Fuck.
I try to think about the songs. I go through the playlist in my head and tune my guitar. I have twenty-seven guitars and each one of them has its own sound. Every show, I choose carefully. Sometimes I play each song with a different guitar. Tonight the choice was easy, and there’s only one. It’s a Taylor Dreadnought 110 that plugs in. It’s the guitar I took to Sadie’s house last night. The one I played when I first heard her sing.
Vaughn walks in. He hands me a cold beer, even though I’m already drinking one. “Ten minutes, Elias.”
He watches as I chug the beer then finish the one I was already drinking. I slam them both onto the table.
“What the fuck’s up with you tonight?” he says. Vaughn knows me very well. He’s been my manager since I was a lean, hungry misfit kid. He knows my whole backstory, probably more than anyone ever even wanted to know. “Something goin’ on you’re not telling me?”
I try to act blasé about the whole thing, brush it off and concentrate on the music and the gig. This is proving more difficult than I’d hoped. I didn’t even take a shower. I can still taste her on my lips. I can still smell her on my skin. The memory of her … the way she moved, the way she tasted when my tongue was inside her, that tight, sweet, clenching … it’s fucking breaking my heart. The way she moaned for me, chanting my name when she came.
Vaughn’s watching me.
“Nothing’s up,” I say. “I’m fine.”
“You don’t seem fine. You seem agitated.”
“Nothin’ a beer or two won’t fix.”
“You’ve hardly said a word all night and you look … messed up.”
I glance at a small mirror hanging on the wall and check my hair. It is messed up, but that’s nothing new. My hair’s practically black, sort of wavy. Chicks dig my hair for some reason. They always go on about it and want to touch it and run their hands through it. I try to smooth it down a little but it doesn’t do much good. I’m wearing jeans, boots and a black seventies-style t-shirt that I bought at a thrift store in that small town I’m now a part-time resident of, for two dollars. Even though I have more money than I’ll ever know what to do with, it’s hard to break old habits.
“Are you pissed off because I brought Trevor to your place?” Vaughn says. “Is that it?”
“As long as he keeps his mouth shut I’m fine with it. One paparazzi shows up, though, and he’s fucking toast.”
I can hear the crowd out front, chanting my name. The opening act finished twenty minutes ago and the audience is restless. It’s almost time.
“Saddle up, boys,” Vaughn says. To me, “You’re on, Hayes.”
I lead the way. The roar starts as soon as I step onto the stage. I take my place at the microphone. The spotlights are on. Everything’s dark except for me in my own circle of light. Some girl yells I love you.
I strum the first chord. The lights go up and the crowd goes wild. The first number is an upbeat hit they all know. They cheer and yell and sing along. The girls in the front press up against the stage. I know from experience that any one of them would do anything I say. Anything. I can see the stars in their eyes as they swoon and sing and try to get noticed.
Tonight, it’s all I can do to remember the lyrics. My thoughts are full of hot sunlit beauty and summer lust.
I miss her.
I let myself into his house. It’s unlocked. Quiet. It feels strange to be alone in this spacious, grand house. I can’t help wondering what it would feel like to live in a house like this, one that’s not cluttered and crowded. One where everything’s new and updated and doesn’t need fixing or painting or a new roof because the old one leaks in six places.
My body feels quietly electric with anticipation. I didn’t sleep much last night. When it finally came, in fitful dozes, I dreamed about him. Sweet, sexy dreams that left me hot and wet.
I’m so in lust I think I might be going crazy.
But I don’t feel crazy. I feel sure of it. Sun-touched and fiery.
This is what I’ve decided: I’m going to make love to Elias Hayes today. If he wants to.
I think he might.
Last week, I would’ve had to confess that I’d had impure thoughts, recite a whole bunch of apologies about it and pray for my sins. This week, I’m about to seduce the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen into having sex with me.
I’m blaming it all on the music. And on Elias Hayes, with his devil-blue eyes.
Even though I’ve never, ever done anything like this before, I know what I’m going to do. First, I’m going to kiss him. I’m going to touch him, and run my fingers over his chest. To his stomach. Under his shirt, to that tantalizing line of hair. Then I’m going to unzip his jeans and reach down to caress his thick length with my fingers.
I’m going to give him whatever he wants.
I want to feel him … inside me. Where his fingers were. And his tongue, when he licked me like that, pushing into me. God.
The thought of him doing more is a little scary, to be honest. He’s huge. I imagine what he’ll feel like inside me when his big cock jerks like it did when I sucked on him. When he comes.
I’m starting to soften and dew again just thinking about it. He’s so big and so hard. His muscular body is toned and perfect. It’s impossible not to get turned on when you look at him. To want to get naked just so he can see you. To want to taste him and lick that rock-hard … manhood that’s so smooth and hot. So big and silky and fascinating. And responsive, the way it leaks a little bead of moisture and sort of pulses when you touch it and touch your tongue to it.
I wasn’t sure what to wear today, but I think he’ll like this. I wore a fitted sundress, with nothing underneath. If he knows I have nothing on under my dress, he might get hard again. That’s what I’m hoping will happen. I’m pretty sure it will. He seems to be hard most of the time. All the time, in fact.
Then, if he’ll let me, I’m going to push his jeans lower onto his hips so I can hold him in my hands and feel him. Play him with my fingers. I think he’ll like it.
I mean, I don’t have much experience with these things – who am I kidding, I don’t have any experience with these kind of things – but he seems to love it when I touch him. His eyes get all dark and he looks at me with that wolfish awe.
Then, if I’m brave enough, I’m going to lift my dress a little and lightly touch the head of his cock to me, so he can feel how wet I always am when I’m with him. Then he might push it into me a little. And a little more. I haven’t told him yet that I’m already on the pill, but I will. So it’s okay if he pushes all the way into me, and spills all that warm, milky liquid inside me. I hope he does it. I want to feel him, big and slick and powerless to resist me. I’m going to do everything I can think of to entice him.
I may not be worldly when it comes to sex but I feel different today than I ever have. Powerful and potent in an entirely feminine way. Like I hold the key to the universe.
I can’t wait to see him.
Before that, though, I have work to do. I decide to take a look upstairs to see what sort of state it’s in. But first … I can’t resist. As I walk past the grand piano, I sit. I let the music trickle out my fingers, where it comes to life. Another song. The one I started hearing after I woke from that sticky dream I had about Elias last night. It flows easily and I play it all the way through, singing softly along.
If I get a chance, I might sing my new songs for him, later on. I wasn’t sure what he thought of my singing the other night. He was a little hard to read, after. He stopped strumming his guitar and just stared at me for a while.
Humming, I climb the grand staircase. I find his bedroom. I don’t think he’d mind. He’s hired me to clean his house, after all.
I wish I knew a little more about him. I know that he thinks of himself as cool and in control of everything. Around other people, I bet he is. He has a softer side, too, though, and this is the side that kills me. It’s like I�
��ve reached past his defenses or something. Like he couldn’t say no to me even if he wanted to. It’s so sweet. So irresistible.
The anticipation of seeing him again is practically unbearable. I can’t wait. I crave him with an intensity that’s making me feel reckless. I want to make him feel good. To entice that sexy half-smile he can’t hold back when I say something or do something he wasn’t expecting. I want to run my fingers through his hair again. And kiss his lips. He kisses with his mouth open. He always wants to put his tongue in my mouth. I love it when he does that. It makes me feel hot-blooded and beautiful and fiercely alive. Then again, pretty much everything Elias does to me has that effect.
His bedroom is enormous. There’s a big, four-poster bed that’s unmade and an open suitcase on the floor. The view from the window is idyllic, extending over the rolling, tree-covered hills. I go into the connecting bathroom. There’s his toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste sitting next to the sink. A towel and bottle of shampoo. He might have only slept here one or two nights. He travels light.
I decide to start in here. I clean the bathroom until it’s gleaming. I change the sheets on his bed. I vacuum and dust the windowsills in all the upstairs bedrooms, which there are five of. There’s also a roomy office and a slightly larger second living area. By the time I’m done, it’s after three o’clock. I hadn’t realized it’d gotten so late. I wonder what time Elias will be back and I remember what he said. He was so intense about it: Wait for me. Don’t leave til I get home.
I promised I’d wait.
It’s so hot. My hair is damp from sweat and so’s my dress.
I think about going for a swim but if he comes home and finds me gone, he might think I’ve left for the day.
So I decide to have a shower instead, to cool off a little. In his shower. I don’t think he’d mind.
I take off my dress and hang it over a towel rack next to the window. Then I step into the shower and turn it on. It’s the fanciest shower I’ve ever been in. Tiled in glossy black and white squares. There are nozzles not just overhead but also coming out of the sides of the shower, like a car wash. One day, when I get a recording deal, I’m going to have a shower just like this. And a big house with lots of rooms. And a grand piano.
I pour some shampoo onto my hair and lather it up. As I turn, the nozzles spray little jets out of the sides of the shower; they caress my body in all kinds of crazy places. I can’t help but laugh. Even Elias’s shower is an erotic experience. The water drips down my breasts and off my budded nipples in little rivulets. One of the soft jets hits me right there, between my legs. As I rinse, I let it center there. I start to get warm, tingling lightly. My intimate petals start to swell and open. God. I gently tilt my hips, letting the warmth build. I touch myself, feeling the silky folds of my body, the tiny hooded nub. I remember what his tongue felt like, licking me there. Sucking on me. I turn and the jets hits my buttocks, and between them. He even licked me there. His wet, probing fingers pushed into me. I’d never imagined anyone doing that to me. Or how good it would feel, when he put his fingers and his tongue into every part of me.
The jets are making me a little wild. If I stand her much longer, I’m going to come. I wonder if it’s possible to die from it: from this strange, sweet kind of longing. I want him so much.
Then I hear something. Heavy footsteps. The bedroom door slamming.
Oh, God, he’s here.
Elias is home.
He’s walking into the bathroom.
He opens the door of the shower.
“You’re number one on the billboard charts. Every song on your latest album has hit the top ten. Both your debut album and your follow-up have gone platinum. You’ve won three Grammys. The song you wrote for the City Lights soundtrack got nominated for an Oscar and the role you played in the movie – as yourself – was greeted with critical acclaim. Both your tours sold out to record crowds. As if that’s not enough, you were voted Sexiest Man of the Year by People magazine and were featured on the cover of the Rolling Stone not once this year, but twice. Tell me, Elias Hayes, where does the magic come from and where can I get some?”
I’m sitting here in this studio being interviewed by a semi-famous douchebag radio host whose one and only claim to semi-fame is that he’s a semi-famous douchebag radio host.
I’m in a foul mood.
And it’s a stupid question. How the fuck am I supposed to answer that?
It’s his gaffe, not mine, so I wait it out.
“What’s next?” he says. “Another movie? Another album? Both?”
“I have another tour coming up, and I’m working on a new album,” I say. The headlines and the fucking twitterverse will blow up with news about my surliness or some bullshit if I give short, terse answers. I know this. I’ve made that mistake before, more than once. Even so, I can hardly bring myself to care. I barely slept last night. I should have slept. It’s practically the first night – not practically, it is the first night I’ve slept alone after a show since this whole circus started. I ended up kicking a bunch of groupies off my bus and locking the goddamn door. Trevor went ballistic but fuck him. My bass player’s a maniac and a party animal: there’s nothing new. It’s not something that’s ever bothered me before. But it’s bothering me now.
Usually I don’t care that they’re all over me. Groping me and playing with my hair. Sitting on my lap and begging for it.
Usually I like it. Of course I do. What red-blooded male wouldn’t enjoy the fact that he can take his pick of dozens of women each and every night? One, two, three at a time, even. They don’t fucking care. They stalk me and write me letters and camp outside my door. At first I thought it was goddamn Christmas. But after a while, that shit starts to get old. The facelessness of it all. The undeniable fact that they want you for your money or your fame or some part of you that they’re hoping will rub off on them. It’s the stardust they want. The hope that you’ll take them along for the ride. Then they cry and plead and stalk you even more, after the fact. Once they get a taste they go even crazier.
Some days it’s enough to make you feel weirdly, utterly alone. Like you’re in the middle of this ravenous swarm of vampires who won’t rest until they’ve feasted on every part of you and there’s nothing left but a pile of bleached bones.
I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with me.
Actually, I know exactly what the fuck is wrong with me and the whole thing is pissing me off.
That naïve little farm girl with the wide eyes and sun-kissed face. With the white-gold hair soft as silk. With the voice that could break your fucking heart. And the body that could make you lose your goddamn mind.
Why her? How is it that she’s gotten under my skin when so many others have tried and failed? And so goddamn easily. I have movie stars coming on to me. I’ve had rock divas and heiresses undress in my dressing room before I even knew they were there.
I shouldn’t be so goddamn hooked.
It’s like some kind of crazy magnetic pull.
I can literally think of nothing else.
I want to get the fuck out of here, jump in my Shelby and drive straight back to my house – where she’s waiting for me – at two hundred miles an hour. I want it so bad I can taste it.
“Well, come on, do tell,” says the douchebag. “When will the album be released? Is it a departure from what you’ve done so far, or are you sticking to the magic formula?”
“I never really know where the direction of the music will go until I sit down and write it. The songs pour out of me and I go with it. I feel it, I don’t overthink it.” What the fuck? I sound like a pretentious asshole. I would never say something so vapid and ridiculous.
The problem is, I can’t think.
I’ve got other stuff on my mind.
What if she’s not there? What if she gets tired of waiting for me and leaves? I know what I’ll do. I know where she lives. I’ll go to her window. This time, I’m sure as hel
l not going to leave her sitting there on that fucking bench with her moonbright eyes and her soft pink nipples and her skimpy little nightgown that’s just asking to be ripped to shreds. This time, I’ll scoop her up and carry her home with me. Straight to my bed where I plan on licking every inch of her creamy skin before –
“Sing a song for us, Elias. Could you do the newest single, right here in the studio?”
I’m relieved. I’m better at singing than talking. We can fill in the rest of the airtime with a few songs.
I save it. The interview was stilted and awkward. But I’m singing to her, and it’s one of the best acoustic versions I’ve ever done. They all clap and the phones are going crazy so I agree to take some questions from fans.
The first chick breathes out her question. Her voice reminds me of putty and desperation. “Will you marry me, Elias? I love you so much.”
I laugh and say sure, but in my heart I feel almost stricken.
What I want to say is this: Sorry, honey. I’m fucked, I’m a mess, and I’m taken.
Once I get her out of my system, I’ll be fine. Once I fuck her, I can cure this little addiction and move on.
She wants it. I could have fucked her already, there on the rock, yesterday. She was practically begging for it. Now I wish I had. Maybe then I wouldn’t have this hard-on that’s become a goddamn permanent fixture. I’m so hard it hurts. I’m so hard I feel like my lust is leeching into every part of me, reaching deep and greedily into dark corners of my goddamn soul.
I’m almost home. Vaughn cornered me with some sleazy studio executive who’s trying to woo me to jump ship, so I’m later than I thought I’d be. Vaughn thinks we should consider it – the money’s ridiculous – but I told him I need to think on it. Sometimes you gotta trust your gut on stuff like this and my gut wasn’t feeling it.
Maybe because I’m not feeling much of anything except this severe problem I’ve got going on.
Hot Summer Lust Page 6
