The Song in My Heart

by Richardson, Tracey

  “You mean besides the fact that I’m of no use to you onstage anymore?”

  “Well, there is that, but no. If you’re going to stay on the tour, I can’t have us sleeping separately again. You’re going to need close medical supervision, after all, and I’m the only woman for the job.”

  Dess laughed, then winced sharply. “Ow, jeez, don’t make me laugh. And you’re right. Separate beds is out of the question. As soon as they spring me from this joint, we’re all staying at my condo for this blues festival.”

  “I was hoping you’d give us a reprieve from being trailer trash.”

  “Hear that, Maggie old girl? We get to go home for a while.”

  Maggie bounced lightly on her front paws, and Dess scratched her under her chin until the dog’s lips curled back in a smile.

  “Your mom will be disappointed about your decision.”

  “She’s had me with her on that island for the last six summers. She’ll get over it.”

  Sloane pushed through the door, her mouth twisting into a scowl.

  “And a fine how-do-you-do to you too,” Dess said.

  “Sorry,” she said with a smile that didn’t come close to reaching her eyes. “I’m very happy to see you’ve rejoined the land of the living.”

  “Yes, well, looks like I’m still burning through my nine lives. But if you’re so happy about it, why do you look so miserable?”

  Sloane exchanged a glance with Erika that said something was terribly wrong.

  “Oh, no,” Erika said. “Tell me you were able to find a guitar player for at least the blues festival next week.” Panic throbbed in her gut like a second heartbeat. Pulling out of this festival would represent a catastrophic setback to her career—and just when she was starting to get noticed. Record label reps would be in the audience, other concert promoters, journalists, songwriters, you name it. She didn’t want to sound like she cared more about the concert than Dess’s well-being, but dammit, this one was the pinnacle of the entire summer!

  “I got you a guitarist. Greg Reddicker. Red. He’s great, one of the best in the business, right, Dess?”

  “Without question. Erika, he’s a real master. Much better than me.”

  Erika began to protest that there was no one better than Dess, but Dess waved a hand at her. “That’s great news, Sloane, but why do you still look so upset?”

  Sloane bit her bottom lip, paced a few steps, before turning to face them both. “Dess, I’m sorry to have to tell you this. Really sorry, and you’re going to hate me.”

  “If I was going to hate you, it would have happened a long time ago. Tell me what’s going on.”

  “The press has found out your real identity.”

  Dess’s face immediately colored, but she managed to keep her voice schooled. “How?”

  “I don’t know, but I think someone who works here at the hospital probably leaked it. Some radio station reported it about an hour ago, and now the phone lines are lighting up. A whole pile of reporters are camped out in front of the hospital now. I’ve told Carol and your mom to hightail it back to Chicago immediately.”

  Tears trickled down Dess’s cheek.

  “I’m so fucking sorry, Dess,” Sloane said, slumping down on the side of the bed. “I got you into this thing and now—”

  “I don’t understand,” Erika interjected. “I mean, there was a chance your identify would be found out eventually anyway. This doesn’t change anything, right? You weren’t going back on the stage for the rest of the summer anyway.”

  “No,” Dess said in a quavering voice. “This changes everything. Everything.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Even with the numbing benefits of the pain pills and Sloane’s obsessive efforts to drive carefully, the six-hour drive to Chicago was unpleasant for Dess. The slightest bump triggered a flash of pain along her arm and through her bruised chest. She closed her eyes for most of the drive, pretending to sleep while thinking about how she was going to break the news to Erika that she could no longer tour with them. Now that her identify had been so crudely revealed, she, Sloane and Erika would be hounded for weeks and possibly months by reporters, bloodsuckers from the music business and other curiosity seekers. The unwanted attention would take the focus squarely off Erika and her music and place it onto Dess, and that was not something Dess would allow to happen.

  She’d stayed away from the Internet in the days since the accident had happened. In the back of her mind, she’d known there was a good chance that eventually she’d be found out on the tour. It was a risk the three of them had been well aware of, and Dess had willingly accepted it. Maybe, she thought now, she’d simply wanted to do the tour badly enough that she didn’t give enough consideration to having her identity blown. Or maybe, she thought with fresh horror, just maybe she’d wanted to be found out. Maybe, subconsciously, being forced out of her self-imposed exile from the music business, from the whole world in some ways, was something she had secretly desired.

  She hadn’t wanted it like this, though, dammit. She’d gotten enough snatches of information from Erika, Sloane, Carol and her mom about the news reports. It was gotcha journalism—the kind that took sick pleasure in gossip and scandal and in revealing secrets. Like forcing a celebrity out of the closet or revealing someone’s long-lost love child. The coverage of her accident made it sound like she had been intentionally trying to dupe people. There were fuzzy pictures of her onstage in her Dora disguise, headlines that read: “Reclusive Ex-Singer Turns Up on Backwater Tour”; “Dess Hampton Crawls Back to Music Business as Nobody Guitarist”; “Afraid of the Spotlight, Hampton Slums It at Summer Music Fests.” Journalists and bloggers were making her sound pathetic and frightened, which, she supposed, wasn’t entirely wrong.

  Sloane dropped Dess, Erika and Maggie at the condo, insisting on staying with one of her many fuck buddies—Sloane’s words—for the week, so that Dess and Erika could have some alone time. The minute they walked in the door, Erika began babying her. She helped her to bed, fluffed her pillows, fetched her water, gave her a foot rub, insisted on running out for food and a few groceries.

  After takeout Chinese for dinner, she ran Dess a bubble bath. Carefully and meticulously, Erika helped ease her into the tub, softly scrubbed her body all over, tenderly dried her off, then helped her back to bed.

  “I won’t break, you know,” Dess muttered, not intending to sound ungrateful, but she wasn’t used to all this singular attention.

  “I know that.” Erika’s smile turned lusty; her eyes were dark smoke. “But it gives me a chance to touch you all over.”

  Dess laughed low in her throat, the absence of sex for nearly a week making her dry kindling to Erika’s torch. “All you had to do was ask.”

  Erika lay down on the bed beside her, stroking her good arm. “In that case, I’m asking. But only if you’re up to it. And I’ll be super careful.”

  Minutes later, Erika was between her thighs, her hands cupping Dess’s ass, her mouth devouring her. All pretense of being gentle had been subordinated to a sexual hunger that consumed them both, driving their pleasure to dizzying heights. It was a delicious absence of time and space for Dess, a vanquishing of all worry, all brooding, all deliberating, all physical pain. They needed to talk, but—oh, God!—not now. Now was for the sweet joy and pleasure that wracked her body in ambrosial spasms, threatening to shatter every bone in her body. It was so easy to give herself over to Erika, so easy to surrender to her physically. Why can I not give her my heart as easily? Dess wondered with sad resignation. There was an invisible wall in her heart that she had no idea how to demolish, even with a beautiful, sweet, caring, adoring woman like Erika on the other side of it.

  Erika gently cradled her in her arms, kissing and caressing her lovingly. Dess could at least give her lover physical love and affection—of that there was no shortage on her part.

  “Let me love you back,” Dess whispered.

  “Sweetheart, no. I don’t want you to hurt yoursel
f.”

  “There has to be a way I can pleasure you. Please.”

  After only a moment’s hesitation, Erika stripped off her clothes, promise and mischief dancing in her eyes. “Here, prop your head up against the pillow. And don’t move anything but your mouth.”

  Dess gladly followed the command and watched with anticipation as Erika climbed on top, scooted toward the headboard, which she grabbed onto, and lowered her herself onto Dess’s waiting mouth. She took the beautiful offering with her tongue, her lips. Felt Erika use her strong legs to power herself up and down, back and forth, to create friction. Dess suckled the soft, wet folds of skin, savored the feel of Erika against her lips and on her tongue. Erika was both hard and wet, and Dess stroked her slow, then fast. Faster than she’d ever stroked her before. They matched each other in rhythm and intensity, moan for moan, heat for heat, until Erika went rigid, then shuddered and rocked herself against Dess’s slickened face.

  Erika carefully climbed down, still breathless from her orgasm, and stretched out beside Dess. “Are you okay, sweetheart? I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

  Dess smiled as she gingerly nestled against Erika. “Hurt me, are you kidding? You just made my entire week. God, that was so hot!”

  Erika laughed softly and held her closely. “It was pretty hot, wasn’t it?”

  “You’re a genius.”

  “I prefer ‘love guru.’”

  Dess smiled, tried to stifle a yawn. “Okay, my little love guru. I think you wiped me out.”

  “Good. Sleep now, my love. I’ll be right here.”

  Her cheek contentedly resting against Erika’s breasts, Dess allowed sleep to swallow her.

  * * *

  The sun sliced through the bedroom blinds in sharp, bright slashes as Erika brought a tray of coffee, juice, toast and a poached egg to Dess’s bedside. She’d wanted Dess to sleep as long as possible, but she had a rehearsal with Sloane and the new guitar player in an hour, and she wanted to make sure Dess ate something before she left.

  “I hope you’re hungry,” Erika announced brightly.

  Dess pushed herself up to a sitting position against the headboard. “I do remember working up an appetite last night.”

  Erika beamed at the memory of their lovemaking. She’d been so worried about Dess’s fragility, yet both of them had so easily become caught up in the passion of enjoying each other’s bodies. “Good, because I hear sex has some amazing healing properties.”

  “In that case, how about another round tonight?”

  “I don’t even want to wait that long, except I’m rehearsing all afternoon with Sloane and Red. Your sister’s going to come and stay with you while I’m gone.”

  “I don’t need a babysitter, you know. Or a nurse.”

  “True, but I told her I nearly killed you with sex last night and that you might be a little weak today.”

  An adorable blush flooded Dess’s face. “You didn’t.”

  “No, I didn’t, but I’m sure she’s figured out that we’re sleeping together.”

  “I’m sure she has, but my sister does not need to know the juicy details.”

  Erika set the tray on the side table and lay down next to Dess. “I need some details. To get me through the rest of the day.”

  “What kind of details?”

  Erika lowered her voice to that sexy octave she knew made Dess melt inside. “The details of what you’re going to do with me tonight.”

  “Ooh, dirty talk. I love it! But I wouldn’t want to get you all excited and not be able to rehearse properly.”

  Erika sighed for effect. “Oh, all right. You’re always the practical one, aren’t you?”

  “Speaking of practical…” Dess’s expression hardened. “We need to talk.”

  Erika had known this was coming, ever since Dess had proclaimed from her hospital bed that with her identify blown, everything would change. A sickening feeling gathered in her stomach. Was this exactly the excuse Dess needed to wiggle out of their relationship? Would it throw Dess back into living as a recluse? Their relationship aside, it would be tragic to see Dess retreat into herself again, to live as if she were only existing. She had so much to give, so much to live for.

  “All right,” Erika said tentatively, stalling for time. She jumped up from the bed and set the tray on Dess’s lap. “But not until you eat.”

  “Okay, okay. I’ll eat.” Dess picked up a fork and knife and plunged into the egg. “Thank you for cooking for me.”

  “I love cooking for you,” Erika said. “And doing anything else you need.” She knew Dess resisted being taken care of, but Erika loved it. It was what people did when they loved someone, she wanted to say, but didn’t. Dess knew damned well by now how she felt about her.

  They talked about Erika’s set list for the upcoming blues festival while Dess finished her breakfast. When Dess spoke again, it was like a bolt of lightning splitting a clear sky.

  “I can’t ever be Dora Hessler again, Erika. And that means I can’t stay on the tour.”

  “No.” Erika couldn’t accept this. “Dora Hessler was my lead guitar player. But Dess Hampton is my…” her voice broke, and she had to hold herself back from expressing the full depth of her feelings “…is my lover. And I want you to stay. So much.”

  “Oh, sweetie.”

  Dess squeezed her hand, but it wasn’t enough. Erika wanted to curl up in Dess’s arms, cry like a baby. She needed to find a way to hold on as tight as she could, even as Dess was slipping further through her fingers.

  “There’s no way I can do that, honey. I’ll be hounded by the press, stalked by the paparazzi. Possibly for months. As it is I’m going to have to hire a public relations firm to try to deal with this mess.”

  “But we could work through this together.”

  “No. You have no idea what an onslaught this is going to be. And I can’t put you through this. Or Sloane.”

  “But I don’t mind being put through it. I want to be put through it, as long as we’re together.”

  Dess’s sigh was sharp, impatient. “It would be too much of a distraction. For you, for the fans, for the festival organizers. And for me. We’d be like animals in the zoo. And right now, you need to focus on you. And on your music.”

  Erika couldn’t stop herself from sounding like an entreating child. “But maybe the attention would actually help my career. Help me get discovered. This could be a good thing, couldn’t it?”

  Dess eyed her challengingly. “Is that really how you want to make it? By being a footnote in stories about me? By riding my coattails?”

  “No,” Erika conceded. Dess was right. She wanted—needed—to make it on her own terms. “But I don’t want to lose you. I can’t lose you.”

  “You won’t lose me.” Dess kissed her softly on the lips.

  “Seriously? Because I think that would destroy me.” Erika knew she should feel happy, grateful, that Dess wasn’t dumping her. But she couldn’t shake the feeling that her earlier proclamation about everything changing had been an understatement. This felt much more ominous, like a total clearing of the decks. As much as she wanted to believe—desperately—that she wouldn’t lose Dess over all this, she feared it was exactly what was going to happen.

  “Oh, Erika. Don’t you know how much I care about you?”

  No, Erika thought, I don’t know. Why don’t you tell me exactly how much? God, how she wanted Dess to say the words. Just once. To say them and mean them. If she spoke them now, she’d dissolve into tears.

  “You’re going to be late if you don’t get going,” Dess said. She couldn’t wait to change the subject, Erika realized, couldn’t wait to get her out of the house.

  She fought the urge to call Sloane to say she wasn’t coming. Not only that, but that she was pulling out of this damned tour so she could stay behind and fight for Dess.

  Wordlessly, she rose from the bed, stumbling, her vision blurred by tears.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Another day of
rehearsals, another day in which Dess sequestered in her condo like a criminal. This self-imposed imprisonment harked back to the black days following her cancer diagnosis, when facing the public and the press was a chore that she simply couldn’t manage. Carol lectured her just yesterday that she was going to have to go out eventually and face the public curiosity and the endless personal questions and that hiding out wasn’t the answer. To Dess, however, it was the only answer she could see for now. She didn’t want to add to the distractions already looming over Erika and Sloane. As soon as their Chicago appearance was finished and they had safely moved onto the next venue—Ann Arbor, Michigan—Dess would try to figure out how to get the media off her back.

  The intercom buzzed. It was the doorman’s voice, raspy as though he’d spent a lifetime smoking cigarettes and sipping whiskey. Her manager was on the way up, he told her.

  Dess opened her mouth, about to tell him she didn’t have a manager, when a knock sounded at her door. “Fine,” she told him, not at all sure it was fine. What if it was a reporter in disguise? Or some nutcase? She’d raise hell about the security breach later.

  “Who is it?” she called out through the thick door, relieved that Maggie had moved alongside her, her body rigid and alert.

  “Dayna” came the muffled reply through the thick door.

  Uselessly, she contemplated how many women she knew by that name, but there was only one—her one-time manager and ex-girlfriend, Dayna Williams. Dess’s voice came out as cold and stiff as a good January Chicago breeze. “I have nothing to say to you, Dayna.”

  “Let me in and at least listen to me.”

  “There is nothing I want to talk to you about.”

  Their parting words, that night more than six years ago, when Dayna coldly announced she was leaving her, had been brutal. Epithets and accusations had spiraled into an ugly stream, turning downright malicious. Dess was finally rendered speechless when Dayna said the most honest thing she’d said in years: “If you can’t sing anymore, then there is nothing left for me to love.”