Her eyes widened as if seeing for the first time. “You are that drummer!” She quickly recovered her gaping stare, circling her hips a little deeper at her apparent recognition of me.
“What’s your name?” I asked again, my lips an inch from her ear.
“Kayla.” Her voice was fluttery.
“Hey Kayla, I’m CJ. That drummer.”
The smell of sweat off her neck was intoxicating and new—far more than any libation offered by the bar. I spun her around, encouraging her to grind her round ass into me as I sucked in the sweet scent of pheromones from the back of her neck, a pleasure I’d missed over the last few weeks.
Frankie smelled better.
I growled the thought away, grazing the back of Kayla’s ear with my lips. Not kissing, but so close I could taste her. I just needed a few dry runs to get back in the game. That was all. It would be like riding a bike, I told myself.
Kayla turned back around, a smoldering look standing in where her shock and adoration had been previously. “You are really good.”
It didn’t matter if she was talking about my music or my moves; she was right on both accounts. I nodded lifting her chin with my index finger and bringing my lips closer to her ear than before. The tiny, soft hairs brushed against my lips. “You have no idea.”
Before she could respond, Nessa was at her side, eyeing me with bear trap intensity. “Can I cut in?”
Casting a glance to Kayla, I watched her bedroom eyes shift to indignant shock as I stepped back to allow Nessa into her dance space. Not wanting to be the total ass I risked portraying myself as, I leaned to Kayla once more, talking into her ear.
“I’ll be here all night, hon.”
This was enough, and Kayla bit her bottom lip, quickly falling into step with another intoxicated loner on the dance floor.
“She marched loyally right into your little trap there, didn’t she?” Nessa remarked, placing one hand on my shoulder, using the thumb and forefinger of her other hand to pinch my chin.
“I feel bad.” I chuckled. “It was so easy, like luring a baby deer away from its mother.”
Nessa shook her head. “And the barbarian uses a hunting metaphor. Shocker.”
I held the barbell on my tongue between my teeth, wiggling my eyebrows for a moment as I grabbed a firm hold of her hips, moving easily in time with her in the humid bar.
“Yes,” she said in a bored sigh. “You have your tongue pierced. Is this two-thousand-one?”
I ignored her jab and just kept moving.
As the music blared on and Nessa and I fell into our own grinding beat, I let myself get lost in her own, unique scent. Tequila, sweet flowers, sweat, and the intoxicating aroma of a lead singer. Leads command any stage they grace, literal or social, and Nessa was no different in that way, but was worlds apart from many others I’d known over the years in her approach. She didn’t showboat, and wasn’t ironically standoffish like so many try to be when desperately wanting to appear hip.
She was a quiet storm, like a puppet master vaguely aware of the strings in her hands.
Six
Regan
“What’s your cousin’s deal?” Nessa asked the morning after our final performance in the desert.
We were winding back into the Pacific Northwest and had stopped at a roadside diner. Only a few of us were wide awake that early, many of us placing extra orders to take back onto our busses to our sleeping and/or hungover friends. Nessa and I were settled into a quiet booth in the back, surrounded only by black coffee, eggs, and waffles.
“Deal?” I said with a shake of my head and a mouthful of syrup. “Dare I ask why you’re asking?”
She leaned forward with a sly grin. “You seem nervous.”
“He makes me nervous. Especially around women.”
Nessa waved her hand. “Oh I know all that stuff, remember? His wrap sheet is standard. I just mean, I don’t know … He seems like he’s got more.”
“He does seem that way,” I conceded.
Of course there was more to CJ. More to all of us on this tour. But, CJ’s road persona was carefully curated and closely guarded—nothing I was willing to dismantle for curious onlookers.
“You know stuff,” she guessed.
“Sure,” I admitted. “He’s my cousin. And not distant once-a-year at Christmas cousin, either. We grew up together.
“Skeletons?”
I shook my head. “Nothing dire. It’s not like he’s got a pregnant wife back home or a legal record containing more than a few bar fights. I believe those ever went on his record, come to think of it.”
She laughed. “You take care of him.”
“He stopped letting me do that long ago.” I took a long sip of my coffee and sat back, waiting for my stomach to make more room for food. I can never get enough of diner breakfasts, no matter how old I get or how many I eat in.
“You look out for him then,” Nessa conceded.
“You were out with him last night, can you blame me?” I chuckled, going in for my third waffle.
In all honesty I was extremely curious what had gone on last night, but given Nessa’s calm demeanor, I guessed she was at least partly spared CJ’s usual tricks.
“He got a girl?”
At this, I sputtered a little on my coffee. “Shouldn’t you be having this conversation with a girl?”
Her eyes widened and she sat back, looking satisfied. “He does, then.”
I shook my head slowly. “He does not,” was as much as I’d let go.
Nessa pursed her lips. “There’s somethin’.”
I shrugged, diving back into the last waffle. “What about you? Boyfriend?”
“No one I’d write home about.”
I looked up, catching a satirical glance that made her pass for far older than her late twenties. At least I figured she was in her late twenties—though I wasn’t even going to get into all of that with a woman.
“Fair enough.”
She eyed my plate. “Want some waffle with your syrup? Jesus.”
“My wife trades in sugar, what do you expect from me?” I gave her a grin and a quick wink.
Her eyes lit up. “Ah, so that wink is a Kane family specialty then.”
“Oh,” I sighed deeply, giving her a look of pity, “if CJ gave you that then you’re in big, big trouble.”
“Why?” she asked, rabid for inside information. “What’s it mean? You just gave it to me …”
“Touché.”
“Come on,” she pleaded, slapping her hand on the table. “Give me something to go with.”
I sighed. “Fine. Wanna know my opinion? If you’re looking for a good time, I can point you in the right direction.” I gestured to CJ standing in the parking lot, smoking a cigarette. I hadn’t seen him do that much so far, but it was none of my business. “But if you’re looking for something, anything else …”
“Got it,” she cut me off.
“Besides,” I started, rising from the table and throwing enough money down to cover our breakfasts and tip, “do you even want to get into sleeping with people on the road? This is a long tour—wait.”
She eyed me, curious. “What?”
“This is your first long tour, isn’t it?”
She nodded.
“Consider the implications … that’s all I’ll say. The busses get smaller the longer we live in them, and if sex is involved—”
Claustrophobic.
“Sex?” she cut me off. “Oh hell no … I just wanted to play with him a little … like a cat with a mouse, or something.”
The determination in her eyes calmed any hesitation I had about her getting mixed up with CJ. There was something going on with him, but it was up to him and anyone he came in contact with to figure out.
I wrapped my arm around her shoulders, giving a quick squeeze as we left the diner. “Just don’t leave his mangled carcass on my doorstep, kay?”
***
“I miss you,” I whispered into the phone when G
eorgia picked up.
“Already?” she teased. “You’ve just been gone a week.”
I grinned, rolling onto my back, feeling the seductive pull to sleep by the road moving underneath the bus. “You going to come to Oregon?”
“I wouldn’t miss it,” she answered, which piqued my interest.
Typically Georgia teased me about any time she may or may not meet me on the road. She’d play like she was too busy or didn’t want to travel a certain distance but, more often than not, she showed up, waiting for me when I arrived in whatever city. A conversation we had weeks and weeks ago lingered in the back of my head.
Ovulating …
Not a word I’d ever thought I’d care too much about until Georgia uttered it in our bed a month before the tour began. A word that signaled the official start of our attempt to make a family.
But, after a week on the road, two performing, I needed her—badly. The good-looking women around me day after day on tour, never mind the ones in the crowd who call my name and flash their perfect breasts—it was driving me crazier earlier than it usually had. Maybe it was all the baby talk that was revving up my libido. Good to know some evolutionary things pan out.
I wanted my wife under me, over me, and every way I could get her. So profound was my instant desire that I had to shift, rolling onto my side, my back facing CJ, to avoid any comments about my swelling need. He’d likely never be in this position on the road—having to wait for the woman he loves in order to satisfy any longing he might have.
“Regan?” Her question pulled me back to the present, where I’m painfully aware of Georgia’s absence.
“Sorry,” I sighed, “I just miss you so much.”
CJ got out of bed and tapped me on the shoulder. “I’m going to the back to play cards with some of the guys—wanna come?”
I shook my head, anxious for him to leave my personal space. “Talking with G.”
He nodded and, without a word, disappeared to the back of the bus.
“Was that CJ?” Georgia asked.
“Yeah.”
“He behaving?”
“Let’s not talk about him. I can’t think straight right now, I miss you so bad.”
A low purr came from the back of her throat and in my head I could see the face she always made to accompany that delicious tone. “Real bad?” she asked.
My voice came out more breathless by the second as I slid a hand to my jeans. “Bad, G. You have no idea how badly I want you right now. Right here. Right now.” I was so hard, my body was more than relieved when I undid my button and zipper, releasing myself from constraint.
She whispered. “You’re all alone right now?”
I nodded, as if she could see. “Yeah.”
“Me too. In our bed. The sheets still smell like you.”
I swallowed, my throat dry as I wrapped my hand around my rock-hard cock. “Keep talking …”
Her voice was playfully seductive. Low, enticing, luring. She was a predator of the best kind, and I’d fall for her every time—in person or not. “I’m in the blue silky panties you like … with the black polka dots.”
“What bra are you wearing?” My pulse quickened at just the thought of her in those damn panties.
“I’m not,” she answered, sending me into another level of ecstasy. “I’m running my hands over my breasts, wishing they were your hands.” Her breath picked up the way it did when I put her nipple between my lips.
“Jesus …”
“Tell me what you’d do if you were here. I miss you, Regan …”
I groaned when she said my name, closing my eyes to bring her as close to me as possible, pretending for a little longer that she was actually here and not in a whole other state. “I’d run my lips from your nipples to your navel. Slow, making you squirm.” The noises from the other end of the phone told me to continue as I stroked myself harder, faster.
“Then,” I continued, barely able to form words the closer I got to climax, “I’d bring my mouth into you, swirling my tongue.”
I could tell from the faint hum in the background that she had her vibrator in bed with her, and that just turned me on more, causing my orgasm to flood over and through me in a garbled mess of words and soft moans. I tried to be as quiet as possible, but there’s only so much control one has …
A few seconds later, Georgia got hers and, for a few quiet seconds we sat on the phone, listening to each other breathe.
“I miss you,” I said again, for what would be one of a million times over the next several months.
Panting, she answered back. “I miss you. I’ll see you soon and give you the R-rated version of what we just did.”
I groaned playfully, stripping from my jeans and boxers under the blanket, needing to wash those as soon as possible, and reminding myself of proper road etiquette for situations like this—be prepared. This took me off guard, though. Rookie move.
“See you in Oregon,” I said. “Goodnight.”
“Night, babe. I love you.”
“I love you.”
When the line went silent, I took another deep breath, savoring the temporary relief my own hand would provide before the desire swept up again, like waves on high tide—back in as fast as they leave.
A knock on the door separating our section from the back of the bus startled me—this wasn’t really a knocking type of crew.
“Yeah?” I called.
“It’s CJ, can I come in?”
I scrunched my eyebrows. “Yeah …”
A second later he burst into the “room,” all grins and bravado. “Thank God. I was wondering how long it would take you to polish one off.”
“The fuck you talking about?” My cheeks heated, and I hoped the dusky light of sunset would hide my embarrassment. I’m not the showman CJ is.
He waved his hand, giving my shoulder a hard clap before falling onto his own bed. “Come on, Regan. All low talking and whispers with Georgia? I know when to take a hint.”
I grumbled, rolling over. “Then take one now and shut up.”
He laughed. “All right, all right. But, just know this—”
“Do I have to?”
“Yes. I’ve got mad respect for you, man. Guys drop their girls left and right around here—wife or not. You don’t. I mean, G’s my best friend, so I’d hate to have to kick your ass if you started sniffing around—”
“You really are vile, you know that?” I cut in, peeking at him from over my shoulder.
He raised his hand. “Let me finish. I’m just saying, I’m happy for you and Georgia that you’re relationship is as tight as it is.”
“Thanks, man. I love her.”
“I know. So, I’m willing to clear the deck whenever you need to shine your knob.”
I flipped him the bird before slipping quickly into a satisfying sleep.
Seven
Georgia
“For the cannoli,” Brian asked, “do you make or purchase the shells?”
He looked up after my long silence, chuckling when he saw my face. I crinkled my nose like I smelled garbage.
“What?” he asked innocently, laughing.
I put my hand on my hip and arched an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t sell them if I couldn’t make them. You know me better than that.”
A small grin took over the corner of his mouth. “Just checking,” he murmured.
“Do you mean for people to call this place Live, as in ‘I live here’ or Live as in ‘Live band’?” The question had been nagging at the back of my mind since Regan brought me there before he left on tour.
Brian looked up from the binder filled with pictures of my work and my many catering offerings, light in his eyes. “That’s part of the art. I call it the first way, but it’s about being open to expression and where we are in life. I’m an artist, like you, like Regan, but I’m not confined to just food.” He lowered his head, continuing to pore over my portfolio.
“Hmm.” I poured him coffee, thinking it over. “I think ma
ybe you’re playing off not thinking things through all the way.”
His face was almost pale when he looked up again, his mouth open.
I swung at his shoulder with a towel from my apron. “I’m just screwing with you. I’ve known you too long to think you’re careless.”
Thankfully he laughed, his sense of humor seemingly fully in tact despite keeping up with the grueling schedule of a restaurant owner—a new one at that.
I used to waitress at bars he managed throughout the region. Sometimes I followed him outright when he left for another establishment, and other times we happened to end back up together and were a fierce crime-fighting duo with the after-midnight crowd.
In truth, I was now as exhausted as Brian. And my nerves were on edge, especially with Regan gone and me being left to my own devices. I’d been working a breakneck pace for years to get the bakery off the ground while working on my relationship with Regan, never mind dealing with the anxieties around my mother’s health. It would be enough to send anyone insane. But the double-edged sword of it all was that work was the only thing that helped keep me grounded one hundred percent of the time. I was never into drugs or boozing as an escape—productivity was my high.
“Always a smart ass,” Brian cut in, yawning. “Can you leave this place well enough alone to go hook up with your husband in Oregon?”
I walked back into the kitchen, double checking the contents of the refrigerator with the list in my hand to assure things would run as smoothly as possible while I was out of town. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’re more balls-to-the wall than I’ve ever been.” He left his booth and joined me in the kitchen, swiping my list and leaning against the counter. “It’s been a hell of a successful few years for you, and I don’t want you to get burned out.”
I huffed, irritated to be having this conversation. There were far more men in the culinary business than women—at least here in San Diego, and conversations always veered down this path. “Do guys talk to each other like this, or is it my tits that subjects me to the ‘take it easy’ talk?”
Brian pursed his lips.
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