CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Soon Martin and Ashley’s time together spread beyond workouts and to late evenings after the band’s shows. With her, he opened himself up to a broader existence that included exploring cultures he would have before paid only cursory attention. They wandered the streets of Seoul, trying a wild mix of sidewalk cart specialties like red bean fish toast, a mildly spicy cooked rice cake called tteokbokki, fried octopus and squid tentacles, and soondae, a blood sausage mixed with sticky rice. Martin found himself chatting with the street cart vendors—as best as he could—to learn more about their food and its origins. Though this was the kind of thing Conor had long done when they traveled, Martin had never been interested. But with Ashley as his partner, something dramatic had changed. He liked it. He liked feeling engaged. He liked feeling like he was part of a larger world.
In Tokyo, they went to the Ueno district to explore Izakaya—bar culture. They sat elbow-to-elbow with locals and tried Shōchū, a distilled drink with a high alcohol content, as well as several types of warm sake. It was in this inebriated state that they stumbled upon a body suspension show where the participants hung from cords attached to various temporary piercings in their bodies. Each person posing had a team of assistants and they made the piercings and connections for the suspension cords before stepping away in reverent silence. It was fascinating to see how the skin stretched in the different positions, including one aptly called the “crucifix” as it emulated Christ on the cross. Martin couldn’t help but cross himself and say a prayer over that one.
Then there were the “play piercings” that promised an endorphin high, and even orgasm if done as part of BDSM. This intrigued Ashley to the point where she spontaneously decided they should both get piercings.
“No, not for me,” Martin had said, thinking Celia would faint at the sight of him.
“Come on, aren’t you curious about how it will intensify things?” she asked, her eyes bright with excitement at the thought of it.
“What would you get pierced?”
“Well, since I’m not brave enough to get my clit done, maybe start with a nipple?”
He smiled. “Yeah, sure you would.”
“I’ll do it if you will!”
“No, you won’t.”
She grabbed him by the bicep, the muscle that was now showing signs of enviable definition, and dragged him toward the open booth offering piercings. “I’ll go first if you promise me you’ll do it next,” she said.
“I, em, I don’t know.”
But he stood there and watched as she conferred with the latex-gloved piercing expert, a man with a receding hairline, a narrow face, and a long beard. Before he knew it, Ashley was sitting in a chair and tugging her shirt up. She pulled half of her bra up, exposing the swell of her exquisite right breast, her nipple puckering in the cool air. Martin looked around at who might be seeing her this way, concerned for her privacy before realizing such thoughts of modesty were in vain. There wasn’t one person in the place that would be impressed by this sudden show of flesh.
“Hold my hand,” she said.
He went to her and held her hand tightly, watching as the piercing guy cleaned her nipple with a swab of alcohol.
“Don’t stare,” she said.
Meeting her eyes with embarrassment, he saw that she was joking. This was part of the excitement for her, him seeing her exposed and vulnerable this way. Without even having to look, she would know he was hard and thrilled at seeing her naked.
“Fuck you. I’ll stare if I like,” he said.
She laughed, enjoying that he had caught her at her game.
He watched as a long needle was pushed through the areola of her nipple. She squeezed her eyes shut and held onto him tighter. The next step was sliding through the small barbell, and then it was over. Sitting up, she looked down at it and touched her breast, holding it to admire the new hardware. Then she delicately toyed with the barbell as he continued to watch. She slowly looked up at him with a smile defined by lust.
“Oh, yeah, this is going to be good,” she said. “Now you.”
She got up and forced him to sit in the chair she had been in while pulling up his shirt.
“Hey, I don’t know about this, Ashley,” he told her.
Leaning down, she whispered into his ear, “Do it for me, baby.”
At that moment, he was so in her thrall he would have done anything for her. The ritual of the piercing was repeated on his nipple and the white-hot feel of the needle pushing through his flesh was a surprising sensation, as the pain was tinged with pleasure. Maybe it was just the lingering image of Ashley’s pierced flesh, but his own piercing was now associated with sex and desire. And he wanted more.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
That night, hooked on the hurts-so-good sensation of piercing, Martin added a matching barbell in his right eyebrow. The next day, Ashley insisted he get a haircut to suit his new look and the shorter, edgier style worked perfectly to match the rock star that he was. In the coming days, Ashley helped him find a whole new wardrobe, which he needed anyway because of his weight loss, but was also befitting his darker direction. Gone were the lackluster corduroys, khakis, and shapeless jeans with plain tees, and instead he wore fitted dark or black jeans, dark T-shirts that hugged his torso, and open flannels or a tattered army or leather jacket.
Martin felt good with this new look, and it didn’t hurt that he had Ashley complimenting him and gleefully pointing out when women would stare at him. He didn’t even mind that his bandmates mocked his piercings and makeover.
When he wasn’t rehearsing, sound checking, or performing with the band, he was with Ashley. He preferred not to examine the inappropriately close friendship they had formed, telling himself that he was a married man who hadn’t really crossed any lines. They would soon be separated anyway, as Rogue was headed toward an extended break in the tour. They would wrap up this Asian leg of the tour and head home for the Christmas holiday, starting again in the New Year with another pass through North America.
It might have been this impending break that led Ashley to her most overt play for him. It happened after he thought he might have pulled a muscle during a morning workout at their hotel in Osaka. He skipped weights and instead ran a brisk four miles on the treadmill before retreating to his room. Ashley knocked at his door just as he was getting out of the shower. She had promised to bring icy-hot for his muscle ache, so he went to the door, still dripping and wearing only a towel around his waist.
Ashley held a jar in her hands, but instead of giving it to him she stood frozen still and eyed him up and down.
“Your work is paying off,” Martin said with a laugh. He flexed his abs, admiring the view of his newly acquired six pack. He had shed the soft belly she had once pinched. In its place was lean, tight muscle.
“Yes, it is,” she said slowly.
There were voices in the hall and rather than be seen by strangers, Martin waved Ashley into his room and closed the door.
“So, just rub it on the spot that hurts?” he asked.
“Um, yeah, sort of. It would be good for me to do it, though, so I can rub it in deep.”
“Sometimes I really don’t know if you mean to do that,” he told her.
“Do what?”
“Talk like that. With the double-meanings. Everything has another connotation.” He leaned toward her with a smirk. “A sexier meaning.” He was having a laugh, but she didn’t take it that way. She looked heated, ready to pounce on him. If he were a free man, he would have let her. But he was married and wanted to stay that way.
“Oh, baby, you have no idea,” she said and batted her eyelashes at him.
He laughed once more. “Just give it here and I’ll take care of it. Thanks, Ash.”
“No, I want to be sure you get it on the right spot. Let me.”
Everything in him knew that she should leave his room right now. It was all too easy to do the wrong thing. But instead of showing her the door, he
turned and moved through the small living room of his suite and into the bedroom before sitting on the edge of the bed.
Ashley opened the jar and rubbed ointment on her hands, then stood in between his legs. She started lightly, rubbing his aching deltoid, but then grew progressively stronger with her pressure. He winced as she worked and focused on the fact that her breasts were in his face, swaying back and forth. She would have to leave soon so he could get off.
“There,” she said. “That should feel better.”
He swallowed and nodded.
“I’ll just go wash my hands.”
When she stepped away, Martin bunched the sides of his towel over his groin to try to hide the obvious reaction he had to her touch.
“Since I’m here, how about a therapeutic massage?” she said, coming out of the bathroom with a bottle of the hotel lotion.
Martin laughed out loud. How much temptation was he supposed to take? “No, thanks. You should go. I’ve got, em, things to do.”
“I’m really good,” she said in a sing-song voice.
“I’m sure you fucking are. But I can’t.”
“I really don’t mind that you’re . . . excited right now,” she said, glancing at his wadded up towel. “It’s a human reaction, right? No big deal.”
“Okay, great,” he said with mock relief. “Just—”
“You’ve been working out so hard. You deserve a little treat.”
She wasn’t going to give up. Fuck, what was he supposed to do? Pick her up and throw her out of his room?
“Fine. Maybe just my back?” he said instead and she smiled triumphantly.
He lay down on the bed and closed his eyes, hoping she would give this effort a cursory pass so he could get on with using the lotion on himself after she left. But then he felt the bed shift as she climbed first on it and then straddled his waist, her ass on his. She took her time slowly stroking his back, shoulders, and neck. Talking to him in soft, soothing tones, she encouraged him to relax and to follow her as she breathed in and out deeply.
“Why do I feel like you’re enjoying this as much as I am?” he asked and she laughed.
“I do like that I have an . . . effect on you.”
They both knew what she meant by that. “Even if I do nothing about it?”
“Oh, I know you’ll do something about it. And you’ll be thinking of me. That’s what I enjoy.”
He turned halfway around to look at her. “You enjoy fucking with my head and giving me blue balls at the same time?”
She smiled and nodded. There it was. She admitted it was all a game to her.
“Well, then, get the fuck out of here so I can do what I need to do,” he said impatiently.
“Or, I could stay. And watch.”
“Fuck’s sake, Ashley,” he moaned. “Get out of here now or I’ll—”
“Die of blue balls?” she teased. But she got up and waved at him as she made her way out of his room.
When the door closed, he lay back and groaned. Then he reached for the lotion.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The restraint Martin had shown in letting Ashley leave his hotel room that morning was long gone. Now, he was in bed with her at her Berkeley studio, having spent much of the night fucking her in a variety of ways. She was in a deep sleep, but Martin couldn’t join her in that restful state. He got up and crammed himself into the tiny corner shower, washing off as best as he could. Once dressed, he figured out how to use the coffee machine and took a mug of the hot brew outside, carefully closing the French doors behind himself. The sunrise was spreading its golden color across the Bay, and birds were making their calls as the day came alive.
Martin drank his coffee in small sips. He wasn’t sure where he went from here. Staying much longer at Ashley’s wasn’t the plan. He’d have to get back to Shay’s somehow. If Shay would take him in again.
He had turned off his cell phone the night before to save the battery, but he knew he had to see what hell he had unleashed, so he powered it up now. The thing buzzed with notifications for a solid three minutes from all the texts, voicemails, emails, and news wire alerts. Holy fuck.
The prevailing tabloid theme seemed to be “Too Much a Whe-lan Gets Rogue Member Caught!” Varying accounts all focused on the loud, “orgasmic” cries coming from the cabin overlooking the ocean at Mt. Tam’s Steep Ravine. Of course, the stories were also careful to mention that “both Martin Whelan and his lady-friend (not wife Celia Whelan) were discovered completely nude.”
There were dozens of texts and voicemails from Gavin, Conor, and Shay. There wasn’t anything from Celia. He wouldn’t expect that. What was surprising was a message from Sophie, Gavin’s wife. That’s how he always thought of her—Gavin’s girl. Martin didn’t have a relationship with her beyond that, not because he didn’t care for her, but because that’s what Celia deemed appropriate. Celia did not believe men and women could—or should—be friends.
Curious to see what Sophie might have said, Martin played back her message.
“Hi Marty. I’m sure you’ve got a lot going on. I just wanted you to know we’ll do everything we can here for Celia and the boys. Just . . . look after yourself, okay?”
He thought that was it and started to lower his phone when he heard her voice again.
“And, Marty? It is possible to come back from this. If you both want it, that is. I should know,” she said with a small laugh.
That was why she had called—to commiserate. To let him know that his scandal wasn’t the end of the world. Hadn’t they all been there at this point?
The thing was, he never thought he would be here. He had flown under the radar for so many years, the steady backbeat while Gavin and Conor were relentlessly out front for good or bad. Shay had been his partner in normalcy until everything went cock-eyed the previous year. That left Martin on his own as the respectable one of the band.
But that had also been when Martin started to feel an itch for something more. Not that he wanted drama, but there was a growing sense of isolation, of that hackneyed midlife crisis question, “Is this all there is?” A creeping worry that any chance for excitement or unexpected thrill was long gone started to build.
And then Ashley happened. If she hadn’t decided to level her attention upon him that morning in the gym, he might have just cruised along for a few more years, repressing his discontent. But she did choose to connect with him, and that unleashed this whole journey where he allowed himself to explore new paths, even as he knew—at least subconsciously—that every step of the way, it took him farther from his marriage.
Of course, he denied that was happening at the time. Denied it to himself and to Celia. They had long been on autopilot in their relationship, so much so that when he was on tour, they spoke rarely and briefly, reserving calls primarily for him to speak with the kids. That meant Martin hadn’t shared with Celia any of his new experiences from the road while he was away. She didn’t see how fit he had become, how much he was enjoying exploring each city’s culture, or that he simply enjoyed being engaged in conversations that ran from the silly to the philosophical to the profane. She didn’t even know about his piercings.
Those obvious physical changes should have garnered an instant response from Celia when he returned home for the holiday break, but she was too distracted to register that anything had changed. Clad in a housecoat, and distracted by the mid-afternoon demands of the boys being home from school, she received Martin’s kiss on the cheek absently.
“It’s good you’re home,” she said. “Donal has been dragging his feet on his history report. It’s due tomorrow, of course. Last day before the holiday break. Can you put the fear in him to get it done? I’ve got to run to the shops. I just remembered I’m to bring in sugar cookies for Sean’s class to decorate tomorrow. You see how it is.”
Slipping into dad-mode was jarring, but Martin spent the next several hours doing just that. The boys noticed the eyebrow piercing, of course, and it earned him major coo
l points. They all wanted to get one to match but Martin was able to assuage them with temporary tattoos instead. Each boy had a nautical themed tattoo on his forearm to match the octopus Martin pasted on his arm. They lay on the floor of the living room before bedtime, taking turns holding up their arms and making up a story about the tattoo they had.
Martin was happy and content in that moment. His previous weeks of explorations away from this life were forgotten as he embraced his family.
“Oh, you didn’t,” Celia said with a moan. “Tattoos? You know they’re not allowed in school, Marty. I’ll have to scrub their arms before bed.”
“Can’t we keep them?” Donal asked.
“We’ll wear long-sleeves!” Colm said.
“Please, Ma,” Sean added.
“Rules are rules,” she replied.
Martin sat up and hunched over his knees. “It’s a silly rule, babe. And tomorrow’s the last day before break. Let it slide.”
“That’s not how we do things in this house, and—what on earth is on your face?”
“That’s Da’s piercing! Isn’t it cool?” Donal asked.
“It’s, em, well. March yourselves upstairs. Time for bed. I’ll be up in a minute to deal with those tattoos.”
They grumbled, but gave Martin a hug good night and made their way upstairs.
“What do you think, Cee?” Martin asked, wiggling his brow.
She eyed him for a long moment, finally taking in the totality of him. He wore black skinny jeans with strategic rips at the knees and a dark gray thermal shirt. His hair was choppy but in a stylized way. His frame was all taut muscle. “We’ll talk after I get the boys taken care of.”
While Martin waited for Celia to return from putting the boys to bed, he settled on the living room sofa, drinking a Murphy’s Stout. It was a comfortable room, familiar. But that now triggered an uneasiness in him as he wondered why they hadn’t redecorated in years. They had established a routine life together at an early age and never deviated from it.
Finding Rhythm (Rogue Rockstar Series Book 4) Page 7
