Elias jogged down the ramp and ran after her. “What’s up?”
“Nothing.” She crunched down hard on the candy.
“Stop for a sec.” He hooked her elbow. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” she gave him a gritty smile.
“F-bomb?”
“It’s offal,” she blurted out.
He jerked back. “Awful?”
“No, offal, as in the remnants of a dead animal. It sounds terrible.”
He pinched his lip and said nothing.
“I’m sorry. I know that was harsh.”
Still no response.
She kept walking.
He caught up with her again. “Tell me how to fix it.”
“Griffin’s timing is still off. And Missy’s not even trying. Cato’s just messing around. You’re overpowering everyone else.”
He threaded his hands on top of his head and paced in a circle. “Let me talk to them first. And we’ll go from there.”
They trudged back through the weeds and climbed back onstage. Elias voiced Effie’s complaints to the band. Immediately after, Griffin tossed his drumsticks at the amp, Cato yelled “fuck this shit” every other second, and Missy looked downright homicidal.
Effie hurried to the keyboard and played the song. The yelling stopped. “This part right here needs intensity. Hear the difference?”
They said nothing.
She hopped up and grabbed Cato’s bass.
He swiped it back. “Girl, bye. You don’t touch Shanequa.”
“Just for a minute, please.”
He handed over his instrument as carefully as he would hand over his penis.
She played the bassline. “Legato, not staccato.”
“I don’t speak Russian,” he said.
“Smooth and flowing, not sharp and separated.” She shoved it back in his hands and ran to the drums. “Get up,” she told Griffin.
He gave her a look that said over his dead body.
“Griffin,” Elias warned.
“She’s not touching my kit.”
“Fine, I’ll clap the beat.” She started at 70 BPM. “Now play with me.”
He picked up a new set of sticks and banged on the drums.
“No, that’s not right. You’re off by a beat. Subtract one.”
Finally, he got it right.
“That’s great,” she said, “but louder. This song is about heat and attraction and sex.”
Griffin hammered harder.
She applauded his efforts then turned to the others. “Elias and Cato, here’s where you come in.”
After they started, she spoke to Missy. “Now sing.”
The keyboardist’s voice was as meek as a mouse.
“Come on!” Effie shouted. “More passion.” She ran to the microphone and belted out the lyrics.
Missy backed away, shot her a stiff middle finger, and stomped off stage.
“Let her go,” Elias said.
Effie ignored him and ran after her. “Stop, Missy. Talk to me.”
Missy picked up her pace. “Fuck off.”
“What is your problem?” Effie yelled.
Missy spun around and charged toward her. “My problem? MY PROBLEM! You’re my problem. Who do you think you are? You have a weekend fling with Elias and suddenly your Yoko Ono ass is telling me what to do?”
How did she know about their fling?
An ungrounded amp buzzed in the background, providing the perfect soundtrack for the tension that sizzled between them.
“You’re right,” Effie said softly. “I’m sorry. This is the first time I’ve written anything besides classical music, and I’m nervous because so much is at stake.”
“You act like I’m some amateur. I’ve been playing for fifteen years.”
“It’s not that you can’t play, it’s that you don’t care.”
Missy spun on her heel. “I don’t have to put up with this shit.”
Effie grabbed her shirt. “Want to know how I know that?”
Missy turned and gave her a mock bow. “Yes, please, enlighten me. Tell me what else I’m doing wrong.”
“I’m cursed with extremely sensitive hearing. That’s why I can pick up other instruments so easily.” Effie pointed to the stage. “That amp is making me crazy. I can hear a lawnmower off in that field.” She pointed up to the sky. “That plane sounds like it’s flying right through my brain. I hear you breathing and insects flying and roadies’ footsteps in the dirt.” She covered her ears with her fists. “It’s maddening.”
Missy looked about as sympathetic as a serial killer.
Effie clenched her stomach. “If something’s off-tune, I get sick to my stomach. If the tempo’s off, I get this weird pain in my eye.” She blinked one eye. “It’s awful.” And it was also the reason she’d turned to drugs—to numb the pain.
“I don’t care about your stupid hearing.”
“I can hear emotion. And you don’t have any. The way you play sounds generic. It sounds like you don’t want to be up there.”
“Everything okay, Effie?” Elias yelled from the stage.
After his one-sided question, a flicker of sorrow flew across the keyboardist’s face.
All at once, Effie understood everything—Missy was in love with Elias. That’s why she didn’t like her. Missy was jealous.
Unrequited love. The most painful love in the world.
Though Effie had never experienced it, she felt Missy’s pain deep in her gut.
“How long have you been in love with him?” Effie whispered.
A flash of surprise went off in Missy’s eyes. “What?”
“Does he know?” Effie asked.
Missy’s brows bowed, her chin quivered, then a sob broke free.
Effie hugged her. “I’m sorry.”
Missy swatted the tears off her face. “I’m fine.”
“No one means it when they say those words.”
“I’m not in love with him anymore,” Missy said. “I have a boyfriend.”
“You do?” Then why the hell was she stuck on her man?
Missy nodded. “Sam.”
“I take it you’re not in love with Sam?”
“I love him, but in a different way. He’s warm and affectionate and makes me laugh. But there’s just no, I don’t know, there’s no”—she rubbed her fingers together—“fire I guess. He’s too nice.”
Effie tried not to roll her eyes. “He sounds like a beast.”
“I know it sounds bitchy. The thing is, Sam would make a great husband and father, and I’ve always wanted to be a mom. And Elias isn’t exactly marriage material. Even if he were into me, he doesn’t want kids.”
That information neither surprised her, nor changed her feelings for him. Marriage and kids didn’t really matter to her.
Even though Missy’s secret was out in the open, it still didn’t solve the immediate problem.
“The way you feel right now?” Effie said. “Use it. Tell everyone how you feel through your music.”
Missy slumped over and sighed. “I’ll try.”
Effie hugged her tightly, and that time, she hugged her back. “Missy?”
“Yeah?”
“Who’s Yoko Ono?”
“Seriously?”
“Never mind. I’ll look it up.”
The next time around, Missy sang and played her heart out. And afterwards, her normally pinched mouth spread into a broad smile. Clearly, she’d experienced some sort of catharsis.
Urban practiced until midnight, and by the end, they sounded so good, Effie performed a cheerleader routine, which included a half-assed split jump.
Elias snuck up behind her after that and pressed his hard-on against her ass. “Later, I’m gonna make you do the splits across my face.” He bit her earlobe. “Leave your door unlocked tonight.”
25
Rubato
“Forgetting pain is convenient. Remembering it, agonizing. But recovering the truth is worth the suffering.”
> Soundtrack “Fires,” Band Of Skulls
As promised, Elias rapped on her door later that night. She opened it, and he lunged for her, taking her face in his hands, and kicking the door shut behind him.
His husky voice sent a scorching shiver down her spine. He grabbed her ass and hoisted her against his erection. “Feel how much I want you.”
She wanted him. Oh God, she wanted him. But it was too soon. She still wasn’t sure. “Elias,” she whispered. “I need to go slow.”
He released his grip and set her down. Forehead creased with tension, he pinched his bottom lip for a moment. “I want to make you come—”
“Elias—”
“I don’t mean sex. There are other things we can do.” He curled his fingers around her neck. “And after that, I want to bury my face in your hair and feel your bare skin against me while I sleep.”
A soft squeak popped out of her.
He tore off his shirt and stepped out of his jeans. He was lean and hard—everywhere. He gave himself a leisurely tug then sat in a chair across from the bed. “Take off your clothes,” he ordered. “Slowly.”
“Elias—”
“Now.” Though his command was gentle, his gaze was anything but.
She unbuttoned her top and shrugged it off her shoulders.
“Touch your breasts,” he said. “Pinch your hard nipples.” The evidence of his arousal bobbed in agreement.
She did as he asked, and a spasm of pleasure released liquid heat between her thighs.
Mouth tilted in a half grin, he rubbed the head of his cock through his fist. “Are you getting wet?”
She nodded.
“You like watching me?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Take off those Hulk undies. I want to see for myself.”
She stepped out of her clothes.
“Come closer. That’s it. Spread yourself open so I can see how swollen and wet you are.” He bit his lip and glanced up at her. “Rub that hard clit for me, make yourself wetter.”
Her knees almost buckled the minute she touched herself. She gasped and closed her eyes, rocking against her hand.
“Watch me,” he said. “Open your eyes.”
As he worked his cock in his hand, flames hit her center.
“Put your finger in your pussy then let me suck it. I want to taste you.”
“Oh my God. I can’t stand up.”
“Sit on my lap.”
“I can’t.”
“You can and you will.” He pulled her down sideways on top of him. “Now do as I asked.”
She dipped her finger inside and held it out for him.
He rolled his tongue around it and sucked it clean, pressing his own finger into her mouth.
“That’s it.” He took hold of himself again. “Now fuck yourself, while I do the same.”
Panting, she leaned back and spread one leg over the arm of the chair.
He latched onto her nipple.
An intense ripple of ecstasy rolled through her. She arched up into his mouth. “Feels good.”
“That’s it, amor. Come.”
Come was an understatement. It was more like she exploded.
A guttural cry of masculine lust let loose, and he crashed his mouth against hers, sucking on her tongue, while he blasted cum on her belly.
Out of breath and limp, she collapsed back on his damp chest and ran her fingers over his nipples. “Wow, I needed that.”
“Me too.” He kissed her again, then picked her up and carried her to bed. After that, he strutted into the bathroom, with a playful grin on his face, then came out a moment later and washed her belly and thighs with a warm washcloth.
This beautiful man was the perfect harmonic mixture of sweetness and masculinity.
A brief moment of panic consumed her—this wasn’t going to last. Bliss never lasted—it disappeared in an instant.
But then he enveloped her in his warmth and swept his fingers over the curves of her shoulders, into the crook of her elbow, and around her wrist—his touch as light as butterfly wings—and she let go of her negative thoughts, and instead clung to the blissful moment.
He drew a line down her center and circled her belly button. “This is where you were given life.”
A suppressed giggle burst out of her. “That tickles.”
He smiled against her skin. “Your laugh is beautiful.”
She lifted his chin. “You make me melt.”
He gripped her hip, then rolled her over on her tummy and examined her side. “What’s that horrible scar from?”
The memory of the wound shot like a bullet through her mind.
“You were almost there. Almost free from what you fear. You could have been cured. You could have forgotten.”
Effie planned her suicide much like a composer writes his own requiem.
When her father picked her up after her first visit to rehab, he wasn’t at all happy to see her. There was no love or sympathy in his expression, nor any remorse from having neglected her.
As a matter of fact, he didn’t look at her at all. Nor did he speak to her. He drove her back to his house in complete silence.
At his home, he treated her like a pest who’d invaded his house. She was no longer his kid apparently. The position had been taken over by his other two daughters, who weren’t fucked-up junkies.
Instead, he and his new wife—a docile and doughy woman, the polar opposite of her mother—and their two kids who looked just like her, carried on with their lives as if she didn’t exist.
In the mornings, her father made the girls pancakes then drove them to school. After school, he attended their soccer games and Girl Scout meetings. At night, he and his new family sat down for dinner and rehashed their day. He told stupid jokes and made them laugh. And at bedtime, he tucked his replacement daughters in bed and read them stories.
Throughout his daily family routine, Effie was invisible. No one asked her how her day went. She made her own food, usually a bowl of cereal, and ate by herself at the counter. Then she’d shuffle to her room and go back to sleep. After a month there, a dark web of depression spun around her, and all she did was sleep.
When her landlords went on vacation that summer, she woke up long enough to plot her demise.
First, she hocked his wife’s jewelry and bought an eight ball, a rubber tube, and a syringe, then drove out to the beach right before sunrise.
She snorted line after line under the pier, picturing how she’d look dead on the ocean—her hair spread out like a mermaid’s, seaweed tangled in it—and her blue eyes pecked out by seagulls. But she’d have a peaceful smile on her face, because finally, she’d be free.
After snorting half the bag, she cooked a spoonful over a lit candle. When the sun rose, she loaded the syringe and stuck it in her arm, and after that, she’d planned to swim out to sea.
What she didn’t plan on was a bunch of junkies stabbing her and making off with the drugs. She also didn’t plan on bleeding to death on the beach. And she definitely didn’t plan on Skip surfing that morning then finding her wasted body sprawled across the bloody sand.
“Jesus Christ, Effie! Oh, shit! Oh, shit! What have you done?”
She remembered greeting him with a smile. “Hi, Skip. Are you dead too?”
Terrified that she’d croak before the ambulance arrived, he carried her to his car and sped to the hospital.
Three days later, she woke up and found a different needle in her arm, as well as a six-inch sutured gash above her kidney. She also found Skip at her bedside, weeping with his face buried in his hands.
This struck her as odd at the time. She barely knew her sister’s best friend. Why did he care if she died? But through the haze of drugs and beeping machines, she realized he wasn’t there for her—he was there for the broken version of Callie.
“How long have you been in love with my sister?” she asked him.
“Oh, thank God.” He rushed to her side. “You’re not brain dead.”
<
br /> She laughed. She laughed so hard she popped the stitches in her side.
A blind rage took over his torment. “You think this is funny? You think suicide is funny?”
It was her turn to cry next.
He plopped down in the chair across from her and sighed. “Forever,” he said.
“What?”
“I’ve been in love with Callie since I met her.”
“Why didn’t you tell her?”
“Because obviously she doesn’t feel the same way. And because she lives with an asshole in Chicago now. And because, believe it or not, I have a little dignity.”
She reached out for his hand and gripped it tight.
He teared up again. “Please don’t make me tell your sister I found you half dead.”
She gave him a stiff smile. “It’ll be our secret. All of it.”
His normal stoicism returned. “I didn’t tell the doctor you tried to off yourself, otherwise you’d be in an institution right now.”
A spasm of pain punched her heart. “How did you know?”
He gave her a crushing sarcastic look. “You’re lucky I showed up.”
“I don’t feel lucky.”
He regarded her for a moment. “When’s the next time you’re gonna try this? And what if I don’t get there in time? You’re a fucking ticking bomb, Effie, an F-bomb.”
She let go of his hand and curled up in the fetal position.
“What are we going to do with you?”
“I can’t go back to rehab.”
“You have to.”
“It doesn’t work.”
“I talked to the shrink here. There’s an experimental drug study in San Diego. It’s a year-long program.”
And who was going to pay for that? Not her family. “Did you tell my parents?”
He shook his head. “I’ve been sitting here with my thumbs up my ass, trying to figure out what to do if you made it out of a coma.”
The heaviness of it all—it was so unbearable. And then her will to live slipped away, and she closed her eyes and gave in.
A sharp smack woke her up two days later. “Get up,” Skip said. “I’m driving you to San Diego.”
“When you can’t look on the bright side, I will sit with you in the dark.”
Head-Tripped: A Sexy Rock Star Romance (Ad Agency Series Book 2) Page 12
