Depends. I’ll bring the liquid wood. Where are you?
In the lobby.
On the way down, I tell her to mentally prepare for the Stratocaster instead. From the answer, this would be the end of the world, while in reality she plays the Strat through most of their set anyway.
“I don’t want the strap fastened in another spot,” she warns when I find her.
“I know you don’t.”
“I just want it tightened where it is. Because the last thing I need is a guitar that’s like a colander with a bunch of holes in it.”
“Well, the plan would have been to plug the current hole and add a new, functional one right next to it. You wouldn’t even see it. You’d stand a better chance at using it tonight if we did it that way. I promise you’d barely even see the scar from the old hole. I’m just afraid we’ve fixed it too many times.”
I have no idea how she does it. It’s happened three times to the same guitar now. We’d definitely be better off starting over again with a new place for the pin. “I can make it seamless, Mariana, trust me.”
She thinks for a second. “The liquid wood would dry in time though, right, if we kept the old hole?”
“Possibly.”
She bores her gaze into me, trying to read my thoughts. Not sure she’d appreciate them: It’s a freaking strap pin on a guitar you hardly use.
“What if the new positioning rocks my balance when I play? Think ‘Diamonds from the Abyss,’ Shandor. We open with it tonight, and there’s a lot going on there. If I feel the slightest bit off-balance, I’m going to mess up my solo.”
I hold the guitar up, twist it to the side so I can show her. The new position would be exactly a quarter of an inch to the left and up. There’s no way she’d register the change while playing. “How about here? Do you think it would skew the way you hold the guitar?”
Mariana twists her lip between her teeth. Must be why she often has lipstick on her teeth. “Gah, I wish there was a way to know for sure before making a new hole. This guitar is my baby!”
No, it’s not. At all.
While she deliberates out loud, my thoughts go to other things. Other girls. Other predicaments.
Sylvie.
To me, she represents everything Aishe and I ran away from when we left our caravan. If our people don’t happily-ever-after like Pali and Nicolae, then a gasoline-infused love fire destroys and leaves us for-dead or dead; part of my family has melted to nothing in the wake of unreciprocated love. Another part has evaporated in the current behind transitory infatuation. It’s what I fear would happen with Sylvie.
The Xodyar clan wasn’t shaped to love and move on. Our ardor is immobile, granite-strong, perpetually engraved for that one woman or man whose soul melts with ours. Don’t get me wrong. Aishe and I, we try. Here in the outside world, we’re in a different reality where people’s heat is tempered with ice, and for me it has lived up to its peaceful expectations. Until Sylvie.
Ping. Ping.
The elevator sounds behind us as it sinks to the lobby one floor at a time. Doors open. Doors close. I can’t make this decision for Mariana if she doesn’t trust me. The minutes tick away though, and the sooner she decides, the better are her options for the night.
“That’s a pretty guitar,” I hear over my shoulder. The voice strums a cord in my groin.
“Sylvie,” I murmur. She kisses my cheek and waves to Mariana.
“Sorry,” I start. “Mariana Jones—this is Sylvie Drake.”
“Hi, nice to meet you.” Mariana straightens and nods to Sylvie.
“Is your guitar broken?” Sylvie’s eyes go from the bottle in my hand to Mariana’s instrument.
“Not really. We just have to decide whether to move the strap or glue it back into its original position,” I simplify and point to the hole with the loose screw.
“Oh. What’d it look like if you moved the strap?” she asks innocently.
“We don’t know until we’ve made the decision,” Mariana sighs out.
“Why not? Can’t you hold it up in front of you and see?”
“It’s hard to keep it steady on her body without the new pin in place,” I say.
“I can help if you want? Or you can strap it on me. I’d be, like, a guitar model.” She lifts her head and shakes it in one of those small proud sideways moves. It makes Mariana smile. Well, good.
Fifteen minutes later, Sylvie and I bob out a see-you to Mariana. That was fifteen minutes of subtle coaxing from Sylvie, with a consequent repositioning of the new pin strap from me.
Behind Sylvie’s innocence, her extroverted, no-page-hidden-in-my-book approach to life, she has layers I hadn’t expected. I want to peel them back, one after the other. I want to learn more and more about who she is.
As Mariana walks down the corridor, I draw Sylvie against me. Press her close by the hips, the way she teased me on the roof this morning. I like how her breath stutters.
“You,” I say. “Miracle girl.”
She bites her lip, not disguising the pride in her eyes.
“Just so you know, you’ve earned yourself an all-access pass to a whole lot more exercise today.” I suck on her lips. “The plan was to make you limp into the breakfast restaurant after tonight. Now I might have to carry you in, because that was hot.”
Shandor has plans for us, and his serene confidence is beyond sexy when I feel like I’ve lived an entire month in the last twelve hours. Part of me hopes those plans involve a nap—and not the spicy kind. We didn’t sleep much last night and he’s already warned me tonight will be a bust. I’m not eleven anymore. Can’t party like I used to.
Conscious signals subconscious, and my yawn escapes as we move into the elevator.
“Tired?”
“A little,” I respond, snuggling into his side when he slips his arm around me. Casual, like I’m his. Like this forever-moment is an everyday moment for us. I love peeking at our reflection in the shiny elevator wall.
“They don’t need me for a couple of hours. You hungry? Thirsty?”
I shake my head, eyes heavy. He jerks forward to push a different number, and the elevator stops on his floor.
“Where are we going?”
“You’re going to rest.”
“No, I’m fine,” I say with a stretch.
“Sure you are. Come on.”
Soon we’re on his freshly made bed, a remote in his hand while he runs soothing fingers through my hair with the other. I’ve never felt so at peace before. Warm, safe, content. I burrow closer, practically buried in his shirt. I feel his lips on my head, and I can’t help but reach my arm around his waist. My perfect Gypsy pillow.
“Sylvie.”
I blink at the voice. That’s my name.
“Hey, babe, I have to go.” And that’s my Shandor.
Warm breath grazes my hair, a kiss? I squeeze my human cushion tighter, refusing to give it up.
“Do you have to?” I mumble against hard abs and the scent of laundry detergent.
“You know I do.”
“Can’t they tune their own guitars? Why are musicians so lazy?”
His chuckle vibrates through me, landing shivers in parts that are suddenly fully awake. I kiss his fingers, his palm, and yes, show off my flexibility by stretching over him to reach his mouth.
“Dammit,” he mutters against my attack on Mr. Responsible.
“Watch these logistics,” I whisper, rocking hard against him. I want my body to match the reach of our tongues as we fight to saturate these few seconds.
“Huh?” But he seems more concerned about my restrictive bra than rhetorical explanations at this point. The earlier shivers flare into a blaze that melts me into desperation. How do you consume every part of a person at once? I try. Gosh, I need all of him right now.
“You can do it fast, r
ight? Like last time?” I breathe. My hope is completely dashed when he pulls back with a start.
I can’t tell if he’s angry or amused as his eyes scan mine with an are-you-for-real? critique.
“You know it’s not supposed to be fast, right?”
“I just meant because of time,” I defend. “You said you have to go.”
“Right, but this morning. How fast it went? That was unusual. For me, anyway. It’s not going to be like that next time.”
“Shandor, I don’t care. None of that matters. I just want you.”
He stops my advance with irritating Mr. Responsible again.
“No, it does matter. Especially if you’re going to talk about it with other people.”
My heart sinks. Clearly I’ve done something wrong. “I’m sorry,” I say, hoping to cover all scenarios, but it doesn’t appear to accomplish much. He’s glancing at his phone now, scanning messages, the weather, news? I don’t know, but not me. He certainly has no intention of giving me what I asked for. My chest burns from the distance I’ve created with whatever it is I’ve done.
“I didn’t mean anything.”
“Hey, no, I know,” he says, touching my chin. “But I do need to go work.” He gives me a light peck, and this time I let him shift out from under me. “You can stay as long as you want,” he assures me. Because that’s what I need right now. To wallow in my guilt and self-doubt to the soundtrack of home renovations. Alone. In his room. Without him.
“I’m sorry,” I repeat. Because I so am. I just don’t know for what.
“It’s okay, Sylvie. I’m not mad. I just think we need to make sure we’re on the same page, that’s all.”
“Okay.” I don’t know what that means either.
“Good,” he says before another quick kiss on my hair. A full-on grandpa kiss, let’s be honest. “I’ll find you as soon as I’m done.”
“Okay,” I repeat, since that’s the only answer that seems to work in this conversation.
“Perfect.”
Arm squeeze. Now he’s my basketball coach. I watch in silence as he tortures me by stripping to his underwear. He tosses a sly smirk my way, I guess to prove he’s not Coach Hank, and yanks on a pair of black jeans.
“Make sure you grab something to eat.” He’s still half-naked which makes my brain drift to full-naked. It has no comment about food.
“I’ll be back, I promise,” he continues. And again words do nothing for my disappointed girl parts forced to observe while he pulls a black tee over perfect arms and a sculpted chest.
“Okay.”
Then, I’m alone watching Carl and Suzanne flip a two-story Victorian in West Caldwell, New Jersey.
I prep the guitars faster than I ever have. I’m not sure what I want to accomplish. Finish so I can go back to my room and give Sylvie that quickie or something? Nothing good would come from that. The quickie this morning is exactly why half the crowd in this joint smirks as soon as I enter a room.
But it’s okay. I don’t take that shit seriously. I’ve yet to receive complaints about my fucking, and I’ve been in this game for a while. Just, when even Mariana eyes me, nonplussed like she’s trying to put two and two together…?
Point being, I’m not heading back for a dip-n-run. When I return, it’s to keep Sylvie hostage in my bed until she screams so loudly and repeatedly that Emil next door hears her and Jesse on the other side too. Oh yes, the next rumors on our little musical island will be about how Shandor Xodyar satisfies the hell out of a woman.
“Shandor. Give me a hand?” That’s Aishe jerking her head toward The Thalias’ costume room. It was one of Mariana’s main reasons for accepting this gig. Management offered her a dressing room complete with three vanities and several sturdy steel racks for their outfits.
“What for?” I follow her in.
“I can’t get the costumes out of the suitcase. The airline people just wheeled in the last one—complaining about it being bigger than some guy’s bathroom—but they didn’t have a single word of apology about delivering it halfway through our stay.”
She points at it. Beat up. Totally beat up. I start tinkering with the locks and ask for tools, which makes Aishe roll her eyes. “Get your own tools. How’s the girl?” she adds out of nowhere.
“Who, Sylvie?”
“Holland’s sister, yeah.”
“She’s good. Resting.”
“Ha, she actually needed rest after…? Never mind.”
“Aishe, will you gimme a break?” I hear snickering from the doorway. I don’t turn to find out who’s eavesdropping. This is just great. “You know what? I’m going to just—” I hike my thumb toward the exit, standing. “And I’ll let you call the concierge or whatever, because I’ve gotta go.”
“Shandor.” She’s giggling now. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. I know that’s not your style, that the girls when you….” She coughs. Trails off. This is getting awkward—which suits me perfectly.
“What is it that you know, now, cousin?”
“Nothing.” She’s bright red.
I sigh. “Really, I’ve got stuff to do. Guitars are ready. When’re we playing?”
“Eight thirty. Where are you going?”
“Just tell Mariana not to touch the guitars. I’ll be here five ’til show time.”
Her eyes widen. She’s readying herself for questions and objections. I’m always early for my job, but as I said—got stuff to do. Girls to do. One particular girl to do.
“Just tell her. That’s all, thanks.”
I head by the little souvenir store on the way to the elevators. In addition to seventies-style souvenir cups and ridiculous teaspoons with miniature pictures of waterfalls, they carry essentials. Like toothbrushes. Toothpaste. Personal lubricant. Score.
In the elevator, I look at my watch. It’s six fifteen. That gives me two hours and fifteen minutes to ravish a certain big-mouthed hot-as-hell princess. The Thalias’ gig lasts only thirty minutes. That should get me right back upstairs within the hour. She can rest in the meantime. Then her night is over in terms of rest. Hell yes.
I knock on my own door, needing her to still be there. I left, what, forty-five minutes ago? Hopefully, she found some film to watch.
It’s quiet inside. I’ll have to hunt her down, I guess.
I dig the keycard out of my pocket and swipe it through the lock. Push the door open. It’s attached to a teen with the biggest, prettiest eyes this side of the Milky Way.
Sylvie stumbles into my arms, and I lift her off the floor, an arm beneath her knees. She lets out a small gasp but doesn’t speak, no, she latches on around my neck as I stalk into the room. I drop her on the bed and draw the curtains in one quick move.
I watch her as I haul the tee off over my head and start on my belt buckle. My eyes run over her body on their own. She’s in the same little floral-print dress of this morning. I’ll make short work of it. Her chest heaves—oh she knows what’s coming.
I’m out of my pants, shoes against the wall and briefs tented by the time I attack her. “You want me to do it fast?” I hiss.
“Yes! No… I don’t know? However you—”
I shut her up with my mouth. She wasn’t supposed to speak anyway. “Let’s get your threads off.”
The fire rages.
It’s tall, bright, yellow.
My words are too bland for what I need.
I reel myself in. I’m panting, but so is she. Wow, that face. Pink cheeks, glittering gaze. What could be more beautiful than someone needing you as much as you need them?
“You want this, right?” I blow air out through puckered lips. I’m seconds from smothering her under me, pressing her into the mattress and owning her hard.
“Oh yes.” She sobs it out.
“Here?” I ask, caressing. “You want me here?” Soft. Wa
rm. Inviting. Quivering thighs unlocking for me. I glide through smooth juices right where she wants me the most.
“Your pussy is addictive, baby.”
“O.M.G.” Her outrage is tempered by her lust. I love it. Love it.
“We’re doing this the right way,” I whisper, twisting on top of her. Never have I been faster with a condom. It needs on before we explode.
I show her how to hook her legs around me. She’s soft, pliable. Strong when she realizes she can pull me inside of her. The deeper I go, the sweeter her moan.
When I surprise her, nudging into her core, that moan grows. When her orgasm erupts, it’s so intense she bows into me, and I tease by trapping her beneath me, our hands entwined and pressed against the headboard.
And there it is, the cry of ecstasy, that sound they’ll all hear. Ah I had no idea I was my own brand of exhibitionist—
“Oh Shandor! Yees!”
I can’t let her pleasure drop me off the ledge. I freeze inside her, stalling my own climax. Find a fragrant mouth, all tongue—warm, slippery, delicious—I can’t think about how good she feels.
For a moment, her moans decrease into sighs. Then she’s stillness, her exhale stuttering. Slowly, she meets my cautious moves with hips of her own. She builds, building so perfectly. I treat her well, all the way until she tenses for me.
Oh sweet. Fucking. Torture.
Bud and Rena need something larger than their three-bedroom cape cod to accommodate their growing family. Or so the TV-show host tells me as I replay replays of my replays. That. Just. Happened.
Shut the ‘eff up, Rena. No one cares if you’re on a budget.
I haven’t moved since Shandor left to go sort guitar picks or whatever it is he does. Scratch that. I can’t move. Whatever he did is still making me shiver in happy waves against the sheets. I wrap myself in soft fabric to preserve his touch and make sure my tremors aren’t from the air conditioner that someone set on “arctic.”
I can’t stop thinking about him now. The way he felt, lines of muscle I’ve never seen up close shifting with each movement. That addictive man-cologne smell that’s not actually cologne. Aftershave? No, he totally rocks the sexy scruff. Deodorant, maybe? No, too functional. Well, whatever it was, it made me crazy. Full-on Aphrodite, Helen of Troy, crazy.
Sylvie + Shandor (Rocker Shenanigans Book 1) Page 9