The Art of Me (The All of Me Book 1)

by S. J. Blaze

  I walk onto set and find the trio shirtless wearing leather pants and barefoot. Trigger’s hair is spiked into a Mohawk, Gunner’s is jelled to look curlier, and Bullet’s, well the boy has none. The photographer sets us up; the trio is on their knees in front of me, where they totally belong, and I stand behind them. Each guy has a thick black leather dog collar connected to a leash that I have in my one hand and a long bull whip in my other. Every once in a while, the photographer or his assistants tell me to whip it or rake it over the guy’s backs. I’m not hurting them but the possibility, in the name of publicity, is there.

  I have to say, this is the best day ever!

  After the grueling shoot, we’re done for the day. Tomorrow we get to sit down with the Rolling Stone’s journalist to speak about our recent fame and activities. The life of a rock star, if they only knew.

  We are back at the Sirius/XM studio on Friday introducing our newest single, ‘We Make No Excuse.’ This time, Octane has invited a female DJ to interview us. I guess they thought the trio would be on better behavior and I doubted she’d ask such numb-nut questions.

  I tune out as always, one of the many reasons why I’m not the leader of the group. I have no patience for it. Luckily Gunner is in his element. He’s chatting with the DJ and has her eating out of his hands in no time. Bullet plays video games on his cell, and Trigger chats up with the random walkabouts. On air though, we are polished. We do a live acoustic performance, which I completely loved, and then introduce the single with a short story of what it’s about and how we wrote it.

  But I can’t seem to focus. Today, I feel off, almost itchy. Like something is going to happen and I need to be ready for it. I don’t know why, though. I spoke with Malice this morning and he’s doing well. Coen and I have started talking during the evening hours, but it isn’t all warm and melted chocolate. Last night, he sounded distant and told me that when I get home, we have decisions to make. He thinks it’s time we stop playing games and take our engagement seriously. He still hasn’t asked me to marry him but he’s insisting that I wear his ring. This prompted yet another argument resulting in him yelling and telling me we will deal with this upon my return.

  I grab my cell to shoot Tank a quick text to see how he’s doing since he’s the only one I haven’t touched base with, when I find that Coen has called me half a dozen times. He didn’t text and never left a voice message. This has me on high alert as the chills multiply and crawl up my spine.

  I quickly excuse myself and call Coen. No answer. I call the next best thing, Davis. Again no answer. Now I’m starting to worry. I access the Boston news to see if there’s anything listed when I see a recent headline that catches my eye. GREYSON COLLINS, COLLINS CORP CEO RUSHED TO HOSPITAL AFTER COLLAPSING IN BOARD ROOM.

  Oh no, Coen. I run back inside the room and explain as quickly as possible that I have to go and tell the trio to grab my stuff from the hotel. I run down the three flights of stairs and into a taxi screaming to get me to JFK airport. I call Malice and tell him to book me the next flight and to pick me up at the airport.

  The rest of the ride to the airport is in silence as I mentally beat my ass for not being with Coen. He didn’t want me to go to New York and I went. Now he needs me and that thought is eating me alive. I’m so jittery that I can’t stop my legs from bouncing, which gets worse the second I step out of the taxi. In my haste, I overlooked my dress. I’m in full Shooter garb at JFK on a Friday afternoon. This isn’t good. I have people following me, taking pictures, when all I’m doing is trying to not scream and throw punches to get them out of my face.

  After I finally make it on the plane, I check for any updates on my cell every two seconds until I have to shut my phone down. This is killing me. Poor Coen. He must be devastated and I’m not there to comfort him. And all I want to do is throw my arms around him.

  I feel sweaty, fidgety, and nauseous so when the stewardess offers drinks during midflight, I gladly accept a rum and coke. I need to stop shaking and get to him. I want Coen. I need to touch him and to know he’s okay.

  We sluggishly disembark and I practically run once I’m off the plane. Malice is waiting for me and drives us to Beth Israel. I question him for the entire duration of the ride wondering if he has heard anything about Greyson or Coen. Apparently, the news is reporting that Greyson has had a heart attack and is currently in critical condition.

  Malice pulls up to the hospital and I run straight to the information desk. “Excuse me, which room is Greyson Collins in?” I ask, gasping for air and flushing from the adrenaline build up.

  “Ma’am, I’m not permitted to say. You reporters have a lot of nerve. Let the man heal in peace.”

  I interrupt her rant; I don’t have time for this. “I’m his son’s fiancée. Give me his goddamn room number before I make a mockery of this entire establishment by exposing your shitty customer service and blatant disregard for patient families to the dozen plus reporters outside,” I scream and slam my hand against the ridiculous podium she looks down from.

  “Well, excuse me if I....”

  “There’s no excusing you if you don’t give me that fucking number!” I scream.

  “Ms. Paz?” I turn to see Davis stalking towards me from the elevator banks.

  “Oh thank god, Davis. This vile woman refused to be cooperative and give me your location. Where’s Coen?” My frustrations and worry are taking over any form of human kindness today.

  His face turns angry as he snarls at the annoying woman and motions for me to follow him. “Mr. Collins has been most eager to see you. I was just on my way to make contact with your label since we’ve been unsuccessful in reaching you.”

  “I was in the air. How’s Greyson? How’s Coen?”

  “I’m afraid neither one is doing well. I think you’ll bring much relief to Mr. Collins, though. He has been quite upset these last weeks.”

  We ride the elevator silent, lost in our own thoughts. I have stopped the jerky fidgety mess of movements but I still can’t remain subdued. I need Coen. The doors finally open and I follow Davis. I’ve been told that Greyson is currently in surgery.

  I find Coen with his head low in his hands, resting on his knees. His tie has been loosened and I can feel the despair radiating from him.

  I cautiously walk over but he doesn’t seem to notice me. I softly stroke his hair while I whisper his name. “Coen? Baby?” His eyes dart up and I see the grief in them. His brilliant icy blues have dulled as if the ocean has begun its mourning. It breaks my heart. He looks relieved to see me but he isn’t moving. I continue stroking his hair and lean forward to kiss his forehead. He closes his eyes and hums. I don’t know what to do or how to ease his pain. Without much thought, I follow my instinct and crawl into his lap, holding him close to me. His head against my chest, my fingers in his hair, I finally begin to settle.

  Slowly, I feel his hands creep around me and pull me to him. “Charlie?” he questions softly, as if he doesn’t know I’m there.

  “I’m so sorry, baby. I’m here and I won’t let you go.” I ache so much for this man. Truth be told, I’m not a Greyson Collins fan, but I’m a huge fan of Coen Collins’ heart.

  I continue holding him while he seems lost and empty in my arms. I keep trying to rub the warmth back into him, letting him know I’m here and that he can break while I help him rebuild. Although I do backup singing with the band, I’m not much of a singer. But now, as I surround myself with this faded version of my sweet broken man, I can’t stop the tunes from coming. It starts off as Frere Jaque, and then moves into Hush, Little Baby. It makes me feel better and I hope Coen, too. Malice has since arrived, and along with Davis watches our exchange.

  Coen looks up at me, his eyes still blank and lost. “Charlie, my dad died.”

  I brush his smooth cheek. “I’m so sorry, baby.”

  He arches up, indicating he wants me to kiss him and I softly and eagerly reply by pressing my lips against his. His hand slides into my hair pulling me closer
to him and kissing me fervently.

  When he releases me, his eyes have regained a bit of spark but they still remain lost. “Don’t leave me again, love.” I nod, feeling horribly guilty. All I want in this moment is in my arms.

  I lean my head against his shoulder and breathe him in. My Coen. I love that smell. “I’ll never leave you, my Coen.” He makes a grunting noise and then picks me up bridal style.

  “Babe, what are you doing?” I whisper, trying not to bother any of the other hospital visitors or staff.

  “Give me this, love. I need to hold you. I won’t ever let you go again.” He carries me past Malice who looks at me questioningly. I give him a brief nod, indicating that I’m fine and to go ahead and leave.

  Coen carries me straight through the hospital lobby and outdoors to the waiting car, but first he has to bypass the reporters. He stops and scans each face when they start shouting questions.

  “Greyson Collins…” he shouts loudly and waits for everyone to quiet. “…Passed away this afternoon. I’ll alert the media to any further developments in regards to the burial services. Thank you for your interest and concern for my father but I’d appreciate if my fiancée and I could have time to grieve properly. Thank you.”

  He carries me towards the car and sits with me still in his arms, now resting on his lap. He leans his head against my chest and I again stroke his hair, his cheek, anything I can reach from this angle which will bring him comfort. He closes his eyes and asks me to hum again. And so I do.

  That night, trapped on the couch, he barely said a word as I lay in his arms. My stomach alerted me that it was past time for dinner, so he finally relented and released me with promises to return.

  I heated up a large piece of Marie’s lasagna, grabbed a bottle of wine and two glasses to join Coen on the couch. Placing everything on the coffee table in front of him, I try to make him comfortable. I undid his tie, unbuttoned his shirt and removed it, so he was in his white undershirt and trousers. Squatting, I untied one shoe and removed it followed by his dress sock, and then I did the same to the other side. Coen watched me, his eyes not fully connecting with mine but signs of life still evident. He was not lost to me.

  “Are you hungry, baby?” I ask while climbing back onto his lap. He shakes his head and pulls me back to him. I lean over, grabbing my plate and fork a small piece, blowing on it softly before holding it to his mouth. His eyes never leaving mine, he eventually opens his mouth. I give a small thankful smile in return.

  I make a silent promise to myself that I’ll take care of this man. I don’t know if I love him in the true sense of the word, but I love him enough to hate his pain.

  We sit like that for a while. I fork a piece for myself and then a piece for him. I crack open the wine and pour it into one glass; one sip for him another for me. He never says a word but his eyes are alert and continue to examine me.

  I crawl off his lap and return our used goods to the kitchen. When I come out, he’s still sitting on the couch, in a blank stare. His eyes aren’t as alert as when I left. I walk over. “Come baby, let’s get you a bath and then bed.” He doesn’t nod but when I reach my hand out to his, he takes it. All good signs I think.

  Although I never lost a parent, I’ve felt loss and I know to not give up on him. We walk up the stairs. His hold in my hand isn’t resistant so I know he is present with me.

  I walk him over to the deep set garden tub and turn on the water. Then I pour in some of the bath salts he had purchased for me. I don’t use them usually but hope the lavender smell will have a calming effect on his thoughts. Though they aren’t visible, I can feel them churning.

  I squat on the ledge of the tub and take my boots off. Again, he watches in silence. Nothing but the bath filling breaks the complete stillness. My lively Coen is lost. I grab the edge of my shirt and pull it over my head. Next, I unbutton my pants and shimmy them down and off. I stand before him in just my undergarments. No reaction. I place my hands on his warm chest and glide them down to the ledge of his shirt. He is nearly a foot taller than me, so when I attempt to get it over his head, I fail and practically fall on top of him.

  Normal Coen would have found that comical, but lost Coen simply takes the shirt from my hands and pulls it over himself. Then he falls back into his lost Coen disposition, hands limp at his sides and face a blank mask. I unhook his belt and undo his slacks letting them pool to the ground. We stand in our underwear staring at each other. Although we have been naked in bed, we have never bathed or even showered together. This feels more intimate and by definition more intimidating.

  I reach behind me and unhook my bra, and slowly pull the straps down, letting it fall off my breasts and to the floor. I continue to hold his eyes and track any emotion. Still none. I pull one side of my undies followed by the other, until it too pools on the ground.

  I reach forward and trace the edge of his boxers with my short nails lightly scraping his warm unblemished skin. Then trail them to his hips and push the garment down and off. Though his eyes are still somewhat dismissive, he is hardening, which means he isn’t completely unaffected.

  I lace my fingers with his and pull him over to the tub, and we both climb in. I seat him and then scoot in behind him. He is stiff and needs coaxing to fall back into me. The emotion building in me is positively painful. I’m breaking for this man. As selfish as this feels, I need him to come alive and love me again.

  Lightly washing him with a loofah, I continue my humming. His shoulders relax and tension slowly ebbs away. I can’t stop myself from peppering light kisses across his neck and shoulder before me. He smells of Coen and despite this horrible mourning, the truth is, I have missed him.

  “I’ve missed you,” I whisper pressing my lips to his ear. I squeeze my legs around his waist and my arms around his chest. His hands move to mine bringing them to his heart.

  “Tell me you love me…” These are his first words in several hours and they emerge broken and hoarse. He has been holding back tears. I can hear it in his voice.

  I take a minute to think on this. I do love him, but I don’t know if it’s the same love he feels for me. Would it be lying? As I take too long to decipher my thoughts he turns to look at me over his shoulder, and the second our eyes make contact, I whisper the words, “I love you, Coen.” It doesn’t feel like a lie, I’ve fallen for him.

  As soon as the words leave my lips, he closes his eyes and I watch as the first tear falls. He pulls me to him and I’m thrown onto his lap as the water spills over the tub. His head buries in my neck and I can feel his violent trembling.

  “You’re my only family now. I can never lose you.” He tightens his hold on me as his shaking fades. With Greyson’s passing, Coen is indeed the last Collins. His mother was orphaned as a young child and raised by her grandparents, which have long since passed, while Greyson, an only child as well, lost his parents several years ago. This realization further saddens me.

  His wet hands tangle into my hair and pulls back hard to capture my eyes. “We’ll be wed soon. I won’t wait. I need you to bear my name and my future.” His eyes are the darkest I’ve ever seen, the icy blue merely a light rim around the intensity of the blackened void. He pulls me forward so quickly that I slam into him, and my lips swell immediately with his roughness. His tongue takes, prods, and plucks against my own. “Tell me,” he growls. “Tell me we will marry.”

  “Coen,” I whisper while my hands softly stroke his chest. “You’ve never even asked.” I lean forward and kiss his neck. I have to avoid the zeal in his eyes. He looks nearly manic. The highs and lows of the last few minutes are unsettling.

  His hands still in my hair yank roughly, forcing my neck back. “This is me, telling you, that we will be married. No asking, Charlie.” His jaw ticks as he grinds his molars. It takes a moment for me to understand that he wants a reaction. I slowly nod my head, which must have been what he desired since his lip quirks into a side smile. His eyes soften and he releases the tension in my hair whi
le his hand slides down my neck and smooths the wet hair over my shoulder. Leaning forward he gently kisses my lower neck and glides his tongue up my ear.

  “Mmmm, I’ve missed you too, love. So fucking much!” While his tongue glides up to suck under my earlobe, his hand slides down and cups my breast. “All mine, Charlie. It’s time for me to take what’s mine.”

  His teeth scrape across my neck and then latch on, sucking and biting me. His hand, which has been resting on my hip, glides across and lightly skims my navel travelling lower until he finds my clit. His thumb begins a slow circular motion while his fingers rub back and forth. I’m straddling his legs and didn’t realize how close his cock is to me until I feel the head thump against me. What’s happening here? Is he going to…? I start to feel the panic build. Yes, the coiling has begun to intensify but my head is reeling. The heat broadens across my cheeks and down my neck, straining for the oxygen stalled in my lungs, I see spots in my vision. How can I be orgasming and panicking at the same time?

  “Coen, I can’t. I can’t.” The shaking begins and now things are blurry with the moisture building in my eyes.

  He clamps my head. “Look at me, Charlie. I love you. We’re one. I need to be inside of you, to become a part of you. Focus on me. Who am I, Charlie?”

  I try to focus as he said. To lock in on his eyes, to recognize the color, the shape, the way they make me feel. “My, my fiancée?”

  “Good,” he leers while continuing the circles on my clit and dancing with his fingers. “Keep your eyes on me. Grab my cock, love.” Slowly, I slide my fingers down from where they settled on his chest and graze across his mass of curly hair. In the water everything feels lighter, different, and I force myself to stay grounded, connected in this moment. I won’t let my past dictate how I navigate my future. Coen is my future and he needs me here.

  My fingers gently graze his cock and skate up and down the length, testing it, familiarizing. My thumb goes around the base and I try to close my fingers but Coen is too thick to latch onto. I realize my gaze has fallen to my actions and in trying to see through the water, I look up to catch Coen watching me with a small smile.