by Sarah Grimm
“Emma.”
His voice was even deeper, a gruff whisper that turned her insides liquid. The warm puff of his breath caressed her lips as his gaze bore into hers. The need to have him take her mouth with his inundated her. She couldn’t deny it, but had to.
Emma looked up into his eyes, watching them darken just before his mouth lowered. In the last moment before his lips claimed hers, she turned her head.
“Fuck,” he rasped, brushing his lips over her jaw, her ear, her neck, and sending her pulse into orbit. “I’ve never had to work so hard for a simple kiss.”
“Face it, you’re only interested in me because I’m the first woman who hasn’t fallen at your feet.”
His chuckle vibrated through her everywhere they touched. “It’s refreshing, that’s for sure.”
“It builds character.” She blew a long breath, trying to get her body to settle down. His proximity wasn’t helping. Heat poured off him. His warm masculine scent washed over her and, even though she was trying like hell to ignore it, the desire to kiss him had yet to abate. “Besides, there is nothing simple about us.”
“No, there isn’t.” Joe sighed, then stepped back just far enough she could take a deep breath without tasting him. He reached out and pulled the door open. “Come, Sunshine, meet my band.”
Emma picked up her jacket and stepped forward, pausing for only a moment when his hand settled against the small of her back. Not atop the tank—beneath it. The crooked smile was back as he shifted his hand and slipped a finger through her belt loop, brushing way more skin than necessary in the process.
Her belly executed a little flutter.
She arched a brow and he shrugged. “Wouldn’t want us to get separated.”
He wove through the throng of people with a skill that spoke of practice, tugging her closer against his side whenever someone shifted or bumped into her. The farther into the room they went, the louder it became, until distinctively masculine and heavily accented voices alerted her to their final destination.
And what a destination it was. Dear God, talk about testosterone overload. As striking as these men were in photographs or onstage, they were tenfold up close and personal. They stood at the farthest corner, before a table littered with enough alcohol to stock a nightclub, surprisingly separate from the other inhabitants of the room.
Joe came to a stop before them and, using the damnable hold he had on her belt loop, pulled her against his side. A few brain cells fizzled at the contact. They disintegrated when, finger still hooked in the loop, the rest of his hand flattened across her ass.
“Caught her, I see,” a man she recognized as one of the band’s guitarists commented. Short black hair, five o’clock shadow that couldn’t disguise the dimple in his chin, and eyes so dark they appeared almost black: Steve Thayer—the man behind the blow job passes.
“She’s a little mite, isn’t she?” This from Zach Brenner, the other guitarist, who was shirtless, tattooless, and topped his straight shoulder-length brown hair with a skull cap. “Looks to be more your type, Bobby.”
“That she does.” Robert Poulsen’s grin could only be described as Cheshire cat. With his long black hair and dark skin, Emma guessed him to be of Mediterranean descent, but that was just a guess. “What’s your name, luv?”
The arm at her back tightened and a deep rumbling sounded. Emma glanced at Joe, positive she was just hearing things because damned if that didn’t sound like a growl coming from him. Low and almost…possessive?
She said his name once, softly, then bumped him with her shoulder.
“Watch out for him.” Joe’s gaze was locked on Bobby. “He’s a shark, that one.”
“And you’re all honor and virtue when it comes to women?” Emma snorted. “Thanks for the warning. I’ll be sure to keep on my toes.”
Laughter erupted.
Joe shook his head and smiled down at her. “You probably recognize these blokes: Steve, Zach, Bobby and Kirk. You know Gary, of course. Guys, this bundle of sass is Emma.”
“Hello, Emma.” They responded en masse. All except Gary, who winked at her, and Kirk.
Kirk Lombardo, Blind Man’s Alibi’s drummer, tipped his head and smiled. With hair that looked a whole lot like it was two weeks of growth after being bald, tattoos that covered both arms and the backs of his hands, and gauges in his ears, Kirk demanded attention. The thing is, it wasn’t all of that which grabbed and held hers, it was his eyes. A silvery green, Kirk’s eyes were hypnotic—hypnotic and tinged by a deep sadness.
While Emma pondered what could have caused the sadness, Kirk snagged a bottle of Jameson and a couple of glasses off the table. Palming both glasses, he filled one, twisted his hand and offered it to Joe.
Who turned it down with a shake of his head.
“Emma?”
“No, thank you.”
With a shrug, Kirk placed the empty glass and the bottle on the table. Then he quietly drifted away, blending into the crowd with an ease she wouldn’t have believed had she not seen it with her own eyes.
“Em?”
She looked at Joe. “I’m sorry, what?”
“You slipped away for a minute there.”
No, that would be his drummer. How was it she seemed to be the only one who noticed?
Her gaze slid across the room to where she’d last seen Kirk, but he was gone.
“Did you enjoy the show tonight, Emma?” Steve asked.
“I didn’t catch it. I was at last night’s show.”
Steve cocked his head and looked directly at Joe. A grin split his face. “Indeed.”
“It was madness.” Zach snatched a beer off the table, twisted its top off and tipped it to his lips. He shook his head. “Utter madness.”
Steve continued to grin at Joe, who ignored him. “It’s toward the end of the tour. Everyone’s a little crispy.”
“Even the fans?” Zach snorted. He and Steve shared a look. “That woman who snuck onstage and attached herself to Joe? Christ, she was like an octopus. I thought Gare was going to need backup to pry her loose.”
“She was pretty impressive for a wee woman.” Steve turned his head, and gave Emma a slow looking over from tip to toe. “Are you sure that wasn’t you?”
“Pretty sure.”
Joe watched as Bobby poured a glass of whiskey. “The octopus had red hair.” He shifted his shoulder like he was trying to dislodge something. “And claws.”
Emma frowned.
Steve smirked.
Whatever. She wasn’t reacting to the news that Joe had been pawed during the show tonight, but by the way he stared at the lone bottle of Jameson like a lover. Unlike last night, he had no alcohol on his breath. From the look on his face, it wasn’t for lack of wanting.
Steve’s grin turned into a belly laugh. “Then Bobby got too close to the crowd and someone grabbed him by the knob. He seemed remarkably jolly about the whole business.”
“She was pretty,” Bobby replied.
“Is that who you keep looking for?” Zach asked, causing Bobby to shrug.
“She could find her way backstage. I wouldn’t mind letting her have another go.”
Steve grunted. “Too bad it was the bloke next to her who groped you.”
As they started arguing about whose hand was where, Emma glanced back at Joe, who still stared in the direction of the whiskey. Why didn’t he just have a glass? Was it because of her? Because of last night when she’d told him she would only stay if he stopped drinking?
“I know who you are.” Zach took a pull of his beer and pointed at Emma. “You’re the bird from the front row last night. The one Joe was ogling when he was so rat-arsed he forgot where he was.”
“Rat-arsed?”
Joe groaned. “Ignore him.”
“Trolleyed. Arseholed. Bladdered,” Zach suggested, which prompted Steve to join in.
“Tanked up. Legless. Pissed.”
Emma slid Zach a long look. “Drunk?”
“Aye, drunk.”
/>
Joe was right. She should have ignored him. “You couldn’t just say drunk?”
“Not as much fun, is it?”
Seeing right through him, she laughed softly. “Not as much fun as watching me scrabble to decipher rat-arsed, you mean?”
They all found humor in that and laughed aloud, even Joe.
“Excuse me.”
At the sound of the female voice directly behind her, Emma startled, then did it again as Joe’s hand slid across her ass and settled at her hip. His hand flexed as he turned them both to face the new arrival.
New arrivals, she corrected, noting the group of four young women. With their over processed hair, skimpy shirts and even skimpier skirts, they all looked the same… Right down to the passes around their necks. Not those disgusting smiley passes, at least. These were ones Emma hadn’t seen yet. Like hers, the passes around the young women’s necks where decorated with the band name, the name of the tour and the year. Unlike hers, theirs also sported a radio station call sign and the word Guest.
“Can we get your autograph?” the girl closest asked, which for some inane reason started the rest of them giggling.
More than a little tempted to roll her eyes, Emma was relieved when Gary stepped forward, a black marker in his hand. Joe released his hold on her in order to take the marker, which allowed Emma to step away from the crush as all four rushed forward to be the first to have their shirts signed.
Make that their breasts.
As the shirts lifted, Emma did roll her eyes. A mistake as the move made her head pound harder.
“Damn it.” She pressed her fingers to her temples, doing her best to push back the nausea that churned her stomach.
“Something wrong?”
She glanced over her shoulder at Gary, which was far more pleasant than staring at breasts. “Headache.”
“Would you like something for it?”
It wouldn’t do much good. What she needed was her prescription, but anything was better than nothing. “Are you going to push the button on your radio and pain reliever will magically appear?”
The question hadn’t made it passed her lips and an individual packet of pain medicine was in his hand. “Something like that.”
“Don’t tell me. You had it in one of those pockets. What else are you hiding in there?”
His only response was his signature wink.
“I don’t suppose you could get your hands on chocolate milk while you’re at it?”
Gary’s eyes lit with a quick flash of humor. “That will be a little more difficult but, for you, I can make it happen.”
“I bet you could. Don’t worry about it though.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
He was on the alert the whole time he stood next to her, his gaze never settling in one place for very long. Eyes on the room, on Joe, the rest of the band, and the cluster of females still hanging on their every word. Then back to her.
Emma circled around behind him, searching for a bottle of water in a sea of alcohol. “You don’t miss much, do you?”
“I try not to.”
Tequila. Whiskey. Scotch. Vodka. Wrinkling her nose, she went around to the back side of the table. There had to be something designed to quench thirst instead of produce a buzz. “Perhaps you know where I can find some water?”
“Beneath the table.”
“No wonder.” Emma flipped up the table cover and sure enough.
“Not most people’s first choice.”
She cracked the top off a bottle and swallowed the pills. “I’m not like most people.”
“Understatement.”
Something in his voice had her wishing she could see his face. Emma opened her mouth to ask just what he’d meant when the sight of Bobby walking away, a girl tucked beneath each arm, snagged her attention. Behind the trio, Zach, Steve and the remaining girls trailed.
Movement at the opposite side of the table brought her focus back to Joe, his gaze once again locked on the whiskey as he absently held the marker out in Gary’s general direction. The expression on Gary’s face as he followed Joe’s line of sight spoke volumes, yet he kept silent as he tucked the marker into his back pocket and turned to face the room once again.
Emma circled the table and stepped next to Joe. His left hand settled at her lower back, but his focus never wavered.
As much as she wanted him to look at her, his distraction allowed her to soak in the sight of him up close and personal. The man had the most amazing lips. Full and thick and circled by a closely cropped beard that only emphasized their beauty. Lips she had the most irrational urge to chew on whenever she looked at them. Like now. The urge was so strong, she looked away, only to find herself lost in his eyes.
The green of his shirt emphasized the green in his bi-color eye. God, if she thought the man’s lips beautiful, his eyes were out of this world. “Joe?”
“Mm?”
He called himself an accomplished drinker. Yet here he stood, struggling, fighting some internal battle to resist and not fall prey to the bottle tonight. Being stuck in this room where he couldn’t get away from it probably didn’t help. Perhaps she could.
Reaching out, she traded her bottle of water for the Jameson and offered it to him. “Thank you for last night.”
His focus remained on the whiskey as his hand curled around it. “You’re welcome.”
She was going to need to kick it up a notch—he was still too intent on that damn bottle. She leaned a bit closer, so close his beard tickled her lips as she whispered in his ear. “Sure it was just masturbation, but I was thinking of you. And it was amazing.”
That brought his gorgeous eyes to hers. She grinned, backed up a step then another, turned and walked away, weaving through the crowded room.
“What?”
She had his complete attention now. Joe followed closely behind her, ignoring those who tried to have a word with him. “The best orgasm of my life,” she said, then shivered for effect.
He began to swear colorfully.
Her smile grew.
“Why are you telling me this?”
She stopped at the door and faced him. “To say thank you. Without you, it wouldn’t have been the same.”
“Fuck, Sunshine.” His jaw tightened and his nostrils flared. He leaned closer, closer still, thrusting the bottle of whiskey into the hands of someone to his right. Oh yeah, his eyes were on her now, and they were on fire.
Her body answered the call. Her nipples throbbed. She felt them shrink to two tight points.
“You do realize that image is burned into my brain for eternity.” His low, guttural voice turned her on even more. She wanted to ask if he was referring to her nipples, or the image of her masturbating. Slipping her jacket on, she hugged it around herself.
His mouth curved in a smug smile. “Yeah, that one, too.”
Someone shouldered their way past them both, knocking Emma off balance. The stench of too much cologne and Dear-God-she-didn’t-know-what assaulted her. Pain flared behind her eyes and Joe went blurry. Reaching out, she grabbed hold of his forearm. “Come on.”
“Where are we going?” he asked, matching her pace.
“I could use some fresh air. How about you?”
“Outside?”
He sounded so perplexed by the thought, she chuckled. “Yes, outside.” Where she could take a breath of air that wasn’t tinged with the stench of sweat, sex or alcohol.
“I don’t know, Em.”
She looped her arm in his. “Don’t worry, I’ll protect you. And if we run into anyone I can’t handle, there’s always Shrek.”
“Shrek?”
“Your shadow.” A glance over her shoulder confirmed Gary was right where she’d expected him to be. “Yup. There he is.”
Joe chuckled. “I’m fairly confident the ogre had a Scottish accent. We’re Brits.”
“Semantics.”
A comfortable silence fell over them, one Emma welcomed
after the noise of the room.
They were nearly at the doors when Joe broke it. “You know you didn’t have to go it alone.”
It didn’t take him long to get back to that, did it? “It’s less complicated alone.”
“Best orgasm of your life.” He scoffed. Reaching over her shoulder Joe pushed open the outer door then leaned in and said softly, “I bet I can top it.”
This time her shiver was real.
March 14
When I was first diagnosed with glioblastoma multiforme I wanted my mother. A typically normal reaction for any child except that mom had never been much good at comforting. At least not comforting me. She was always more interested in dad, and parties and… well, just about anything besides being a mother.
I should have been gutted by the diagnosis, but at that point I was still in denial. I couldn’t possibly have a brain tumor, I had no symptoms. Sure, a migraine every now and again, but the doctor had to be wrong. He’d confused my chart with someone else’s. All that was wrong with me was a small bump on the head from a fall.
They wanted to start my first course of chemo right away: a combination of two drugs I was warned would be pretty evil and have major side effects like total hair loss. I’m not a vain person, but I am a girl, and the thought of losing all of my long blonde hair was pretty hard to take. I just gritted my teeth and got on with it.
It seems like so long ago now, and I suppose it was. By this time, I’ve been ill for over two years and I just can’t comprehend it. It’s like being stuck in a time warp, watching everyone’s lives move on and change, while mine remains stagnant. A constant stream of hospitals, doctor appointments, blood tests, and hope. Not that any of it made a difference.
Glioblastoma Multiforme. What kind of name is that? Why can’t doctors ever keep things simple? Call it what it is. A tumor. A monster eating away at my functional brain tissue. Ha! You’d think it would have starved by now.
The Monster is winning and I’m helpless to stop it. I get headaches. Really severe headaches like someone is digging around in my skull without the benefits of anesthesia. I’ve been prescribed an injectable pain med, but it knocks me out for hours, sometimes half a day. With so little time left, I can’t afford to lose half a day. Instead, I ignore the monster. I pour all my energy into functioning through the worst of it while dreaming of all the glamorous and exotic places I will visit before this is over.
