Lies and Lullabies

by Sarina Bowen

  Just like that, all the irritation drained out of me. I’d always thought her dislike of musicians was a character flaw, like her bad cooking. It never occurred to me that it was personal. “I’m so sorry to hear that,” I’d said, chastened.

  “At least you got a baby out of it,” Mrs. Wetzle went on. “I was alone all these years.”

  Just when you think you know a person.

  A few minutes later, the keys to the B&B had been in my purse, and the property lawyer had finished collating the documents. I’d wished the older woman luck, and I’d gone back across the street to see how many cookies Vivi had conned out of her grandfather.

  The following week, a pack of contractors had descended on the place, transforming it into a nearly unrecognizable space. The room Jonas had rented six years ago used to have a separate entrance. It had been reconfigured to be a first-floor bedroom, just off the open-plan great room.

  “I don’t care particularly where everyone sleeps this weekend,” Jonas had told me over the phone this morning. “But that room is ours.”

  “Really?” I’d asked. “Back to the scene of the crime?”

  “Hell, yes. That was the hottest night of my life. Nobody else gets that room. Ever.”

  Of course, the bedroom looked completely different now. The new bed sat against the opposite wall from where it had been before. The old carpeting was gone, revealing pretty oak floors. Yet outside the windows the lilac shrubs still grew. They were blooming now, filling the room with their heady scent.

  The place was familiar, yet totally different. So was I, for that matter.

  I wandered upstairs, looking into each bedroom in turn. Most had queen-sized beds in them, but one bedroom had two sets of bunk beds instead.

  “We have to have four children to make that worthwhile,” Jonas had joked. “I don’t want you to complain that four beds is too extravagant.”

  “You crack yourself up,” I’d quipped. Though he often told me that he wanted more children. Usually when we were both naked.

  Satisfied by my inspection, I wandered back downstairs into the scene-of-the-crime room and sat on the bed. There was a brand-new magazine waiting there for me—I’d bought it to celebrate the end of exams, which had finished only a week ago. But makeup tips and celeb gossip just couldn’t hold my attention, not when Jonas was about to show up. We hadn’t seen each other in three weeks, and I was feeling almost more impatient than Vivi for Jonas to arrive.

  Finally, after what seemed like hours, I heard the sound of bus tires on gravel.

  Grinning like an idiot, I forced myself not to dash around like a kid on Christmas. Calmly, I walked through the house to the back door. Slipping on a pair of flip-flops, I stepped out onto the long front porch.

  The bus doors swung open, and Jonas jumped down first, a huge smile on his face. “Yeah, baby! I’m back.” He jogged toward me, and then we were holding each other tightly. I buried my face in his neck, and he whispered in my ear. “Missed you, sweetness.”

  “I missed you, too.”

  He stepped back and grinned at me. “How does the house look? Show me everything.”

  “Shouldn’t I greet…” I pointed at the bus.

  He shrugged. “They’ll understand. Besides, I think Nix and Quinn were asleep when we pulled up.” He tugged my hand and led me inside. “Wow,” he said right away. “The new living room looks great.”

  “It really does.”

  “The old one reminded me of a Depression-era movie.”

  “Why did you buy it if it reminded you of the Depression?”

  Jonas squeezed my hip. “Location, location, location.”

  I giggled at the sheer ridiculousness of that idea. “In the dictionary under ‘middle of nowhere’ there’s probably a picture of Nest Lake, Maine.”

  “It might be nowhere, but it’s our nowhere. I want to see the kitchen.” Jonas ducked behind the new wall of glass blocks and whistled. “Nice.”

  “I know. It really is.”

  Jonas looked around. “Where’s the Vivster?”

  “Well, she spent most of the day asking, ‘When is daddy coming? When is daddy coming?’ So I sent her out for a bike ride with Adam. They’ll be back soon.”

  “Awesome. I brought her a birthday present.”

  “Jonas! You already sent her a pile of them.”

  “Yeah, but this one is in person.”

  “Hi, Kira!” a voice boomed behind me.

  I spun around. “Ethan!”

  He caught me in a hug. “I went shopping outside of Portland. If it’s okay with you, we’ll grill some steaks tonight.”

  “That sounds great. What can I make to go with them? It’s too early in the season for corn on the cob.”

  “We’ll bake some potatoes. I’ve got it handled.”

  “Do we have any beer yet?” Jonas asked, heading for the Sub-Zero.

  I smiled at him. “Would I host your band without beer?”

  “So where’s Adam?” Ethan asked.

  “Well, he spent the day asking me when you were getting here. So I let Vivi take him out for a bike ride.”

  At that, Jonas snorted into the refrigerator. He came out with three bottles of Shipyard ale.

  “None for me,” I said quickly.

  “No?” Jonas shrugged, putting one back.

  I felt a flush hit my neck. I’d been savoring my little secret for the last few hours. But if I didn’t tell him soon, he was going to know something was up.

  Ethan took a beer. “I’ll divvy up the rooms,” he said before heading back outside.

  The moment he left, Jonas set his beer down on the countertop and grabbed me. Surprised, I made a very sexy noise, something like “ooorff!”

  “Sorry,” Jonas mumbled into my neck. His fingers stroked my back, coming to rest on my ass. With a yank, he pulled my body against his. “How many times do you think I can get you naked between now and Tuesday morning?” he asked, kissing his way across my hairline. “We have a little work to do, you and me. Vivi needs a baby sister.”

  I pulled back. “Well, there’s a problem with that.”

  Concern crossed his face. “A problem? Wait… do you have your period?”

  His look of horror was so genuine that I had to bite back a smile. “Just… follow me.” I turned and walked into our bedroom, with Jonas on my heels. I shut the door behind us.

  “Is something the matter?”

  I shook my head. “It’s just that you can’t get me pregnant this weekend.”

  “Why not?”

  From my back pocket, I pulled the pregnancy test I’d taken earlier in the afternoon. “I already am.”

  First I saw amazement in his eyes, and then sheer joy. “That…” He grabbed me for a kiss. “Is…” I got another one. “Amazing.” And then he began to laugh. “How long have you been sitting on this news?”

  “I’m a week late, but I waited to take the test until about an hour ago. I was going to wait until you were here, but the suspense…”

  I had to stop talking, because Jonas picked me up and carried me over to the bed. “This doesn’t change my plans for the weekend very much,” he said, running a hand up my bare leg. “We’ll have pregnant sex instead of baby-making sex.” He lifted my T-shirt and began kissing my stomach.

  “There’s nothing to see, Jonas. Give it a few months.”

  “Shh…” he said. “I’m busy here.”

  The wet, open-mouthed kisses on my lower stomach began to have the most glorious effect on me. I shifted my hips on the bed.

  “You like that, don’t you?” Jonas whispered. He rolled back the waistband of my shorts, his kisses teasing me with their proximity.

  “Jonas…” I whimpered. “Lock the door.”

  He disappeared for a few seconds to do just that, and then came back to yank my shorts down my hips, my panties with them. “I needed you before,” he said, kissing his way up the inside of my bare thigh. “But now I’m desperate to celebrate.” Then, with no
more preamble, he dropped his wicked mouth to my pussy and kissed me right where it counts.

  Sex with Jonas had only gotten better now that we lived together. I let out a loud moan.

  “Mmm,” he echoed, the hum of his lips vibrating against me.

  “Jonas, I need you,” I begged. “And we don’t have a lot of time.”

  Instead of answering, he flattened his tongue between my legs and just held it there.

  “Please,” I cried. It had been too long since I’d held him in my arms. And he was still too far away.

  But he only teased me with his tongue. “Bossy” he whispered between kisses.

  “Hurry,” I urged, writhing with need.

  Finally, I heard a zipper give way. And then he crawled up my body, resting his hips against mine. The temptation of having him so close to where I needed him made me flex against the bed. “Kira,” he whispered. “Is it safe to do this?”

  Instead of answering, I grabbed his shoulders and pushed him over to the side. Scrambling, I climbed on top as he settled on his back. Then, one knee on either side of him, I leaned down, my hands pressing his forearms against the bed, and impaled myself on him.

  The look on his face was a gorgeous mixture of lust and surprise. “Jesus, Kira.”

  Usually, I let him take the lead. I’d certainly never thrown him down quite like that and jumped on his erection.

  There was no time for embarrassment. Who knew how many minutes we had until someone called us? This ache demanded attention, and the feel of him immobilized beneath me was too beautiful to ignore. With his hands still trapped, I began to move.

  “Oh, fuck,” Jonas panted. His eyes were unfocused, his breath sawing in and out. “Fuck, that’s good. And… what is that amazing scent?” He inhaled deeply.

  “Lilacs,” I breathed. There was a hedge right outside the window, and the room was heavy with their perfume. We were making love in Maine, the breeze tickling the window curtains. Right where it all began…

  I shifted on his body, stirring my hips against his. There had never been a more beautiful moment in my life. Or maybe they were all beautiful. My soul was too crowded with pleasure to know for sure.

  Jonas’s wrists jerked as he struggled to lift his torso, angling for a better look at my body. But I kept a tight grip on his arms. The smile on his face told me exactly how much he enjoyed this. I quickened my rhythm, watching his face until his head flopped back with abandon. “Use me, sweetness. Just like that.” Tightening his jaw, he punched his hips against me.

  And then I couldn’t hold off any longer. “Oh,” I moaned. It was coming. And it was going to be good.

  Jonas chose that moment to overpower me, slipping his wrists free, grabbing my shoulders, tugging me down onto his body. “Mouth, baby,” he demanded.

  I dropped onto him for a wet, sliding kiss that brought me right over the edge. His hips jerked beneath me, and then our moans slid together, winding around our tangled tongues, riding out our bliss until there was nothing left but rapid breathing.

  We lay there for a sweaty minute or two until Jonas broke the silence. “Damn,” he said, giving me a squeeze. “Can we get married now?”

  My heart skipped a beat, because it was the first time Jonas had ever said the “M” word to me, and it had sounded like a joke. I laughed to cover my discomfort. “Sounds like you gave the idea a whole lot of thought first.”

  He untangled himself from me, and I was sorry to see him go. Even sorrier when I heard him fumbling with the pair of khaki shorts he’d dropped on the floor only minutes before.

  Yet Jonas didn’t put them on. Instead, he came back to the bed, sitting beside me and fumbling into one of the pockets. He cast the shorts aside again, and I didn’t understand why. Until I saw his outstretched hand, and the pretty little blue box that sat upon it.

  “I have been thinking about it,” he said. “And I got this for you.”

  With a shaking hand, I reached for the box. Cracking it open, I found a beautiful diamond solitaire inside—the stone was square in shape, simple. And just beautiful.

  “Marry me, Kira,” Jonas whispered.

  “Oh my God! I love it.” I looked into his eyes, which were even more beautiful than the ring. “But you never bring up marriage.”

  He grinned. “I would have asked you months ago. But I waited a year, because I wanted you to trust me. I didn’t want you to feel rushed.”

  “I wouldn’t have turned you down.”

  “I don’t know, lady. You still haven’t said yes.” His eyes teased me.

  “Yes!”

  With a whoop, he wrapped his arms around me. “Can we tell Vivi about the baby?”

  “No way. It’s too early. But we can talk about the wedding. And then we can plan it to happen immediately, so I won’t look like a whale bride.”

  “Well. I suppose I can live with that.” He kissed my neck.

  I heard voices on the other side of the door, so I reluctantly got up and began to reassemble my clothing. I tossed Jonas’s shorts at him. “Put these on. We have to pretend to be respectable.”

  He gave me a lazy smile. “Why start now?”

  “Good point.” Half-dressed, I climbed back onto the bed to kiss him again. And again. And many more times after that.

  THE END

  Thank you for reading Lies & Lullabies! Get the song “Sweetness” by Sarina Bowen & Tim Paige.

  And then turn the page for Chapter One of Rifts & Refrains!

  A note from Sarina: Quinn was difficult to love in this story! But Rifts & Refrains by Devney Perry will win your heart! You don’t want to miss it. Turn the page for a taste…

  Rifts and Refrains Chapter One

  Quinn

  “The funeral is Saturday.”

  I nodded.

  “I know you’re busy, but if you could come, your father would . . . I know he’d appreciate the support.”

  Beyond my dressing room door, a dull roar bloomed. Hands clapped. Voices screamed. The beat of stomping feet vibrated the floors. The opening act must be on their last set because the crowd was pumped. The stadium would be primed when Hush Note took the stage.

  “Quinn, are you there?”

  I cleared my throat, blinking away the sheen of tears. “I’m here. Sorry.”

  “Will you come?”

  In nine years, my mother had never asked me to return to Montana. Not for Christmases. Not for birthdays. Not for weddings. Was it as hard for her to ask as it was for me to answer?

  “Yeah,” I choked out. “I’ll be there. Tomorrow.”

  Her relief cascaded through the phone. “Thank you.”

  “Sure. I need to go.” I hung up without waiting for her goodbye, then stood from the couch and crossed the room to the mirror, making sure my tears hadn’t disturbed my eyeliner and mascara.

  A fist pounded on the door. “Quinn, five minutes.”

  Thank God. I needed to get the hell out of this room and forget that phone call.

  I chugged the last of my vodka tonic and reapplied a coat of red lipstick, then scanned the room for my drumsticks. They went with me nearly everywhere—Jonas teased they were my security blanket—and I’d had them earlier, on the table. Except now it was bare, save for my plate of uneaten food. The sticks weren’t on the couch either. The only time I’d left the dressing room was when I’d gone to get a cocktail and a sandwich.

  Who the fuck came into my dressing room and took them? I marched to the door and flung it open, letting a rage brew to chase away some of the pain in my heart.

  “Where are my sticks?” I shouted down the hallway. “Whoever took them is fired.”

  A short, balding man emerged from behind the door where he’d been hovering. He was new to the crew, having been hired only two weeks ago. His cheeks flushed as he held out his hand, my sticks in his sweaty grip. “Oh, uh . . . here.”

  I ripped them from his hand. “Why were you in my dressing room?”

  His face blanched.

  Y
ep. Fired.

  I didn’t allow men in my dressing room. It was a widely known fact among the crew that, unless you were on a very short list of exceptions, my dressing room was off-limits to anyone with a penis.

  The rule hadn’t always existed, but after a string of bad experiences it had become mandatory.

  There’d been the time I’d returned to my dressing room to find a man in the middle of the space, his jeans and whitey-tighties bunched at his ankles as he’d presented me his tiny glory. Then there’d been the show when I’d come in to find two women making out on my couch—they’d mistaken my dressing room for Nixon’s.

  The final straw had been three years ago. I’d been drenched from a show and desperate to get out of my sweaty clothes. Pounding on the drums for an hour under hot lights usually left me dripping. I’d stripped off my jeans and tank top, standing there wearing only a bra and panties, and reached for the duffel I brought with me to every show. When I opened my bag to take out spare clothes, I’d found them coated in jizz.

  So no more men—short, tall, bald or hairy.

  “S-sorry,” Shorty stammered. “I thought I’d hold them for you.”

  Beyond him, my tour manager, Ethan, came rushing down the hall, mouthing sorry with wide eyes. Ethan was the peacemaker, but he’d be too late to save Shorty.

  In a way, I was glad this guy had snuck into my dressing room and taken my sticks. I needed a target, somewhere to aim this raging grief before it brought me to my knees, and this asshole had a bull’s-eye on his forehead.

  I almost felt bad for him.

  “You wanted to hold them for me?” I waved my hand, Zildjian sticks included. The crew bustled around us, keeping a wide berth as they prepped to switch out the stage configuration. “Were you also going to hold Jonas’s Warwick? Or Nixon’s Fender? Is that what your job is today? Holding stuff for the band?”

  “I, uh—”

  “Fuck you, creep.” I pointed my sticks at his nose. “Get the fuck out of my sight before I use your head as a snare.”