Callie slumped dispiritedly into her chair.
“Now, what exactly is the problem?”
“I’m not sure that he really wants me,” Callie wailed. She rushed on, jumbling her words together. “And I’m not sure if I’m interested in him as a man, or if it’s because he’s a rock star. What if I’m some type of groupie, Tonya? I would look so ridiculous.”
Tonya leaned forward with her elbows on the table, propping her chin on the pyramid she’d made of her hands. “Didn’t you just tell me that this guy practically ate you alive in your mama’s kitchen? What do you mean, you don’t know if he wants you? Geez, Callie, does the man have to get it tattooed on his forehead? I knew you were inexperienced, but this is incredible. I can’t believe you got me out of bed to ask such an obvious question!”
Callie sighed heavily. “I know he wants me sexually, but I don’t think he wants a relationship. He’s a rock star, Tonya. You know how they live.”
Tonya shook her head at her confused friend. “Honey, all men want sex, and none of them want commitment. It’s your job to make them want commitment.” She reached out and took Callie’s hand. “You and this guy have been hanging for a couple of months, Callie. If it was only about the coochie, he’d be long gone by now. Looking the way he does, and in the business he’s in, he can get the coochie anywhere, anytime. He doesn’t have to wait around for it. Hell, he could probably have it delivered!” She chuckled at her own joke. “But that’s not what he’s doing. He would live here if you’d let him. He’s always a gentleman. He brings you lunch. Hell, he even feeds me! He takes you on outings. Works in the store like he’s on the payroll, and now he’s forced you to let him meet your parents. He couldn’t be more old-fashioned if he were John Boy Walton. The man is courting you, honey, and you’re too oblivious to know it. And as for you, you might be many things, Callie Lawson, but a groupie? Come on, no groupie on earth ever had a five-year plan. Sounds to me like you’re just making excuses to get around the way you feel about the boy.”
Callie’s eyes opened wide in amazement. When Tonya put it in those terms, Bryan’s actions made perfectly good sense. She wondered how she could have missed it. As for herself, maybe she wasn’t a shameless groupie, or at least not entirely.
Tonya smiled a Cheshire cat grin. “Besides, sweetie, I’ve seen the way that boy looks at you. Just like he said, he ain’t playing.”
* * *
Callie and Tonya weren’t the only ones up with the birds this Sunday morning; Bryan was up earlier than usual also. He had struggled with his desire for Callie for months, and now after the kiss in the kitchen, he felt as if he were burning alive. God, how the hell had he managed to stop? He’d never been able to before. What was it about this woman that made him actually want to act decently? If he’d been back in L.A., he wouldn’t have cared who walked in on him and a woman. Of course, he’d never met a girl’s parents before, but he doubted that fact had anything to do with it. And if he was this hot from such an innocent kiss, surely they would explode when they were skin-to-skin. When they were skin-to-skin? If they were ever skin-to-skin. He probably hadn’t helped his cause any by practically inhaling the woman in her mother’s kitchen. In that moment, he simply hadn’t been capable of rational thought. His every instinct had screamed that he had to have her body as close to his as possible. She felt better than he’d ever imagined, and he wouldn’t be able to rest until he had her. With his mind churning with those types of thoughts, sleep was impossible. So he’d gotten up for his daily run, hoping that the physical exertion would take some of the edge off.
After an unseasonably warm, even for Alabama, fall, the trees were finally beginning their autumnal display. They didn’t get much of a color show in this part of the country, but the view with the river snaking below was glorious. Bryan always enjoyed running along the trails in the hills above his cabin, and as he did so on this day, he reflected on meeting Callie’s family, and of course, the kiss. All in all, the previous day had gone fairly well. He was surprised that he’d been able to control himself enough to keep it decent when he and Callie were kissing in the kitchen. He didn’t usually bother making out with a woman unless he was reasonably certain it would end in sexual satisfaction. But it wasn’t like that with Callie. Somehow her touches both soothed and stimulated him. He looked forward to them, even though he knew there would be no sex for quite some time yet, if ever. He enjoyed touching her, even platonically. He’d never had much non-carnal contact with a woman and was pleased to find that he could enjoy it so much.
His previous girlfriends had been frustrated by his lack of casual affection. Some had even suggested that he see a therapist, but he was fairly certain he knew why he was sexually aroused so easily. For the first eighteen years of his life, his relationship with Brodie had been the only emotional connection he’d had. Nobody had comforted him when he hurt himself or given him loving caresses and kissed boo-boos away. If there were monsters in his closet, and he knew from experience that there were, it had been up to him to fight them off. His basic needs had been taken care of most of the time, but anything more than that had not been forthcoming. As far as he knew, his mother wasn’t an especially affectionate woman, at least not with him. She never seemed to have any problem being affectionate with her endless string of abusive boyfriends, but apparently non-sexual contact was out of the question for her.
He craved touch and affection, but having never experienced it, he became overly excited. In the past, tenderness had been impossible for him, and usually he was very rough and aggressive in bed. Characteristically, his sexual encounters resulted in tearful and angry soon-to-be ex-girlfriends. Most of his former lovers were in the entertainment industry and didn’t relish lovemaking that resulted in bruises and carpet burns. Their annoyance was aggravated by his not being particularly tender at other times and his rejection of their affectionate touches. With Callie, his usual burning desire was tempered with a surprising need to be gentle. He wasn’t altogether sure of his ability to maintain that tenderness, but he had finally met a woman who made him want to try.
Chapter 8
Callie looked out her apartment window onto the bleary streetscape below. Usually the faux Dickensian façade of downtown Maple Fork cheered her, as the renovation of the area had made the success of her bookstore possible. But today was one of those bleak fall days when the clouds seem to come down to meet the earth and bring slow chilly rain with them. Even the cheery storefronts and pseudo-gas streetlamps failed to brighten the scene. Located as it was in the commercial space above the bookstore, a more sophisticated real estate agent would probably refer to their apartment as a “loft.” Here in Maple Fork it was called storage space and had been thrown in free of charge when they rented the building. Fortunately, it already had plumbing and electricity and it had taken only minimal work to make it habitable. The apartment stretched the length of the building, but she and Tonya used only the front half; the rear was dedicated to storage. It had the twelve-foot ceilings and beautifully distressed hardwood floors typical of loft apartments. Of course these floors had been distressed the old-fashioned way, by years of having boxes and crates moved across the soft pine surfaces when the owners used it for its original purpose. Tonya had been particularly enamored with the eight-foot-high fan windows and the brick walls she called “deconstructed.” To Callie, they just looked like a bad plaster job.
Their friends were always telling them that their apartment looked like something you would see in New York City. Callie really loved the apartment, especially the massive eight-piece sectional. When they’d received it, the sofa had been upholstered in an unlikely shade of orange velveteen. Now re-covered in chocolate brown chenille, it resembled nothing so much as a giant Hershey bar. Callie frequently retreated to it as her favorite haven from the hectic pace she had to sustain to keep her business afloat.
Despite the dreary weather, Callie luxuriated in this lazy Sunday morning as it gave her a rare opportunity to p
amper herself a bit. She looked forward to a long soak in the tub, a hot oil treatment for her hair, and treating her poor, abused feet to a pedicure. Yesterday had been a particularly grueling day in the bookstore. Publishers were sending stock in for the holidays, and she had spent most of the day on the ladder storing overstock. In her next store she would definitely remember to locate those bins at floor level. Reaching above her head with heavy books had left her shoulders tight and sore even after a hot shower, and she really appreciated an opportunity to relax. She felt a mild twinge of conscience as she and Tonya had once again missed Sunday morning church services. Much to her mother’s dismay, regular church attendance had been one of the first casualties of owning a small business. Usually she managed to at least attend on the first Sunday of each month. Receiving Communion assuaged her guilt somewhat; it proved she wasn’t a total heathen. Going outside was not at all inviting on such a gloomy day. Much better to stay at home and get some much-needed personal time. Of course, she’d also have the pleasure of explaining all this to her mother, again.
As was his habit, Bryan had called earlier, looking for something to do. As it was too rainy and cold for hiking, he planned to come over later to just hang out. She twisted around on the sofa, trying to position her toes so that she could paint them more easily. Just when she was adjusted perfectly, the doorbell downstairs rang. Wondering exasperatedly who would dare disturb her idyll, Callie sighed and called out to Tonya to answer the door. After a brief interval, Tonya came back up the stairs with Bryan in tow, then returned to the kitchen, where she had been putting on the kettle for tea. Glancing over her shoulder to ascertain who their unexpected guest was, Callie immediately repositioned herself on the sofa into a more dignified posture. She was also embarrassed by the extremely casual clothes she was wearing: a pair of blue plaid flannel pajama bottoms and a coordinating baby tee-shirt. Resisting the urge to rush into her bedroom to change, she forced herself to sit still. Changing clothes would mean she was trying look nice for him, something she was determined not to do. His presence also made her self-conscious about her bra-less state and she rounded her shoulders slightly to conceal the fact, then thought better of it when she realized that given the minute size of her breasts, he probably wouldn’t know the difference. Despite her anxiety, she smiled slightly as she studied Bryan’s attire. Not for the first time, she speculated about his proclivity for dark clothing and wondered how many pairs of black jeans one man could possibly own. On any other celebrity, she would assume it was some type of affectation, but Bryan didn’t strike her as the type to bother with something like that. He wore the same pair of disreputable boots he always wore, and had a case containing what Callie assumed to be an acoustic guitar slung across his back.
Callie capped the nail polish and hastily placed her feet on the chilly hardwood floor. “Bryan, I thought you weren’t coming over until later today,” she said, her mild irritation evident in her tone.
Bryan joined her on the sofa, sliding his guitar onto the floor. “I know, but I really wasn’t doing anything, so I came on over. I hope you don’t mind.” He quickly changed the subject, knowing full well that she probably did mind. “Were you painting your toenails when I came in?” He looked down at her feet. Callie nodded. “You want me to finish them for you?”
An image of Bryan sucking her toes flashed through her mind, exacerbating the ache between her legs that started whenever she came within fifty feet of this man. Her feet had always been an erogenous zone, and she couldn’t imagine anything more dangerous than letting him get anywhere near them. She’d probably melt into a puddle of lust-filled ooze at his feet. “Uh, no. I’ll do them later. Is that your guitar?” She asked the obvious question just to change the subject.
“Yeah, I’ve been doing some writing for the past couple of days, and thought I might play some of it for you and Tonya.”
Tonya’s cough could be heard from the kitchen. “Sure, he wants to play his guitar for me,” she muttered under her breath. “Y’all don’t mind me. I’m just going back to my room to continue plotting grisly murder.”
Bryan took his guitar out of its case. “Is it all right if I play a little bit?” he asked casually.
Callie nodded. She had heard some of the band’s songs, but she’d been curious to hear Bryan sing.
As he adjusted his guitar, Bryan thought back to the conversation he’d had with B.T. the previous evening. He’d known that a tribute concert for Brodie was in the offing, but B.T. hadn’t told him that Storm Crow was expected to play. He had to get back to L.A. right away so that they could begin rehearsals for the concert. But as he’d told B.T., he wasn’t sure he wanted to do it. He’d never played without Brodie before, and didn’t know if he could. At least not right now. He also had to consider the situation with Jon and Twist. The other band members were undoubtedly pissed about the way he’d left L.A. They’d had to deal with the press and paparazzi by themselves, a position they weren’t accustomed to. He’d be lucky if they only wanted to kick him out. He supposed they probably had legal grounds to sue him. Did he even still have a band? Finding out would at the very least be emotionally if not physically painful.
He thought about Twist, his short-tempered drummer. It would be a miracle if they managed to get through the rest of the tour without an out-and-out brawl. God knows they’d come close plenty of times. Almost from the very beginning, he and Twist had had a very strange and symbiotic relationship. The age difference probably contributed to the hero-worship Twist felt for him and Brodie. Twist, using his brother’s ID, had lied about his age and joined the band when he was only fourteen. He had been big for his age, and it had been years before they discovered the deception. By the time they did, he was well past his eighteenth birthday, and there was no point in booting him out. The six-year age gap was most telling at times like this. Twist held him to an impossibly high standard and was the first to lose it if Bryan didn’t live up to his expectations. Though this was the first time he’d fouled up, he had to acknowledge he had done so in grand style. Jon, the quiet low-key bassist, would not express his feelings as openly as Twist, but Bryan had learned long ago that his emotions ran just as deeply. If nothing else, his stay in the South had taught him the hazards of stirring up a fire ant mound, and he didn’t look forward to the painful results. What would he do if they did kick him out? Where would he be without music, without his band? Would he still be that pathetic gutter rat B.T. had found years ago? Would he still be living hand to mouth, squatting wherever he could to keep a roof over his head? Would he even be alive? What would he do? No, better to put the confrontation off as long as possible. That way he could hold onto the illusion that at least part of his life was still okay.
As he had expected, when he expressed his reluctance to come home, B.T. had blown his stack and reminded him of his contractual obligation to finish the tour. Playing at the tribute concert would be an ideal way to jump-start that, as they were expected to be back on the road by January. That gave them less than two months to hire a new lead guitarist, give him time to learn their songs, and head out to begin the last half of the tour.
Of course, Bryan had known all this before B.T. reminded him. He still wanted to have a band; that had never been in question for him, though B.T. doubted his sincerity. But it just didn’t feel right without Brodie. As he strummed the melody that had been going through his mind for weeks now, he realized that he also didn’t want to be away from Callie. He supposed he could ask her to come with him…Yeah, right, like she’s just going to pick up and follow you back to California…Hell, she acts as if she doesn’t want to go anywhere with you in Alabama. As the thought occurred to him, he looked up and watched as Callie twisted her legs under herself in one of those fluid, boneless movements that only women seem capable of. The motion of those long, graceful legs sent a bolt of heat straight to his groin. He could feel his testicles tighten as he got an instant erection. He shifted uncomfortably on the sofa, moving the guitar to conceal
his response to her sensuality. Come hell or high water, he was not leaving this woman behind when he left Alabama.
Callie watched Bryan’s hands as he played his guitar. She’d never thought of the guitar as a sensuous instrument, but he stroked it like a lover. He was left-handed, and the fingers on that hand were callused and marked with tiny scars from years of playing. He’d told her that a music writer referred to him, Kurt Cobain and Jimi Hendrix as the ass-backwards club, as they were all southpaws. She remembered the feel of those long, artistic fingers on her skin. It seemed that the calluses at the ends of those fingers had found and stimulated every nerve ending in her body the day they’d kissed at her parents’ house. She’d asked him about the condition of his hands and had been surprised to learn that most of the scars came from playing acoustic guitar, not the electric one as she’d assumed. Bryan had explained that since the acoustic guitar doesn’t have amplifiers, a guitarist has to play harder, resulting in scars and calluses. He told her that for as long as he could remember, he had played his acoustic guitar every day, sometimes for hours.
Bryan finished one song and began another, a slow ballad. When he began to sing, the raspy quality of his voice only added to the aching that had begun with the images of toe sucking. His voice was legendary for its raw, gravely timbre, but hearing it at such close quarters was incredibly arousing.
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