Dean

Sliding my shoes off at the door, I wipe the sweat from my brow, pull off my drenched T-shirt, and stretch my legs. I needed that run. Been slacking at it for days. I also crave a smoke, but I quickly change my mind when another part of my body starts to stretch on its own. The potent craving for a dark-haired temptress overriding the need for nicotine.

Since Tatum’s little stunt of seduction the other day to where I wanted to rip every piece of clothing she had on and bury my face between her legs while licking chocolate off her thighs instead of her neck, I’m desperate for a release. Would have jacked off the minute I walked through my door if Leila hadn’t been there when I returned. She ended up spending the night, kept me up late with her continuous apology for getting drunk. Then started bawling when I told her about Miles’ rehab, and by then I was too damn tired to do anything but crash. Yesterday, I was elbows deep in with Brock working on a new song that took us well into the night. Which means my dick is pissed the fuck off.

“I want to claim that woman’s body until neither one of us can think about the demons in our past anymore,” I grumble, slam the door to my house, and jog up the steps to my bedroom. My cock is so fucking hard it isn’t even funny anymore. “I’m surprised you made it through your run with the hard-on that kept popping up every time you thought about her.” Which was every five seconds.

That woman has me all kinds of tangled up. The face of an angel with eyes that bore right into my empty soul, begging for it to heal, and a body that turns a man’s head quicker than he can take his next step. And her mind; I can’t even begin to describe how badly I want to crawl inside of that head of hers and get to know everything about her. I want to turn her inside out, upside down, and spin in a non-stop circle of happiness with her.

Basically, I want this woman with a ferocity that has me feral and losing control. All kinds of fucked-up feelings are brewing inside of me over a woman who has taken over my thoughts.

Stripping out of my clothes, I hit the shower, turn the water on, close my eyes, and grab my aching cock before the spray hits my body.

I begin to stroke myself; the need to drain my balls doesn’t come close to how badly I want to take her perky ass in my hands, run my fingers up her spine before I take hold of a handful of all that pitch-black hair and sink inside of her from behind.

I suck in a shaky breath when visions of her on her knees in front of me smash against my skull. I wonder if she ended up going home and touching herself. I can almost hear her panting out a strangled “Yes” as I sit and watch her fingers glide in and out of her. A sweet, relieved moan is humming in my ear right before I push my finger into her cunt. Her curvy hips start to roll as we both bring her to climax.

I’m not one of those guys who believe in love at first sight. I sure the hell believe in the power of it. I can’t describe how she shakes me up. Makes me want things I never thought I would have, and all of her could have been mine a long time ago if she hadn’t hidden from me.

I held my breath for the longest time the other night, and the minute she touched me, all the air rushed out of my lungs and my chest caved. The aching need for her escalated the minute she put her mouth on my flesh, teaching me why a slow, steady seduction is much more fun than just a simple fuck. My problem is—and right now, it’s a big problem that strains the vein in my cock, making him twitch in my hand—this woman has no idea what she’s about to drag herself into if she gets involved with me. For once in my life, I’m going to be selfish and take the friendship along with intimacy and ride whatever we have going on to the fullest.

As fucked up as it sounds, I want her by my side. To show her she deserves to be treated like a queen.

With all the demons I can’t seem to let go of, I should be running, avoiding her at all costs the way she did me. I can’t. Now that she’s in my life, the dull burn in my chest is starting to fade away. She’s a walking version of my fantasies, and I’m not just talking about sex. She makes me want to feel something I’ve never felt before in my life. I’ve been riding some sort of high that she had the courage to call me and awaken something inside of me I knew was missing but never had the strength to go out and find. Companionship. Someone I can trust.

Her eyes told me the same thing. She’s been walking through these past few years as lifeless as I have. Pretending to be fine while inside she’s burning in her own lonely kind of hell. I’ll be damned if we didn’t put out those embers and turn them to ash while holding an unlit match just waiting for someone to start a new fire.

Hell. That woman is filled with a reserved hunger just waiting for me to unleash. I can still feel the current racing across my skin from our fiery first kiss to the one I gave her after walking her to her car that night.

I stroke my cock with one hand while rolling my balls in the other, my fingers gliding over the slicked head. The veins are angered. On the verge of bursting. There has never been a woman who makes me feel the way she does. In the few short hours I’ve spent with her, she’s given me her hand and started to pull me out of my dark hole.

“Jesus, it’s been too long since I’ve felt anything but my own hand.” She has me starving for her. The hunger is rooted deeply. I haven’t begun to touch her, taste her, or make my way inside of her strong mind yet. No one makes me want to feel quite like Tatum does.

I let out a groan as my spine tingles, legs shake, and my hand works over my stiff erection. Tilting my head back, the hot water slicking back my hair, I close my eyes, feel my balls tighten, my cum squirting out of me in slick, hot spurts. I let out a strangled cry of relief, squeeze the softening shaft, and feel my entire body tremble.

* * *

I sit in the control room of Access Records, the high I was on inflated as I listen to one of the world’s newest superstars. A gorgeous young woman who we’ve all guided while allowing her to mold herself into the person she wants to be. She’s one of the best in the music industry right now. People flock to her concerts. The paparazzi, the talk shows, the entire nation can’t get enough of her.

The vultures who live amongst us have been digging for months into her past to try and find something to taint her. She’s as innocent as an angel, handles herself with grace and gratitude. Except for today. Her raspy voice, which is normally magnetic, is off. Not the normal kind of off when you just can’t seem to hit the note right. She’s unfocused, won’t look me in the eye or listen to my advice. She’s on the verge of pissing me the hell off. This is unlike her in a way I can’t put my finger on.

“Wonder if she’s burning herself out.” Brock’s grin that was back on his face when I walked in the door a while ago turns into a worried frown. The guy loves doing this stuff. He gets a hell of a lot of self-satisfaction from it. I think he’d quit being our lead guitarist if he could do this full time. We all enjoy it, but not like him, and especially not when someone treats me like shit while biting my head off at every suggestion. Hell, she’s practiced this song enough that I shouldn’t have to suggest a damn thing.

“I’m not picking up that vibe from her. It’s something else. Not sure what it is. She needs to get her shit together, though, because she’s wasting our time. You check on Miles lately?” I respond. We should have been out of here an hour ago.

“Yeah, dropped him off at Roman’s on the way here, which gives me all the time in the world. You, on the other hand, can go if you want. I’m sure you’d much rather go see Tatum.” Damn right, I would. However, her store is open late tonight. I only know this because I knew I would be stuck here longer than anticipated, so I called her, told her I wasn’t sure what time I’d be done. We left it with me texting her when I finished to see if it was too late for me to drive to her place. Our conversation was cut short when Brock walked in and overheard us talking. I ended up telling him more about her. Explained in detail how bizarre my feelings toward her have grown.

“I’ll leave as soon as I get her straightened out.” I slide my attention off him, flip the switch to turn off the music, and ask angrily into the microphone. “What the fuck is your problem today, Quinn?” She jumps from the intrusion of my voice coming through her headphones. It’s the first time I’ve spoken to her like this. If she doesn’t have a good enough explanation, she needs to get the hell gone and not return until she makes her job a priority. This isn’t about time being money; it’s about respect. A common courtesy she’s known for. For the life of me, I can’t figure out why she’s this far out of sync. I mean, I get it if someone has a bad day, but tripping over words she knows by heart and slamming her headphones down, peering through the glass as if she’s trying to shoot me square in the head is utter bullshit.

“You are, Mister ‘I Don’t Give A Shit What The Press Says About Me,’” she air quotes. My head lurches back in a whiplash motion. What in the actual fuck is she going on about?

“Care to explain?” I sit back, put my feet casually up on the desk, and wait. She’s pissed me off with her remark. The girl has no idea how badly I want to rip into her ass right now. No one talks to me about ignoring the press. I have more right to hate them than most people do.

She gives us both a reluctant look as if we're supposed to read her mind. Don’t know about Brock, but I read it loud and clear. They found something on her. Something big. And she’s allowing it to defeat her. She’s filled her veins with guilt over it. I’ll guide her any way I can. Got news for her, though; deciding to take it out on Brock and me isn’t going to win the combat with them. Ignoring them is. Guess she hasn’t quite grown the thick layer of skin that you don’t show your bruises to anyone. Because if you do, they’ll blacken them until you can’t breathe.

“I’m sorry. It’s not you; it’s this.” She reaches into her back pocket, pulls out what appears to be a newspaper article, and walks with a slumped gait to the window. “They found out about this. I’m upset. I can’t concentrate worth shit. It hurts my heart when I think about what happened to me. I was eighteen. Tom, my boyfriend at the time, and I planned on getting married. I was pregnant, suffered a miscarriage, and the paparazzi have made it sound like I deliberately lost my baby because having a child would stand in the way of my career.” Jesus Christ. The pain in her features guts me hard. I get why she snapped at me. I would have, too. I feel guilty for my thoughts.

Her face pales, causing my heart to ache for her. I wish to God I could fix this and make it all go away. That’s not my job; it’s hers and her PR rep’s to decide if they make a statement. But as her friend and one of her mentors, it is my job to try and ease her mind. It’s not even a job; it’s the right thing to do as her friend. The thing is, it won’t matter what I say to her; the guilt of her loss will forever be there.

I push up, scan the papers quickly, and slump back into my chair. “What the fuck?” My muscles instantly strain in my neck. Sam’s name is all over these papers. Printout after printout of forum chats.

“Was this statement broadcasted live?” I hear his statement loud and clear. Dirty, pond-sucking scum is putting my sanity on edge by bringing himself back into my world.

“Yes. Lucky me, I was his topic last night. I printed these off their website.” I don’t want to see any more.

I’d love to tell her everything will turn out alright and that her fans will understand. Most of them will. The sick truth is, though, these types of things are bound to come out when you're in the public eye. People thrive on this kind of shit, and none of them stop to think about the damage they are doing. They take the ugly side of a story and spiral it out of control, not stopping to realize that celebrities are human, too. That we have a heart beating in our chest and our lives aren’t secluded. It’s the price we pay for fame. A dirty fucking price that no amount of money can take away.

“Quinn, first of all, I’m sorry for your loss. Second, you don’t owe them anything. You know the truth, and that’s what matters. Painful things happen for a reason. Take what they’ve done and continue to walk with your head held high. Don’t let them win.” Easier said than done. The first slap in your face is always the hardest.

She forces a smile; I give the girl credit for being able to smile at all. She’s a good twenty-two-year-old woman who pushes herself hard, but when she drops her head to the floor, unease settles in my stomach. I sigh, run my hands down my face, and try to come up with the right words to try and ease her mind.

“You can’t let them get to you. What happened was an accident. You are stronger than them. Strong, do you hear me?” The words she’s young and has plenty of time to have children edge their way to the tip of my tongue. I swallow them. They burn down my throat. Whether her child was born or not, it’s clear to see she wanted it. I know what she’s feeling, and it hurts. It stings like a needle filled with poison lodged in your heart. It distributes that venom everywhere.

“How do you guys do it? I mean, I can handle my pictures being taken. This, though, is unacceptable. There are people feeding into this; tweets are blasting. People are calling me a baby killer. Telling me I owe them something. Reporters have already contacted Tim about this. He hung up on them. They repeatedly kept calling until he shut his phone off. I thought I was strong; now that this out, these people are crushing my strength. Days like today, I wonder if it’s all worth it. I lost my child because Tim and I went ice-skating. It was stupid of us to do, and I’ll never forgive myself. I doubt he will either. At the time, I didn’t even know I would be doing this, so how can they print lies and continue to get away with it? This is my story to tell.”

“You’ll never understand, Quinn. Don’t waste your time trying. Look at how far you’ve come in the two years you’ve been doing this. Don’t let them collapse you. They are not worth you giving up something you love, and I know you love to sing. The people who love you are all that matter as far as your career goes. The bottom line is, the only thing you should worry about is you. Would it make you feel better if I told you we aren’t as strong as you think?”

I wish to fuck I were. It’s a game to this people. Especially Sam. One they usually win. They wrench until they strip us, and in the end, our strength gives out. It’s a bloody war that will never end.

“Why don’t you go on home and let me finish handling this?” I turn to Brock, who shadows a scowl beneath his beard. His face is as enraged as I imagine mine is. Bitterness is bleeding out of him, pooling at his feet. The guy has always had a soft spot for this girl. Why he hasn’t gone after her beats the hell out of me. Probably has to do with what he’s dealing with at home. “I’ll take care of Miles. You got my word.”

I’d much rather let Brock have a night to himself than for him to stay here and try to glue thick skin on Quinn. “I’ll get her sorted, you have my word on that, too.” I don’t give my word to many people. I think Brock understands my meaning behind it. I’m not going to mention a word to Quinn about my past with Sam. It will only upset her more. She might be angry, acted out, but she cares as much for us as we do her. She doesn’t need another burden.

“You sure? He’s going to pitch a fit, think something’s up.” He slides out of his chair, pushes his fingers through his hair, and lets out a heavy sigh. He looks tired and on the verge of losing it again.

“I can handle him. You know, there are some circumstances in life where it’s okay to lean on others, Brock. We’re a family. Miles’ situation is one where you need to lean as far over as you can. I got him. Now, go have a good time.”

“Thanks, call if you need anything.”

I won’t call him, and he knows it.