CHAPTER NINE
Jacine
What a cluster fuck. I’m beginning to wonder about my ability to make these grown men act like adults.
“I’m sorry,” said Rory.
His words were surprisingly gentle for a physically huge man. Rory stood at six two with a bulky chest and biceps born of pounding drums for a living. Though he liked to sit behind the drum sets, he was the driving force behind his band Clash. Like many musicians he was multi-talented, and though it is usual for the band’s front man to be the band’s leader, in Clash’s case it was Rory.
The slanting sunlight casts a kind of halo in his red hair, and his green eyes glittered in a way that never came out in his band posters. He’d gained heft too, since his younger years, and I seemed to like him. He may have been number three in my affections when he played for Banshee, but now I found myself reassessing that position.
“You don’t have to apologize for those two,” I said. I bit my lip because I fully intended to check in with my father tonight. And crazily I found tears forming in my eyes.
“In a way I do. Maybe it’s fucked up, but I still think of those two like brothers. Here, my car is this way.”
He pointed in the general direction, but it didn’t take a hound dog to pick out his car. A cherry red Ferrari sat angled into two parking spots. No one was going to nick his precious baby. He clicked on the key fob, the doors unlocked with a click and he gallantly opened the door for me.
Aside from a driver, no one opened the door for me.
In New York, because I don’t have time for personal encounters, it never happens. Even if I did date, I doubt a man would do it. It’s a kind of backhanded snub to women’s independence, or least that’s the excuse for the modern man’s laziness in trying to woo a woman.
So Rory’s gesture, at once caring and masculine, overwhelmed me.
“Hey,” said Rory gently. “What’s this?” He swiped an errant tear from my cheek.
“Nothing,” I said as I sat on the soft leather seat. I buckled in with a too fierce tug on the belt.
“Yeah. I bet you cry all the time when two rock stars beat each other.” Rory gave me a rueful smile and shut the door.
I gave a half laugh, but in truth, I didn’t deserve even that small enjoyment. I felt like a bad daughter because I hadn’t seen my father all day. I worked all day getting the promos for the concert cranking, though I talked to him on the phone. And in a rush like a drenching New York rain, the weight of bearing the company on my shoulders and my father’s mini brush with death swept me. I’m glad I’m sitting because my body physically gave way to a bout of weakness that could have been the emotional strain, or a lack of food, or both.
Fiddling with the small, red strappy purse the ever detailed, Rose, my stylist, paired with this outfit, I pulled out the sunglasses she thought appropriate. They were a leopard print frame to match the leopard print open-toed mules I wore. Rose left photos of what I was supposed to wear with what, and the picture showed the model wearing the sunglasses on top of her head. It pulled together the look, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Just wearing the cherry red duster when I’m used to New York black was daring enough.
And I am a PR maestro in LA? Without warning, the sense that I was an imposter in my own life collided with my usually rock solid self-confidence.
Engaged in my self-absorption, I didn’t notice that Rory gained the freeway, and I could see we were in for a long drive. The typical rush hour traffic clogged the roadway, but Rory proved to be a master of advanced lane changing. He used the engine power of the Ferrari to slice into openings between cars. The fading sun caught his ginger hair and the reddish stubble on his chin clenched in concentration infusing both with a sexy glow. The muscles of his arm flexed as his hand worked the stick shift and I could easily imagine that hand working me.
What the hell is wrong with me? First, randy thoughts about Tobias, an aborted hand job from Cole and to top it off with cunnilingus with Jersey? All thoroughly tantalizing but ultimately unfulfilling.
I needed to get laid.
But not with one of my clients.
But the thrum of the stop/start of the Ferrari’s powerful engine as Rory navigated the treacherous lanes of LA traffic reverberated through me like a siren’s song. No wonder it is considered a sexy machine. It was sex on four wheels.
My panties are soaked, damn it, and I squirmed, swimming in the evidence of my arousal.
With relief, I spotted the exit to Hollywood Park, and I waved my hand to tell Rory to take it, but he merely nodded and zoomed off the freeway in the right direction.
My father’s house is at the edge of Griffith Park but technically a Hollywood Park address. He bought it after the market crash for pennies on the dollar because he is as brilliant with money as he is with clients. A modest home by Starland standards, the facade is unassumingly and unimpressive 1950’s plain red clapboard and boring rectangular windows. But that was my father. He believed in substance, not flash. I remember moving into it in my senior year of high school thinking it was a dump. I didn’t understand his penny-pinching ways until I accidentally ran across a bill for the private school he sent me to. That man put all his money into me. So I grew to appreciate this house because it represented my father’s love.
It’s most stunning feature however was not in the house, it was the thoroughly unobstructed view of the famous Hollywood sign from the back deck that jutted out over the slope the house perched on. My father sits out here at night, with his laptop and drink in hand. He says it reminded him of what was at stake for his clients if he screwed up.
He never screwed up.
Wanita, our housekeeper, opened the door and started in surprise to see me. She appeared to be heading out, and she held a couple of plastic containers of food.
“Oh, Miss Jacine, I was just on my way to see your father.”
“Are you? And what’s this?”
“He said his missed my cooking and—”
“Let me see,” I said. Reluctantly she held up one container of steak fajitas and another of chicken.
“No,” I said shaking my head. “Not the steak.”
“But—”
“And make sure he gets a half portion. And tomorrow morning we will talk about his diet. He’s on restrictions during his recovery. He did have a heart attack.”
“Oh,” she said with her eyes wide. “Mr. Alexander said it was just stress.”
My father, the liar. What did I expect from the premier spin-doctor of LA? I see I have more to manage than my father’s business.
“And you believed him? Wanita, I’m surprised.”
“Sorry, Jacine. I should have known better.”
“I’ll take that steak container.”
“There is more in the refrigerator for you with the rest of the fixings. It’s good to have you home.”
“Thank you, Wanita.”
She gave a passing glance to Rory. “Mr. Holmes,” Wanita said as she walked by him.
“Good to see you again, Wanita. You do make the best fajitas in LA.”
She smiled.
“There should be enough for two,” she said.
Oh brother. Now I have to invite him in.
“Come along,” I said.
“I’ve always liked your house,” he said. “It’s not pretentious like so many LA homes.”
“Thanks. So you’ve been here before?”
“You don’t remember? Your MBA grad party, before Banshee, broke up?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Yes. Of course.”
I pulled out Wanita’s homemade ice tea, fajita wraps, salsa, and black beans and rice from the refrigerator, and heated the food separately in the microwave. Using that appliance was my one culinary accomplishment.
“Can I help?” he said.
“The plates and cups are in that cupboard.”
“Where do you want them?”
“The kitchen island is fine,” I said. I turned to set the rice on the island when Rory collided with me with plates in hand. The bowl flew out of my hand and glanced off my foot.
“Damn-it!” I said hopping as pain shot through me.
“Sorry, sorry,” he said.
“Not your fault.”
“Here sit down, let me look at it.”
I sat at one of the kitchen stools because the darn foot hurt like a bitch. And my one thought was I couldn’t wear spiked heels to the office for quite a while.
Rory gently pulled the mule from my injured foot.
“Ooh,” he said with sympathy. “It hit the side but missed the toes. You’re lucky. But you should put it up, so it doesn’t swell too badly. You need some ice too.”
“I’ll just sit here. I’ll be fine.”
“Nonsense,” he said. “Can you flex your foot, or should we take you to the hospital for x-rays?”
“Yes. I’ll be fine.”
“You keep saying that, but you’re injured. Don’t take things lightly as your father does, or you will end up in trouble too. And we need you too badly for that to happen.”
“You do?”
“Here,” he said in a no-nonsense tone. Rory slipped one arm under my arm and another under my knees and lifted me effortlessly.
“What are you doing?”
“Taking you to the living room so you can put your feet up. And yes, we do need you. My idiot friends only behave when you are around.”
“They didn’t today.”
“Trust me. That was mild compared to other things I’ve seen. And what happened in Angelo’s? The usual nonsense, only this time it was public.”
“I didn’t know.”
With a few steps, he took me to the living room faced with floor to ceiling windows that looked out on the pool, the extended deck and the Hollywood hills beyond. Rory set me down gently.
“Don’t go anywhere,” he said.
“Don’t worry.”
He disappeared back into the kitchen and brought back ice wrapped in a kitchen towel, a plate of food and a glass of ice tea.
“Here,” he said as he placed the food and drink on the table. He sat at the end of the sofa and lifted my foot.
“You might not need that ice after all. Is it still tender?”
“Not like it was.”
“I think your shoes saved you from the worst of it. Here.”
Gently, slowly, he stroked my sore foot between his strong hands.
“How does that feel?” he said.
“Good,” I admit.
He massaged not just the injured foot but the other too, spreading calm throughout my body. And I had to admit, my feet between his thighs sent effervescent sensations through me. My head fell back as I imagined this gentle giant messaging other things as well. In my illicit imaginings, Rory massaged my thighs and worked upward. A groan escaped my lips.
“You okay?”
“You’re good at this.”
“Shiatsu massage. I have it done after shows. Reduces the stress of touring.”
“I’m going to call you Mr. Magic Hands.”
“Oh, so you think that is good?”
He lowered my feet. My mind protested the loss of his hands.
“Sit up.”
In my relaxed state, I almost couldn’t, but he helped me and then settled behind me. Without a sound he started working my shoulders, loosening them with his skillful touch. His fingers wandered up my neck.
“You are tight. It’s a wonder you don’t have headaches.”
Rory’s ministrations made me light and floaty. I relaxed into him. So much so, that it wasn’t until he shifted that I felt his hard cock pressing into my back.
He drew in a sharp breath.
“You are so sexy,” he whispered into my ear.
I am going to Hell because I can’t stop thinking sexy thoughts about my clients. All they have to do is manhandle me a little bit, and I’m ready to go all the way. But right now, the front of the red duster pooled on either side and Rory is kneading my breasts with his hand. His touch is divine, and I’m in heaven. Both hands now command my nipples, and I arch my back in response. Can you come from a breast massage? I just might.
The place between my legs throbs against my too tight jeans and I thrust my hips forward seeking friction. Rory’s hands kicked up the simmering sexual frustration of the past few days, and dear Lord I need it. Now. I want a man’s cock between my legs, and damn it, if Rory Holmes will give me his, I’m going to take it. I twist my head toward his offering my lips, and he lowered his head.
The doorbell sounds, startling both of us.
“What the hell,” I roared. “What is it now?”
“Don’t answer,” said Rory.
And at first I’m tempted, but then someone pounds on the door with the force of a battering ram.
“I’ll make whoever it is go away,” I said. Pushing away from the couch, I stalked to the front door and peeked at the security screen there.
What the? Cole Kane pounded on the door, and shockingly, Jersey Dys gets out of a black Jaguar, and then lastly, Tobias steps out of his gray Aston Martin Vanquish.
“Holmes, you bastard,” said Cole. “Get the hell out here.”