by Zoey Oliver
“Ian,” she breathes, my name like a whispered prayer as I circle her clit, making her legs twitch underwater.
But my Chelsea’s not one to sit there and take it. In the blink of an eye she’s got her hands through the opening in my swim trunks, her fingers wrapping around my hard cock, stroking me under the water. With every stroke, she’s pulling me closer to her.
“Fuck, Chelsea,” I groan, burying my head in her shoulder as she walks me right up to the edge before she lifts her hips and sinks down on me. We both take a sharp breath at the same time, my eyes closing with pure, unadulterated bliss. There’s nothing between us this time, just me and Chelsea, skin to skin, and it’s incredible.
In the water, she’s able to leverage herself against my shoulders, riding me like it’s all she’s thought about for days, the water sloshing out of the pool all around us. But I don’t care. She can fuck me until every drop of water splashes out of the pool and my house is flooded and I still wouldn’t care.
My thumb finds her clit and her breath hitches in that sexy way that tells me she’s close, so I press harder, feeling her nails digging into my shoulders, her cries of pleasure piercing the quiet afternoon.
“Oh God,” she moans, using my cock to fuck herself all the way to the brink. I push back, thrusting just that little bit deeper into her, just that extra millimeter that makes her whole body go rigid, her eyes rolling back into her head as she gasps for breath. Her whole body tightens around me, her sweet pussy milking me for every drop of my cum. And who am I to resist a goddess like this when she wanted me?
Chelsea screams with her release and I groan into her shoulder, filling her with my own, my muscles all turning to liquid at the force. Luckily, the water’s there to hold us up. We’re clinging to each other, neither of us anywhere close to cold anymore, the warm sun beating down on us, the ripples of our lovemaking still sending water sloshing over the pool’s edge.
“Fuck,” she groans, clinging to me with her arms wrapped around my neck, her legs wrapped around my waist, her face buried in my chest.
I stroke her back, enjoying the shivers and aftershocks rippling through her before I finally pull out.
“I think that was even better than the first time,” she says, her voice awed, but also with a twinge of something else in it.
“Don’t sound so disappointed,” I tease, kissing the top of her head as I move us back over to the stairs.
“I’m not… It’s just…” She’s nibbling her bottom lip like she always does when there’s something she wants to say but doesn’t know how. Then it hits me.
“It would be way easier for you if it was a fluke the first time and you could write it off and forget me,” I say, bitterness creeping in.
“Ian… That’s not what I mean.”
“It is, and it’s okay. I know I’m not exactly the kind of guy you wanna bring home to the folks.”
Chelsea looks at me, her eyes searching mine and then her hand comes up to cup my jaw and she kisses me softly, her eyes shining when she pulls back.
“I don’t want to dwell on that stuff… Besides, I think you promised me some world-famous French toast and I seem to have worked up an appetite somehow…”
“I wonder how,” I muse, teasing her. I know she’s trying to cover up her doubts, but I know they’re still there. I know they’re always going to be there, driving a wedge between us. But if today’s taught me anything, it’s that I want to enjoy the time I have with Chelsea while I have it. Before she can think better of it or her manager can convince her to cut me off. If today and now is all I’ll ever have with her, I’m going to make the most of it.
Chapter 12
Chelsea
“That’s a wrap!” Rosa says cheerfully, finally relaxing for the first time since this whole thing started. “That new song is going to soar off the charts!”
I force a smile and nod. Rosa should know my fake smile by now, but if she notices it, she doesn’t let on. Our last day in the studio… My last day recording with Ian. How did it get here so fast? It seems like only yesterday I didn’t have a clue who I was going on stage with and now…
I suck in a sigh. I’m not going to dwell on whatever it’s become. Because it’s over now.
And I know that’s why Rosa’s finally relaxing. It’s not because the album is over or because she’s happy with our work. It’s not even because she trusts my judgment—it’s definitely not that—it’s because she thinks I’m not ever going to see Ian Monroe again. In her expert opinion, that is the best thing for me and my career.
I know she’s got my best interests at heart. I know Rosa’s just doing her job, being my manager, managing my career and my image and the press surrounding them both. But still, I’m not sixteen anymore. I don’t need a babysitter. I don’t need someone telling me who I can and can’t date. I’m a grown woman and I can make my own decisions even if my manager disagrees.
“It’s a hell of an album,” Merrill says, grinning. “If we’re lucky, the label will like it and we’ll have a tour coming up!”
A flash of panic goes through Rosa’s eyes, but her grinning mask never falters. That’s gotta be conflicting for her. She’d love for me to be back on tour, but with Ian? I don’t know if she’ll go for it. Not that she gets the final say.
“Wait, if we’re lucky?” Ian says, his whole body rigid. “You mean the tour’s not already a done deal?” His voice has a dark, threatening edge to it and I know I wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of it, but Merrill doesn’t flinch.
“I told you that it was a possibility,” Merrill says patiently. “Nothing’s ever written in stone with these record labels, you know that.”
“That’s bullshit,” Ian growls. “We’re supposed to have tour dates already lined up. I thought that’s what this was all about. Now you’re giving me maybes and possibilities? What the hell do I pay you for?”
Now Merrill’s eyes are narrowing and I can’t just sit here waiting for them to blow up at each other. I step forward and place a hand on Ian’s arm. He jumps automatically, coiled tight and tense like he’s ready for a fight, but then he looks over to me and relaxes a little.
“We’ve got a damn good album here,” I say. “Pelican would have to be made up of fools that hate money if they don’t want to do a tour. With all the proceeds from the album going to charity, the only way they’re going to make any money is with a tour, so I wouldn’t worry about it.”
He deflates, slumping forward, but there’s still something in his eyes, something hurt and lost that I want to fix, but I don’t know what to do about it. If there’s anything I can do about it.
“You’re probably right,” he says softly, swallowing thickly.
“Of course she is. Chelsea’s a pro. She knows this business as well as anyone else. Don’t worry about it, Ian, you’re in good hands,” Merrill says brightly, shoving their tense standoff under the rug.
Ian’s looking at me with this unreadable mix of emotions that makes my heart ache, but before I can say anything else, Rosa chimes in.
“Chelsea, come on sweetie, we’ve got an interview in half an hour,” she says, looking up from her phone with a bright smile. “They’re so excited to hear about this album.”
“You’re leaving?” Ian says softly, his voice breaking my heart.
“Guess so,” I say, wishing it weren’t true. I don’t know why, but suddenly we don’t feel like us. It feels like there’s something between us and I can’t help but wonder if this was just a fling during production that he never intended to carry further.
That actually makes a lot of sense. And it’s probably for the best. I mean, what in the world was I thinking? It’s not like Ian and I could ever have a relationship. A little fling for the benefit of the paparazzi, sure, but I know his past. I know his demons and I know mine. It just couldn’t work. And now, with the way Merrill’s talking… I didn’t want to let on, but it sounds very unlikely that there’s going to be a tour. What I said wa
s true, but if the label hasn’t already booked dates and venues, they likely aren’t planning on it.
“So… I’ll see you around?” he says, hope glimmering through the darkness that’s clouded his eyes and erased the joy from his face.
“Yeah, definitely,” I say, not sure I really believe it. I’m not sure he believes it either. For all the fun we had together, this feels oddly final. More than I want it to. But I don’t fight it because the logical part of me knows it’s for the best. The good girl still buried deep inside of me is saying I need to run far away from Ian and his influence before my reputation and career are irreparably damaged. That’s more than I can risk with my whole family relying on me.
The managers are still in the room, so neither of us says what we’re really thinking, doing our best to keep it totally professional and not let on about the things we’d been getting up to the past few days.
“It was… great working with you,” I say, internally wincing. Those words sound so cold and detached. They don’t do justice to the chemistry and magic between Ian and me. But what else can I say?
“You too,” he says, his voice now completely devoid of any inflection or emotion. He’s shutting down and I don’t know if it’s because of me or because this is how he always planned on this going. I do know it leaves me feeling cold and empty inside. Like he’s betrayed me somehow even though I know that’s ridiculous. We both jumped into this thing knowing it was a bad idea, and now we both get to pay the bill.
“Chelsea,” Rosa sings, waving her phone at me and tapping her wrist even though she’s never worn a watch as long as I’ve known her.
“I guess this is goodbye,” I say, fighting back the sudden wave of tears those words bring. Why is this so damn hard? A week ago, I couldn’t wait to be done with Ian. Now I’m on the verge of tears because of it?
Keep it together, Chelsea. You’re a professional.
“Yeah,” he says.
And when I go in for a quick hug, he’s stiff as a board. He doesn’t hug me back; he just stands there like I’ve just assaulted him.
So that’s really that then. That’s really the end.
I pull away, the spicy scent of his aftershave still tickling my nose. I look at him for another long moment, wishing he’d say something, anything to break this wall between us, but his silence is absolute. So I turn and head toward Rosa, my heart sinking through the floor, my throat tightening with tears I don’t dare let out.
Rosa’s chatting away about all the interviews she’s already lined up with magazines and bloggers and radio stations. She’s got on-air performances scheduled and a couple of private shows. I’m not sure why any of these people would want to see me alone when the album is the both of us, working together, but there’s no mention of Ian being at any of these appearances. I’m about three hundred percent positive that Rosa did that on purpose.
Just as we leave the studio and head into the hallway, I make the exceptionally foolish decision to send one last glance over my shoulder at Ian. He’s still looking out the door I left, his eyes focused on the far-off distance, but then he sees me looking and his jaw tightens, his eyes hardening with a look that I wouldn’t give my worst enemy.
Until that moment, I hoped that this was all just some act for the managers. That I’d leave the studio and get a flirty text from him and we’d be back where we were this morning. I was hoping all of that even while trying to convince myself that leaving Ian behind is for the best. Even while talking myself into severing all ties with him, I was hoping that I’d get to see him tonight.
But that look of contempt—and that’s really the only word for it—shatters any illusions I have. There is no doubt in my mind that Ian would be happiest if he never sees me again. And damn me for feeling this way, but it hurts. It hurts so much I want to curl up in a corner and cry myself to sleep. But I can’t do that. I have interviews and appearances to do. So instead, I suck it up, shove down all my emotions, and put on the mask that I use with the world, keeping my pain locked away.
Chapter 13
Ian
A week. A whole damn week’s gone by since I last saw or talked to Chelsea. Since that awful day in the studio when she treated me like someone she barely knew. Even the memory of it is enough to make my jaw clench, my hands tightening to fists. I thought what we had was stronger than that, but Chelsea took the first chance to leave me in her dust while she soaks up all the publicity. She hasn’t made the first attempt to reach out to me—and I know, because I haven’t let my phone out of my sight in a whole damn week.
Speak of the devil, my phone chimes and I leap across the couch to pick it up, only to scowl at it and throw it back. Another useless email.
“This girl must be something special,” Serge says, absently tapping out a rhythm with his feet and fingers. That’s the thing about drummers: they never fucking stop. He’s constantly full of energy, of music, bouncing off the walls. Right now it’s only pissing me off and I’m wondering why the hell I invited him over.
But I know the answer. Because Serge is the reason I’m clean. Because if it weren’t for him nearly dying all those years ago, I never would have gotten my shit together. And if he weren’t here right now, I’m not sure I could keep my shit together.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I haven’t actually told Serge about Chelsea. I just asked him to come hang out because I’m having a rough time. We’ve got the kind of friendship where that’s all that needs to be said. If I got the same call, I’d be at his house in a heartbeat. We keep each other out of trouble, clean, and most importantly, alive.
“I’m talking about you, waiting by your phone like some lovesick teenager. So, who is she?”
I roll my eyes, but there’s no use in denying it. Serge knows me better than just about anyone in the world.
“Chelsea Garten,” I growl, her name like acid on my tongue. How could I have been dumb enough to fall for her? I knew she was nothing but trouble, a good girl looking for a quick roll in the hay with a bad boy. But that’s all I am. The bad boy she fools around with. Not the guy she settles down with. Not the guy she goes public with. The dirty secret that she keeps hidden away.
Serge whistles lowly, his eyes going wide. “That girl you just made an album with? Bro.”
“I know,” I groan. You never shit where you eat. We both know that. “But she’s… I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. It’s over.”
“Is that so?” he asks, an eyebrow arched, a smirk on his lips.
“Don’t give me that look. Yes, it’s over. As much as I wish it weren’t, she clearly doesn’t want anything to do with me because if she did, I’d know it by now. It’s not like I’m hard to find.”
“And yet you’re still jumping for your phone every time it makes a noise.”
“Well, I did just finish an album.”
“Yeah, but you’re not waiting for a call from the label or your manager. You’re waiting for a call from her,” he says, green eyes sparkling with laughter that he knows better than to let out if he doesn’t want to get punched.
“I can do both,” I mutter petulantly. It’s obvious he’s right though. He’s won. And he chuckles under his breath, earning a glare from me.
Serge puts up both hands in defense. “I’m sorry, man, but it’s just great to see you like this. I haven’t seen you this worked up about a girl in… well, maybe ever. Seems like she’s good for you.”
I roll my eyes, my fists clenching again. “Doesn’t really matter if she doesn’t want anything to do with me, does it?”
Before he answers, my phone rings from the other end of the couch and my eyes dart to it. It’s facedown, so I can’t see the caller ID without picking it up and turning it over, but I want to prove Serge wrong. If I just let this call go to voicemail, then I’ll prove that I’m not just waiting with bated breath for a word from Chelsea.
But the longer the phone rings, the more I’m itching to answer it. Serge just cocks a brow at me and
grins big and I know he’s won this one too. I’m already leaping to the other side of the couch and hitting the answer button before I register that it’s Merrill showing up on the ID.
“Hey,” I say, not even bothering to sound upbeat or any of that bullshit.
Serge looks at me with a question in his eyes but I just shake my head and he frowns.
“Hey there, rockstar,” Merrill says brightly and I squeeze my eyes closed tight, pinching the bridge of my nose.
“What’s up, Mer?” I’m really not in the mood for pleasantries.
“I finally got word back from the label about the record…” he says, his tone not giving much away. I haven’t had much reason to hope this past week, but without my consent, a little spark flares to life, making me hold my breath as he continues.
But he doesn’t continue.
“And?” I say, my voice tight and harsh. Normally I might care about snapping at him like that, but not when he’s being an insufferable jerk. He doesn’t need to beat around the bush, but he likes drawing it out for the suspense or some nonsense.
“And they love it! They’re jumping on the tour; they’ve got the next three weeks lined up. Fourteen shows. All you need to do is show up at the airport in two days.”
I almost don’t believe it. I nearly drop the phone in shock and Serge is looking at me with concern like I might have just gotten news about the death of a relative, but I can’t even manage a smile to let him know it’s all right because I don’t fucking believe it. Good things never happen to me like this.
“Ian?” Merrill asks after I’m silent a full two minutes.
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll be there,” I say, still on autopilot. It’s not hard to just agree to something even if you don’t think it’s going to happen. Maybe especially if you don’t think it’s going to happen.
“Attaboy. Send you the details this afternoon.”
