CHAPTER TWELVE

 

Commitment is like rock and roll

You have to rock the boat

Roll with the punches

And pray you make it through the storm

 

BECK

He swallows me up in his arms, enveloping me with strength and comfort. His heart beats steadily against my ear, full of life and promise. His lips graze my hair. I sink into his touch. Want it. Need it.

I’ve tried to push him away. Tried to frustrate him to the point that he gives up. Told him the truth. Well, most of it. Some of it. The stuff that is important and he should be aware of. None of it makes a difference. He’s immovable. Rock solid. Frustrating. Almost making me believe in things that can’t possibly be.

“Come on. We should go.” He guides me into the truck and closes the door behind me. A moment later he climbs in behind the wheel and turns the vehicle toward home. With one hand on the steering wheel he settles the other on my knee. Long sturdy fingers grip my flesh, the rough pads creating hot sparks where they touch. Supporting me, comforting me, owning me. Turning me on. The chemicals in my body are going haywire, confusing me. If they could last... Would this turn into more? Could it be something more than the sum of its parts? Could it be a forever kind of thing?

Or is this all there is? My body reacting to his in a way that makes my heart race and my insides tingle, and my mind lose touch with the reality of life. Playwrights developed the happy ending in the 1800s to give people hope. But that’s all it is. A device to make us want more than what nature intended. And still I want to give into his belief that I’m wrong about our limited time.

We turn toward the cabin. Drive up the bumpy old road. He pulls the truck into the driveway, leaves it idling while we sit in silence. He’s pensive, his mouth drawn into a straight line as he stares out the windshield.

“Midnight Echo,” he says. 

I jump when he finally speaks, not expecting it. “What about them?”

“You know the band?” He shifts about and pulls his phone out of his pocket.

“Uh, everyone does. They were huge when I was a teenager.”

He taps on his phone screen. “Massive. Code Porter was born to the keys. Eli James could play an axe like it was an extension of his body.”

“Jasper Hagen could do things to a drum set...” A wisp of a smile forms on his lips as I talk. I wanted so badly to see them perform live. I never got the chance. “Girls went wild for him.”

“That they did.” He glances at me. His gaze is sharp, a little uncomfortable. His fingers bite into my knee. “Did you go wild for him?”

“For the music.” I shrug. “Who didn’t?”

“Yeah.” He exhales. His grip loosens. “That’s true.”

“It was such a shame they broke up.” Though the hole they left was quickly filled with other bands. Groups that wanted to be them or had a sound we were still craving. Omega Blue. Heady Rembrandt. Bordello Sunrise. Bands that formed the trajectory of my career in music journalism. Bands that made us forget.

“It’s been what? Eight years since they broke up.”

“Yeah, that’s about right.” I remember how upset I was when the foursome called it quits. Everyone was. Girls and boys alike wore black like they were in mourning. I didn’t have the chance. I lost time. Weeks. My uniform a hospital gown. They were old news by the time I was discharged. And I had other things to deal with. Like healing. Inside as well as outside.

“What about Jase Hunt?” I twist in my seat. I’d been obsessed with the guitarist slash singer slash songwriter, as much as any teen could. His lyrics held so much heart. And pain. He’d had such a sexy voice. God, he’d been hot too. I used to stare at his poster next to my mirror. Those haunted blue eyes, gaunt cheekbones, and sinful lips hung on so many girls’ bedroom walls. A god in tight leather pants.

Nox grimaces and blows out a breath. “He’s the reason they broke up, you know.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“They said it was mutual. They had other projects. Solo careers to chase.” There was a press release. An announcement. Jase had been noticeably absent, but they’d said he was in the studio working on something special. It never came, now that I think about it.

“They were good friends. Even after...” He takes a deep breath. “Christ. I fucked it all up.”

“I don’t understand.”

He hands me his phone, and I stare at the photo on the screen. Four guys crowd the picture, arms slung around each other, vying to be closest to the camera. I instantly recognize them though the photo is kind of blurry. They’re younger here too than they were in the posters that still hang on my walls at my mother’s house. Jase Hunt actually looks happy. His lopsided grin is accentuated by his shaggy, unkempt hair. He’s not gaunt and his blue eyes sparkle much brighter than they do in the later photos of the band. And he’s wearing a familiar pair of tight, ripped jeans. They’re standing out front of Nox’s dad’s studio, though it’s much different from what it is now.

“You were Jase Hunt?” I hand his phone back to him. It’s almost unfathomable that I could be sitting in a truck with a rock legend. A boy I’d had fantasies about in my teenage years, grown into a man who refuses to let me go. I study his face in a way I haven’t before. Morphing the image of a boy who was becoming a man into the man beside me. Chiselled masculinity replaced the fineness of his gaunt features. His gangly thinness gone in favor of muscle. The difference between who he was and the man he is, is vast. “Why didn’t you use your real name?”

“We didn’t want the hand up. Wanted our music to speak for us because it was good and not because of who my father was. It was something we all agreed to very early on. Thought it would be better that way. Turned out we were right.”

“What happened? Why did you stop?”

“Uh.” He grimaces as he scratches his jaw, eyes glazing over like he’s getting sucked into a place far away from me. It stretches over his features, hardening them, making him appear older, more worn. “I let myself get carried away.”

I cover his hand with my own and squeeze it. My chest crushes tight as I wait. There was a lot of speculation in the dark days after Midnight Echo disbanded. Conjecture. I caught some of it. Drugs. Violence. A suicide attempt. An image of Jase Hunt falling from the stage flashes through my mind. His guitar slung loosely around his almost emaciated body. Eyes closed, hair fluttering around his face. It was televised, a short clip of one of their final concerts. Showmanship? Or did he black out? Was he on the verge of a break down? Or was it a regular stage dive gone wrong?

Do I want the truth? “You don’t need to tell me. If it’s too hard. Too personal.”

“No. I want to tell you. I need to. You’re my wife and I...”

I don’t correct him. Can’t. Not now.

“I want to be open with you.”

“Okay.” I say, and I mean it. He can talk to me and this won’t go any further. Whatever this pain is he can let go with me. If that’s what he needs. Because despite my best efforts I already care about him. Too much. More than the physical makeup of our attraction should dictate.

“I developed an addiction problem. You have to understand, we were catapulted into the public awareness. Fame, money came so easily. Women threw themselves at us.” He glances at me and there is pure agony drawn on his features. It’s like he’s recalling a nightmare.

“You were like gods. You especially. Your voice.”

“Yeah.” He exhales heavily. “But we weren’t. We were just four guys trying to make it in the music industry. Trying to create music we loved and not let down our fans. Even with my dad being who he was we were kept away from the stage. We knew what that lifestyle could be like, but we didn’t know what we were getting ourselves into. Not really. And the pressure was so great.”

“I can’t even imagine what it must have been like for you.”

“Hard. Really fucking hard. Started taking drugs to take the edge off a little. Nothing too crazy. The guys were doing it too. We were just having fun. I wish...” He snorts, and it’s not a nice sound, filled with self-loathing as he smacks the side of his fist into the steering wheel, causing it to shudder.

“You weren’t the first,” I say, unsure whether to fill the void.

“Maybe not. But it got worse. I was taking uppers to get on stage. Downers to bring me off the high. Alcohol and sleeping pills. A little something for the after parties. Something to put me in the mood. Spent all the money I made and then some. And then the music dried up. I couldn’t write anymore. Could barely play. The boys tried to keep it together, but...” He shakes his head, his hair flapping around his face. “By that point I was so far into it. The music abandoning me... it felt like death. Once they realized how deep in the shit I was... I was killing myself. I wanted to.” His voice breaks. It’s so bleak. So lost, like he must have been at the time. Not like the man I’m beginning to know. “And I was this close to probably taking someone with me...”

He takes a breath and goes back to staring out the window. I wait for him to speak again, simply gripping onto his hand as though I can bring him back from the dark places in his head.

“They found me. Code and Jasper. I don’t remember.” The grooves in his forehead deepen and his shoulders tense up as though he’s straining to find the details. He crumples in on himself, exhaustion etched onto his features. “But it was bad. Shook them up real bad. Enough that they told my family everything. Woke up to my dad hovering over me in the hospital. Next stop was rehab. Took me a long time to get right after that. They called it quits, and I had to agree. Wasn’t anything else to do.”

Didn’t he ever want to go back to it? And now he doesn’t even pick up an instrument, but he teaches. Is that because he misses it despite how much he tries to convince himself he doesn’t? “Do you—”

“No,” he says. “Never. Sometimes I drink. Nothing much. A few beers. But I got clean. Put that life behind me. I won’t go back. I can’t go back. I’m not that guy anymore. I’m not him. Not Jase Hunt. I avoid dangerous situations, triggers. I have a support network.”

“Your family?”

“All of them keeping an eye on their screw up of an older brother? Yeah, they sure are.”

“And now me too.” At least for the moment. I undo my seat belt. “If what I’ve done has made it harder for you...”

He reaches across and pulls me into his lap. The steering wheel is hard in the small of my back. His big hands are gentle in their grip on my hips. “You think I can’t handle you? Don’t want to deal with what you’re throwing my way? Don’t want to know what has you all in a lather? Because I can, and I will, and I want to. If you’ll let me.”

I drop my gaze to his chest, my hair falling forward over my face. Letting my guard down makes me vulnerable and I’m not sure I’m strong enough. Already things are changing. I’m not the girl with stars in her eyes and hope in her heart, but I look at him and I want to believe in things that aren’t factually real.

His fingers slide into my hair, stroking it back from my face and fastening at my nape. Tugging until I can’t help being trapped in his stare. “You wanna let me, Angel?”

It’s all I want.

“Your eyes say yes, but I’m going to have to hear it from your pretty lips.” There’s heat in the clear blue of his gaze as he brushes his thumb from my cupids bow to the center of my bottom lip. It darkens them and the desire in them is a physical reaction inside me. One I can’t ignore. One that has me nodding and my voice slamming out breathlessly. “Yes.”

We crash together, his hold on my hair stinging my eyes as he thrusts his tongue into my mouth. I race to meet him with my own.

He reaches down next to the seat, and we’re sliding back, the steering wheel no longer digging into my back. I rise up on my knees so I can reach between us to undo his pants. The cabin is only yards away, but the urgency is too great.

He’s commando when I reach into his jeans and wrap my hand around his erection. No boxer briefs in the way. Pre-cum leaks from the head of his cock, making my hand slippery as I pull him out and stroke him. My fingers barely wrap around his girth, and he pulses in my grip.

“Angel, you might want to sit on him because he’s ready to burst at the idea of fucking you again.” Both his hands cup my neck, and the words he whispers in my ear in that raw voice hikes up my need to have him buried inside me.

“Wouldn’t want to keep him waiting,” I whisper as I dig my hands under my skirt.

His fingers join mine, ripping apart my panties, getting rid of the barrier between us. Brushing across my clit, flicking it gently so that I moan. “I’d wait. You know I’d wait if you needed me to. If you need me on my knees first. Or—”

I put my fingers over his lips as I take his cock in my other hand and press it to my entrance, sink down on it with such a wanton moan I almost can’t believe the noise comes from me. This man affects me in a way I never saw coming. Not ever. There’s no chemical equation that can add up to this kind of intensity.

“Christ.” He cusses under his breath as both hands land on my hips and hold me down. His hot length impaled, he breathes harshly. I squirm against his tight hold. I’m so needy. On a razor’s edge. I need movement to ease the ache that’s building.

I lose it when he moves inside me. Gripping my hips, he kisses me while he guides me up and down his hard cock. The world falls away, and it’s just him and me and how insanely good it feels while he’s thrusting into me like he’s trying to get as close to me as possible. It’s just us. Our harsh breaths and feral kisses. My needy whine that grows more high-pitched every time he strokes my most sensitive spots. His rough groans in my ear take me higher. Pushes me to the edge of an orgasm that tosses me from the stage this man puts me on. My inner walls spasm around him, my whole body clenches. Bright lights burst behind my lids like fireworks into darkness.

“Goddamn,” he says through gritted teeth as he shudders underneath me. He thrusts into me hard, his dick jumping and jerking inside me while he comes.

He crushes me to his chest, both arms holding me against him as though I might run. I don’t have the energy. Or the interest. My brain is an addict overdosing on happy chemicals. His hands are stroking my hair and his chest is thumping under my hands. “Thirty percent.”

“Sorry?” he whispers.

“Thirty percent. That’s what you said. Then I found the ring and somehow you made thirty percent seem like it could be enough.”

“Hmm.” His lips curve against my hair. “Did it? That why you asked me to marry you?”

“Well, it might also have been the champagne and the tequila and the many cocktails, but I think so.”

He exhales long and deep. “Does it still seem like enough?”

“I don’t know,” I whisper. Wish I did. Wish I could say that it was. But the odds aren’t in our favor. They’re not good. And I have worse odds than most. But Nox doesn’t seem to care. He’s more optimistic than I am. More stubborn too probably. So maybe...

“All you have to do is stay. We’ll work the rest out.”

“I’m staying.” I look up at him. I am. I was anyway. But this is different. I’m staying because he wants me to. I’m staying because I can’t imagine walking away of my own free will.

“Good.” He kisses me.

A minute later he smirks, his eyes twinkling with some entertaining thought. “Does this mean you’re going to put my cabin back the way I like it?”

“Mmm.” I pluck at my skirt as I climb off his knee and out of the truck. The fabric is twisted and rumpled, and I flatten it out with my palms. “Will you sign the divorce papers? I can stay without us being married.”

“Heck no.”

“Then no. Not yet.” I cringe. I should give him back his things. But I can’t shake the sensation in the pit of my stomach that this will all go badly. That I’ll be forced to walk away because that’s how relationships go for McClains. And I need a backup plan. A bargaining chip. “Just in case.”

He laughs. His whole chest shakes with it as he pulls me close to him. Our bodies flush against each other. His hand cups one side of my neck. “Okay. I’m going to prove you wrong. But if that’s how you need to play it for now I can live with your furniture. You’re buying the groceries though.”

“But—”

“It’s only fair that we share everything. As husband and wife.” He drops his mouth over mine silencing any chance I have of responding. “Like you said earlier about rearranging the cabin.”

“Fair enough,” I answer, all of a sudden shy. This warmth in my chest... it’s new. Different. In a good way. It might even, for the first time in a long time, be hope. “As long as you tell me why you have an orange grove when you clearly can’t stand them.”