by Jean Haus
As he leans over me and turns my desire into pure fire, I twist and squirm from his touch. Even as his mouth stays fastened on my breast, I clutch his forearms. “Take off your pants,” I insist. The last word comes out as a gasp, and he chuckles while his fingers continue to circle, slowly torturing me.
“Soon.”
I reach for the waistband of his jeans. “Now.”
“Soon,” he repeats, then kisses me while his fingers wreak havoc until I’m simply clutching at his belt loops and panting. Finally, he pushes off the bed, digs in his pocket, and peels his pants and boxers off in one smooth move. For a moment I study the beauty of him, then I tear open the condom he tossed on the bed and reach for him. The planes of his face constrict at my touch, but he lets me roll the rubber on. Then he’s kneeling over me and I’m breathing hard in anticipation.
His hands cup my jaw. He leans forward and sucks my lower lip, runs his tongue over my lip ring. “Tell me you want me again.”
My fingers slide across his tattooed chest and find solid muscle. “I want you.”
He gently widens my legs and in one smooth move, he’s inside and on top of me with all his glorious weight. “You’ve got me.”
I can’t verbally respond, only moan.
Teeth clenched, he moves and my entire world becomes him above me. His body, his tattoos, and those deep green eyes that won’t let me look away. There is kissing and touching and straining and sighs, but mostly there’s a connection between us I never imagined possible. Past the lust, past the eruption of my climax, then his, is the feeling with each thrust that he’s touching my heart from the inside.
Afterward we lay in a tangle of sheets, each tracing the other’s tattoos. He’s lying on his side. I’m on my back. Thoughts and questions run through my mind. I trace the Japanese letters along his tight abdominal muscles. “What does this say?”
He glances down as if he’d forgotten he’d been inked there, then murmurs, “Just always be waiting for me.”
“Just always be waiting for me,” I repeat slowly, staring at the sharp black letters. Maybe Justin wasn’t always on the one-night-stand merry-go-round. Maybe he deals with heartbreak in reverse from the way I do. Instead of staying away from the opposite sex, he overindulges.
His fingers absently stroke my shoulder. “It’s from Peter Pan,” he says. “The book at least. Not sure if the line was in any of the movies.”
“Peter Pan?”
“My nanny used to read it to me,” he adds and his gaze turns wistful. “I used to say the line to her every night after she tucked me in.”
“What did she say back?”
“Forever.”
I wistfully imagine him as a little boy. “She sounds wonderful.”
“She was, still is. But what about you? There’s this one,” he says as his fingers follow an olive branch etched on my arm. “That’s the big one.” He traces the cursive Ben on my other arm, and my fingers pause on the tribal swirl on his chest as I realize he’s counting my tattoos. “With the sunflower that makes three.”
He pulls at the sheet. Not wanting my entire body open for his perusal even in the shadowy confines of my room, I drag my leg out from under the sheet and show him my thigh. He leans close and reads the words along the top aloud: “We can only make our pictures speak. Who’s that?”
“Van Gogh. Last letter to his brother before he died.”
“You and that ear slicer. I’m almost jealous,” he says teasingly. His fingers follow the curl of ink. “Any others?”
I twist around and show him my lower back.
He traces a wing. “Dragonfly Ink, huh?”
“It was my first.”
“Should I ask who did it?”
“Probably not.”
It’s hard to miss the sudden way his eyes narrow. “What other ones did he do?”
“The one on my thigh.” I roll over to my back again, not wanting to talk about the name on my shoulder that was removed. “Todd’s done all the others. But you’re here in my bed, and I don’t want to even think about him.”
He glances at my body covered with the sheet. “That’s it?”
I lift my leg and show him the tiny dragonfly on my ankle.
“So that’s it?”
“Yup. That’s it.”
Wrapping an arm around my sheet-covered waist, he grins slyly. “Would have thought there’d be more ink on such a badass tattooist.”
I shrug. “Between raising a kid, going to school, and inking everyone else, the ideas I have for me keep getting pushed to the side. But once I get my degree, I’ll have more time.”
“You’re keeping the shop?” he asks in a surprised tone.
“Is there something wrong with that?”
“No,” he says, shaking his dark blond head. “I’m just confused why you’re going to college at all.”
“The shop does decent, but if things ever change, I want something to fall back on. And learning about business can only help.”
His nod is thoughtful. “What about your painting?”
“I used to consider painting and tattooing separately, but really they’re both creating. And having someone hang something on their wall isn’t as thrilling as them letting you mark their skin for life.”
“You said something like that before. Your paintings are awesome though.”
“Well, I can always do both. I’m kind of planning on it. What about you?”
His eyebrows raise and I lift a finger to brush the gleaming metal of his piercing.
“Why a communication degree?”
“Thought it would be easy, and useful for law school.”
After closing my mouth and blinking at him, I ask, “You’re going to be a lawyer?”
“Is that hard to believe?”
Thinking of his BMW and his clothes, no. But then there’s him onstage. Hot. Sexy. Magnetic. “I hope you’ll still sing and play guitar in the courtroom.”
“The whole band thing happened because Romeo and I are roommates. I never considered being in a band before I met him. He was starting one, heard me sing, and the rest is history. But in my family, you’re a doctor or a lawyer. No way in hell would I ever be a doctor. So law school here I come.”
“But do you want to be a lawyer?”
He shrugs. “I’m not the driven type. I’m more the laid-back type who wants to enjoy life.” His gaze wanders over my face. “But you make me want to be ambitious, to catch the stars on a starry night and pull them down for you.”
I turn toward him, my expression serious. “I don’t want you to be anything for me. I want you to just be you.”
Tugging at a curl brushing my shoulder, he lifts his head. “Sometimes I’m not sure who I am.” He kisses me so softly I lean forward, hoping for another touch of his lips. “Except when I’m with you, pretty Allie.” Our mouths are so close his words are a light breeze on my skin. He blows gently on my lips. “Be with me?”
My fingers dig into the skin of his ribs as I scoot closer to him. “Can’t seem to help myself.”
He chuckles deep in his chest. “Quiche for lunch?”
I lean down to give his pierced nipple a wet kiss and his pectoral jumps. “Yes, definitely—later though.” I give the ring a soft jerk with my teeth.
“Maybe not even later.” He groans. “Food can wait. Exam week too.”
Chapter 25
Justin
All four of us are crowded into a small room to the left of the stage as the stagehands finish the sound checks. Sam is bouncing up and down. Idiot likes to wind himself up before going out. Romeo is going over sheet music with Gabe one last time. He’s become Gabe’s mentor over the past couple of months, and once the stubborn prick stopped resenting being told what to do, his drumming improved immediately. Not that he sucked, but he wasn’t anywhere near our fi
rst drummer, and not even in the same galaxy as Riley.
Except for Gabe, who’s new, playing live has become almost easy for the band over the past two years. We roll through gigs onstage effortlessly. That’s why we do things like adding songs with violins, or me finally learning guitar. Shit can get boring without a challenge. Can’t say the studio stuff is easy. I’m not looking forward to our final session next weekend.
But outside of the band, life has become something to grasp with both hands and hold on to. Instead of or searching for what I can take, I want to give. Give everything to my girl. Take away her worries; erase the little crease that sometimes etches her forehead. And make her as happy as she makes me.
But Allie’s life is full. She’s got her son, her business, and school too. I don’t like it, but I accept the crumbs of time she can give. We talk over the phone late at night about art and music and Ben. We send each other dirty texts. We squeeze in visits when we can. Even though I did some studying for exams over the past week, I found time to stop by the shop to visit her twice. Between the slices of her life, we are building a relationship, something I never imagined wanting so badly, but with Allie I want everything.
That she’ll be here at our show tonight has me feeling pumped. She’s coming after work, halfway through, and I know once she shows up I won’t even notice the rest of the audience.
Some guy with stringy long hair stops by to tell us the stage is ready. Romeo reminds him to make sure the lights are turned low. Romeo has a thing for theatrics, likes to open with a boom.
Once the lights are low, we file out and take our places. A hush pervades the crowd in the sudden darkness. We wait about half a minute to let the anticipation build, then Gabe hits his sticks and Romeo cranks out a screeching riff. The lights come on. The crowd roars. Energy fills me. Romeo hits a hard synthetic-sounding riff then makes his guitar screech again. I move my head to the beat, throw out an arm at the third screech, step to the microphone, and sing into the fourth screech.
The crowd’s energy rises as I start singing.
Standing in front of the microphone, I move to the music and sing in a low, crooning voice. When we hit the chorus, I release the mic and let loose, bending and shouting the chorus.
“Chalk Outline” by Three Days Grace is a dynamic song. It mixes low, raspy singing with a forceful shout in the chorus. The lyrics describe a man’s anger after being dumped. I’ve never really understood the meaning until now. If Allie left me, I’d be a mess. My newfound knowledge lends more emotion to my singing, and I can tell from Sam’s and Romeo’s glances that this is definitely the best I’ve ever sung this song.
During the instrumental, I sway next to Sam and give Romeo the spotlight, then go back to the edge of the stage, belting out the chorus and bending over the crowd.
Once the song is over, I shout into the microphone, “You guys ready for some rock ’n’ roll?” The crowd roars at me. “Let’s see how you like our new original, ‘Bleak Moon’!”
Gabe rolls out a drum fill, Sam gives us a baseline, and Romeo joins in with a booming riff. I open with a fast vocal. The crowd beyond the stage moves in one huge, surging wave. I’m immediately high on the adrenaline of the masses.
We roll through two originals and five more cover songs. During the last song prior to our break, I fist bump half of the people standing in front of the stage—and by the time we finish it, the crowd is in a frenzy.
I leave the stage for our break reluctantly. If it were up to me, we’d keep playing. But we don’t have a choice because for the second set we’re doing acoustic. The stage needs to be changed over. I’m not big on the acoustic crap like Romeo. Given the choice I’d take blaring guitars every time. But other than a few trips to the Detroit area, we only play at about six different clubs and bars in the area, most of them at least twice a year. Though I hate admitting it, even internally, Romeo’s right. We have to mix it up or we’ll get old.
In the tight hallway behind the stage, Romeo is again mentoring Gabe. Sam has disappeared. He’d better not be off sucking shit up his nose. Partying is one thing, doing it while we’re performing is a completely different scenario that would cross the line even with me.
The waitress who brought me a beer is trying to talk to me, asking if I want something else. A shot? Or…? I glance at her and almost laugh. There was a time, not so long ago, when her casual invitation would have had my brain running in all kinds of directions. The girl is attractive, dressed in tight shorts and a tight T-shirt with the bar’s logo. Her short hair is spiked, and the thick chain around her neck would have gained my interest in the past, but not anymore. I’ve got nothing to say to her and zero interest. And strangely, I’m even kind of shocked at who I was less than two months ago. That I would have been considering the possibility of going home with this girl now seems kind of skeevy. What was wrong with me? And why would girls let me use them like that? After being with Allie, the whole thing feels empty and heartless.
I lift my beer. “Thanks, but I’m set with this.”
Her lips push together as she obviously thinks of some other way to make an offer.
“Really, I’m good.”
“Sure you don’t want another beer at least?” she asks, trying to save face.
I shake my head. “Got to sing. Acoustic. Easy to mess up,” I add with a grin.
She grins back, then goes and asks Gabe and Romeo about a beer. Romeo declines. Gabe accepts.
Leaning against the wall, I finish my beer and reach for my new acoustic guitar. This acoustic shit does rattle my nerves. I’ve been playing for only about four months. Four months is not enough to feel invincible onstage. But then, the nervousness adds to my energy high, and that’s my addiction.
As I strap on the guitar, the stagehand with long hair tells us the stage is switched over and ready. Romeo goes over the lighting with him again, and Sam finally comes back—and the four of us head out to start the set.
The crowd goes wild when they see us. There’s one stool in the middle of the stage. For my lame ass. Still new to playing, I like to sit if possible. Romeo and Sam go stand at their microphones. Romeo is holding a mandolin. Sam is playing his electric bass for this one. Gabe sits in the back with a tambourine and access to the bass drum.
Even though I’ve practiced the shit out of this one since I play lead, I take a deep breath. Not only do I have to play, singing with acoustic music doesn’t allow much room for error. A second after I strum, the rest of the band yells out the first words of the Lumineers’ song “Ho Hey.” The crowd recognizes the lyrics and starts stomping, clapping, and singing along wildly. Instead of making me more nervous, their exuberance helps calm me down.
Strumming and singing, I relax into the performance. Gabe pounds on his bass drum and bangs his tambourine. Then Romeo adds the mandolin. I scan the crowd for Allie even while singing and playing an instrument I’ve only recently conquered.
We’re in the chorus for the second time when I spot her shiny auburn hair at the back of the crowd. Smiling and clapping, she looks so happy and into the music, my newly awakened crazy-ass heart swells.
With my eyes mostly still on Allie, we finish the song.
We play three of our originals next, which are fast, folk, and bluesy. Romeo and Sam do most of the guitar work. I only have to strum a few cords. The crowd is still into us, and I’m still flying high from the energy, but my attention continues to wander toward the back of the room. To Allie.
We end the night on a song we have been practicing forever. I don’t play this one, only sing. If Romeo could have his way, I’d have learned the keyboards for this song, but I told him to back off. I can only conquer one thing at a time. My first priority is singing, then the guitar. Piano is a long way off. He wanted to hire a keyboardist for this song, but the rest of us put a stop to that. “Wish You Were Here” by Pink Floyd has enough power to carry it with just vo
cals and guitars. When the drums come in halfway through, they kick the intensity up a notch.
After the first few guitar notes, the crowd goes crazy, and I sense a bit of surprise.
Yes, you happy fuckers, we are singing Pink Floyd.
Still sitting on the stool, I watch Allie through most of the long beginning instrumental. Musically clueless, she doesn’t join the the crowd in humming along and swaying with lifted arms. I concentrate on doing the classic song justice and sing the shit out of the lyrics, high for this awesome crowd.
I glance at Allie only a few times.
Then we’re bowing as the rowdy fans scream for more, and exiting the stage with our instruments.
Lucky for us, there’s a stage crew that hauls our equipment out back. Usually, I take my sweet-ass time helping out, but tonight I’m all business and efficiency. So much so that Romeo’s raising his brows. “Who slapped your ass?”
Before I can tell Romeo to eff off, Sam says, “His new lady friend is here.”
Romeo’s brows rise even higher. “You’re serious about this girl?”
For one stupid moment, I’m embarrassed, like I’m whipped or something, but then I proudly say, “Very.”
Romeo gives me a curt nod and we finish loading the van.
Afterward, I rush inside the bar and start making my way over to Allie, ignoring the people who try to get my attention or stop me. She’s leaning against the bar, talking to the guy next to her. A twinge of jealousy erupts in me, but then I remember her caveman comment from a few weeks ago and push aside the possessiveness. It’s an initial reaction but one I can ignore. Allie’s not that type of girl. Shit, I was the first guy she’d been with since her divorce.
“Well hello,” she says as I step in front of her and put my hands on her waist.
“Hello, pretty lady. I couldn’t help noticing you back here all by yourself.” She’s hot in her standard tank, jeans, and boots, but tonight her hair is in two braids. The ends lie right above the soft expanse of her cleavage. Very nice.