The Mighty Storm

“Then your next job is to find her for me.”



At his expression, I give him an, ‘And no I’m not fucking kidding’ look.



“Do you have OCD or something? You know there’s treatment for that kind of thing, right?” I grin at him.



“OCD is better than STD, Jake.” He raises his eyebrow.



I’ve never had an STD in my life, cheeky bastard. Sheeted and ready to go. I never leave the house without a condom. Well, I never know when I might need one. Trust me, I’ve had sex at the most inappropriate of times, with the wrong kinds of women.



Aside from making music, fucking is the only other thing I am good at.



Jesus Christ what time is it? She should be here by now.



It’s got to be her because she’s late. Tru was always late for everything.



I wonder if she still plays the piano. I’ll have to ask her. If it is her that is.



Fuck, is she ever going to turn up!



The suite phone starts to ring and I instantly tense up.



Stuart answers. “Send her straight up, someone will meet her.”



“She’s here,” he says turning to me. “I’ll send Dave to meet her at the elevator.”



I sit down on the sofa.



Okay, I’ve gotta knock this off, I’m acting like a fucking woman.



It’s just Tru. And if it’s not, then it’s just another lame ass interview to get through. Then afterwards I can finally stop being a pussy and find her.



I grab one of the hotel provided mints off the coffee table, unwrap it and put it in my mouth. I don’t want to stink of cigarettes if it is her.



It’s another five minutes before I hear a knock at the main door.



It’s definitely got to be her because it’s a clear two minutes up here from reception, and Tru was always good at taking her time.



I stand up. Nervous energy is rushing through me.



I can hear Stuart talking. I strain to hear the other voice but I can’t hear a thing.



Would I recognise her voice anyway? It’s been so long since I last heard it.



It seems ages before Stuart walks into the living room, and there she is behind him.



Tru.



It’s her.



And fuck me, she looks beautiful, stunning, and I know in this moment I am never letting go of her again.



She walks a little further into the room.



I can’t take my eyes off her. She looks amazing.



She’s wearing a loose grey T-shirt, belted, showing her tiny waist off, and her tits look amazing in it, perfect. And she’s got this cute little skirt on. It’s short and is showing plenty of leg. Fuck those legs got long, and she’s wearing this pair of come-fuck-me-now boots which would look amazing wrapped around my waist.



“Tru?” My voice comes out a little hoarse. I take a deep breath. “Trudy Bennett? My Trudy Bennett?” I repeat like a fucking moron.



Of course it’s her you fuckwit.



I take a step forward. “Shit, it really is you.”



What the hell is wrong with me? Why can’t I stop talking like a dumbass?



“Yes. It’s really me,” she says.



She sounds like a fucking angel. My dick twitches and starts to harden in response.



Aw, fuck no! Don’t get a hard on Wethers for fucks sake. What are you, fifteen?



Distraction quick.



I think of that time I walked in on Stuart kissing a dude.



Yep, that’ll do it.



Down you go boy.



Okay, game face on now Wethers.



“Holy shit,” I say, smiling at her, moving a bit closer. “When Stuart said the name of the interviewer was Trudy Bennett, I just thought – there can’t be that many Trudy Bennett’s here in the UK can there? – I mean there probably is but –” I laugh. “But then I just thought it would be too much of a coincidence for it to be you … and shit … here you are.”



What the fuck was that dickwad? If that’s what you call your game face nowadays then you are so totally screwed.



I haven’t felt this lame around a woman since I was last around her and at least I had the excuse of been a teenager back then. What’s my excuse now?



It can’t be because I’m clean because I fucked every hot chick there was in rehab, including the hot married counsellor and a few other skirts since I’ve been out.



It’s because it’s her.



“Here I am,” she says.



She sounds nervous. I like that she is. It gives me a rise.



I walk over to her, just needing to be closer to her.



And the nearer I get, I see a blush colour her cheeks.



She just looks so fucking beautiful.



Tru is the most beautiful, perfect person I have ever seen in my life.



More than anything I just want to touch her, but I’m almost afraid to.



And fuck, she smells amazing.



It’s not just the perfume, it’s her. The scent takes me back years. And I suddenly feel an overwhelming sense of love and protectiveness over her.



I haven’t wanted a woman ever, in the way I want her now. I don’t only want to screw her; I want to hold her in my arms.



“It’s been what – eleven years?” I ask her, trying to get my head straight.



“Twelve,” she corrects.



“Twelve. Christ, yeah, right.” I push my hand through my hair. “You look different ... but the same – you know,” I shrug.



“I know,” she smiles. “You look different too.” She gestures to the tattoos on my arms.



I grin down at them.



“But still the same,” she says, pointing her pretty little finger at my nose.



She means my freckles. I fucking hate them.



I rub my hand over his nose. “Yeah, no getting rid of them.”



“I always liked them.”



She did?



“Yeah, but you liked the Care Bears, Tru,” I tease.



She blushes, again.



“You remember that, huh?” she murmurs, looking down.



I have the urge to want to reach out and run my fingers over her pink cheeks.



Actually, I have the urge to want to do a lot more with her right now.



Kiss her, peel her clothes off…



“I remember a lot.” I give her my best grin, the one that has woman dropping their panties for me.



“Come on let’s sit down.” I grab hold of her left hand, for two reasons.



One – I’m feeling for a wedding ring. Two – I just really need to touch her.



No ring. Thank fuck. But my skin heats at the contact with her, and my cock twitches in my pants again.



Fuck! Not again.



Stuart and a dude. Stuart and dude.



While I focus on getting my dick to tame the fuck down, I lead her over to sofa and sit down.



She sits next to me, but leaves a huge gap, I notice.



I turn toward her, crossing my legs. I look at hers while she puts her bag on the floor.



That cute little skirt of hers has ridden up, and is showing plenty of those sexy stems.



I suppress a moan as an image of me touching her leg, running my hand over her smooth, olive skin, up and under that sexy little skirt, flashes through my mind.



“Do you want something to drink?” I ask her, chasing the mental picture away.



She turns her legs toward me.



Fuck! Is she teasing me or something? I’m itching to put my hands on her and see if her skin is as soft as it looks. If she were any other woman, I’d have done that and more by now.



She’d be shirtless and skirtless, and I’d be well on my way to fucking her to the finish line, if she was anyone else.



But she’s not just anyone.



She’s Tru.



She was my best friend, and is, and always will be way more than a quick fuck, irrespective of what my cock is saying right now.



It’s the most fucking confusing feeling I’ve ever had in my life. And I don’t do confused. I want something I take it, or I make it happen.



But I just can’t do that with her.



I fix my eyes on her face, avoiding the temptation to look at her legs again or her tits for that matter, and give her the respect she deserves.



“Water would be great, thanks,” she says. Her cheeks redden again.



Did she used to blush this much when we were kids?



“Water?” I query. “You sure you don’t want orange juice or something?”



She shakes her head. “Water’s fine.”



“Stuart!” I yell.



He shows his face a few seconds later. That was quick. I bet the nosey bastard has been stood by the door listening in.



“Can you get Tru a glass of water and I’ll have an orange juice, please.”



Stuart nods, smiling at me, then goes off to get our drinks.



Nosy fucker has been listening in.



I’m feeling restless. I need a smoke but I don’t want to light up in front of her for some unexplained reason.



“So, this is a little crazy, huh?” I say.



“Hmm. A little.” She casts a glance at me, pressing her gorgeous pouty lips together.



I want to kiss them, see them around my dick…



“So how have you been?” I ask her.



“Good. Great. I’m music journalist now, obviously…” she mumbles.



She seems really uncomfortable around me. Maybe she’s not as happy to see me, as I am her.



“You always were a good writer,” I encourage.



“I was?” She looks surprised.



“Yeah, those stories you used to make up when we were little, and then you used to make me sit and listen to you while you read them back to me,” I chuckle.



She was such a cute thing when she was younger.



Her face goes bright red. “Oh God,” she groans. “I was so lame.”



I laugh. “You were five, Tru. I think we can forgive the lame.” I drag my fingers through my hair. “And of course you always loved music so it makes sense the two went together. You still play the piano?” I ask her.



She was amazing on the keys. I could sit and listen to her play for hours when we were younger.



“No. I stopped–” she pauses. It makes me curious. “I just, um, haven’t played in a long time. I fell out of it, you know,” she adds sounding really uncomfortable now. “Well obviously you don’t know.” She gestures to my guitar.



I smile at her, but I’m not feeling it.



Why is she so uncomfortable around me? I thought she might be pissed at me for stopping contact, but not uncomfortable.



It’s not the whole me being famous shit is it? She was the one person I would never have expected that from.



I sigh inwardly.



Stuart reappears with our drinks.



Tru thanks him for her drink.



“Anything else?” Stuart asks me.



Apart from her?



I look at Tru in question. She shakes her head.



“No, we’re good thanks,” I say dismissing him.



I have a drink of my juice.



“So I’d ask how you’re doing but…” she gestures around at our surroundings.



“Yeah. I’m great.” I force a laugh, and rub my hand over chin. Leaning forward, I put my drink down on the table and rest my forearms on my legs.



The girl I loved, still love, doesn’t appear to have missed me like I’ve missed her. The one girl that has meant so much to me for so long, the one I had to let go of, but never forgot, and have been too afraid to find, looks like she’d rather be anywhere but here with me.