Songs of the Heart: Lyrical Odyssey Rock Star Series Book 3

by B. Rose, Charli

“My scar,” I choked out as tears trickled from my eyes.

  Dawson had written songs about my flawless skin. I hated the five-inch scar that ran diagonally along the right side of my abdomen. Reviled it with every fiber of my being.

  His brow furrowed. “Your scar?”

  I chewed my lip as my head tipped once. His hands rested on my knees, warm fingers gripping my muscles. I drew strength from his touch.

  “From my surgery,” I whispered.

  Understanding dawned on his face. “You don’t have to show me, if you’re not ready. But there is nothing that will make me see you as anything less than beautiful,” he assured me.

  We sat there, frozen by my indecision. With a heavy sigh and a sad smile, he stood. He grabbed my bodywash and my loofah.

  “I’ll wait outside. You can sit on the toilet and wash yourself up at the sink. It’s not ideal, but at least you won’t be in danger of falling, and you won’t be uncomfortable. When you’re done, put your shirt back on, and I’ll come help you wash your hair in the sink. Yell if you need anything.”

  Without another word, he walked out and shut the door softly behind him.

  I should’ve felt relieved to have dodged that bullet. Instead, all I felt was grief. Not over the flaw that marred my body, but over the hope in Dawson’s eyes that I managed to kill with my insecurities.

  Leaning over, I turned on the sink and let the water get warm. I glanced in the mirror and peered beneath the outer layers, looking for the old me—the girl who’d retreated from the pain of life and heartbreak. Eventually, I saw a hint of her lurking in the depths. I’d get her back. Somehow, I’d pull the old me out of hiding. With a sigh of resignation, I shut off the sink.

  Before I could think about it too much, I balled up my shirt. “Daw,” I called.

  “You can’t be done already,” he said as he opened the door.

  I threw my shirt at him the instant his head came into view, catching him by surprise.

  As he lowered the wad of fabric that was my T-shirt from his face, I said, “I’m not done. I want to show you, and I want you to help me.” My voice was so soft, I wasn’t sure he heard me.

  But he must have because he moved cautiously towards me, like he was approaching a skittish animal. It was probably a safe thought. I wasn’t sure I wouldn’t bolt myself. His eyes stayed focused on mine the whole time.

  “Are you sure?” he murmured when he got close.

  “I’m positive.” I unwound my arms from my torso, revealing my scar. He didn’t glance down. Taking his hand in mine, I tugged him closer. Once he dropped to his knees on the fluffy rug, I pressed a kiss to his fingertips.

  “See,” I said when his gaze never wavered from my face.

  That one word was apparently the permission he was waiting for because he cast his eyes downward. After a couple of seconds, I flattened his long fingers against that ugly expanse of skin. Tenderly, he traced the top edge.

  “Does it hurt?”

  “No.” Not physically at least. Just my pride. My self-image.

  He drew a line down the blemish until it disappeared under my waistband. “I know you hate this mark, and you think I should be repulsed by it. But honestly, flutterby, I have to admit that I love this mark.” He leaned forward and planted his lips on the imperfection.

  “Huh?”

  His mouth against my skin caused the wires between my mouth and brain to disconnect.

  With a smirk, he rocked backwards. “Yeah. You see this scar right here,” he said as his fingers ran its length once more, “it saved your life. Without it, you wouldn’t be here anymore. So, I’m grateful for this visual reminder of how incredibly blessed I am to be sharing air with you again.”

  ♪ Alone with You by Carl Wockner

  “You always did have a way with words,” I said gruffly.

  “Not recently. Glad to see my skills are returning.” He hopped to his feet in one fluid motion. Efficiently, he got the shower set up again and the water heating.

  He reached over his head to grip a handful of fabric and pulled his shirt off. I squirmed in my seat. That move still turned me on so much. My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth as I watched the muscles of his back ripple. I got to my feet, ready to close the distance between us.

  When he turned to face me, I couldn’t think at all. He was more beautiful than I remembered, more perfect than canvas and film had captured. My fingers shook as I reached my hand up to trace the new art adorning the area over his heart. “You had it done?” I asked in awe as I ran my fingertips over the tattoo I’d drawn for him before everything went to hell between us. It was my design—a tribal guitar wrapped with lines of sheet music. Notes dotted the coiling staff. Notes to our song. He hummed them as I traced over them.

  “Did you find a shop overseas? I hope they were regulated,” I rambled, still a bit stunned that he’d permanently inked me on his skin even thinking I’d thrown us away.

  “Stop worrying. I didn’t go in some sketchy tattoo parlor where they used dirty needles. A few months after I thought you’d given up on us, I had to fly to LA to sign some paperwork. I made an appointment at Inked Hearts,” he explained.

  “Did the guy who did our thumb rings do it?” Subconsciously, I started twisting the metal band that now hid my permanent thumb ring.

  “Yeah. And he remembered us. Asked about you. Damn flirt,” he grumbled, making me grin.

  “What’d you tell him?” I asked curiously.

  He shrugged. “That things had gotten screwed up. But that I hoped maybe one day they’d sort themselves out. Told him you designed the tattoo for me.”

  My palm lay flat against his skin, covering the art I’d designed for him. The air around us grew thick with steam.

  “I think the water’s ready,” I pointed out.

  “I think you’re right.” He stepped back, dropping his hands to the button on his jeans.

  “What are you doing?” I croaked.

  “Taking my pants off, duh. Do you know how heavy wet denim is?”

  He pushed the jeans to his ankles, and any protest I was going to make died a violent death on my lips. With one hand against the wall, he propped himself up so he could step out of the puddle of fabric. Then he removed his socks.

  The bulge in his boxers indicated I still had an effect on him. Pride swelled in my heart. He must not have been too disgusted by my scar. My blood zipped along the surface of my skin, heating me from the inside out.

  “You going to be able to behave yourself, flutterby?” he asked, breaking me out of my reverie, smirking over catching me staring at his erection.

  “Maybe?” I offered noncommittally.

  He chuckled and slipped his fingers into the waistband of my leggings. His stare bore into mine, searching. I gave him a quick nod. The thin fabric eased down my legs. Hot, heavy air caressed each inch of skin he revealed.

  “No panties?” he groaned.

  “Sorry. Mom didn’t bring me any to the hospital. Apparently, the clothes I came in with were ruined.”

  His lips moved in a silent prayer. I recognized the move. He was reciting things meant to turn him off. I smirked but decided to take it easy on him. Gripping his hand for support, I stepped into the welcoming spray of the shower. He moved to step in behind me.

  “Aren’t you forgetting something?” I nodded my head at his boxers.

  “Nope,” he said, popping the p. “The layer of fabric between us will serve as a reminder that I can’t sink inside you. Yet.”

  “Oh.” I sighed. When the water hit him, the black fabric of his underwear clung to him in a way that was going to make this whole experience an exercise in exquisite torture.

  “Rest one hand against the wall and the other on my shoulder. If you get dizzy, let me know. We’ll do this quick, so you don’t have to be on your feet too long,” he said, all business.

  I did as he instructed. With a touch delicate enough for a newborn, he began to wash my face with the soapy sponge. The look in h
is eyes said a million things. My heart snatched each unspoken sentiment and locked them away for when I had the luxury of time to analyze them properly.

  He made quick work of washing my arms and hands, moving to my breasts. In an act of sheer willpower, he kept his face trained on mine. It was as if he thought looking anywhere other than my eyes would shatter the restraint that was hanging by a thread. His ever-stiffening cock supported that idea. His muscles shifted and bunched beneath my palm as he stooped down to run the loofah lightning fast over my legs. Standing, he held out the springy poofball to me.

  “Um, you’re going to have to take care of… down there yourself. I don’t think I have enough strength to take care of that without indulging a little more than your doctor would approve of given your condition. So, please have mercy on me,” he said in a husky tone.

  Letting go of the wall, I took the proffered sponge. With my other hand, I tightened my grip on his shoulder and leaned down to swipe the area between my legs. His hands flew to my hips to help hold me steady. Saving us both the misery, I made quick work of cleaning myself, though I longed to linger.

  Once I deemed the area sufficiently washed, I rinsed the sponge and handed it back to him. Amazingly, his eyes hadn’t wandered. After squirting new soap in the center of the ball, he nudged my body around, so he could wash my back. The suds brushed over my skin so quickly, I wasn’t a hundred percent sure they actually touched me. He hung the loofah back on the hook.

  “Get your hair wet,” he commanded gruffly.

  Shutting my eyes against the pounding spray, I took one step forward. My hair was sufficiently drenched by the time he tugged me backwards. My rear collided with his crotch, making us both moan. The wet fabric did little to hide his body’s response to our proximity. He wrapped his arms around my middle, planting them safely between the two areas of my body begging most for his touch. The safe zone still felt plenty erogenous when it was his flesh on mine. My back pressed against his wet torso. His mouth hovered near my ear. My muscles were simultaneously relaxing and tightening.

  “Maybe I should’ve let you try to do this on your own. This is hell. Being here with you. Your wet, naked skin pressed against mine. The memory of how you feel around me consuming my thoughts. Yet being unable to touch you, sink into you, love you. It’s killing me.” His teeth nipped my earlobe. “All I can picture is the first time I took you in this shower.”

  I turned my head to the side so I could see him. I remembered too. “That was the day we decided to take the leap from friends to lovers.”

  “Best decision I ever made.” He kissed along my jaw.

  Reaching behind me, my hands clutched the wet cotton of his boxers.

  “We’ve got to hurry this along, flutterby. I refuse to disobey the doctor’s orders, and my control is about gone. Be good. Please,” he moaned.

  I loosened my fingers and moved my hands back to the wall in front of me for balance.

  With the softest of touches, he shampooed and conditioned my hair in record time. Once all the suds were gone, he switched off the water and stepped out of the shower. Dripping on the scatter rug, he grabbed one towel and patted my hair, squeezing the water from it before twisting it up in a tiny turban. He rubbed each bruise and wound with a delicate pressure, wicking the water from my skin without causing more than mild discomfort.

  Unable to resist, his eyes followed the path of the towel. When he got to my hip, he said, “I see you got new ink too.”

  “Yeah. From a place here in town. Once my disease went into remission, I wanted a symbol to remind me that I’d been given a second chance,” I explained as his finger scraped along the butterfly’s outline, making me shiver.

  “Let’s get you back to bed and wrapped up,” he said gruffly.

  I didn’t bother to correct his assumption that I was cold rather than incredibly turned on. After snatching a dry towel off the counter, he wound it tightly around my body and lifted me from the tub. Disregarding his dripping form, he carried me to my bed and deposited me on it. With a jerk, he pulled my blankets up over my body, cocooning me in warmth.

  He planted a quick kiss on my mouth. Burying his nose in my neck, he inhaled deeply. “Now you smell like you.”

  “Huh? You mean instead of the hospital?” I asked.

  “No, since I came back, you smelled different. Like flowers or something. Not you.” He chewed on his lip.

  “Oh. Beckett got me a lavender-scented perfume this past Christmas. I was running out of the bottle of Happily Ever After you sent me, so I switched.” Guilt wrapped itself around my heart for the hurt I caused him by just changing fragrances.

  “Give me five minutes and I’ll be back,” he said, standing up.

  Without waiting for an answer, he dashed back to the bathroom and shut the door behind himself. The soft sound of cascading water filtered through the wooden door. I frowned as a series of grunts overpowered the shower. A low groan from the bathroom made my core clench and my thighs rub together seeking friction. I knew that sound.

  How was I going to resist throwing myself at him the next few days? It had been so long since I’d truly felt complete.

  The water shut off. I took deep breaths, trying to slow my heart rate before he came back out. The bathroom door opened, and my own version of hell walked out. His hair was damp and messy from the shower. His chest was bare, a few droplets of water creating tiny rivers over the peaks and valleys of his torso. His jeans hung low on his hips. Very low. The button was undone, revealing a patch of hair.

  I smirked at him, making a deep flush creep across his skin.

  “Sorry about that. I had to… um… take care of that… so I could get blood flow back to my brain,” he said with a shrug.

  “What about my blood flow?” I pouted as he walked over to the side of the bed.

  He kissed my forehead. “Patience is a virtue,” he parroted the words adults had always told us over the years.

  “Fine. But do I have to be patient for food?” I asked petulantly.

  “Nah. I’ll go fix us some food.” As he left the room, he began to whistle “Patience”, making me laugh.

  ♪ Patience by Guns ‘n Roses

  The beep of the microwave being programmed made my mouth water in anticipation. Dawson walked back in my room and headed to my dresser. “Thought you might want to get dressed before we eat. Sweatshirt and leggings OK?” he asked as he opened my drawers.

  “Perfect.”

  I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and waited for him to bring me my clothes. Dropping to one knee, he slipped my feet through the holes of a lacey pair of panties. Without removing my towel, he dragged the fabric up my legs. “Arms up,” he requested.

  When I complied, he slipped my old art school sweatshirt over my head, being careful not to jar me. Once he’d tugged it to my waist, his fingers snaked beneath the fabric to free me from the towel. Then as if possessed by The Flash, he got my leggings on, covering up any bits of skin that might tempt his resolve.

  “Thanks. Aren’t you… um… uncomfortable in those?” I nodded towards his jeans. “You know without boxers on?”

  “Well, I didn’t exactly bring a bag with me. It’s down in the car. I didn’t think to grab it. I can get Joe to bring it up later.” He shrugged like it was no big deal.

  “Help me over to the closet,” I said as I shuffled a few steps forward.

  Dawson helped me into the closet. I pointed to the bottom drawer inside a stack of built in drawers. “Check in there.”

  He opened it and pulled out a stack of clothes—T-shirts, sweatshirts, sweatpants, shorts, socks, even a pair of jeans.

  “You left some things here a few times. And your stuff wound up in my suitcase sometimes when I visited,” I said, lifting one shoulder.

  “And you kept them?” he asked astounded.

  “I couldn’t throw out pieces of you,” I admitted.

  Chapter 16

  Dawson

  My phone dinged on the ni
ghtstand.

  “Five more minutes,” Izzy mumbled as she snuggled even deeper into my embrace. “I’m not ready to get up yet.”

  I didn’t want to start the day yet either. Taking care of Izzy the past two days had been glorious. I wasn’t ready to say goodbye, but I’d delayed my return to LA for as long as I could. I was supposed to fly back today, though my heart would be staying here.

  ♪ Never Say Goodbye by Bon Jovi

  Her head rested on my chest. I pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “You stay here. I’ll see what the message is about. Then I’ll be back.”

  After easing from beneath her, I couldn’t help but watch her sleep. She’d totally taken over my pillow once I was out of the bed. Her pink sleep shirt had ridden up a tad, revealing a sliver of tempting flesh between the hem and waistband of her shorts. I tugged the blanket up and tucked it around her. I snatched my phone from beside the bed and adjusted my morning wood in my sleep pants as I strode to the living room.

  Once I flopped down on the couch, I checked the message, fully expecting it to be from Joe giving me the nitty gritty of the security detail I’d be leaving Izzy with when I left. I was surprised to see the message was from Rayne.

  Rayne: Call me ASAP

  I dialed immediately. “What’s up?” I asked as soon as the call connected.

  Rayne’s face filled the screen. She looked like she’d been out. But all the makeup did little to hide the worry on her features.

  “There was another letter in the mail yesterday. I was out at a party, so I didn’t actually look at it until just a few minutes ago when I got home,” she explained.

  “OK. Tell me about the note.” Dread curdled in my belly.

  “It seems that it was actually mailed last week. From South Carolina. For some reason, it was delayed reaching you. Anyway, the last two puzzle pieces were in it,” her voice sounded odd.

  I wasn’t ready to know what the completed picture looked like. Brooks had carried the pieces from my dressing room back with him when the other guys flew back home the day after our show.