting. He’d tried, many times before, to take days off, to enjoy watching TV and sleeping late. But there was always that niggling feeling in the back of his mind telling him that he had forgotten to do something important; that voice that compelled him to call his manager twice a day just to check in, to check and recheck his bank account balance or phone bill or to finally just give up and smoke half a pack of cigarettes just to have something to do.
Even worse than the agitated restlessness of forced inactivity were the dreams. It had only been two days since their encounter in the green room, but somehow Tom had dreamed three weeks’ worth of dreams in those two nights. He’d stayed up nearly all night in the hotel in Tuscaloosa, hoping against hope that she would come to his room. He’d even opened his hotel room door once and looked up and down the hallway, thinking he heard someone there. And, just like a kid waiting for Santa, he found no one.
When he finally fell asleep, his dreams had started as memories of that night with different endings: Emme bent over the table in that basement room, ordering him to fuck her from behind; Emme smoking one of his cigarettes, calm as could be, and telling him to masturbate for her while she watched, unmoved; Emme making him watch as she slid up her skirt and touched herself, leaving him wanting, aching.
Tom had only had one other partner who had made him feel that way, a blues singer on tour who’d come through his bar for two nights. He’d never been big on one-night stands, but he’d called her “ma’am” and apparently she’d realized something about him, or at least suspected. For the intense two days that she’d been in town, he had let himself belong to her, follow her orders, accept her affection and give her pleasure. They hadn’t experimented with pain, but by the time she left, he’d wanted to.
But then she was gone, and there weren’t any other women around that he could trust enough to take him safely where he wanted to go. Until Emme. He’d trust her with anything.
Thank God he had a room to himself, because he hadn’t masturbated so much since junior high.
But even that had its limit, and so Tom was stuck drinking badly burned coffee left over twelve hours later from the free breakfast buffet and watching his clothes tumble around in the hotel’s washing machines.
The buzzing of his cell phone was almost a relief when it came.
Unknown numbers usually meant bad news, but Tom had learned from long experience that leaving the call unanswered would only lead to more trouble down the line.
The recorded voice was no comfort, either. “This is a courtesy call from Louisville Bank regarding suspicious activity on your debit account.”
Damn it. He took a deep breath. It could just be that he’d been traveling. Sometimes that confused his bank, although he’d called them before he left. Or, if he was honest with himself, he could acknowledge that it could be Katie.
He had left her with his spare debit card in case of some kind of emergency—the roof leaking, or his car getting a flat tire, or the HVAC unit going on the fritz again. He’d worried about doing it even as he’d done it, knowing he was taking a risk, but unable to stand the thought of something going wrong while he was away and Katie unable to take care of it.
Tom picked up his Styrofoam coffee cup and left his laundry in the washer. Outside, he pulled out a cigarette and lit it, inhaling as he called the phone number the recorded voice had given him.
By the time he hung up, two more cigarettes were gone from his pack and he was shaking with anger. In the past two days, someone had withdrawn a thousand dollars from his bank account at ATMs throughout the city, and Tom had a pretty good idea of who that someone might be.
Katie didn’t answer when he called, of course. She never did when she knew she was in trouble. He didn’t have much hope she’d return his call, but he left a message anyway.
Then he dumped his cigarettes into the trash can outside the hotel’s front door and went back inside.
There was something bothering Tom.
Emme could feel his discomfort like a physical ailment, almost as if it were contagious. Her own shoulders crept up toward her ears just watching him. He sat with her and Dave and Guillermo as they played rummy in the hotel lobby, but he had to be reminded when his turn came. He checked his phone obsessively, pulling it out of his pocket every five minutes and staring at the screen as if he could make it ring. His fingers couldn’t be still—he fiddled and tapped and lifted them to his mouth and back down before seeming to realize that he wasn’t smoking. If he stayed this upset, she would need a massage.
Emme felt the strangest urge to rest the cool back of her hand against his forehead like a mother with a sick child.
When Tom’s phone actually rang, all four of them jumped. Tom was out the door before she could hear him answer.
Dave threw down his cards. “I’m calling it a night.”
Guillermo looked at Emme, then nodded in Tom’s direction. “Is he okay?”
Emme shrugged. “I don’t know. Give him his space, guys.”
Guillermo packed up the cards while she pretended to straighten the table back up. The part of her that believed that Tom deserved his space warred with the part of her that knew he’d probably had more than his share of handling problems on his own.
The bossy, nosy part of her won out, in the end. The minute Dave and Guillermo headed back to their rooms, she was out the front door.
Tom was leaning against the wall near the front door, one arm wrapped around his middle. “Okay, then, show me a receipt for the repairs,” he was saying. “Because I’m sorry, but this sounds a little suspicious, especially since you only called after I had your debit card cut off.”
There were shadows under his eyes, and his jaw was so tense it looked like he could sh
atter it by grinding his teeth.
Emme held back, the automatic door behind her opening and then closing again, opening and then closing as she tried to decide whether to move closer to him.
The night was dark, the light from the parking lot and the lobby making oddly shaped yellow patches on the sidewalk. Emme waited until Tom said, “Trust has to be earned, Katie,” voice weary, and then she just couldn’t stand it any longer. She stepped forward into the light, the sliding doors closing behind her.
Tom looked up and caught her eye. “I have to go,” he said into his phone. He slid it into his pocket and closed his eyes, running a hand over his own forehead.
“Rough night?”
“I picked a bad day to quit smoking.”
“You quit?”
One side of Tom’s mouth kicked up into an almost-smile that broke Emme’s heart. “I decided it was time to quit doing things that hurt me. But I’m not so sure it’s going to take. Right now I feel like telling everyone in this hotel to suck my grandmother’s dick.”
Emme’s laugh startled both of them. “That bad, huh?”
Tom nodded. The despair had started to fade from his eyes. Or maybe that was just a trick of the light. “That bad.”
Emme moved closer, then a little closer, until she was leaning on the wall next to him, close enough to feel the warmth of his body seep through her clothes. She felt him relax as she bumped her shoulder into his arm. “You know what helps?”
“Sex?”
“Ha! Well, yeah, actually, it probably does. But I was going to suggest waffles.”
Tom closed his eyes and groaned. “God, I could eat all the waffles in the world right now.”
“Then let’s go.” Emme took his hand. It felt warm and solid in hers, even though it shook. She laced her fingers through his.
They ended up at a Waffle House on the other side of the interstate connector road, the bright yellow booths and scent of frying grease banishing the darkness outside. There was even an old-fashioned jukebox full of old country songs. The table was sticky and the menus were stained, but Emme could see Tom exhale as he slid into the booth, his shoulders slipping out of that painful hunch as he did.
They ordered coffee and massive quantities of fried carbohydrates. Tom toyed with his coffee cup, watching with amusement as Emme tucked into a plate of hash browns with cheese.
“People are going to think we don’t feed you,” he said.
Emme licked a drop of syrup off her fork before answering. Enough time on the road made most food taste the same, all of it processed and greasy and vaguely unappetizing. But something about sharing the meal with Tom, alone, made everything taste better. “I think the music industry would prefer me skinny—nothing but martinis and one measly olive, or maybe champagne and air. But this body needs fuel.”
She hid her grin at the appraising look Tom sent her. “Whatever you’re doing, keep it up. It’s working for you.”
Oh, that was nice, that acceptance and admiration. He’d seen her without the armor of her dress and heels and lipstick, and still obviously approved.
Tom made a face before continuing. “Besides, who garnishes a pretty woman’s martini with just one olive? When I bartend, gorgeous women get at least three.”
Emme batted her lashes at him. “Oh really? Does that mean you’d give me three olives?”
Tom batted his lashes right back at her. “Baby,” he breathed, “I’d give you the whole jar.”
“You sure know how to sweet-talk a girl.” Emme watched those dimples appear behind the scruff of his two-day beard, saw him sink a little lower into the booth, limbs unfurling as he ate. She shoved the last of her cheese-laden hash browns into her mouth, watching him bite into his toast.
Amazing how much better she felt at the thought of taking care of him, feeding him. Comforting him.
“So.” She swallowed a sip of her coffee. “Want to tell me about it?”
She could see the conflict in his eyes between wanting to share and wanting to shut down. He even squirmed in his seat like a little boy in trouble.
“What if we go question for question again?” she asked. “You answer mine, and then you can ask me anything you want, and I swear by the Girl Scout Law that I’ll answer honestly.”
Tom swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing, but he nodded. He smiled, although it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Jesus, you’re a force of nature,” he muttered. “I’ll share, but … this story really doesn’t make me look good.”
Emme tapped her foot against his under the table. “You’re talking to the Whore of Babylon, responsible for the breakup of one of the most acclaimed indie bands of the past five years. I know all about looking bad. Even my own mother is disappointed in me.”
Tom’s expression darkened at that. “What the fuck is wrong with people?” He shook his head. “Oh, wait. Your mom. Shouldn’t say that about her.”
Emme hid a grin. “In this case, I’ll let it slide. But I want to hear about you. Don’t change the subject.”
“Okay. So you know how I told you I’m not good at moderation?”
Emme nodded and tried not to lean forward. She felt like she was trying to get a wild animal to eat out of her hand; any sudden movement might scare him away.
Tom sighed. “It’s a family trait. I saw from my dad what could happen if you let an obsession take over your life. His was drinking. I’m lucky, I guess. I was born a boy, and because of that J.R. took me under his arm. Taught me guitar. But you know, old blues musicians don’t look at a little girl and think, ‘I ought to teach her how to play.’ So no one did. And my sister … I was in charge of her a lot. Made her dinner, put her to bed, made her do her homework. But I wanted to do my own thing, and I didn’t watch her as closely as I should have. So she … turned out more like our dad.”
“She drinks?”
Tom nodded. “It didn’t start that way. She got into trouble a lot. I think she wanted the attention. But then, once she started, it was all over for her. I guess it’s like that for some people. That’s why I never let myself.” He took a long drink of his coffee. “The thing is, she’s really smart. When she’s sober and gets her shit together, she does really well. And I thought she was doing better. As long as she was going to AA, I let her stay in my house while I’m on tour. And then today, I get a call from my bank. She tells me it’s because the washing machine broke and flooded the basement and she needed to get it fixed, but …”
“You don’t believe her?”
“I want to. But I can’t.” Tom ran a hand through his hair, making it all stand on end. “If this were the first time there’d been a broken fan belt or a screwed up appliance or something …” He gripped his mug with both hands. “I cancelled her debit card, but the only way to get my money back from the disputed charges is to file a police report. And I can’t do that. She’s my baby sister. I can’t just call the cops on her.”
Emme watched him as he raised the mug to his lips, holding on as if that cup held all the secrets of the universe, and letting go of it would make the whole world shatter. Something in her chest felt too tight.
“How old is she?” Emme asked quietly.
“Twenty-five. Six years younger than me. Old enough to know better, but she’s still such a kid.”
Emme reached across the table and laid her hand over his, uncurling his fingers from the coffee cup and lacing them through hers. “I’m sorry,” she said, and she meant it. The thought of Tom as a little boy making dinner for his baby sister when he’d rather be playing guitar tore something inside her. She traced his knuckles with her thumb, feeling the indentations and hills of his hand, the strength and gentleness in it.
Tom cleared his throat. “Thanks,” he said. “But I’m all out of questions for you. How about you just tell me something about yourself? You pick.”
Emme thought for a long moment. He’d probably figured most of it out by now, but that instinct to test him, to see how he’d react, still screamed inside her. Wou
ld he live up to her hopes?
Emme pressed her foot next to his under the table. It wasn’t quite obvious enough to be called footsie, but it was a tiny little bit of connection that was all theirs, hidden from everyone else. “So you know I sang backup for Indelible Lines. And you know they broke up.”
Tom nodded. “And everyone seems to blame you, for some reason.”
“Probably because everyone believes I fucked a married man. While I was on tour with him and his wife.”
“Did you?”
Emme shook her head. “No. But … I might have. I almost did. I wanted him, badly, and I followed him around like some lovesick kid every day of that tour. He had to know it, too. And nothing ever happened, not really, but it sure looked like it did, and his relationship with his wife was already almost over. And then one day, these pictures got published online and it was just us talking, I swear, but no one believed me, and he never even tried to stand up for me. And after a while I gave up trying to defend myself, because it didn’t make a difference. I might as well have fucked him, because the result was the same, in the end.”
“Yeah, well, even if you had, you weren’t the married one. He was. He was the one who made a vow. And you were just a backup singer, right? So keeping the band together wasn’t your job either.” Tom shrugged. “I guess I don’t see why you have to be the bad guy.” He frowned, then. “And what the hell kind of man lets a woman take the fall for him? The very first thing he should have done was make it clear that you weren’t at fault, in an interview with every blogger on the goddamn planet. Even if you had slept together.”
It made sense when Tom put it that way, but what he said was so different from what she’d heard from everyone: the press, Dave, even Jared himself. Her own mother. Her own conscience. “You are the only person who has ever seen it that way. Why?”
He thought for a moment. “My sister, I think. I’ve heard the things people—other men—say about her, and it pisses me off. She’s trouble, she’s crazy, she’s a slut. That sort of thing. I agree, she’s sort of trouble, but she’s got an addiction, right? And on top of that, being a girl, she didn’t get the same chances I did. Plus the guys who say that shit are usually doing the exact same thing as her, just not getting judged for it. It’s not like I approve of everything she does, but it pisses me off that she gets it all so much worse because she’s a woman. And trust me when I say that her childhood was full of shit that I was spared, because she was a girl.”
Have Mercy: A Loveswept Contemporary Erotic Romance Page 7