Strike a Chord

by Salsbury, JB

  The pavement snakes and slithers in front of me as I do my best to make it to the door. Ethan casually slips in beside me, his strong arm at my back. I accept his help but glare at him as I do so he knows I’m not happy about it.

  He laughs. Asshole. “What room are you in? Please tell me you have a room key.”

  “I’m not stupid.” I fish the key from my back pocket. “Four twelve. Or twelve four?”

  He sighs. “We’ll figure it out.”

  We get into an elevator and Ethan props me in the corner. Rodger hits a button, and when the carriage moves, my stomach turns over. I grip my belly and groan.

  “Fuck.” Ethan lifts my chin with two strong fingers. His eyes are warm and study my face. “Dixie, your roommate, is she at the bar?”

  I nod against his fingers.

  He shares a look with Rodger, and the security guy hits the button to the forty-fifth floor. I look at Ethan questioningly and he frowns. “It’s not a good idea for you to be alone.”

  “I just want to sleep.”

  “Yeah, well, I hate to break it to you, Tom, but sleep isn’t in the cards until you’ve puked your guts up.”

  Hearing the word puke sends me doubling over. “Stop. Why is everything moving?”

  The elevator pings and Rodger hurries ahead to open a hotel room door as Ethan shuffles me down the hallway and into the fancy-shmancy suite. I’m taken directly to the bathroom, where I’m lowered to the floor by the toilet. Ethan stacks two fluffy white towels near me and instructs me to lie down.

  I do, surprised by how good the cold tile feels against my bare arms and legs. When I focus on the base of the bowl, the ceiling stops spinning. My stomach feels a little better. If I lie still enough, maybe the stomach pain will pass.

  Ethan

  “This should get you through the night.” Rodger hands me a gift shop bag filled with supplies.

  “Thanks, man.” I head into the bathroom to set up triage.

  Taylor hasn’t stopped staring at the toilet since she lay down, but her legs have been restless and my gut tells me her guts are prepping for evac.

  Rodger follows me into the bathroom. “Tommy, how are you feeling?”

  She groans and shakes her head.

  He mumbles, “Should I call her dad?”

  “No!” She slowly pushes herself to sitting and slams her palm to the floor as if doing so made the tile sit still. “Don’t. I’ll be okay. Right, Ethan?”

  I turn from the box of Alka-Seltzer and—damn, her skin is turning a sickly shade of green. “Absolutely.”

  She makes a gagging sound and grabs her belly.

  “You staying for the show?” I ask Rodger and soak a washcloth with cold water.

  “Can you stop the walls, please?” She folds over the bowl with her forearms braced on the seat.

  “I’ll get right on that.”

  “Fucking musicians.” She spits. Spits again.

  Rodger’s face pales. “Call me if you need me,” he says on his way out.

  “Wimp!”

  The only response he gives me is the closing of my hotel room door.

  I take the washcloth and squat next to Taylor looking like a hot mess with a string of drool hanging off her lower lip. “Hey, gorgeous. You ready to get that shit out of your body?”

  “Yes.” She spits again and rests her head on her forearm. “Am I gonna die?”

  I push her hair off her face and tuck it behind her ear. “No, but you’re going to wish you would.”

  She groans into the bowl. “You might want to leave.”

  “And miss the excitement?”

  “I’m serious. I’m gonna—” The first gut-wrenching wave hits her like an electric shock.

  I jump to my feet, circle behind her, and gather her shoulder-length hair behind her neck. “There ya go, get it all out.”

  As if on cue, her back arches and she barfs hard. I flush the toilet after every wave, and she gags and dry heaves into the swirling water.

  After a dozen dry-heaves, her stomach convulsions slow. I hand her the cold washcloth for her face. She uses it to wipe her mouth and looks up at me with watery, bloodshot eyes. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

  “Is it possible I’m not the selfish asshole you think I am?” I toss the old washcloth into a corner and grab another to dab the light sheen of sweat on her forehead. Even pale green and hurting, her stormy gray eyes, narrow nose, and heart-shaped face are a work of art.

  Like a ragdoll, she slumps back against the nearest wall. “If this is what drinking is like, why the hell would anyone get addicted to it?”

  “First time, huh?” I don’t know why, but that surprises me. Taylor’s a bit of a hard-ass. I assumed she’d sneaked booze before now.

  She nods with a head that seems to weigh 185 pounds.

  I slide up next to her and cross my ankles to settle in for what’s going to be a long night. “It’s not usually this bad when you know your limit. How many cocktails did you have tonight?”

  Her face scrunches up as if I’ve asked her how many wet dog turds she’d like to eat. “Just one, but I think there were two shots in it—oh God.” She clutches her gut. “I can’t talk about it.”

  “You had way more than two shots. The drink you had when I got there was half rum—”

  She throws her body at the toilet and barfs air. “I couldn’t…” She talks between dry heaves. “Taste it… Paul… gave them…”

  Of course that fucker Paul was feeding her booze without a single consideration to her tolerance. If I didn’t know better, I’d say that son-of-a-twat was trying to get her blackout drunk.

  “I’m so thirsty.”

  I snag the bottled water from the counter and pop off the top. “Here, but only a little sip. If you keep that down, I’ll give you more.”

  She takes a sip, then another, and tries to take another, but I pull the bottle from her lips.

  “You’re going to make yourself throw up again.”

  She leans back against the wall. “Tastes so good.”

  “Alkaline water. Great for hangovers.” I put the lid back on, check the time, and tell myself if she doesn’t throw up again, I’ll give her another sip in a few minutes. “So Paul was spiking your Coke—”

  “Can we please not talk about this?” she slurs. Her shining eyes look up at me. “Talk about anything else. Just not Paul or…” Her face pinches. “You’re not ignoring me anymore.”

  “Ah, that. Well, I met a girl—”

  “I saw her!” She turns toward me with more energy than I’d have thought possible, considering the eviction her body just issued her stomach. Her eyes turn to little slits. “You had sex with her!”

  “That’s not—”

  She gasps. “She was wearing your clothes and… oh my God, Ethan, I saw her walk of shame and you…” Her glare tightens again. “And you…”

  “Are you finished—”

  “You used her and cast her away like Tom Hanks.” She’s clearly still drunk, swinging her arms around as she works herself up into a tizzy. “They had a funeral!” Her eyes turn glossy. “A funeral.” Her voice cracks, her lip quivers. “But he wasn’t dead because of the wing circles.” She sniffles and turns away from me to sniffle some more. “And Wilson…”

  I wait a few seconds, trying hard not to let her see me smile. “You done?”

  She sniffs again, swipes at her nose, and composes herself before she turns toward me with her chin raised. “I forgot my point.”

  “Here.” I bring the bottled water to her lips and allow her another couple sips. “The woman you saw me with is the reason I stopped ignoring you.”

  “I knew you were ignoring me.”

  “Yes, well, I wasn’t trying to hide it, Sherlock.” I stand to grab a clean cold washcloth so that I don’t have to feel her probing eyes on my face. “I didn’t touch your mom, and I didn’t touch the woman you saw me with—”

  “Bullshit.”

  I turn around, prop my ass ag
ainst the countertop, and cross my arms. “I really didn’t want to have this conversation with you when you’re shithoused, but you give me no choice. Did I bring a woman to my hotel room in hopes of fucking her brains out?”

  Her eyes light with fire. “You’re disgusting—”

  “Yes. I am. So why the fuck do you look at me like I’m not?”

  “That’s it! I’m leaving!” She scrambles to her feet, gravity and equilibrium working against her.

  “Fine. Go!”

  She grips her head, takes two steps, and stops with her back toward me.

  “That’s the problem, isn’t it, Taylor?” I step up behind her, wrap an arm around her middle, and accept her weight as she leans back into my chest. “You don’t want to leave.”

  Her muscles lose tension and she shakes her head once, admitting the truth. There’s some cosmic connection between us that we both wish we could fight but can’t.

  I press my lips to the top of her head. “I don’t want you to leave.”

  “I’m just… tired and I feel gross and I can’t have this conversation with you right now.”

  I kiss her head again. “Why don’t you take a shower and you can sleep here? I’ll take the couch.”

  “Are you sure? I don’t want anyone to get the wrong idea.”

  “Fuck them.” I make sure she’s steady on her feet before I walk to the shower and turn on the warm water. “Toothbrush, toothpaste, mouthwash, whatever you need should be here.” I show her the selection of items on the countertop. “Take the water with you, and if you feel dizzy at all, sit down and call me.”

  “I’m fine, honestly. I feel a lot better after…” She casts a glance at the toilet.

  “Good. Holler if you need me.”

  I leave her to get ready for bed. I usually sleep naked, but if she needs me, I don’t want to scare her with my monster-sized dick, so I ditch my jeans for a pair of workout shorts.

  After about ten minutes, I knock on the bathroom door. “You okay?”

  “I’m fine!”

  I snag an extra blanket from the closet, sprawl out on the couch, and turn on the television, keeping the volume low so I’ll hear the thump if she falls. Eventually the water shuts off, and after another ten minutes or so, she comes out wearing a fluffy white bathrobe. Her hair looks darker as water drips from the ends to slide down the vee of skin exposed at her chest. Her skin is pale and dotted with light freckles—so different from the tanned female form I’m accustomed to. Everything about Taylor is different from what I’m accustomed to. Refreshingly innocent, painfully naïve.

  “Feel a little better?”

  She nervously fingers the damp strands of her hair. “A million times better, but I’m pretty sure I’m still drunk.”

  “Take a couple Advil, finish the water, and if you can stomach some of those saltine crackers, it’ll make all the difference in the morning.”

  She nods, ducks back into the bathroom, and comes out nibbling on crackers with her water. She sits at the edge of a chair, fresh-faced, cheeks pink again. Her gaze skitters across my bare torso, but I don’t think much of it. She’s seen me shirtless before.

  “You have a lot of experience with hangovers,” she say.

  I sigh. “More than you know.” She ducks her chin and I resist the urge to go to her, lift her chin, and tell her that a woman as beautiful as she is should never hide her face. I itch to feel her wet hair slip between my fingers. My lips burn to brush against her neck. “You should get some sleep.”

  “You’re probably right.”

  I resist the urge to pull her to the couch as she shuffles on bare feet to the bedroom. I’m about to ask her to stay with me when she stops, turns, and says, “Thank you, ya know, for tonight.”

  Before I can respond, the bedroom door shuts with a soft click.

  “Always,” I say to myself.

  How the hell am I supposed to fall asleep with a hot, nearly naked woman in my hotel room bed?

  I spot the mini bar.

  Booze?

  Don’t mind if I do.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Taylor

  I’m dreaming I’m in hell.

  But it’s nothing like the hell I imagined. There’s no fire, no crabby red dude with horns and a pointed tail. Quite the opposite actually. There’s only Ethan, shirtless and hovering over me while he bathes my neck in the softest kisses. I feel his bare skin under my palms, but I can’t feel him pressed against my chest. I try to get closer, desire his firm torso pressed against mine, but I can’t move. His tongue is velvet against my throat, and I want more. I want him to kiss me, but I’m unable to move. I try to tell him. My mouth opens, but makes no sound.

  My skin is damp. I’m hot. So hot and there’s no escape from it.

  I gasp and my eyelids fly open. Seconds pass as I try to place myself.

  I’m in a hotel room. Ethan’s room.

  I peer down my torso and see a masculine forearm thrown over my waist from behind my back. The tie on my robe must’ve fallen loose in the night and Ethan’s hand is beneath it, his big palm flat against my belly. I rack my brain, desperately searching for an explanation to how we ended up like this. When I went to bed, I left him on the couch and closed the door.

  He shifts behind me, his fingers lightly brushing against me as if he’s trying to place himself as I did seconds ago.

  “What the fuck?” he says quietly. He slowly retreats and my pulse races in a panic.

  I act on instinct, my hand darting to cover his at my stomach. With my eyes closed, fearing his reaction, I whisper one word. “Stay.”

  His body freezes for a moment that feels like a lifetime before he groans softly and relaxes against me again. His hand slides up, stopping just under the modest swell of my breast, his enormous hand cupping my ribcage. He pulls me back inches, fitting our bodies together from ankles to hips to heads.

  He presses his lips to the back of my head and grumbles, “How the fuck did we end up like this?”

  My eyes are still closed as I absorb his heat. The strength in his touch makes me feel fragile and feminine in his hands. “Guess you couldn’t stay away.”

  He makes a tired humming sound, as if he’s drifting off to sleep. Images from my dream flicker through my mind—his mouth, his muscles, all that gorgeous hair tickling my jaw. A throbbing low in my belly has me shifting my legs as restlessness assaults me.

  I want Ethan.

  I close my eyes and try to push back the thoughts. Don’t be stupid! He’s a rock star with a string of broken hearts attached to his name. I mean nothing more to him than any of the other women he’s been with. Matter of fact, it’s probably the fact that I haven’t been with him that makes me slightly more valuable. Once I give in to this attraction between us, there will be no salvaging our friendship. And yet, my imagination has him touching me with phantom hands. What if his hand slid up just a little higher? Or even better, what if he slipped just a little lower? My skin feels flushed, my heart races. But I risk losing him.

  My back arches on its own accord.

  His fingers jump against my skin, the action pulling him from sleep, and he flexes his hips forward, meeting me with a soft groan.

  Knowing I’ve crossed the line, opened the floodgates, passed the point of no return, I risk moving his hand a little higher. He doesn’t need much coaxing.

  His palm covers my breast, cupping with gentle pressure. “Are you sure?”

  Inside I’m screaming yes, I’m sure, but I can’t get my inexperienced body to relax enough to take a full breath. I nod quickly.

  His hand freezes. “I can feel your heart racing from back here.”

  “It’s okay.” My voice is barely a shaky whisper. “I’m a little nervous.”

  He grips the robe’s lapel and pulls hard while simultaneously scooting back so he can flip me over to face him. I cover my face, knowing I must look awful after throwing up and going to bed with wet hair.

  “Nope, none of that.” He peels
my hands from my face and greets me with a wide, white smile. “Good morning, gorgeous.”

  I roll my eyes. “It’s too early for insincere flattery.”

  “You think I’m being insincere?” He props his head up on his hand. “Have you seen yourself?” He pushes unruly hair off my cheek, running his thumb along my jaw. “You have beautiful skin. It’s like mud, the watery kind that doesn’t have rocks in it.”

  “Wow,” I say dryly. “I think I prefer the insincere flattery.”

  He chuckles, the sound deep and catching. “These”—he traces his fingertip across my freckled nose—“are lickable.”

  I’m surprised his ridiculous compliments are working, but I find myself relaxing into them while blushing at the same time.

  He pushes his hand into my hair, rubbing deep circles into my temple and the space around my ear. “How does your head feel?”

  “Better now.” My eyes flutter open to find him looking at me with a sense of contentment I’ve never seen on his face. In one look, he communicates his desire to stay here, in bed, all day, massaging my head.

  “I was sound asleep on the couch last night, minding my own business when you came and woke me up because you had a nightmare.” His hand continues to deliver massage heaven to my head. “You asked me to come to your bed and hold you all night.”

  “You’re such a liar.” Even drunk I wouldn’t have had the guts to ask a man to come to my bed. Especially a man as sexually potent as Ethan Crow.

  “You’re not supposed to remember what you do when you drink.”

  “I would’ve remembered that.”

  “All right, fine.” He sighs. “When I went to bed last night, my intention was to stay on the couch. I hit the mini bar to help me fall asleep, and I must’ve gotten up in the middle of the night to take a leak and, out of habit, stumbled into your bed.”

  “Tour life can make it difficult to place yourself in the middle of the night.” She moans. “That feels so good. Don’t stop.”

  “I like this side of you. Weak and needy.”

  “I am not weak.”

  “Yeah, I know that.”

  I peer up at him. “I was really messed up last night. You could’ve taken advantage and gotten me back for the whole dick and balls on your face thing—put my hand in warm water, short-sheeted the bed.”