Rock Rhapsody

by Rachel Cross

  “Sorry to hear that,” she murmured.

  “I didn't want it anyway.”

  “No?” Amy feigned interest. This was the part where he went on and on about acting. She'd been out with her share of actors during summers in Hollywood. Usually they were waiter/actors, but nonetheless, she'd heard more about the business than she cared to in her lifetime.

  “No. I'm done with all that. I'm only taking roles that speak to me.”

  She pressed her lips together and widened her eyes. “Is there a Charlie Sheen biopic casting?”

  His eyebrows shot up, then he laughed. “That came out wrong. Jesus, being in Hollywood all this time you start talking like them. I never used to sound like this. Like some jackass talking about the 'craft' or whatever. And then the press has a field day with every little thing.”

  “You have gotten some bad press.” She managed to keep her tone neutral.

  He looked around the terrace, avoiding her gaze. “It's the nature of this town. Everything is fair game and the women. . .” His voice trailed off and an expression of revulsion crossed his face.

  “Oh, the women are the problem?” This time she couldn't keep the skepticism out of her voice. From what she'd read online, the fact that he couldn't keep his hands off his co-stars was the problem.

  Shane waved a hand. “They have to document everything on social media, brag to their friends. Gone are the days when you could get off with someone and go your separate ways. Now people post photos and tweet—everyone in the public eye gets burned, not only me. It used to be the paparazzi were the ones you had to avoid. Now it's everyone with a phone—so basically everyone.” He ran a hand through his hair.

  Amy took another sip of her drink and realized she'd finished it. Damn. And his wasn't even half gone. She better slow down or she'd be smashed. Where was the food?

  “I get in these situations and . . . stuff happens. Whatever.”

  “I imagine it sucks to have naked pictures out there.”

  He studied her through curious eyes.

  The heat rose in her face. She must be drunk if she was bringing up that subject.

  “Picture.”

  “What?”

  “A naked picture.”

  “Yeah. That.”

  His hand slid into her hair at the nape of her neck and stroked. “That's the second reference you've made to that picture of my cock. Curious?”

  She couldn't suppress a full body shiver or the throb coming to life at his words. “No,” she lied huskily.

  He scooted closer.

  Everything in Amy was poised for retreat—but Amelia sprung to life, meeting and holding his gaze.

  His expression was bland, but his breath sawed in and out of his body. He might make her shiver, but she made him pant, she realized with satisfaction.

  Take that, waitress.

  She must be more buzzed than she thought. And there was something about this guy that brought out every competitive instinct she'd ever had. It wasn't like men fell all over themselves to be with her, but the lack of interest this one exhibited was galling.

  Shane’s gaze was glued to the front of her dress. She took a deep breath and the dress slipped, exposing a sliver of her left areola. The intensity in his gaze seared through her, triggering her thighs to clench together in an attempt to stifle the pulsating ache between them.

  His warm fingers left her nape to thread through her hair, and with an ungentle grip, he pulled her head toward his.

  Arousal churned though her, leaving her lightheaded with desire. Acquiescent, she moved toward him, immobilized by the heat in the depths of his azure eyes, the lust etched into the sharp planes of his face. Amy closed her eyes.

  He laved her lower lip with his tongue and her mouth parted on a gasp, her hand tightening involuntarily on his upper thigh.

  He maneuvered her head, stroking his lips leisurely against hers, teasing.

  She pressed her hips into the cushion of the patio sofa in a fruitless attempt to slake the desperate, empty aching. She arched toward him, vaguely aware the uncooperative dress was releasing itself of its obligation to cover her chest as she contorted her body to fit against his.

  Her hand stole around his neck, gripping the broad column, urging him on.

  His wide chest pressed her further into the cushions as his slick tongue swept inside her mouth, the hand on the back of her head tightening in her hair until it was almost painful, and she moaned into his mouth. He lifted one of her legs over his. She inhaled his exotic scent, tasted the tang of the gin on his breath. He deepened the kiss, his tongue stroking, tangling with hers, as his wide palm met her bare thigh.

  God, yes.

  Her legs parted, instinctively, craving his touch. She squirmed against him and his hand slid higher.

  She held his mouth to her with two hands now wrapped in his thick hair, mindless as her lips explored the rough texture of his cheek and jaw before finding the surprising softness of his lips.

  His fingers reached the satin barrier of her soaked panties and he made a sound—surprise? Pleasure? He cupped her and she writhed, his mouth capturing her gasp of pleasure as his two fingers slipped inside the waistband of her thong and found her slick seam.

  Oh God, she was so close—

  What the fuck?

  Leaning back she broke contact with his lips with a grunt. Her hand left his neck to grip his wrist and she pulled his hand out of her panties, away from her desperate body.

  Inches apart they panted, never breaking eye contact.

  Amy released his hand and scooted away, her body still throbbing, aching for completion. Instead, she hitched up the dress.

  Shane sat up and glanced over at the curtains pulled back around their little patio with couch and coffee table. He leaned sideways to finger the tassel holding the curtains open, looking over at her in askance.

  She gave a shaky laugh, struggling for composure. “Whatever you're thinking, no. For so many reasons, no. We're here to improve your image, remember? Ike would have you blackballed. And I'm trying to win back my role as a princess in a family show, not show up on TMZ in a sex tape. “

  She wriggled still farther away, until she was well out of reach of those hands.

  What the hell was that?

  A waiter appeared so suddenly with their food, Amy realized he must have been watching them.

  “Want to get out of here then?” he asked, still staring at her, ignoring the plate of tapas and sushi.

  “No. No I don't. That was . . . well, you know—”

  “For public consumption?” He glanced around the quiet rooftop. “We may want to hang out a while and try again or go somewhere else, since no one but our waiter seemed to notice us tucked back here behind the planters.”

  He noticed who had been noticing? Or not noticing. God. She had been on the verge of orgasm thanks to those skilled fingers, while he had maintained a level of awareness. There was something about the way he smelled. And his body—and all that focused intensity. This attraction was a complication she did not need. Not if she hoped to continue to coach him.

  Chapter Seven

  Three weeks after Ike's infamous call Amy lay in bed the morning after another grueling practice. Crossovers were challenging for a new skater, but they were critical for Shane’s hockey role. Why was he being so stubborn about the pads? He had to be a mass of bruises after all those falls, and the last thing she needed was a delay in their schedule because he got hurt. She needed the money from this job to last the rest of the summer and maybe beyond.

  Something shifted in their relationship that night at Spoke—there was less hostility. That kiss had been a mistake of epic proportions, because she now looked forward to their lessons like a giddy fan girl, though she had too much pride to let him see how he affected her.

  She still wouldn’t describe him as friendly, but he was less guarded and noticeably more relaxed. She pictured him that night at Spoke, his hand stroking her, his tongue ravaging her, and
the memory sent a throb through her. Amy closed her eyes and her hand drifted down under the sheets, trailing its way to the juncture of her thighs, remembering the taste of his mouth, his hardness under the cotton jeans—

  Her phone rang.

  Shane's ringtone.

  She coughed to clear the sleep and arousal out of her voice before answering.

  “You want to go to La Croix for lunch?” he asked.

  “Uh,” she hesitated, glancing at the clock. “I was planning to go for a run this morning.”

  “Oh yeah? I could use a workout. Where do you go?”

  “Will Rogers Beach—I go on the bike path to Santa Monica and back.”

  “You don't run on the beach?”

  “No,” she hesitated. “I can't. It's too hard on my hip.”

  “You're injured?” he asked, surprise registering in his tone.

  “No, it's more like a chronic thing. Sand is not my friend; I'm better on flat surfaces.”

  “Not a problem. Bike path it is then. Eleven at the lifeguard headquarters?”

  “Okay,” she said slowly.

  He hung up and Amy stared at the phone. They hadn't said anything about pace or distance. What if he was some running fiend and she couldn't keep up? Why did she agree to this? She liked to run to her music, not gasp out a conversation.

  Forty-five minutes later she parked her Miata at the beach. She saw Shane in an ancient, faded Reeking Bliss t-shirt and navy athletic shorts, leaning his hand up against the lifeguard building, stretching his quads. She gaped at the musculature in his legs. No wonder he was making such strides skating—he was rock solid everywhere.

  Get a grip, Amy.

  He raised his arms over his head and the t-shirt rose, revealing such perfectly sculpted abdominal muscles she felt vaguely intimidated. Her eyes tracked the narrow trail of hair that disappeared into his waistband and she felt the heat rise in her face. Locking the car, she made her way over to him.

  Hopefully he didn't view this run as some payback for all the times she'd tortured him on the ice.

  He nodded at her and without a word, she tucked her key into the arm pocket of her running top and took off down the path. It was on.

  Shane loped easily next to her.

  She glanced over. “What's your pace?”

  He shrugged and shot her a grin. “Whatever.”

  They ran in silence next to the Pacific, passing or being passed by the occasional cyclist, Rollerblader, or runner.

  Every so often, she picked up her pace. With a knowing glance, he matched her stride for stride.

  Good. He didn't want to chat. After the first thirty minutes, she didn't think she could get out two words anyway. And despite the fact that she usually finished her six-mile runs at a good pace, clearly she was outclassed. He hadn't broken a sweat, while she was sweating profusely and wondering if she'd make it back to the car.

  She spotted the guy on the purple beach cruiser bike a ways off. Typical SoCal beach kid—shirtless with board-shorts, he approached them at a good clip on the opposite side of the path.

  Suddenly the guy veered into their lane. Shane shouted, “Watch out!” but the dude was wearing earbuds and messing with his phone, so he didn't hear or see them.

  With dawning horror Amy slowed, but she was directly in his path, the momentum from her stride carrying her forward.

  She couldn't get out of the way.

  “Fuck,” Shane bit out.

  She’d just put her hands up to brace for the impact when she felt a brutal shove, hard enough to send her tumbling onto the sandy grass area next to the path and out of harm’s way. Rolling to her back, she looked up in time to see the Shane go down with the rider in a twisted mix of limbs and metal.

  She picked herself up and stumbled over to where the two men lay, the bicycle a few feet away.

  “Shane? Oh my God, Shane. Are you okay? She went to her knees beside him, helping him up with an arm around his shoulders. He sat up with a groan, holding his head.

  Her hand swept over him, but other than some road rash on his arm, she couldn't see any injuries.

  Shane shook his arms out experimentally, moved his legs, and got his feet gingerly. The texting idiot was still lying on the ground.

  Two senior citizens in sweat suits hurried over.

  “Oh my goodness, is everyone okay?” one of the women asked. Shane didn’t answer but dragged the bike out of the path.

  The young guy got to his feet slowly, grunting and cursing, his chest scratched and bleeding from the impact with the asphalt. He touched himself and winced.

  “Where's my phone?” he said, looking up at them.

  Amy spied it in the grass but said nothing.

  “What the hell, man?” Shane spat out.

  “What?” he retorted. “You ran in to me.”

  Shane shook his head, then had to steady himself on her shoulder. “Give me a minute. My head took a good bounce,” he said.

  “Maybe we should get to a hospital. It could be a concussion.”

  “Nah. I'll be fine.”

  “Thanks for knocking me out of the way,” she said, awed as she watched him recover his bearings. He had to know he'd take a hit for her. The bike was headed straight for her.

  “Where's my fucking phone?” the guy said again, scowling at them as he picked up his bike.

  Amy's mouth dropped open. “You have got to be kidding me. You crashed into him because you were messing with your phone. You're a menace,” she hissed.

  “You ran into me,” the kid insisted.

  “No,” the older woman piped up, “you weren't looking and crossed over the line into them. We saw the whole thing. You almost mowed us down, too. I have half a mind to call the police.”

  Clearly the guy didn't like that idea. He grabbed his bike, warped front tire and all, and took off down the bike path.

  She bit her lip. They were more than a mile from the parking lot and there was no way Shane should be driving. How hard did he hit his head? She'd seen her share of skaters with concussions who also seemed fine right after the accident. She didn't like to take chances. “Hey,” she said to the more vocal of the two witnesses, “do you mind keeping an eye on him while I get my car?”

  “I'm fine, Amy,” Shane insisted, taking a step forward.

  All the women ignored him.

  “We'd be happy to,” the woman in the green tracksuit said. She gave Shane a mischievous look. “Don't make me sit on you, young man.”

  “I'll be back,” Amy said, taking off down the path.

  • • •

  Hours after dropping Shane off at his Santa Monica condo and calling twice to check on him, Amy entered O'Hooligans, searching the dim interior for Kyle.

  “Hey, got your text that you rescheduled practice,” Kyle said as she scooted across the booth.

  “I gave him the night off and traded time with Frank. This morning when we were running down the path, Shane got mowed down by a cyclist. He shoved me out of the way and took the hit.”

  “He okay?”

  “Yeah.” She nursed the pint of lager Kyle had already ordered for her.

  “So what's bugging you?” he asked patiently. They only had an hour before the rest of the crew met them. “You're shredding napkins and that's always a bad sign.”

  “Shane.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Don't sound so smug.”

  Kyle leaned back and studied her, his expression deceptively lazy.

  “I had him pigeonholed, you know? That he's selfish and arrogant. But he has the intensity of a professional athlete when it comes to our workouts. And after what happened this morning . . .” she trailed off.

  “So chivalry isn't quite dead.”

  Amy toyed with the remnants of the napkins, pilling them. “Shane risked serious injury for me.”

  “I'm still not getting how he managed shove you out of the way and not get out of the way himself.”

  “It happened so fast,” she said, sta
ring into space. “One minute the asshole was in his own lane, looking at his cell—the next he was coming right at me. Shane could've gotten out of the way. I think most people would try to save themselves, you know?”

  “It would've been my first instinct.”

  Kyle reached across the table and covered her hand that was still destroying the napkin. “One selfless act doesn't make him a good guy.”

  Amy cocked her head and leveled at look at him. “No?”

  Kyle groaned and grabbed his beer. “Why do women always do this?”

  “Do what?”

  “Read too much into some random thing. Look so hard for the good in someone; they miss all the red flags. Why do you all always want to fix the damage?”

  “Is that what I'm doing?”

  He nodded. “You don't have to make him into something he's not because you want to sleep with him.”

  Amy made a sound of protest.

  Kyle laughed. “Don't bother denying it. I know the signs. Why can't you revel in the bad and have fun with it? The guy’s an actor for Chrissakes. He was in a band. He's good-looking, successful, and loaded. Any one of those experiences would fuck someone up—but all of it combined? His ego cannot be healthy. Look at his rep, Amy. You know what Enchanted's set designer Marisa said happened on his film she worked on two summers ago? He played three women against each other and the picture almost went down in flames.”

  She could believe it. Shane Marx was arrogant and tactless and a womanizer. She'd seen all of those things for herself. He was also intense, competitive and chivalrous.

  He'd shoved her out of the path of that bicycle, putting himself at risk.

  Maybe she was trying to rationalize her attraction to him.

  Amy took another sip of beer while Kyle scanned the darkened room for the waiter. Service was terrible in this place but the food was good, the beer was cheap, and the darts were free.

  • • •

  Amy climbed out of the shower a few days later after an early morning run. She finally had a day off. The rescheduled day last week after Shane's run in with the bike had turned into two days hiatus and they'd had five days in a row of intense skating workouts. She was ridiculously proud of his progress, but was well aware it wasn't some heretofore unknown coaching skill. The guy was a quick study and a hard worker. She combed through her hair. She finally had time to catch up on laundry and grocery shopping but she didn't want to do any of that. The hand holding the brush froze in midair. She wanted to see him. Was she bummed because she wouldn’t see him today?