Raw Need

by Cherrie Lynn

  It’s okay, she thought, desperate to keep her eyes down on her task of digging in her purse though her keys were right there in sight, glinting under her porch light. He’s my fucking celebrity crush, of course I’m going to respond. It doesn’t mean anything.

  “I want to kiss you,” he said, and she sucked in a breath and looked up at him in astonishment, keys forgotten. He was so close, so beautiful, something that could have formed from the surrounding shadows to steal her heart away. “But I won’t.” Even as reason coupled with disappointment flooded her, her involuntary reaction was to wet her lips. She could swear he noticed the response; his eyes darkened. “Unless you want me to.”

  She did. God help her, she did. But . . . “It can’t mean anything,” she whispered.

  “It doesn’t have to.”

  She could do that, right? Just a kiss. A onetime, once-in-a-lifetime kiss. Maybe she was wrong and the chemistry wouldn’t be there. She would know it once and for all, no wondering “what if” after he went back home, no staying up nights imagining what he tasted like, knowing she’d had her chance to find out and refused it. “Okay,” she said, but since she figured he could barely hear her trembling voice, she nodded as well.

  He stepped in. Rowan nearly jumped when the tips of his fingers tilted her chin up to receive him; he touched her nowhere else. At least not until he leaned forward, nestling his nose next to hers as his lips caught hers gently, sweetly. A shiver worked along her spine, raising the hair at her nape.

  So much for no chemistry.

  She wanted to open, to invite him deeper, but even as his fingertips slid toward her ear until he cupped her jaw in his palm, he only teased at her lips with his own. A touch, a brush. The sweetness of their shared dessert a ghost on his breath, he didn’t quest for any sort of entry, so careful not to do so that something broke in her weakly thudding heart, flooding her with heat.

  Oh, fuck.

  His other hand grasped the doorframe beside her head; his beard tickled her delicate skin. Rowan’s hands ached to crawl up his body, but she clenched them tightly at her sides against the need, her nails biting crescent moons into her palms. This, just this. It was all she had to give right now.

  Zane pulled away only slightly, his warm breath soft against her tingling lips. He’d barely touched her, barely even given her that taste of him. She wanted more, longed to drag him to her and take it, but when he stepped back, she had to let him. The tip of his thumb traced the line of her jaw all the way to her chin as he drew his hand away.

  Maybe tonight had been a pity date, but that damn sure hadn’t felt like a pity kiss.

  With a shuddering exhale, he smiled at her. “Keep your chin up, Rowan.”

  She swallowed and nodded. “I will.”

  “Call me if you need anything. Or if you only want to talk. Promise me you will.”

  “I promise. What do you have coming up?”

  “I’ll crash at the hotel tonight, and I’ll fly home in the morning. Then back to work in the studio for a few weeks until we go out on our late summer tour.”

  It could have been goodbye, but he lingered and reached for her hand, holding it lightly as he looked intently at her. She found herself wishing for one more kiss. Just a little one. It wouldn’t hurt anything. “You make me wish things were different,” he said, a gruff note in his voice that hadn’t been there earlier. “But despite how fucked up everything is, I’m glad we met.”

  “Me too,” she told him softly, wondering even as she said it if it was a betrayal. If Tommy were still here, she and Zane likely would never have met. Ever. Either Tommy or Mike would have won the fight—probably Mike, if she was honest about how things had been going—and life would have happily gone on with her remaining Zane Larson’s fan, and never his friend. She and Tommy would have brought this baby into the world together.

  But here they were.

  She didn’t want Zane to leave. She didn’t want to face this empty house alone. But there damn sure wasn’t any alternative.

  “Well. Good night, Rowan.”

  Had he been waiting for her to invite him inside? Should she? Just for a while?

  “Good night.”

  He turned to go, and the words that might get him to stop remained frozen in her throat. She watched him walk all the way to his SUV, which still idled sleek and shining under the streetlights. Of course he hadn’t wanted to come inside; he’d left the engine running. Duh. He gave one final wave before disappearing around to the driver’s side, and only then did she let herself into the silent house to watch him drive away.

  And that’s that, she thought as his taillights vanished up the street from her view. Maybe they would continue to talk on the phone occasionally as they’d promised, bump into each other through Savannah and Mike, because those two would surely get married and have babies someday. It made her a little sad, because like Zane had said, she wished things were different.

  If she could change anything about her life, though, she would have to wish for her husband back. Here, in the familiar scent of their home, with all his things around, she felt that void he’d left like a physical ache in her chest.

  Savannah would be anxious to hear how the night had gone, but Rowan didn’t have the strength. Now that she was alone, she realized how exhausted she was from being social. This mask had become too heavy for her to wear, and she was still waiting for the return of energy in the second trimester that many of the baby books promised . . . even though that appeared to be a load of bullshit. The books were always quick to add that every pregnancy was different, but she’d hoped she would be one of the lucky ones for once. So far, that luck was running on par with everything else in her life, and she thought she might collapse before she got up the stairs to her bedroom.

  Zane Larson kissed me.

  How could she be tired after something like that? Several years ago, when she was his die-hard fan before Tommy had come into the picture, Jesus Christ, she would have had a heart attack and died on the spot. Even now, she should be zinging around the house like a pinball.

  Maybe she would be, if such a dark cloud of impossibility and wrongness didn’t hang over it all.

  She still felt married. The ring her husband had slid onto her finger the day of their wedding had rarely come off since he’d put it there. His clothes still hung in her closet. His side of the bed still taunted her with its emptiness. She could close her eyes and imagine she would hear him calling her from another part of the house any minute now, or hear him laughing at a movie or TV show downstairs. See him standing at the sink in the bathroom, a towel around his narrow hips, gorgeous tattooed muscles on display while he meticulously shaved around his goatee. But, of course, she wouldn’t, she would never hear nor see any of those things again, because his stubborn ass had stepped into the fighting cage when he shouldn’t have and left her here all alone with his baby growing inside her.

  It wasn’t fucking fair.

  But when had it ever been?

  Her usual escape was to climb into bed and listen to Zane sing her to sleep. But Zane had just scrambled her brain into oblivion. Still, after scrubbing her face clean and slipping into pajamas, she crawled into bed with her phone and earbuds, and put August on Fire on repeat. She wouldn’t let a little thing like kissing the man ruin the peace she felt when she listened to his music. He was her escape from life. She wouldn’t let him become a complication in it.

  Most people she knew would wonder how in the hell the heavy rock could actually soothe her nerves. But it did. It was an outlet for the inner chaos. It shredded her soul, but it also put it back together again. He did, through his lyrics, his aching melodies, his anguished roars. No one could emote like Zane. No other vocalist alive could make her so clearly hear the pain behind the words, as if he ripped them straight from his soul and they tore a little of it out on their exit. He took her places she wouldn’t dare go without his guidance. It was hard to reconcile that with the man who had sat across from her at
dinner, but that amazing dichotomy was one of the reasons he was so fascinating. It was a Clark Kent/Superman effect, but instead of ripping his shirt open and donning a cape to save lives, he tore his heart out on stage or in a studio.

  A different kind of hero.

  Maybe if she had that vent, that way of channeling the inner turmoil into something greater than herself, she would feel better too. Music had saved him, he’d told her. It helped her feel better, yes, but she didn’t think it had saved her. She didn’t think anything could . . . she would simply tough it out like she always did. The clock would keep endlessly ticking. Life would go on.

  Rowan closed her eyes during one of her favorite parts, Zane’s particularly intimate a cappella performance in the middle of “Faceless.” He was fond of those moments, it seemed, letting the music die away so he could play his own instrument, his voice, in all its soaring glory. She was fond of those moments too, hell, she wanted an entire CD of nothing but vocal tracks from him. As close as he sounded in her earphones, in the darkness surrounding her, he could have been lying beside her right now. But then his voice died away and the music kicked back in. Her eyes opened to find her phone’s display lit up beside her on the bed.

  A text from him. Even in her melancholy state, a little piece of her still found time to marvel. This, at least, was some fucking awesome luck. Definitely not par for the course.

  What are you doing?

  Smiling, she typed, Listening to you.

  His reply dots immediately began bouncing. Which song?

  Faceless just finished. It’s one of my favorites. Now Luck of the Devil is starting.

  I wrote that one for my brother.

  Mike?

  No. Damien.

  She didn’t know much about Mike and Zane’s youngest sibling. He has the luck of the devil, huh? Maybe I need a little of that.

  You won’t get it from him.

  Hmm. What are you doing?

  Just made it to the hotel. Thought Jase was going to strip-search me for injuries.

  Rowan cackled with laughter on that one. He doesn’t have to worry. I didn’t try to keep a piece of you.

  Some girl in Philly grabbed my hair once. Felt like she came away with a chunk of it. That shit might be on eBay or something.

  No, she’s probably worshiping it on a shrine built to you. Or she tried to do some kind of love spell on you.

  Shit. I didn’t think about that.

  I wouldn’t worry about it. No one’s gone crazy and tried to tear your clothes off?

  I’ll plead the Fifth on that one.

  Of course. He’d probably had plenty of groupies who’d done that. He’d probably been doing the same to them at the time. Rowan grumbled a little at the thought. Well then was all she said in reply.

  Lol. Sorry. Shouldn’t have said that. He added the “speak no evil” monkey emoji.

  I’m sure it was the truth. She added the “see no evil” emoji in return. It had been bad enough worrying about Tommy when he had to leave her to do press or train or fight. She hadn’t always wanted to accompany him, but whenever she’d stayed at home, doubts had niggled at the back of her mind. What was he doing? And with whom? Women could be ruthless, and while she’d never really had reasons not to trust him, she also wouldn’t have bet her life on his fidelity. It was simply the way she was made. That whole shitty luck thing wasn’t conducive to unconditional trust.

  Someone of Zane’s caliber, though . . . she couldn’t imagine. World tours, thousands of screaming fans and adoring women—it would be a nightmare of stress. You would almost have to not care, she thought, as long as you were the one he came home to. But how could you not care if you loved him?

  She didn’t think she could ever be that person.

  I should let you get some sleep, he texted. Rowan actually pouted at the phone in her hand. She was tired, but she wasn’t sleepy. She probably wouldn’t sleep for a week.

  I probably won’t, she admitted.

  Me either.

  Why not?

  I’m a raging insomniac most nights. It makes me a little crazy sometimes. That’s how most of our songs get written. In the dark watches of the night.

  She knew the agony of the raging insomniac. Sleep had always come hard for her, even when she wasn’t a grieving mess. She’d always had Tommy to talk to during restless nights. Now that he was gone, it was much worse. Just when she thought she was about to lose her mind from lack of sleep, she would catch up all at once. Then, of course, Regina and Savannah would worry about her when she didn’t want to get out of bed all day, not realizing they should be more concerned that she spent her nights pacing the house, tears streaming down her face in the roaring silence of three A.M.

  If I can’t sleep tonight, Zane said, bringing her back from her melancholy musings, I’ll write something for you.

  A little gasp escaped her. Really?

  I can’t promise greatness on short notice, of course, but I’ll do my best.

  Anything you do will be great.

  A blushing-cheeks emoji. You’re too kind.

  She almost wished she could hear his voice saying these things, but he still sang through her earbuds, and this was actually a relief. It was almost as if he’d known his presence was a little overwhelming, and that she needed some distance while he charmed the hell out of her.

  I’ll let you know how it works out, he said. Good night, Rowan.

  Good night, Zane.

  She actually slept that night. And in the morning when she opened her eyes, a text greeted her, one he’d sent at 3:24 A.M. Good morning. Check your email.

  She dropped her phone three times in sleepy haste.

  * * *

  Zane hadn’t slept for more than a couple of hours, but Jase somehow managed to rouse him in time for his flight. He closed his eyes shortly before takeoff, his cap pulled low over his face, and only opened them again when the bump from landing jostled him awake. Rubbing the bleariness from his eyes, he followed Jase off the plane and to the waiting car, head down, sunglasses in place, strides long and purposeful, hoping to appear as little more than a dark-clad shadow passing through the crowds. He was more easily recognized in his hometown than anywhere else; local fans knew to look for him here. But even if he wasn’t trying to hide his identity behind dark glasses, he needed them, especially today. It was luridly bright and he had the senses of a vampire—too much sun and he was likely to combust.

  “Breakfast? Coffee?” Jase prompted as they climbed in the back of the SUV he’d arranged while the driver handled their meager luggage.

  “Home,” Zane grunted, leaning his head back against the seat to doze again. But he didn’t get much of a reprieve; his cell phone jangled to life beside him as the car was pulling away from the airport. Jase jumped as if he meant to grab it and silence it, but Zane waved him off. “It’s my brother, I got it.”

  “Are you in town?” Mike asked as soon as Zane greeted him.

  “Yeah. Headed home.”

  “How did it go?”

  “Good.”

  “Just good?”

  It was better than good, but Zane didn’t figure Mike needed to know that. “It was fine. She was sweet. I was respectable. We had dinner and I took her home. End of story.” And I still have splinters from grabbing the fucking doorjamb so hard so I wouldn’t grab her when I kissed her.

  “Okay.” Mike sounded annoyingly relieved to hear that.

  “Is that all you require?”

  “You sound zonked. Did you work all night?”

  Zane sighed, resigning himself to the interrogation. Not that he could really blame Mike for staying on his ass. Even though he was only a couple years older, Mike had been more like a dad than any of the abusive assholes their mother had paraded through their lives growing up. “Pretty much.”

  “Album going good?”

  “Stellar. You should come by and listen sometime.” Just not today. Today is for sleeping.

  “We’ll get together soon.
And just so you know . . . Savannah was planning on asking Rowan out to brunch in the next couple days.” The threat was left unsaid, and Zane had to laugh.

  “Did you think I wouldn’t realize something like that would happen? I’m way ahead of you, brother.”

  They hung up, but by then it was too late to even try to catch a power nap on the ride home. Zane’s house was in Tanglewood, an ostentatious, tree-shaded Mediterranean-style utopia that didn’t really fit him at all. Too much fucking glaring white and natural light that offended his vampire senses. But he didn’t figure he would hang out there long enough to remodel. The house had been a nouveau-riche impulse buy, he supposed. When you’d grown up in squalor, you wanted to get the fuck out of it as soon as possible, but if anything, he would probably scale down soon.

  It was welcome now, though. More specifically, his half acre of bed was.

  What wasn’t welcome, he realized as he entered his bedroom and shut the door behind him, was the woman tangled up in his sheets.

  Zane slipped his travel bag strap off his shoulder and let it thud on the floor, watching as the sound made her blond head jerk up from the pillow . . . and he almost reeled backward.

  He’d thought he was certain of her identity; Analiese was the only woman he knew who had that platinum hair and free rein of his house. He hadn’t seen her in weeks—hell, months, now that he thought about it—but she’d been the first to cross his overly tired mind. But this wasn’t Analiese.

  Ava fucking Marks was in his bed.

  Anyone else, and he would have demanded she leave. Anyone else, and maybe he wouldn’t have gaped and blinked at her like a moron.

  Ava’s throaty chuckle should have had him contemplating an afternoon of animalistic fucking. It should have. Maybe it did, just for a second. But before it could even go there, he shook his head. “Ava. Look, I had a late night, and . . . the fuck are you even doing?”

  “Sleeping.” She pushed up slowly, lithe like a cat, pale inked skin stark against his black sheets as she rolled over and bared her naked breasts. Each dark rose nipple pierced with a tiny silver ring. Motherfucking hell. Those tits were probably the fantasy of every metal fan in America—hell, the world—and they were in his bed.