The Gunny & The Jazz Singer (Birchwood Falls #1)

by Jane Leopold Quinn

  "Oh, Marc. Stop!"

  "Why? God Phoebe, you feel so good." Good Lord, he sounded pathetic. Way to signal how horny you are.

  "I have to go in." She sounded agonized. "Please."

  Her hands on his shoulders, she gently pushed him away. Too gently. He didn't think she really wanted to stop, but when she shook her head, struggling harder to get out of his arms, he was finally convinced. "Okay, darlin'." He could have swept her into the house and taken her against the wall—he was that primed.

  Needing a cooling-off period and to make sense of what almost happened, he backed down the porch steps. She looked pink-cheeked and rumpled and so beautiful his heart hurt. Her eyes narrowed sleepily. Her lips were swollen from the kisses. He slid his fingers through the short strands of his hair just for something to do with his hands—otherwise he'd reach for her again. "Tomorrow?"

  She gazed back at him with wide eyes, the pupils so dilated the green was just a narrow border. "Sure," she whispered.

  The door clicked shut. Yeah. She was interested too.

  She consumed his thoughts as he walked across the street, up the porch steps, and into his own house. The mixture of all she was—sexy woman, sprite with the colored stripe in her bangs, guarded and naïve—all intrigued him.

  A warmth melted through his belly, around his hips. His eyes closed in the pleasure of the sensations. His balls tightened, his cock hardened instantly as he remembered the feel of her through the golden ring the first time they'd kissed, her taut nipple on the tip of his finger. Through his jeans, he squeezed his penis. That alone didn't help. His cock wanted her mouth or the hot depths of her sex, either or both, hot and juicy. He wasn't choosy.

  Damn. He was much too used to having sex with his hand. Yes, he was on a mission here, but a man had needs. Trouble was those needs centered right now on Phoebe Barnes, and she wasn't giving it up.

  Her sweet little body—slender hips and thighs, full breasts with that suspected nipple ring—almost brought him to his knees. Groaning, he knew he'd have to take care of himself. Storming through the house and into his bedroom, he shucked his clothing, grabbed the lube from his bedside table and spread it over and around his searingly hot cock. He curled his palm around his dick before he even lay down.

  Jesus, it felt good. His hand tightly slid up and down his length, his thumb passing over the slit every time he reached the head. He pressed the hole, massaging pre-cum into his skin, combining it with the lube.

  He lifted his knees to help his heels get traction. Closing his eyes, he imagined Phoebe's head bent over his hips, her hair sweeping his belly and thighs. Her mouth would have the heated wetness he needed.

  He grasped his cock firmly and whipped his hand up and down, mimicking the blowjob he imagined, digging his feet into the bed until his balls disappeared into his groin, signaling a tingling, roiling boil of spunk. "Oh God, just come, damn it. Come on, fuck, fuck yes, yes…"

  Cum shot out as his hips surged off the sheets. He kept stroking, squeezing it all out. The stream plopped onto his chest, steaming then chilling on his hot body.

  "Son of a bitch. Yeah." His arms dropped heavily to the bed, legs next, his cock, still hard, bobbed. He couldn't move. "Jesus." This climax had been more forceful than any he'd remembered in the past.

  Chapter Seven

  His crooked smile had been irresistibly devastating. Phoebe had almost grabbed him by the shirt and pulled him inside just like he'd wanted. Only her heightened sense of self-preservation had kept her from doing that.

  She trusted so few people—mainly Moira, Davy, and her adoptive parents. And to take an almost-total stranger into her house even after two devouring kisses would make her too stupid to live. Oh she wasn't afraid for her life with Marc Rahn. It was her peace of mind that was in danger.

  She could get used to his kisses and the promise of the hard cock he'd pressed against her stomach. The reality was that she intended to blow B Falls as soon as an opportunity to sing in a larger venue presented itself. She didn't want any man—even an admittedly hot man—holding her back.

  Which reminded her. Butch Wilcox. She intended to break it off with him at dinner tonight. It wasn't like they'd had a long relationship. Two dates and nothing more than a peck on the cheek.

  Absently fanning her hot cheeks with her hat, she closed her eyes, and relived what she and Marc had shared, which was much more than a peck. The kisses had been full-blown, heated, sweating lip-locks. His arms—it had been like his whole body had enfolded her. She'd never been kissed like that in her twenty-two years. When they'd kissed last night and his hand had roamed, she was certain he'd felt her nipple ring. But no man had ever seen it, let alone touched it.

  If he thought having one made her easy, he had another think coming.

  On her twenty-first birthday she admittedly got a little tipsy. Throwing caution to the wind and relaxed just enough to think it was a good idea, she'd had it pierced. So many times over the last year, she'd thought to take it out, but it made her feel edgy, a little dangerous.

  Heat exploded throughout her body at the thought of Marc Rahn playing with the ring, tugging on it, sucking her nipple. She closed her eyes and touched herself, smiling at the prickling rush. It probably wouldn't take long to climax with him. Not long at all.

  No! Don't fantasize about the man. You have a life to lead, a singing career to promote, and a date to get ready for. She'd tell Butch in the nicest way possible that she didn't want to get serious with anyone. He'd have to back off. She hoped.

  ***

  Butch stood on the front porch, his knock peremptory. Did he think since he was a cop, he could demand anything and get it? If she wanted this evening over and the breakup with him behind her she'd have to start by opening the door. Ugh. "You're right on time."

  "Sure honey, you ready?" He leaned in to kiss her.

  She sidled out of his way, his lips all wrong, his face not the one she really wanted to see. Grabbing her purse, she shooed him out ahead of her, and locked the door. When they reached Butch's car in front of the house, she spotted Marc sipping a drink and lounging in a rocking chair on his front porch.

  Butch growled.

  He actually growled like an animal. Whoa.

  "I wish I knew what he came back for. He doesn't have any family left in town. And why isn't he living in his own house instead of over here?"

  "How do you know each other?"

  "High school football team. He was such a hotdog," Butch said with a sneer. "Always had to be the center of attention with—well, with everybody."

  "He was a good player?"

  "He thought so. Things changed after his folks died."

  She ignored the hint of satisfaction in Butch's voice. "That must have been awful for him."

  "Yeah."

  Phoebe glanced at Butch, appalled at his smirk. Breaking it off with him was the best idea she'd had in a long time. He was one cold bastard.

  "We're going to the country club," he announced, changing the tenor of the conversation, dismissing a friend's sorrow.

  "Okay." She knew he liked to go out to fancy places, so she'd dressed accordingly in a lavender silk sleeveless dress with ruching across the bodice to hide the nipple ring and a skirt that hit her just above the knees. The neckline was a demure shallow V, and her sandals had only three-inch heels. She didn't want to appear too provocative and teasing since this was the end.

  She really should break up with him right now. It wasn't fair to make him buy her dinner and then get dumped. "Butch, can we go back inside? I want to talk to you."

  "No. I have reservations at seven. We only have ten minutes to get there. We can talk at the club."

  She was extremely aware that Marc watched them every step of the way to Butch's Jeep, his Grand Cherokee with its white-gold exterior. He'd made sure to brag about it the first time they'd gone out, said it cost thirty-five grand with all the bells and whistles. What a jerk. She couldn't be bought by his bragging about an expensive c
ar.

  Tight-lipped on the drive to the restaurant, Butch was the first to speak when they were seated at a table overlooking the golf course. "Have whatever you want, sweetheart. You know I can afford it."

  Sweetheart? She ordered a Riesling. He ordered a scotch on the rocks.

  "Butch, I have to say this. I'm sorry, but I don't think we should see each other anymore."

  He blinked, giving her what looked like a long-suffering expression.

  His reaction wasn't at all what she expected. Did he think she was kidding?

  Leaning over, he tried to grasp her hand. "Honey, don't talk like that?"

  She noted the heightening anger in his voice. Sliding her hand away from his, she picked up her wineglass. "It isn't anything personal." Yes, it is. "You know I want to pursue my career, and I may be leaving town soon. I've sent demo tapes to several agents. I need to be free to go when I get the call."

  He stiffened, his eyes going blank, almost as if he was in his own world. His fingers toyed with a dinner knife. He picked it up, holding it as if stabbing someone. She could see the muscle at the back of his jaw flexing. He didn't look at her, didn't do anything until the waiter came to the table with their entrées. Then, as if nothing had been said, he took his first bite and finally flashed a glare her way.

  "You know Phoebe, I could help you, give you everything you've ever wanted. My family has money. One of these days I'm going to join my father in business. I'm not going to be on the public payroll for much longer. I'll be rich. We have land all over town. We belong to the club. You wouldn't have to sing in second-rate bars to support yourself."

  Oh God. Talk about making someone uncomfortable. Did he think he could buy her? "Butch, that's very nice of you, but I'm doing fine right now. And I want…"

  "You're not doing fine! You live in that crappy little house practically on the edge of town. You've got transients living on the street."

  "I love my house. It's not crappy, Butch. It's sweet."

  He leaned across the table, his face now not so expressionless. In fact he'd flushed red and sweat popped out on his forehead and upper lip. "It's not good enough for the woman I plan to marry."

  "What?" Her mouth dropped open in shock. "What?" She whispered it this time. "You've gone too far." She picked the napkin off her lap and very precisely placed it at the side of her dinner plate.

  "Do not leave this table," he snarled. "Yes, I plan to marry you. Just as soon as you see it's the right thing to do. And for God's sake, get rid of that streak in your hair."

  Shaking, she rose and braced her hand on the back of the chair. "I won't have you or anyone talk to me that way. Good night, Butch. I will not marry you. Don't call me again." She prayed he'd stay seated so she could get out of the dining room with some dignity. The people at the next tables could hear them, but the whole place didn't need to know what was going on.

  In the lobby she considered what she should do next. The ladies' room beckoned. At least he couldn't follow her there. She couldn't get away from the country club fast enough. But how?

  She supposed she could walk home. But if he followed her outside, she'd be alone on the street. Surely he wouldn't hurt her. Would he?

  Davy. He lived practically across the street. She could make it that far. Slipping into the ladies' room, she called to make sure he was home.

  "You stay put, Phoebs. I'll walk over and get you."

  "I can walk the half-block to your place, Davy." She heard a voice in the background before he muffled the phone. "Davy! Do you have company?" Oh my God, he might have a date. What a mess. Damn Butch Wilcox. "Davy."

  "We'll be right over. Don't argue with me, sweetie. Come on, Stu, we're going on a rescue mission."

  "Stu?"

  "We're coming." He laughed uproariously and hung up.

  Phoebe sank onto a couch, shaking her head. Stu? She had a feeling the night was going to get crazier. This Stu had better be good to her friend.

  Even more important was what had happened to Butch. Did he leave? Was he waiting in the lobby for her? Did he even know where she went? Well, she'd just have to brave it and actually leave the ladies' room. She got a call on her cell when Davy and his friend reached the entrance to the club and went out to meet them.

  "Sweetie, what happened? Why are you stranded in this den of luxury?"

  Before she spoke, she looked around the parking lot but didn't see Butch's Jeep. Relieved, she then wondered if he'd be camped in front of her house. He knew she'd get home eventually. "Let's get out of here. I'll tell you while we walk."

  "Phoebs, this is my friend Stu Pressman. Stu, meet Phoebe Barnes. Have you seen her at Marietty's?" Davy slid an arm around her shoulders and hugged her. "She's the best singer ever."

  "Hi, Stu. Nice to meet you." He was a pretty good-looking guy—muscular, auburn hair tied back in a ponytail, very dark eyes. She could see why Davy would be attracted to him.

  "I've seen you sing, Phoebe. You're really good."

  "Well, that makes you my newest favorite friend, Stu." She gave him a grateful smile.

  "Where do you want to go, Phoebs?" Davy asked. "Back to my place for a while? It's only eight-thirty."

  "Can you just walk me home? I've had a long day." They'd already crossed the bridge over the Falls River and were headed toward Courthouse Square.

  "Are you going to tell me what happened?"

  The two men put her between them as they walked. "Some other time? I really don't want to get into it now. I'd like to push it to the back of my mind and think about something else."

  She nudged Davy's side and grinned up at him. "Why don't you tell me where you two met?" She noticed the two guys shared a glance, then a sweet smile. Oh boy, Davy looks happy. This guy better not break his heart.

  "At the paper. In the lunchroom."

  "Oh, you work together?"

  "Stu's a reporter," Davy replied. "I'm just the boring accountant."

  Phoebe looked at Stu for his reaction.

  "Not even a little bit boring." Stu reached across her and playfully punched Davy's arm. "I couldn't crunch those numbers at all. I can barely balance my bank account."

  "What kind of stories do you write?"

  "Almost anything. I'd like to focus on crime, but there isn't that much of it here. Mostly speeding tickets, some teenage pranks. I'm just getting started, but eventually I'd like to be in a bigger market."

  Feeling Davy tense, she gave him a quick glance. She had the impression this was too new of a relationship to predict how things would work out.

  "Are you all right walking in those shoes, Phoebs?" asked Davy.

  "Oh heck yeah. It's only four or five blocks." They meandered past the coffeehouse, which was just closing, then the gas station. Even inside her house, she swore she heard the dings when someone drove into the station. "Are you working on anything interesting now, Stu?"

  He smiled at her. "Most of the time I've got little stories going, but I'm looking into something bigger."

  "You are? What?"

  He winced. "Can't really say right now. I don't have anything for sure, and it wouldn't be right to speculate without evidence."

  "Oh sure. I can understand that, but you do have me curious."

  They passed the convenience store, turned the corner, and headed down the street to her house. Butch should never have made fun of her house. She adored it. But his biggest crime was telling her to get rid of the fuchsia streak.

  Thank God he wasn't waiting in front of her house. "Would you like to come in?" she asked when they reached her front door.

  It didn't look like Marc was sitting on his porch either. There were no lights on that she could see. Probably has a date. He certainly wouldn't be in bed by ten, at least not alone. Ugh. She didn't want to picture him with another woman. Marc was a guy who sure knew how to kiss, and her body flamed just thinking about what else he could do.

  "Phoebs?" Davy put his face in front of hers. "Are you listening?"

  "Yeah
sure."

  "Now get inside so we know you're safe, and I'll talk to you tomorrow."

  "Okay. Thanks, guys. It was nice to meet you, Stu." She kissed Davy good night.

  "Call if you need me, Phoebs." At the shake of her head, he added, "You look dragged out tonight or I'd press you for why you needed rescue from the club. But you'll talk to me later?"

  "Of course, D. Good night, guys." She shut and locked the door, thanking her lucky stars she had friends close at hand.

  Butch. She shivered in revulsion. What the hell was going on with him? Talking about marriage? They'd only been on two dates before tonight. If he didn't appreciate her house and her hair then why did he want to be with her at all? And what would he do if he ever found out about her pierced nipple?

  Well, he'll never be that lucky, so that's that.

  Phoebe slowly wandered to her bedroom, removing her dress as she went. After hanging it up, she slipped into a large t-shirt over her panties. She usually slept in the nude, but after being with creepy Butch, she shuddered just thinking about being naked. That disgust, though, didn't stop her thoughts from turning to the man across the street. It hadn't looked like he was on his porch when Davy and Stu brought her home, but it wouldn't hurt to check again. She liked knowing he was near.

  Why Marc and not Butch? Both were good-looking men. Butch had fair hair, almost white-blond and always neatly combed, his hazel eyes the same shade as hers. His features were regular, nothing more than pretty really, with soft cheeks, a straight nose, and a cleft chin.

  On the other hand, Marc's dark hair and his watchful pale-blue eyes gleamed with sensuality. His muscular body made her feel safe when he held her in his arms. Strange, considering she barely knew him. Quiet, he exuded mouthwatering manhood just by being there. No bragging, no puffing out of his chest—not that he needed to. It was broad and hard as she well knew. Now there was a man she'd sleep in the nude for.

  Scoffing at the direction her thoughts had taken, she peered again toward Marc's porch wondering if he was as curious about her as she was about him. Maybe he had a date tonight. Shit. She certainly didn't have a right to be jealous, but she didn't like the possibility of his spreading his delicious kisses around to other women in town.