Make Me: Twelve Tales of Dark Desire

by Aleatha Romig

  “What the fuck, Tony?” Laz held the controller in the air, his mouth agape.

  “Got it. Thanks, Faye.” She pocketed her phone and flipped through the channels, stopping on a news station. “Alan Patera, assistant to—”

  “We know who he is.” Adrenaline heated Jay’s cheeks and spiked his pulse.

  Charlee straightened, her twisting fingers echoing his unease. He clutched her hands.

  Tony shifted to unblock Charlee’s view of the TV. “He called to warn us of a news report coming—Here it is.” She dialed up the volume, and the camera panned to a middle-aged anchorwoman with botoxed lips.

  “Recently retired CEO of Windsor Records, Maxim Windsor, announced today that Jay Mayard, vocalist and guitarist of the popular rock band, The Burn, has been having sexual relations with his daughter, Sylvia Windsor. It is unknown if these relations began before Sylvia’s eighteenth birthday last month. If accused, Jay Mayard could be facing statutory rape charges in the state of California.”

  Dread constricted his airflow, and Charlee’s fingers tugged uselessly in his flexing fist.

  “What the fuck kind of fucking bullshit is this?” Laz hurled the controller, and it smashed somewhere in the galley.

  “Shh.” Tony slashed a hand in Laz’s direction.

  “…Oxford Industries’ acquisition of Windsor Records, Mr. Windsor stepped down from his position as CEO of the label; however, he contends that The Burn’s popularity is owed to Jay Mayard’s relationship with his daughter. Jay Mayard has declined to comment on these allegations, and Sylvia Windsor could not be reached for comment.

  “Jay Mayard is not new to lawless behavior. His career has been plagued with drug use. In 2011, he was carried off the stage at Madison Square Garden due to a supposed overdose of speedball.”

  “Turn that shit off.” Jay jumped up, shoved his hands in his hair, pulling, twisting, his heart tearing through his chest.

  “That is so not cool.” Wil reached for the remote and clicked off the screen. “Jay has never OD’d.”

  “Jay. Sit down.” Charlee’s tone was soft, too soft.

  No way would she believe him after everything he’d done. He didn’t want to face her, didn’t want to see any more pain straining her face.

  “Sit.” Stronger that time, but not angry.

  He sat, dragged his eyes, burning as they were, to meet hers.

  “Have you slept with her?”

  The ache in his eyes clouded his vision. His teeth sawed at his cheek. An eighteen-year-old? Never. He was twenty-seven, for Christ’s sake, but why would she believe him?

  She raised a hand to touch his cheek and withdrew it before she made contact. His heart sank.

  “No, you haven’t slept with her.” Her eyes brightened. “Have you met her? In public or otherwise?”

  Wait. What? She just looked at him and saw the truth? He gathered her to his chest and squeezed her harder than he should have. He didn’t care what the press said about him. Only Charlee’s opinion of him mattered.

  He pressed his lips against the top of her head and cupped her face, lifting it to look into her perceptive eyes. “I met her once. A promotional event after we signed with Windsor. She…” He stroked her cheeks with his thumbs. “She propositioned me.”

  “For sex?”

  His stomach rolled. “I turned her down.” His response was coarse and tasted like acid. He remembered the girl’s determination, her attempts to touch him. He hadn’t let her down easy.

  “A woman scorned.” She sat back, eyes rimmed red, and his hands slipped from her face. “She made Roy’s favorite score too easy.”

  “Favorite score?”

  “Slander. I’ve witnessed him rip families apart with false scandals, destroying reputations to get what he wants.” Her lip quivered and she bit down on it, inhaled deeply. “I’m so sorry, Jay.”

  “Don’t. This is not your fault. And it’s not the end of the world. There’s no evidence to charge me. Faye will take care of it from the legal side.”

  She looked up out of glossy eyes. “Faye?”

  “She’s a lawyer.” Laz leaned forward, elbows on knees. “And a badass one. She’ll handle it.”

  “The damage is done.” She rubbed a palm on her thigh. “How will this affect the tour? It’s defamation of your image. And why did they say you declined to comment?”

  Jay placed a hand over her restless one. He’d say or do anything to take that look off her face. “The tour’s sold out. And we’ll make a public statement. It’ll be fine.” The fans would be outraged, and records sales would decline. Fucking woohoo. He didn’t give shit. They weren’t playing for the money.

  Laz stood and moved toward the bunks. “The record company handles our publicity, our image, and interacts with the press on our behalf. Roy Oxford graciously declined to comment for Jay.” He held the drape aside, gaze falling on Charlee. “Don’t worry about the band. That asshole put us in headline news. Totally fuels our rockognition.” He grinned and dropped the drape behind him.

  Creases fanned from the corners of her eyes. “Rockognition?”

  “Recognition of a rock star.” Wil smiled, powered up his video game, and slouched into the couch. “Really, Charlee. We could give a fuck what people think of us. We just want to play music.”

  Jay rolled back his shoulders and let his tension slip away. Roy’s slander might hurt his other targets, but he’d sorely misjudged what mattered to this band.

  Chapter Seventy-Six

  ‡

  San Diego, Tucson, Albuquerque, and Denver whisked by. Four concerts in four days and Jay was straining through the simplest activities, even struggling to lift himself into their bunk. Sixty-six shows to go.

  The sway of the privacy curtain brushed his arm, and the mattress vibrated with the propulsion of their metal home. He lifted his wrist from Charlee’s waist and angled it above his face. The tritium dials on his watch glowed through the darkness. Three in the morning. Mountain time? Central time? Whatever time, it was late and his eyes burned, refusing to close. Funny how fatigue did not equate to sleepiness. Especially when his mind wasn’t ready to shut down.

  He flattened his palm against her lace-covered mound and pulled her ass into the bend of his hips. Tracing the thin material down her center, he followed the seam of her lips beneath. Christ, even in sleep, she was damp. He was too tired to stop his fingers. Maybe even too tired to take it further, considering the week they’d had.

  Despite the sold-out tour, the stands had been thinner at the first three shows than what they were accustomed to. This was made worse by the sudden halt on the distribution of their albums to retail channels. The label stopped production on the basis of some bullshit legality related to the charges against him. Thank you, Sylvia Windsor, for alleging that he didn’t just fuck her, but he’d done so before her eighteenth birthday. He shivered.

  Faye hadn’t wasted time sharpening her teeth with a legal defense. He’d given his statement to the D.A. following the accusation, and Faye assured him the charges would disintegrate without litigation.

  Roy wasn’t after a trial. The fucker wanted to torpedo Jay’s character. Jay guessed the true motivation was to drive a wedge between him and Charlee.

  True to form, Faye held a news conference in Albuquerque the previous day without the consent of Windsor Records. Jay had attended but left the talking to Faye. Her press statement highlighted convincing truths about his one face-to-face meeting with Sylvia and cited the reports she’d collected from witnesses of that meeting.

  The communication soothed disgruntled fans if the ovation at their Denver show that night was any indication. Every seat in the canyon amphitheater held a bouncing, cheerful body.

  Charlee, on the other hand, wasn’t so easily soothed. Her self-reproach for his bruised reputation and the cease in CD distribution put an ever-present slump in her shoulders. He and the guys tried to convince her it wouldn’t hurt their pockets, but her regret over all things Roy knew
no bounds.

  She wiggled her hips against his.

  “You awake?” His whisper broke through the hum of tires on pavement.

  “No.” A groggy croak.

  With his arm trapped beneath her waist, he kept his hand pressed against her pussy. His other found the soft curve of her shoulder, traced her arm around the elbow, and twined their fingers.

  She’d remained steadfast in her ultimatum, refusing him the caress of her touch. Still, her hand had become a permanent fixture in his. In every town, on every stage, steering through mobs and paparazzi, she never left his side. Reaching for her hand and lacing their fingers had become as reflexive and certain as his love for her.

  He circled her wrist with his thumb. “Why aren’t you asleep?”

  “There’s something hard jabbing my ass,” she whispered, though they both knew their bunk mates wore ear buds to bed.

  He rocked his hips. “Can’t help it. You’re a wiggler.”

  “And you’re a freak. Who sleeps in a t-shirt and no underpants?”

  He missed sleeping nude with her. On the road, she slept in panties and nothing else while he wore a shirt at all times to hide the scars from their bus load of roommates.

  He shifted their entwined hands into the valley of her tits, and she stretched her fingers to roll them over her nipple.

  Christ, he was desperate for her touch. “Please. Put your hands on me.” He ground himself against her to emphasize the area that needed the most attention.

  “Tell me about the shed.”

  He flinched. Damn her stubbornness to hell. “We have a break in the schedule tomorrow night. We’ll talk then. I promise.”

  “All right.”

  “So you’ll touch me?”

  “Yes. Tomorrow.”

  “Fuck, Charlee.” He let a hard edge dominate his voice, even as excitement skipped through his bloodstream. Hopefully, his iron tone would provoke the twinge of anticipation she needed to climax.

  He shifted, rolling her beneath him, and settled between her legs. His fingers met the moist crotch of her panties, and he tugged it to the side. He lined up his erection and bit his lip. Slowly, torturously, he pushed in. Her heat encased him.

  “Ahhhh, yeah. Ah, God, feels so good.” The bellow in his heart exploded with the thrust of his hips. He couldn’t see her eyes through the dark, hated he wouldn’t be able to read her expression.

  He pushed two fingers past her teeth, curled them, and put pressure on her jaw. Leveraging the grip, he turned her head toward him and strengthened his fingers to hold her in place. It was a perception of dominance rather than pain. He hoped the acceleration in her breathing was testament it was working for her.

  He pressed kisses across her open mouth, licking over and around his fingers as he stroked and rotated his hips. So fucking warm and wet, the sensation of her spread through his groin and enveloped his body. Good God, he wanted to come. He picked up his pace and pulled harder on her jaw.

  Her sharp, heavy pants unraveled the reign on his release. He pushed the surging sensations back, pounded into her, his free hand flexing beside her face. Her hips met him punch for punch. Was she close? Getting closer?

  She bit down on his fingers, arched her back, and the hot walls of her cunt contracted around him. Oh, thank fuck.

  He yanked his hand from her mouth, balls curling up. “Unngh, I’m gonna come. Oh, Jesus. I’m coming.”

  “Mmm.” She bucked with him. “Come in me. God, I want to feel you come.”

  Amplified by her throaty whisper, the spasm of bliss shot through his dick and tingled over his body. He collapsed onto his elbows, braced on her pillow.

  Laughter tumbled from the bunk above. “Who needs groupies when I can listen to you two every night? Can you pass me a sock or something? I just spewed down my leg.”

  Fucking Laz.

  Chapter Seventy-Seven

  ‡

  The next night, Charlee padded through the bathroom of their suite in the City of Fountains. Who knew Kansas City boasted over two hundred outdoor water-jetting displays?

  Extra tubes, needles, ink, and green soap scattered the marble vanity. The remainder of the tattoo equipment waited with Jay in the bedroom, machines prepped and ready.

  The old leather sketchbook she’d carried for three years lay open to the illustration she’d just transferred to stencil paper. She knew the drawing intimately, had doodled it so many times through the years, it was sketched it into her memory.

  She washed her hands in the sink. No need for gloves. The body fluids they shared daily were much more intimate than blood and sweat.

  Hands dried, she held up the stencil by the corners, her nerves aflutter. Hadn’t every day since the day she’d met him led to this?

  Whatever you gave him made him look at things differently, made him want to get better.

  Laz’s words came back to her from the night they fled the Cuban restaurant. Jay had worn his partial outline for three years. How did he envision the finished design? He didn’t know about the sketchbook, unless he’d snooped in her messenger bag while she slept. What if it disappointed him? Or worse, what if the completion didn’t give him the catharsis she knew he anticipated?

  Deep breath. The forge of fire and steel was destined to exist on his back. She just needed to go slow, not screw it up. They had twenty-four hours until the Kansas City show. Plenty of time to help him uncover what he’d hid for so long.

  Another lungful of air. She lowered the stencil behind her and walked to the bedroom, her gait jittery, her heart more so.

  He sat on the edge of the bed, palms flat on his thighs. “It’s time.” He addressed Nathan and Tony, who stood in the sitting area outside the bedroom, but his gaze was on her.

  The bedroom door clicked closed followed by another click of the outer exit.

  Jay had demanded total privacy for the remainder of the night. Because their suite was a fraction of the size of the one in New York, it made it easier to convince the protective team to guard from the hallway. In reality, they were only one room away.

  She placed the stencil on the desk and moved toward him until her knees brushed his bent ones. “Ready?”

  “For three years.” He removed his shirt, tossed it behind him, eyes on her, overflowing with emotion. Was he as anxious as her? Was he having second thoughts?

  Her need to touch him, to connect to him, roiled inside her and spread to her fingertips. Her equilibrium wobbled. “We’ll go slowly. Stop me when you need to. If you change your mind, if the memories come—”

  “Charlee.” He rose a breath away and rested his hands on her waist. “I want this.” Dipping his head, he opened his mouth and swept his tongue over hers. Pushing past her parted lips, he licked and nipped, sensuously, lovingly, restoring her balance.

  She pulled back, breathless. My, how their roles had flipped. The last time she aimed a needle at him, she’d taken the lead, controlled the outcome. “Do you want to see the stencil before I start?” Nervousness cramped her gut.

  He turned, lay across the foot of the bed, face down, one arm hanging over the end. “I want you to stop deliberating and finish what you started.” Impatience sharpened his tone, but the gold in his eyes glimmered with amusement.

  “Good. I don’t need a stencil anyway since I’m just doing a big ol’ sheet of black.” She diluted a paper towel with Dettol antiseptic and swiped long strokes from shoulder to shoulder.

  “Since you inked the first outline freehand, I’m confident you could make even a black square look like art. Can’t wait to see what you do with a stencil.” He turned his head away, and the muscles in his back loosened under the rub of the towel.

  It had been a huge risk inking him without a stencil the night she met him, but she’d had little choice in her sneaky offense to defy his wishes.

  She squirted a dollop of stencil gel at the top of his spine. “Here come my hands.” She waited for his deep breath and eventually let out her own when his tension nev
er came.

  With hesitant fingertips, she spread the gel over the nearest cluster of scars. His back rose and fell with steady breaths, his trigger quiet.

  She worked the gel lower, and his skin took on a tougher, more wrinkled texture across a horizontal line from armpit to armpit. Was his back curved and chest tucked in when the burns were inflicted? The bubbles weren’t raised enough to be noticeable, but the discoloration made them impossible to miss. A motley of reds blended into browns and pinks. The damage covered his upper back from just below his neck to under his armpits.

  Once the gel covered the areas to be inked, she positioned the stencil on his back and adjusted the ohms on the machine. “You know, I don’t know your full name.”

  He twisted his neck to face her, cheek resting on the mattress, eyelids heavy. “James Kristopher Mayard.”

  “James? Really?” She removed the stencil and blew on his back.

  The arm he dangled off the bed shifted and his hand curled around the back of her bare calf. “I changed it to Jay when I started The Burn.”

  She tested the machine with a few pulses of the needle. Jay. Laz. Rio. Wil. “All your proportioned names would make charming tattoos. You could wear each other’s names in a matching design.” A smile tugged her lips as she touched the machine to his skin and began the first stroke.

  He chuckled. “I love those guys, but not that much.”

  She followed the stenciled lines, dwelling on three-lettered names. One in particular tried to scorch her mood. She would not allow Roy to taint this moment. “What are their real names?”

  “Lazarus Bromwell.” One dark eyebrow arched.

  “Of course.” She moved to the most disfigured section, where a nickel-sized patch of skin had twisted as it melted. Watching his face for distress, she inked a line over it. “And the others?”

  “Richard.” A gentle fondness intoned his voice.

  “Rio? Richard Ketch?” She laughed. “Catchy. And Wil must be William.”