by Renee Rose
Too bad tearing things apart is all I’m good at.
I let her stay glued to me for as long as she wants. Eventually, she peels her body off mine and walks to the bathroom. When I hear the shower running, I follow her in. Water droplets run over her pale skin, caressing her youthful body. She stares up at me, eyes wide. There’s no barriers between us now. We face each other soul to soul. I pick up the bar of soap and run it between my hands while she waits, so fucking present. Her body trembles when I stroke it, soap her from head to toe and when she lifts her lips to kiss me, it’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted.
It’s not hot and dirty, like what I just did to her against the wall. Like what we did in the airport. It’s like spring flowers. Like warm rain. It’s clean and pure.
Something I’ve never been.
I wash her, and then she washes me, her movements tentative, at first, then bolder. She grasps my cock and makes it hard as stone again, pulling it in long, soapy strokes.
“Merda, songbird. You’re getting me all worked up, and I’ll bet you’re too sore for me to fuck again.”
She holds my gaze as she lowers to her knees.
“No, no, no.” I pull her back to stand. I don’t know if it’s rational, but I’m afraid I’ll hurt her throat, shoving back there when it’s all inflamed.
She turns off the water and climbs out, a look over her shoulder telling me she wants me to follow. At the bathroom sink she bends over, just like in the airport. Her ass is still lightly painted with my handprints. I get another condom from my pants pocket in the suite, then return to find her holding her ass cheeks open.
“Oh, baby. You want me to fuck your ass?”
She meets my eyes in the mirror, bites her lip. Nods.
Cavolo. This girl is something else. I grab the bottle of jojoba oil on her counter. “Come to the bed. I wanna make this good for you.”
She goes to the bed, but doesn’t get on it. Who could blame her after the way things went last time? I smack her ass. “On your knees, songbird.”
No hesitation now. She climbs right up into position for me. I push her torso down. “Reach between your legs and play with your pussy while I play with your ass.”
I dribble a generous amount of oil over her anus and work my finger in, massaging her tight ring of muscles open and coaxing them to relax. Every once in a while, I play with her pussy with my other hand, moving her fingers aside and stroking, slapping, penetrating.
When she’s stretched and ready, I slide on a condom and lube up. “This is what you dared me to do that first night you stormed in my office, didn’t you, songbird? How long have you fantasized about having your ass fucked?”
She shakes her head as I push the tip of my cock against her anus.
“Don’t lie, baby.”
She chuckles into the covers and I apply pressure, waiting for her sphincter muscles to relax. As soon as they do, I push in, going slowly because I’m big and she’s an anal virgin.
She makes the cutest little sounds, plaintive mewls and stops of breath, all the while her fingers work frantically between her legs.
“You wanted me to bend you over and teach you what it’s like to be owned from the minute you stepped in this casino.”
The slurpy sound her fingers make between her legs makes my cock grow even thicker. I hold her hips steady and show her who’s boss.
I’ve always liked anal. I’m an ass man and I like to be in charge. Still, this time is like discovering a whole new dimension to sex. One where her desires and mine perfectly mesh, heightening the pleasure by one thousand percent. I’m not just the dominant guy fucking his girl’s ass, I’m the guy she needs me to be; I’m giving her the pleasure she craves by doing what I do best.
Needing to get my fingers into her pussy, I flatten her to her belly and snake my hand under her hips. My hips pump as I ride her ass and sink three fingers into her wet heat.
She moans, wantonly.
The room spins. I want it to go on forever, but I know I have to keep it brief; she’s already breathing hard, starting to babble my name.
I grind the heel of my hand on her clit as I penetrate her pussy. Everything feels so right. So perfect.
My climax simmers, pressuring the base of my spine. I grit my teeth and curse in Italian, trying not to pound into her ass the way I want to. The mattress bounces with my thrusts. “Mio Dio, Pepper. So good.” I come.
She writhes over my hand and comes, too, her anus tightening with her cunt, strangling my cock.
I fist her hair to lift her head and drag my open mouth over her cheek to mate with her lips.
Her tongue twines with mine and another shot of pleasure pushes through me. Dimly, I realize I’m crushing her under my weight and my cock’s still in her ass, and I force myself to pull back. I ease out, biting the butterfly tattoo on her shoulder, kissing the beautiful slope of her lower back, her perfect ass cheek. The back of her thigh.
“Beautiful, beautiful girl. How is it you’ve been so lonely? You should have hordes of randy young men following you from city to city.”
She twists to look over her shoulder—a picture I plan to remember forever—and smiles.
I walk backwards to the bathroom, not wanting to miss a moment of her, wanting to drink in the sight and memorize every perfect line of her body, of this moment.
I come back with a washcloth and clean her up. She’s writing with the Bellissimo notepad and pen on the bedside table. How did you know I was lonely?
I brush her fluff of platinum hair out of her face and trace the curve of her cheek. “I saw it in your eyes, that day you arrived. It made my heart stumble.” I put into words what I hadn’t understood then. That my lonely heart knew its mate. Recognized its twin. From the moment I saw her.
Pepper
The Sores are playing at the Paramount where the venue is about the same size as the Bellissimo, and the house is packed. Tony walks past the long line of concert-goers, queuing up and goes straight to the front. He leans forward and speaks in the usher’s ear, jerking his thumb at me.
The usher looks over, then snaps to attention. “Right this way, Ms. Heart. I’ll show you to your seat.” We don’t have seats—at least, we didn’t, so that means they’re finding me one. Score one for being famous.
My body is languid and warm from the sex, my knees a bit wobbly. I know I’ll have to unpack the rape—because I know that’s what must’ve happened—but I’m not going to do it tonight.
Tonight is too magical. Too perfect.
I keep trying to tell myself it’s not because of Tony. It’s because of me. Yes, he’s giving me something. He’s making me feel again, waking my muse up, bringing me back to life.
That doesn’t mean I’m losing my heart to him.
Because I can’t. We’re from two completely different worlds. I can’t even think about the world he comes from. I don’t want to know the things he’s done.
And when my debt to the Tacones is paid off, I’m leaving Vegas and never coming back. Still, I’m not going to stop myself from enjoying this night. This invigorating experience of living again.
The usher leads us right to the front row, where there are three empty seats on the side. “How will this do, Ms. Heart?”
I nod and smile.
“Right—you can’t talk, can you?”
I shake my head. Tony hands the guy a fifty dollar bill and we sit down in the packed theater. I’m giddy with excitement—like I used to get for my own shows. It’s been forever since I’ve been to anyone else’s concert.
It used to be my life. My dad’s a musician. He supported the family teaching guitar lessons out of our house and playing gigs four nights a week. If he wasn’t playing, he was watching, and he always took me and my mom. From as young as I can remember I was sitting in bars or theaters or stadiums, listening to music and my dad’s commentary on it.
I’ve never been to a Sores concert, though. This will be a treat.
The opening band is
rough, but shows promise. A couple good songs, a bunch of shit filler. Even the bad stuff sparks my muse though. I’m changing their chords in my head, rearranging, adding layers. I know exactly how I’d fix. How I’d finish. The lyrics I’d write to go with it.
Then The Sores come on. I’m up on my feet dancing before the second note. Tony stands beside me, his expression fond and indulgent, his body positioned like a weapon. My bodyguard. My protector, poised to ward off any seen or unseen threats.
It makes me throw my arms around him and kiss his lips.
He laughs, surprised, and picks me up, spinning me around a full turn, then depositing me back where I started.
They play their set; I know all of the songs from my dad’s old vinyl records. I let the music carry me away, the familiar riffs, the energy of being part of the crowd, not the object of a crowd’s attention.
Steve Dorney, their lead singer grabs the mic after a song and says, “Vegas, I found out we have a special guest in the house. Pepper Heart is in town, but she had to cancel her show tonight because she’s got laryngitis. So Pepper, this one’s for you.” He starts playing Blue Demon, my first big hit and best known song.
The crowd cheers, but he flubs up the chords. He laughs and starts over. “Fuck it, you come up here and play, I’ll sing.” He blinks into the lights, scanning the crowd for me. “Pepper?”
I laugh and jog to the front of the stage. The security guys help me up and I take Steve’s electric guitar and adjust the strap. He hands me the pick. I test the strings, then start the song.
The crowd cheers.
Steve Dorney and the rest of The Sores are all big smiles for me as he starts to sing. He flubs up the lyrics in places, and I laugh and mouth along to help him when he gets lost.
The crowd joins in, too, singing my song, holding up their phones to video this moment. It’s probably already being live-streamed somewhere.
When the song is over, I don’t give the guitar back. Instead, I play one of their riffs, returning the compliment.
The audience goes wild, screaming and shouting their approval. I close my eyes, my fingers remembering every chord. I learned this song when I was twelve and, like many things learned during those formative years, it’s one of those arrangements I still remember perfectly.
After a minute, when they realize I’m going to keep going, the rest of the band joins in. I start us over because they missed the beginning, and Steven picks up the mic and sings. It’s total bedlam in the auditorium—people going mad with delight at our impromptu collaboration, our mutual flattery fest.
Because they’re a punk band, I jump and stomp as I play, just like they do, and the crowd loves that, too.
By the time the song ends, I’m soaring higher than I’ve been after any show on this tour. And happier.
It’s like I’ve just returned to the joy of making music. Of playing to an audience. Of working with a band.
All these things I’d forgotten how to do. Forgotten how much I loved them.
When it’s over, I kiss Steven on the cheek and hand the guitar back. Tony catches me when I jump off the front of the stage and we run out of the auditorium, the audience mobbing us on our way.
I laugh like a lunatic when we burst outside and Tony scoops an arm around me and pulls me into him.
“Songbird, you were amazing,” he speaks at my temple. “You just made that whole concert.”
I fall against his body, melting into him. Happy.
I’m happy.
What a new and odd feeling.
Tony
I have the prickle of trepidation before we get back to the Bellissimo. When we walk in the main lobby of the casino and run smack into Junior Tacone, I understand why.
“Tony.” He strides forward, his face hard and angry.
I immediately step in front of Pepper, shielding her with my body, as if Junior held a gun pointed at her.
He jabs a finger into my chest. “I need a word with both of you.” I grind my teeth as I extend my arm, indicating the offices behind the reservation desk.
There’s a manager at her desk in one and I jerk my head at her. “Give us a minute.”
She stands up quickly and scurries out. I catch Pepper’s hand and squeeze it, leading her into the office after Junior, but still keeping her behind me.
“What the fuck is going on? I thought you had this shit under control.”
“We had a hiccup, but I’m managing it.”
“Oh really? Cuz I get here and find out the Pepper Heart show’s been cancelled for a week, and then I see a goddamn video all over the fucking internet of that bitch playing at the Paramount. So you tell me how you’re managing it.”
I go still. “Do not call her a bitch.”
No one talks to Junior Tacone like that and lives. I know that. He knows I know it. Which means he hears me draw a line in the dirt, loud and clear. He’s not gonna touch her, he’s not gonna disrespect her. And if he does, it will be over my dead body.
Pepper’s hand turns icy in mine, which makes me even madder.
“I see.” His eyes narrow, tone turns from hot to frosty. He nods slowly. Yeah, he does see.
I make an attempt to dial back my aggression. “With total respect, Junior, I have it handled. You will get your money.” I meet his gaze evenly.
“Oh yeah? Tell me how that’s gonna work if she’s not playing at my casino.”
It’s not his casino. It’s Nico’s, but I sure as hell don’t argue that point.
“She lost her voice. I took her to the Paramount and she drummed up publicity playing guitar with The Sores. Now everyone on the planet knows she’s in Vegas and we have plenty of tickets for them to buy. Her appearance tonight only helps us.”
“I don’t like getting fucked around,” Junior spits. “I want an extra hundred grand for this fuck-fest delay.”
I only hesitate for a moment. Pepper can make that money in two nights if I can get her shows to sell out. “You’ll have it.” I turn around and propel her forward, open the door and get us the fuck out of there.
“I’d better!” he calls after me.
I stop and turn around. “Junior, have I ever let you down?”
He gives me a hard look for a long moment. “No,” he finally says.
“I have it handled. Swear to la madonna.”
Junior’s shoulders relax, ease seeps back into his posture. “Good. Good, Tony. I’m countin’ on you.”
“Thank you, Junior. Buona notte.”
I lead Pepper away, my body as cold as hers. I walk off swiftly and don’t look back. Junior’s way of doing business is still old school, like his dad’s. He’s volatile and deadly and not someone any of us want to tangle with—his own brothers included.
I lead her to the elevators and put my key card in to get to her suite. She pulls her hand out of mine, retreating into herself, a mask of nothingness on her face.
“I’m sorry about that.” We’re alone in the elevator, but she doesn’t look over, just watches the doors.
I put my knuckle under her chin. “Hey. Look at me.”
When she lifts her eyes, there’s accusation in her gaze, which I probably deserve. There’s something else too—misery.
“I’m not gonna let anyone hurt you, songbird.” I say it softly, but it’s an oath. I need her to believe me.
She pulls her chin away from me, not with a quick jerk, but a sad, slow withdrawal.
I want to gather her up in my arms, protect her from the world, but she’s rejecting me. I can’t bring back the happiness she found at the Paramount. I can’t even replicate that moment. It wasn’t about me.
The only thing I can do is protect her from Junior and get her out of here as soon as possible. Contemplating any more—believing I could make her happy or try to be a boyfriend to her? That’s impossible.
Just like my mom, she’ll never forgive me for what I am.
Pepper
The clusterfuck only gets worse when Tony drops me off at m
y suite. I hold my keycard up to the door and walk in only to find Hugh inside.
Fucking Hugh.
Tony’s already walking away, but my first instinct is to call him back. Not to have to face Hugh on my own. But that’s stupid. Tony and the Tacones are the enemy, not Hugh. Hugh’s just the idiot who got us into this mess.
“Where in the hell have you been? Oh wait, I know.” He holds up his phone, where a video of me playing with The Sores is running. “You were playing at the Paramount. Do you have any idea how that’s going to look to the Tacones?”
Actually, yes. I just found out first hand how it looks to one of them. A very scary, very lethal one. Someone Tony felt the need to protect me from, judging by the way he shoved me behind his big body. And if Tony’s scared, this guy is a serious badass.
I don’t walk to talk about any of this with Hugh. Not after what he did last night—and his half-assed texted apology today did not make me forgive him—and not after what I just came from.
I drop my purse and pull out the notepad. I was with Tony, I write, then flip it around for him to read. I don’t bother telling him that fact didn’t excuse it with the Tacones, because I don’t want to deal with his hissy fit.
He stands up from the bed—my bed, and why in the hell does he have a key to my room?—and walks toward me, his face grim. “What exactly is going on with you and Tony Brando? Are you”—his lip curls with disgust—“seeing him?”
I grip my pen, annoyed at having to write this when it’d be so much faster to speak. Seeing? What are you, eighty?
“You know what I mean,” he splutters. “Dating? Fucking?”
Something about him using the word fucking makes my belly turn inside out. I’m disgusted and furious. I want to kick him in the shins and tell him to get out. Fire his ass straight to Norway.
I write so big the words scrawl off the page. None of your f-ing business.
He grabs the pen from me and throws it on the floor, as if to silence me. “It is my fucking business. That monster attacked me last night. He emptied out my home of all my belongings. He’s a criminal, Pepper. He’s been picked up by the police on over a dozen occasions in Chicago. Getting involved with him is suicide.”
