Redeem

by Rachel Schurig

  “Thanks,” he says, his eyes still on my legs.

  “So, what’s it like being on the road all the time?” I ask, thinking maybe flattering his rock star status will get things moving in the right direction.

  “It can be great,” he says, staring down at his bottle. “We get to see all kinds of places, all over the world. And the bus can be fun—we play video games and jam and drink beer, which is totally not a bad way to travel.”

  I laugh, leaning forward a little. “That sounds amazing.”

  “But it can get frustrating, too,” he goes on, frowning a little. “Sleeping on the bus or in a different hotel every night. Living out of a suitcase. Sometimes it would be nice to just stay in one place, you know?”

  I shot a quick, derisive glance around my apartment. “Sometimes staying in one place can be frustrating, too.”

  If he noticed my dark tone, he doesn’t mention it. “Yeah, for the most part I really dig it. It’s what we’ve been working for our whole lives, you know?”

  “And your brothers? Do they enjoy touring?”

  It’s his turn to look derisive. “Sometimes. But I swear to God, those assholes wouldn’t know what it means to be a rock star if David Lee Roth bit them on the ass.”

  I snort into my beer. “Really? There are always stories about the four of you getting into trouble for your hard rock lifestyle.”

  “Hate to break it to you, but ninety-nine percent of those stories are about me.”

  I run a finger lightly down his arm, trying not to shiver at the feel of his bicep constricting under my touch. “You’re the bad boy of the group?”

  He watches me, his eyes a shade darker than they’d been. “You could say that.”

  I nod. “I think you have the right idea, then. We’re only young once, right?”

  “Tell that to Reed.” He rolls his eyes, turning from me, and I want to groan in frustration. I brought up the whole rock and roll thing in an attempt to remind him that he was supposed to be trying to get in my pants. Instead he wants to talk about his brothers.

  “Reed doesn’t party?”

  Cash grins at me. “Reed acts like a sixty year old grandfather.”

  I laugh at the image. From everything I could see in the press, Reed looked every bit the rock star, with his tight, worn jeans and his longish blond hair. “Wasn’t he the one that was dating Sienna Matthews?”

  “Yeah. And while I normally would approve of hooking up with a hot actress, that woman was a total monster and the first smart thing he ever did was get rid of her.”

  “And what about you?” I ask, again touching his arm. “Any hot actresses on your radar?”

  He shakes his head, his eyes lowering briefly to my chest. “I’m pretty sure there’s only one woman on my radar tonight.”

  Home free.

  I lean forward at the same moment he does, our lips touching, softly at first. Tentative. Then he brings his hands up to my face, deepening the kiss, and I sigh against his mouth. His lips are soft but powerful and I have a sudden image of the way they look pressed up to a microphone. I read once that Cash looks like he’s making love to the mic when he sings, that everything he does ends up looking sexual. That’s how hot he is, how charismatic.

  I have to agree.

  I press into him, willing him to deepen the kiss more, and slide my hands across his chest to those biceps of his. He feels so good under my hands, solid and strong. So very different from the rest of my life. I squeeze his arms, maybe a little too hard, but he groans against my lips and slowly parts them with his tongue.

  It doesn’t take me long to swing my leg up over his so that I’m straddling him, sitting in his lap. Even then it feels like I can’t get close enough. I can’t remember ever feeling this desperate about a lover. I want his bare skin against mine, his hands everywhere, his weight pressing down on me. I want it all. I want it now.

  Cash seems to be of a same mind. His kisses are quickly becoming frantic. I assumed he would be practiced, methodical in his seduction, but his lips crash against mine, moving down to my neck, my shoulders, all of it happening so quickly I’m sure he can’t help himself. The same way I can’t help myself.

  “Come on,” I say hoarsely the first time I come up for air.

  I pull myself off of his lap, not bothering to straighten my dress, and tug on his hand. Cash has a dazed looking expression on his face and I smile to myself, feeling powerful. I caused that. Power isn’t a feeling I’m used to. For most of my life I’ve felt like things happened to me. Like I was a passive participant. Had I believed in psychiatry I was sure any therapist worth their salt would have something to say about the way I approached these one-night stands. The subject craves power and control in a life marked by a lack of power and control.

  I don’t want to think about the psychology behind it. Don’t want to give it a name or a diagnosis. All I want is to keep feeling this way, for as long as possible. When we reach my bedroom door Cash spins me around to face him, pressing his lips to mine again.

  “Sorry,” he says, grinning only an inch from my mouth. “The walk to your room was taking way too long.”

  I giggle and return the kiss, feeling my entire body melt into it. Already I feel so much better than I had in the bar. There’s no running monologue in my head, telling me what I should and shouldn’t do. No pressure. No one looking at me, pitying me. Judging me. There’s just Cash’s lips and my lips, his hands sliding up my arms to my back. Unhooking the tie of my dress and sliding it down my body.

  There’s a sharp inhale of breath as the fabric slips away, his eyes glued on my body. Again I feel that sense of power before he wraps his arms around me, tighter this time, and steers me backwards to the bed.

  From that moment on, Cash is in control. And I’m shocked to find that I like it. My desire for power fades quickly under the onslaught of his lips, his fingers. His tongue runs a trail down my collarbone, teases first one breast and then the other, follows its path down my belly. I’m shaking, unable to keep still, my hands fluttering over his body, desperately pulling his shirt off.

  God, he looks good. He must have been spending time somewhere warm, because his chest is tan—broad, tan, and so freaking smooth. As he hovers over me, pulling the shirt over his head, I catch sight of a sliver of pale skin at the boundary of his jeans. I want to run my fingers across it, run my tongue across it. I want everything.

  When he finally slides inside of me, I gasp. Has anything in my life ever felt so good? The thought brings on a momentary spark of panic. Is this too much? What if it’s too much?

  But then he’s staring down at me, those dark blue eyes intense, their color practically black. “Sam.”

  And just like that I stop caring about the consequences. Cash is moving inside of me, whispering my name. I can hear my own breath, the little moans he’s eliciting, his own gasps. I spent the entire evening trying to avoid the silence and the silence is certainly shattered now. I can hear his quickened breathing, hear the thrum of blood in my ears, the thudding of my heart, beating so fast I wonder if it could actually explode.

  There’s just one moment where I wonder if maybe I made a mistake. Right before he comes he looks down at me, his eyes wide, and whispers a demand. “Look at me, Sam.”

  So I do. I look up into those blue eyes, so full of pleasure and concentration—and something else. Something I can’t read. But the emotion, whatever it is, scares the hell out of me.

  But then he’s coming apart on top of me and I’m following a moment later, clutching him tight, calling his name, grateful that the silence has, at last, been broken.

  Chapter Five

  Cash

  I don’t think it’s any secret that I’ve been with my share of women. More than my share, if we’re being perfectly honest. I could blame that fact on being in a very popular rock band, the kind of band that tends to attract female fans eager to express their loyalty. But the truth is, I’ve been screwing around with girls pretty much since
I was old enough to understand that I wanted to.

  So it really is saying something to admit that Samantha Warner, a girl I’d only known for a few hours, had just completely and entirely blown my mind.

  I lie there in the darkness of her room, feeling her body pressed against mine, her breath still coming in short gasps, both of our hearts thudding in our chests, and I try to figure out what in the hell just happened. Why, after so many encounters, so many flings, so many women—why did she affect me like that?

  She’s gorgeous, obviously. Her shining hair and her pale, milky skin are pretty much flawless. And she has those wide, brown eyes that seem to be able to jump from innocent and girlish to total sex goddess like flipping a switch. Her body is—well, it’s basically perfection. She’s curvier than most short girls, her hips ample, her legs under that blue dress shapely. I wouldn’t call her overly thin, certainly not like all of the models I’ve been with, but her waist has the perfect curve to it, her stomach soft and warm pressed against my side.

  Basically, she’s hot. Like, totally, world-rocking hot.

  But I’ve been with plenty of hot women. Women who are literally paid to be gorgeous, models and actresses. Our bouncers are well aware of my type and pre-select the hottest girls to come backstage. So it isn’t like I have nothing to compare her to.

  So what is it? What is it about this chick that makes my heart beat so hard, just from looking at her? Why had she turned me into an awkward, stammering mess back there at the bar? When she said she wanted me to come home with her I had stuttered and gulped like a thirteen-year-old virgin. And when we got back to her place I had been nervous—Nervous. Me!—bumbling over her DVD collection like a loser. I had tried to put on Lord of the Rings for God’s sake.

  That wasn’t just nerves, though. I realized as we walked to her apartment that I was actually a little disappointed. Not that I wasn’t eager to get her in bed. But I wasn’t ready to be done talking to her, either. She had been fun at the bar, flirty and funny. She knew who I was, seemed impressed by it, even, but she hadn’t fallen all over herself to flatter me, either. She had treated me…like a normal person. A normal person that she was clearly attracted to.

  Yeah, I liked that a lot.

  And then she had led me to her room and my world flipped on its axis.

  I look down at her head, tucked firmly into my chest. I can’t see her face but I’m pretty sure she’s not asleep yet. Her breathing is starting to slow down but it’s still not totally regular. A sweeping, primitive burst of pride rushes through me at the thought that it was me that had her breathing so heavily. Had it affected her the way it did for me?

  I couldn’t keep my eyes off of her the entire time, growing more and more frustrated every time she didn’t meet my gaze. Most of the time her eyes were half closed, hooded. She was clearly enjoying it, but I wanted to see it. Wanted to see in her eyes what she was feeling. Was it as intense for her? Did the feel of me have her questioning every decision she had ever made? Because it was making me feel that way—like everything had been a pale comparison to this, to her body moving below me, to the feel of her skin, still shooting those sparks over mine. To the sound of her moans, her little gasps of pleasure. It was like I had been wasting time, settling for those other girls and those other flings.

  God, what was happening to me?

  When I couldn’t take it anymore I had asked her to look at me, my stomach swooping when she immediately complied. And the look in her eyes, the pure pleasure, the unadulterated happiness, had done something to me that I couldn’t explain even to myself. It was more than that, though—more than pleasure, more than enjoyment. I realized, looking down at her, that something was missing from her eyes, something I had been seeing all night but hadn’t really noticed, hadn’t been able to name.

  She looked like she was at peace.

  Sam shifts in my arms and I loosen them a little bit, thinking she might want to stretch. When she instead pulls away, bringing her head to the other pillow, I feel a stab of something like disappointment.

  “That was amazing,” I tell her, thinking the word isn’t worthy of what just happened.

  She smiles at me, nodding, and my stomach clenches. That clear look is gone from her eyes, the stress or sadness or whatever it had been slowly taking up residence again. I swallow, trying to tell myself that I’m being crazy.

  “I’m glad we got out of the bar,” she says, giggling, the sound going straight to my groin. I usually hate giggling, associating it with groupies and hanger-ons, silly, inconsequential girls who are only after one thing. But a giggle sounds different on Sam—it’s lower, more raspy. It’s sexy as hell.

  “Me too. Even if Lennon gets pissed that I ditched him”

  Her eyes widen. “Will he really get mad?”

  I reach for her waist, pulling her closer. “He’s always pissy about something. Besides.” I kiss her softly. “Totally worth it.”

  She smiles, snuggling into me, and I sigh in relief. When she pulled away I had been worried that maybe I misread the signs. Maybe she wasn’t as into me as I thought. But now she’s resting her head against my chest, her fingers running random patterns over my arms.

  “I like your arms,” she said softly. “You have nice arms.”

  “You also have nice arms.”

  She snorts. “I’ve always thought they were my best assets.”

  I run my hands down her back, feeling the swell of her ass. Of course, I immediately want her again. “I said nice. Not best.”

  She looks up at me, her hair partially covering her face. “And what would you say was the best?”

  I grin, rolling her onto her back, totally stoked at the idea of round two.

  “Here, let me show you.”

  ***

  I wake up in the dark and my hands immediately go to the pillow next to me. No Sam. It’s strange, after all the travel and countless tour dates, I’ve developed the habit of rarely knowing where I am when I wake up. It doesn’t matter if it’s a hotel or the bus or my own bed at the L.A. condo, I always experience a brief moment of panic, wondering where in the hell I am.

  But waking up in Sam’s bed, even without her in it, I know exactly where I am.

  I don’t, however, have any idea where she is.

  I pull the covers back, searching for my clothes in the darkness. I find my boxers and pull them on, deciding my jeans and shirt can stay on the floor. By the look of the darkness through the windows, we have plenty of time to get back to bed. Maybe even go for round three.

  The only light in the living room comes from the TV. In the dim bluish glare I can see Sam sitting on the couch, dressed only in an oversized t-shirt, her knees pulled into her chest. She’s wide awake, starting at the TV.

  “Hey,” I say from the doorway and she jumps. “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you. I woke up and you were gone.”

  She returns her attention to the TV. “Couldn’t sleep.”

  She doesn’t invite me to join her. In fact, she’s barely looked at me. I hesitate in the doorway, unsure of what I should do. Finally I walk to the couch. “Mind if I join you?”

  “Not at all.” She slides over a little bit to give me room—enough room so that I’m not touching her.

  “Whatcha watching?”

  She shrugs and I focus on the TV. Infomercials. “I love these,” I tell her. “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve stayed up watching this crap after a late show.”

  She smiles but it looks weak to me. The vibe couldn’t be more different than it was only a few short hours ago. I wonder if maybe I did something wrong—but what could I have done? I’d been asleep.

  “You don’t have to stay up with me,” she says, her voice quiet. “I have trouble sleeping sometimes, but that’s no reason for you to not get your rest.”

  “That’s okay—” I start to say, but she continues as if I hadn’t opened my mouth.

  “Or I could take you home. My car is here, and I’m feeling totally sober no
w.”

  I swallow, not knowing how to play this. Is this her hinting that she wants me to go? I can’t think of anything else I would rather do than leave this apartment right now, but I also don’t want to make her uncomfortable.

  “I’m actually feeling pretty awake now,” I tell her, careful to keep my voice light. “A little TV sounds great.”

  She gives me a skeptical look. “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. But maybe not infomercials.” I brighten as I get an idea. “What about Lord of the Rings?”

  “Cash, it’s the extended edition. That movie is three and a half hours long.”

  It’s my turn to shrug. “If we get tired we can turn it off. Otherwise, sounds like a good way to burn some sleepless hours.”

  She smiles and my entire chest feels lighter. Granted, it’s a small smile, but it’s nothing like the fake, weak one she’d given me when I first came out. I jump off the couch and find the disc, setting up the DVD player. On my way back to the couch I grab a blanket from the back of the armchair and bring it with me. I settle into the arm of the couch and reach for Sam’s arm. She tenses but when I gently pull she melts back into my arms. I pull the blanket over both of us and sigh.

  “There. This is the way to watch Lord of the Rings. With a totally hot, half-naked girl in my arms.”

  She giggles and relaxes completely into my chest. Her hair is close enough to smell it and it’s so good I have to close my eyes. Lennon, cheese ball that he is, could probably name the scent, but I’ll just stick with flowery.

  “I love these scenes,” she says after several moments of quiet. “The Shire—it’s my favorite place in any of these movies.”

  “It’s not bad but I think it might get boring. All those fields and flowers. What’s there to do all day?”

  She twists her head back to look at me. “Are you serious? The hobbits drink like it’s going out of business. I would think you’d love it.”