Rock Hard

by Paige North

  “Me neither,” Ryan mumbles from the couch, dicking around on his phone.

  “None of us would. Not like you’re any different.” Ethan cracks his knuckles then disappears into the kitchen. Sometimes I really hate coming home. My brothers hate me for my fame and money, especially Ethan, even though I’ve made their lives about five million times better.

  “If you care so much,” Daniel looks up from his permanent spot in front of the laptop. The one I bought him. “Why don’t you go see her already?”

  “I told you I can’t,” I snap at him. Why don’t they get it? “These media people are fucking wolves. They hide out and stalk you. They wait until you think you’re safe, then they follow you and pounce. Last thing Mama needs is paparazzi showing up at the hospital asking how she got her bruises.”

  “You mean last thing you need,” Ethan chimes in. “It’s shit you don’t want to deal with. You’re selfish. You don’t want your fans to know your family, which is pretty low, if you ask me.”

  I shoot a glare at him. Taking another swig from my glass, I stand and walk a jagged line at Ethan. “I never said I don’t want fans to know my family. But nobody needs to know about Daddy and Mama’s personal business.” Especially Elena.

  It’s bad enough I blew like a bat out of hell from Nashville a week ago without a trace. She’s texted a couple of times to make sure I’m okay, but other than that, radio silence, mi amigos.

  Even after I broke down and sent her five texts today, asking for forgiveness. Not that I can blame her. I treated her pretty rough the night before I left, even though I worship the ground she walks on. Why do I have to act like a dick or need absolute control around her?

  I know she’s hurt. I ignored her a whole week before texting like nothing happened. Of course she’s hurt. I haven’t explained anything about my mom or dad, and she sort of has a right to know. But how do I explain that my father got tired of asking my mom for my monthly check, got into a fight with her about when it might come, then drank himself bottomless and smacked her around when she tried to defend me?

  None of my brothers were home at the time, or they’d all have kicked his ass, since all of us are over six feet and two hundred pounds, and my dad’s five-eight. He knew when to attack alright. I cannot imagine explaining any of this to Elena. I can’t. If she sees the real me, my real family, my alcoholic, abusive father, she’ll run.

  Hell, I ran…all the way to Nashville. If she hates me enough after this, she might tell the media. The worst part is, I’ve never told this to anyone—I’m scared I’ll turn out just like him. A controlling, angry, abusive drunk. They say like father, like son, and that is the last thing any woman needs.

  Last week, I got hot-headed when Elena tried to leave the house. I couldn’t believe she was making such a big to-do about our disagreement, but I never imagined I’d want to tie her up because I was pissed. For shits and grins, for fun, yeah. But not because I was mad, not to show her who was boss.

  Until I get these tendencies off my brain, I shouldn’t see her anymore. I’m no good for her, and I don’t want to drag her deeper into my personal hell. She doesn’t deserve it. Stuck at home and in this situation, waiting for Mama to be released so I can finally see her, I have nothing better to do than crawl into a bottle.

  Or two.

  Or eight.

  I’m tired of my brothers’ accusing tones, too, so I take off to the guest room where I’ve been sleeping for a week. Don’t know how long I’ll be here, but I’ve already notified Rick and Pierce about a “personal emergency.” They were understanding, but they also sounded like I better get my ass back there as soon as it’s all over. They want to close the set and polish off the album with only two month to go before it drops.

  Fuck my life.

  With three thousand thoughts looming over my head—the recordings, Elena, Elena’s music, my mama, the way I treated Elena, my poor excuse for a father, my brothers’ resentment over my career, Elena and her body, the way it melds around mine when I pound into her…I need a minute to myself. A stress reliever.

  Locking the door and polishing off what’s left of the moonshine, I set the bottle on the nightstand, then close the blinds and lie down on the squeaky bed, preparing to fall asleep and wake up at eight when I’ll next receive a call from the hospital.

  I may not be any better than my old man, but I love my woman. Unlike him.

  I love her so much, in fact, I won’t be around her. This way, I’ll protect her. Sounds ass-backwards, but it’s what I need to do to make sure she’s safe. She doesn’t deserve it.

  The ceiling fan above swirls and leans to one side of the room until it splits in two, and then the room shifts back to the other side. Don’t rock the boat, don’t rock the boat, baby. I’m drunk off my ass. So drunk I can’t get my cock to stand up straight when I wrap my hand around it and stroke it, letting the ceiling fan’s breeze cool me down in this late summer heat.

  But then I think about her.

  Those round, perfect tits, those pink nipples I love to flick, the little bumps around them, her tight body and glistening wet pussy. Such a pretty pussy, all pink and shiny with that little clit I love to suck on.

  A natural goddess, unassuming, all without knowing how goddamn beautiful she is, and before I know it, my cock’s hard as stone, standing at salute, aching for my Shortcake. Aching for her touch, but I won’t call her again. Not even to hear her voice, though I’m dying to drive back to Nashville just for one night.

  No. I’ll take care of this myself.

  Be strong, Jayce. And don’t fuck things up anymore.

  14

  Elena

  Ten days since he disappeared.

  Nothing to do but work hard to get my life back in order. It’s a lot like what people go through after a bad storm. You pick up tree branches, broken house tiles, and knocked-down fences. That’s what Jayce has been in my life—a Category 5 hurricane. But it’s more than pickup and devastation—it’s also heartbreak. You lose your treasured photos, your belongings, your home, and in some cases, your family members.

  I know it sounds dramatic to mourn the loss of a six-week long relationship, but that’s how it feels—devastating. I knew from the beginning I shouldn’t get involved, but I did anyway. I couldn’t stop myself. I desperately wanted to feel something in my life, other than crippling fear of not making it in the music industry. Adoration, lust, and love, for a change. And I did.

  But now it’s gone.

  Doesn’t matter, because I’m not making the same mistake again. Yeah, he’s apologized by text a few times, but he still won’t tell me where he is or what’s going on, and see? That’s the sort of shit I can’t get past. I’ve driven by his house a few times, too, and the lights are never on, his car is never there. So, unless he’s on some secret mission to Afghanistan that the CIA prevents him from divulging information, he can kiss my ass.

  My focus now is making Mr. Logan happy, working my butt off, writing my stupid songs, and continuing to pretend that I might be someone famous one day.

  Zoe’s gone for the weekend, and I’m in the middle of cleaning my closet after a day of organizing the kitchen cabinets and drawers (I’ve ignored my roommate chores for over a month) when the doorbell to the apartment rings. It’s either Zoe’s daily UPS pickup for her Etsy store or one of her pot-smoking friends here to raid our refrigerator.

  One glance at the time shows it’s too late for a UPS pickup, so it has to be one of her friends. I don’t answer. My hair’s in a messy bun, and I’m sweating like a pig in this August heat. Whoever it is can go the hell away. Whoever it is keeps ringing, though.

  At this point, my phone keeps vibrating annoyingly, and I put down the shoeboxes full of trinkets long enough to put two and two together—whoever’s at the door is also texting me. Tossing an empty box to one side, I scramble to my feet and yank open my bedroom door, stomping disgruntled through the living room.

  I rip open the door. “Hey, she’s
not home—”

  I freeze, my brain recapturing all the familiar visual signals and sending them to different parts of my body for reaction. My arm shakes, heartbeat speeds up, lungs having trouble gathering air…

  “Then I guess I’ll come back when she is.” Jayce leans against the doorframe, his face covered in two-week old stubble, bags under his eyes, and he slouches like he just got sucker punched.

  “You look like shit,” I manage to say.

  “Thanks, Shortcake. Nice to see you, too.”

  “What do you want?” The dual sides of my brain begin to battle. Danger. Hurt alert. Make him leave. What is he doing here? God, I love him. No, you don’t need him in your life, Elena. Especially smelling like booze. Really strong booze. Did he drive here this way? This is why you don’t need him.

  “I needed to see you.” His voice is sultry, low and raspy. Like a blues record.

  “Is that so? You disappear from my life, won’t tell me what’s going on, and I’m supposed to just let you walk in here? I don’t think so.” It hurts, but I have to shut him out. I start closing the door, but Jayce puts his hand through and holds it open. My little arm is no match for his strong one.

  “Elena, I can’t explain everything. You just have to trust me.”

  “This shit again? Me? You say I’m the one who has to trust? Fuck you, Jayce. You’re the one with trust issues. You’re the one who has—had—me at home every day at your disposal, and you treated me like a sex slave instead of a friend.” I avoid the word girlfriend, because that’s not what this is even about. All I ever wanted was the courtesy of being treated with respect, like a person he cared about, another human he could relate to, instead of an object of taboo.

  “A sex slave, Elena? We had dinners, we drank all night, we kissed, we swapped stories… Doesn’t sound like a slave to me. Slaves don’t get anything from the arrangement.”

  Is he suggesting I had ulterior motives all along? “As if I signed up for your ‘Muse Wanted Campaign’ just for my own career advancement. I said yes to staying with you because I thought we had something and wanted to explore it. I didn’t know what it was, but it was something. We didn’t even have to label it. Apparently, it was nothing all along.”

  “It wasn’t nothing.” His eyelids bat softly, from over-thinking and sheer exhaustion, it seems. “I don’t have it all figured out,” he says, knocking lightly on the door frame. “But it definitely wasn’t nothing.”

  “What do you want from me?” I ask, wanting so badly to make the pain go away. Whatever happened, we can start over. I can forget my anger, if he can start acting right, and we can somehow make this work. I want so badly to believe this.

  “I want to come in.”

  “So you can use me again. I don’t think so.”

  He shakes his head, his eyes killing me. His thumbs, curled around his belt loop, gripped loosely in exhaustion. I don’t know what’s happened in his life to make him go away, but he’s back now, and he wants me, needs me.

  Could he have gone to an ex-girlfriend? It occurs to me that I don’t even know any of their names. That’s how little Jayce Owens shares with me, so why can’t I kick him to the curb?

  “So I can love you,” he says. “I love you, Elena. I think you know that.”

  He loves me, he says. Part of my heart wants to soar and rejoice, but the other part warns me that he’s saying what he needs to say to get what he wants. Then again, Jayce has never said what he needs to say.

  He doesn’t need a damn thing from me. Money? He gets enough of that on his own. Female companionship? He can have any woman he wants. Career? He’s got that covered.

  “Why, Jayce?” I shake my head. “Why me? I don’t have anything you need. I don’t understand. If you’re going to keep hurting me, I have to understand why I agree to let you. What’s at stake?”

  “You’re the only one who’s seen the real me, Elena. You don’t judge. We could’ve met before I hit it big, and we’d still act the same way with each other. You don’t know what that means to me.” For a second, I think his voice will hitch up in his throat. His gaze feels sincere, and his words seem to come from a place of passion, from the heart.

  I sigh and walk away, leaving the door open. I don’t know what will happen, but at the very least, I can’t let him leave in his condition. “You’re drunk.” I start heading back to my room. “Close the door and stay until you get sober. There’s no one home but me.”

  Well, there you have it. The case of the missing country star—solved. I still have a mission to complete, though: the organization of my room, my life, and an award-winning career to begin. If he wants to be a part of it, great. If not, be gone in the morning. That’s what he’s good at anyway.

  Why does my heart feel like it’s cleaving in two? How can I walk away from him so easily when he’s the very man I’ve fought to stop thinking about for six weeks now?

  In my room, I’m a Tasmanian Devil, whirling in a fury to clean and keep my mind busy, but I’m keenly aware that he’s standing at my door, leaning against it, staring at me.

  “I’ve missed you,” he says. “I drove five hours just to see you.”

  “Oh?” I spin around to face him, and for the first time, I can really feel the anger I’ve managed to subdue all this time bubbling to the surface. “Am I supposed to do cartwheels? Wow. The famous country star has returned. Let us all fall to our knees and give thanks!” I wave my hands in the air. “Praise Jesus!”

  I feel unexpectedly free.

  “I don’t expect you to roll out the red carpet, but I do need you.” He takes a few steps toward me, and I want to run. Run the whole way back to New Hampshire, crawl under the covers, and cry until the mean man goes away. “You know me, I don’t need anyone. And I can get sex from anyone. Doesn’t it mean a thing that I came to you?” He reaches the safe distance where I stand seething and pushes my loose tendrils behind my ear.

  I close my eyes. No…

  Actually, it does mean something. It’s the only thing giving me any ounce of satisfaction right now is knowing that, of all the people Jayce Owens thought to return to after…wherever the hell he’s been…is me.

  “I want you,” he adds. “I don’t have all the answers you want, Elena, but ain’t it enough that the only person I can think of, day and night, is you? Please, Shortcake.”

  I close my eyes again and try to let go of all the anger.

  It’s built up pretty good. I had no idea. To be fair, I don’t have all the answers for him either, but this is as good an apology as I’ll probably ever get, and the truth is, I haven’t stopped thinking of him either. So, yeah, I’ll probably hate myself for it later, but I need him right now just as much as he needs me.

  I need his arms around me, telling me it’s okay, I need his deep kisses, his hot skin searing mine, his stubble brushing against my soft spots. Need his eyes looking at me intently, urging me on, telling me not to give up.

  “I just don’t want to hurt anymore, Jayce.”

  “And I can’t promise you that you won’t.” His thumb sweeps across my cheek. Am I crying? Why does he have to say such things to me? “I’m no good for you. Don’t you think I know that? Why do you think I’ve kept my distance? I want you to be happy. I’m not the right man for that.”

  “Why not?” Yes, I’m crying. I’m full out crying, because this shit hurts.

  “Because my life’s fucked up.”

  “Everybody’s life’s fucked up in some way, Jayce!”

  For once, he doesn’t fight back with wiser words than mine. For once, he doesn’t slap on the cocky act. He just listens and takes my hands. And then, without warning, he moves in, and I can feel his presence again, overwhelming me, weakening me.

  I stare at his chest, wishing I didn’t feel so small next to him. His lips fall on mine, except it’s not the assault I’m used to, the deep, lustful, commanding attacks. He’s soft and gentle, as he pulls my face in and makes the kiss count.

  I thoug
ht his kiss might reek of alcohol, or maybe I’m used to it, but it’s nice. It smells and tastes like Jayce, and that’s not necessarily a bad thing. It’s not like he’s stumbling around, making zero sense. He’s still lucid and strong enough to make my legs weak, to make my chest rise and fall, and to render me senseless. Fuck him. Fuck you, Jayce Owens.

  Still, he’s back, and wasn’t that what I wanted?

  He’s back and kissing me, and it’s the realization of every single night without him coming to an end. He’s here, not gone. God, I hate him, but yes, I want him. I need this. Need his slipping into bed with me, warming my sheets and nights, skin to skin, need his smoky, sweet mouth on mine, my breasts cupped and sucked on, need his hardness pressing up on me, need to know I’m the one who can put out his fire. Because he said so. I’m the one he came to in flames.

  As my room grows dark from the deepening evening, we fall into a haze of slow, deliberate motions designed to feel. He’s not fucking me hard and fast, and he’s not shocking the shit out of me with his antics, he’s taking his time, as though he might not ever see me again.

  Is that why he came? To love me one more time before he says goodbye? Because I don’t know that I would ever recover from that if he did. Every wall I put up to guard myself against pain from Jayce is a wall he breaks down. Why can’t I resist him?

  I’m doomed. I’m doomed to fall in love with Jayce, and no matter how hard we fight it, we’re two magnets that keep finding their way to each other every.single.time. Some kind of sick Law of Attraction that won’t stop fucking with my brain.

  He kneels between my legs and grips my ass, pulling me closer to his hips. Then, sliding in, his cock fills me, and we hold the pose, relishing every moment. His eyes close, like he’s feeling every sensation, and I swear his hands are softer, smoother than they’ve ever been.