Phoenix Rising Rock Band: The Series

by Kathryn C. Kelly

  Sloane

  The days blend together in a fast moving carousel of sweetness, eroticism, and understanding. We genuinely enjoy each other’s company. I discover a lot about her ability to carry a tune—none—and her love of music. She’s a visual person. If I tell her to do something, she may or may not understand. If I show her, she gets it immediately.

  It’s something I intend to mention to Helen when I return Georgie to Houston, although I do my best not to think about that day. If truth be told, I also hate to think about discussing Georgie’s learning style, too. It makes me feel like a fucking creep, which is why I breathe a sigh of relief when I look at the calendar and realize there’s seven days before Georgie’s 17th birthday. Still, not 18, but a fucking lot better than 16.

  These thoughts prevent me from sleeping, despite it being just after one. I’ve had a long day of fucking Georgie, refining the lead groove of a new song I’ve written, and locking myself in my office to conference with Jaeger, Kiln, and Dad about reservations and venues for the UK. They’re jerking off, because I have new material, and are pushing for the band to get back in the studio. Everything’s going to happen overseas, which means I’ll be gone for months. Georgie will be back in Houston, since Helen has declined my latest request to send her back to Ocean Springs when I leave.

  I insist this is a good thing.

  By the time I return, Georgie will either be eighteen, or be quite close to it. This separation will be good for us. It’ll allow me to get my head on straight where she’s concerned, and allow her to get a diploma at least.

  Time apart will tell both of us if what we share now is just two people who met at vulnerable times in their lives. I’ll know if Georgie can stay drug free, with or without me.

  I’ll stay faithful to her. Why fuck over her when I love…no, I don’t love her. I’m not allowed to fall in love with her for another fifty-three weeks.

  Sex is bad enough, but love?

  No.

  Well, whatever the fuck my reasons are, I refuse to destroy her trust in me, and fuck any other women.

  Somehow, she’ll have to understand that rumors will be rampant. Groupies. Meaningless sex. Random hookups with models, actresses, dancers, porn stars, and singers.

  Fuck, thinking of it fucks with me, and I know I’m not going to touch any of these women with Georgie in my life.

  She stirs next to me. I glance at the clock. 1:10.

  Now is as good a time as any to discuss my thoughts with her, so…

  “Sloane,” she grumbles, her eyes popping open, her hair rumpled.

  Once she focuses completely, she smiles at me. I wrap her in my arms. She squirms against me, then licks my nipple.

  A shudder reverberates through me, but I don’t deny her, rolling onto her instead, and parting her thighs.

  The moment I slide into her hot pussy, we groan together.

  “I was having a dream that we were making love,” she tells me, lifting her hips and grinding against me.

  I brace myself above her and allow her to move beneath me, as if she’s topping from the bottom. We both know better. She’s in control only because I allow it.

  Her nails dig into my shoulders and her tongue slides over my chest. Seizing her wrists gently, in consideration of the jagged, red slashes, I imprison her hands over her head and surge into her. One of my hands grips her waist while I thrust into her.

  She tugs her arms, wanting them free. Knowing she’s close, I release her. She threads her fingers through my hair, her mouth meeting mine.

  Her movements are turning wild, spurring my harder drives into her body, until she cries out and arches against me. I nibble her neck, not quite ready to let go. She’s wet and tight and fits me like a velvet glove. If I could stay inside of her forever, I would.

  “Sloane,” she says in a hoarse whisper that sends me over the edge.

  My groan is harsh and guttural as I empty into her, the orgasm felt from the bottom of my spine, straight to my balls and my head. It’ll take me a moment to recover, so I rest my chin on the crown of her head, shivering at the brush of her lips near my shoulder.

  Afraid to rest my weight on her too long, I turn over and close my eyes.

  Urgent shakes bounces through me and I lift my lids. Blearily, I glance at the clock. 2:30. I must’ve fallen asleep.

  Another shake and Georgie leans over me. She sniffles.

  “What’s wrong?” I demand, leaning behind me and flipping on the bedside lamp.

  Georgie’s wide awake with tears in her eyes.

  Heart racing, I shake the last of my sleep from my brain and sit up, dragging her with me to do a quick inspection. Other than reddened skin from where I sucked her neck, and abrasions from the stubble on my face, she seems fine.

  Then why is she crying?

  “Georgie, baby, what’s wrong?” I ask, frantic. “Are you ill?”

  “N-no. I’m hungry,” she cries.

  My mouth drops open. I stare at her in disbelief. “Fucking hungry? You scared the fuck out of me because you’re fucking hungry?”

  She nods.

  Maybe, that’ll be her birthday gift. Adding her fingerprint to the access upstairs. Knowing she needed me to be able to return to the bedroom, it still annoys me that she frightened the fuck out of me. “Come on,” I snap begrudgingly. “Let’s go downstairs.”

  “No!” she wails, like a spoiled brat. “I want pork chops, mashed potatoes, gravy and…and…and…” Unable to finish, she collapses in a heap, finally sobbing, “We don’t have that in the kitchen.”

  The wind is almost knocked from me, rendering me momentarily speechless. My thoughts race.

  Girls wake up all the time in the middle of the fucking night crying for a pork chop?

  Right?

  Right. Sure, Sloane.

  They wake up wailing for that shit when they’ve had cum spurting into them periodically. I count back over the days. The day after we arrived, Georgie and I made up a chart for her cycle. We’ve been in Denver for a month. She had a period about nine days after we arrived.

  Fuck.

  She grips my wrist and shakes me again. “Sloane, please! I want—"

  “I heard you. I fucking heard you,” I mutter to myself. Not that she can hear me. She’s sobbing again. “Fuck, Georgiana.”

  Exactly. That’s exactly what you’ve done. No one wants to eat what she’s requesting at close to three in the morning, unless they’re rough dock workers or pregnant women. And Georgie is not a fucking dock worker.

  “Sloane! Are you listening to me?”

  I do something I never thought I’d do. Not even to save my fucking life. The Kiln stare, that cold laser smirk that always makes me want to fuck him up.

  She bows her head and cries against her hands. I know I’m fucked. Like a dead man walking, I get out of bed.

  No way in hell can I have her suffer over a fucking piece of pig. I need to deliver what she wants to slake her craving.

  The only place I know where I can get what she wants, is from my cook, so I make a quick call and wake her up.

  “You want what, Mr. Sloane?” she asks.

  I understand her incredulity. I’m right there with her.

  “Please. I haven’t had your home cooked meals in weeks.”

  She’s silent, then she huffs, “You’re the one who gave me the time off.”

  “I know,” I snap, walking back into my room. Georgie’s wide-awake, no longer crying, and curled in my spot.

  “Five grand, Zelda,” I tell her, desperate on Georgie’s behalf. Fuck it. “Twenty grand,” I amend. “Delivered tomorrow via cashier’s check.”

  “You got a girl pregnant?”

  Yes. “No. Fuck, Zelda, thank God my mother loved you, and I didn’t want to leave you either without employment or with my father after she died.” I thrust my fingers through my hair. “Fuck, fifty grand.”

  “If you want me to retire, you just need to tell me.”

  I growl in frustratio
n. “I don’t want you to retire. I need a fucking pork chop. With mashed potatoes and gravy. That’s it? Tell me what I have to do to get it.”

  “Why didn’t you say that, Mr. Sloane?” She instructs me to get a notepad and pencil, then gives me a short grocery list. “No need for all that money either. You and your daddy sure like to flaunt your big bank accounts. Of course, he only did it for—“

  “My mother,” I snarl, recoiling at the idea that I’m anything like Rand Mason.

  “How long before you get here?”

  She lives twenty minutes away. I have to find an all-night grocery store, buy the shit, and then get it to her. “An hour.”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Sloane.”

  With those words, I’m back to being her boss. Disconnecting the call, I turn to tell Georgie I’m heading out, but she’s asleep.

  Instead of canceling with Zelda, I scramble to find my boots, billfold, and keys. Before I leave, I go to my office and dig out a fake beard that attaches pretty easily with the glue I have nearby. Whenever I’m home, I like to walk amongst the people without detection. I’m always amazed at the treatment I get based on how I look. Strange, but I haven’t once thought to do this stupid shit while Georgie’s been here.

  By the time I grab a baseball cap, stick it on my head, and jog to my garage via a door from my office, it’s close to 4AM. Once I find a store, I scoop up what Zelda told me and add my own purchase—a pregnancy test for Georgie.

  This early morning demand may only be a fluke. I’ll take a wait and see attitude. Therefore, I lock the test away in my office when I make it back home two hours later, then rush to the bedroom.

  Georgie is awake again and in tears. When I serve the food to her and her tears stop, she offers me a sweet kiss of thanks, then curls against me and falls asleep.

  I finally know the meaning of being on top of the world.

  Georgie

  Four weeks. An entire glorious month. Just me and Sloane, lost in each other and the world we’ve created. Horseback rides and spins in his sports cars. Even though the weather is cooling, we venture into the pool, skinny dipping at midnight several times.

  He does lock himself in his office a couple of hours a day. Every other day, I sit and listen to him singing and playing various guitars in the soundproof music room. I always promise to behave, but fail most of the time. I sucked his dick while he played his acoustic guitar and serenaded me.

  Twice, we square off at tennis, but he wins all the time.

  As best I can, I keep his bedroom clean, changing the sheets once a week. A very different event from having my sheets changed every day at home. Even when we were in hotels, room service switched our sheets. I clean the bathroom, dust, and vacuum, and I find the domesticity comforting.

  He treats me as if I’m the lady of the house. Me? I finally feel loved and wanted. The days seemed to have flown by. Before I know it, we have ten days left until he heads to Europe.

  Since he mentioned parting ways with me when he first told me he’d bring me to Denver, the subject’s never come up again. I should keep my mouth shut, but I decide to ask him directly when I go downstairs for breakfast.

  Two days ago, I demanded Sloane find potatoes and gravy for me with a pork chop. He looked appalled, but I was close to hysterical, so somehow he got it for me. Early this morning, I woke up ravenous to have him inside of me. Once we finished, I had to have pancakes.

  A smile breaks out on my face, because I smell them before I reach the breakfast room. I almost skip the rest of the way. Sloane’s sitting in his seat with his head in his hands, his car keys are on the table next to him, as is a grocery store bag. I go to the sideboard where he always sits everything whenever it’s delivered, on the days we don’t feel like cooking. After last night, I understand why he ordered out.

  Wanting to cheer him up, I prepare two plates, although I’m kind of stingy with the pancakes. I dig in, but soon notice he doesn’t touch his food or look at me.

  “Sloane?” I ask tentatively.

  He slides the bag to me.

  Offering his lowered head an uncertain smile, I open the bag and gasp. He’s bought me a pregnancy test. I’m suddenly nauseated and dizzy and scared. The feelings are figments of my imagination. Other than craving crap I never have before, I’ve been fine.

  I swallow and open my mouth to speak.

  “Go and take it.”

  “Okay,” I say quietly. There’s nothing I’d like more than to have Sloane’s baby, but not now. A few months down the road? Yes. If I’m pregnant now…

  After I pee on the stick, endless minutes pass while I wait. Slowly, I see a pink line and the faint outline of a second pink line, until it darkens, too.

  “Fuck!” Sloane snarls from behind me. I didn’t hear him walk into the bathroom, but he notices my shaking hands. His blue gaze narrows on the results. He pounds the wall, punctuating each punch with a, “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

  The way he glares at me, I think he blames me, so I say, “I’m sorry.”

  I want him to hold me and tell me everything will be fine. I’m scared. For him. For me. For us. And I’m most certainly afraid for my baby.

  My baby. I’m going to be a mom. I try to wrap my head around the news, but it’s difficult to comprehend. I touch my belly. It wasn’t so long ago that I marveled that I could take a man into me. Now, I have another human growing inside of me.

  “What are you going to do?”

  His voice is toneless.

  “Keep it.” I know that’s what he’s asking.

  Closing his eyes, he tips his head towards the ceiling and breathes in heavily. “Fine.”

  “What do you want me to do?” I say in a soft voice.

  His eyes blaze at me. At first, I think he’s going to be mean and cruel. He catches himself. Instead of breaking me, he crouches down and hugs me. “Visit me in fucking jail.”

  Sloane

  Secrets have a way of revealing themselves in the harshest ways. It was Ben Franklin who said, three can keep a secret, if two are dead.

  After all my weeks of rejecting her in front of the guys and demanding Kiln to look after her, it comes to this. I’ve gotten her pregnant.

  Poetic justice, if there ever was.

  Or, maybe, it’s the inevitable tie that binds. Only morons fuck women without protection and don’t expect some type of ramification. So why’d I do it?

  Was I looking for a way to keep her? Helen had already warned me what would happen if I touched her.

  Did I hope to leave her with something to hold onto and live for? I have no answer for that question.

  Or is this a means to my ultimate rebellion? The fuck-you of all fuck-yous where I’m the one who’s now fucked up the ass?

  Jesus.

  I don’t know. My only certainty is Georgie’s pregnant, I have a goddamn army of people who know of my association with her…how many bodies do I have to leave in my wake to keep this secret…and…Georgie’s pregnant.

  I escort her back to our—my—bedroom and race down to my office. The moment she wailed for a fucking pork chop with potatoes and gravy at one o’clock in the fucking morning, I knew.

  Zelda thought I was insane, but the good thing was she believes that anyway.

  Georgie’s pregnant. I’ve finally gotten burned by the fire I love to fucking antagonize.

  As much as I loathe it, I pick up my phone and dial Helen Sanderson’s number. I fucked up, and hiding will only hurt Georgie and…and our baby. Before I allow that to happen, I’d prefer to pay the consequences of my stupidity.

  Georgie

  My heart is breaking. My grandmother is…devastating me, and Sloane isn’t saying anything. Not a word to tell her we can be together some kind of way and she won’t press charges.

  No, he’s stoic and silent. My father and another man are in the room with us. We’re sitting in the receiving room. The resemblance to Sloane, Kiln and Jaeger, leads me to believe the second man is their father.

 
My dad looks old and haggard, drawn. Each time Grandma drums her fingers on the table, Dad winces. I sense that she’s brought him through hell and back.

  “If you utter her name, think to say it, you’ll pay,” she says coldly.

  “No, Grandma,” I blurt, leaning towards her with raised hands. “Please. It isn’t his fault.”

  She narrows her eyes at me. “You’ve given yourself to another man?”

  “No.”

  “Then it is his fault.”

  “I don’t mean that,” I cry in frustration. “I wanted him, too.”

  Dad turns red, but Grandma just turns evil.

  “You don’t know what you want. You’re not old enough.”

  “That isn’t true! We reach the age of reasoning at seven.”

  “So you’re Catholic now?” she spits at me.

  “I don’t know! I can’t remember the last time I went to church, so you tell me.”

  “Great work, Sloane,” she says sarcastically.

  I swipe at my tears. “What does that mean?”

  “It means your father is the catalyst that drove Cassandra completely insane.” Grandma straightens her spine and sends my father a look that makes him hunch his shoulders. “She should’ve had enough regard for herself to deny him his requests when he first began to bring younger women to their bed.”

  “Dad?”

  “Do you know why you met Sloane?” she continues.

  I start to shake my head.

  “Helen—" Sloane begins, standing. “Shut the fuck up.”

  “Does she?” Grandma says coolly and rounds on me. “Tell me how you believe you can live happily-ever-after—" she smirks at Sloane— “in a pretty stone tower?”

  Sloane growls and balls his hands into fists. I want to know what’s going on. But it’s a give and take thing with Grandma. She has to take first before she gives.

  “We can get married. Without anyone’s consent in Nevada and with parental approval everywhere else.”

  “You want to marry this boy?” she asks for clarification.