That, or his voice mail was broken, or maybe it translated all her messages into Elvish when he received them, so that he had no idea that she needed confirmation of their show more than just the night before they were supposed to play.
Because if he didn’t want to book them that night, she’d have to rearrange the stop in Tuscaloosa, or skip Tupelo altogether, and then rebook the hotels, while Dave bitched about extra miles put on his van when they had to backtrack.
Emme breathed out, and slowly inhaled. Leaned her neck forward, rolled her head side to side. Put her hands under the seat of her desk chair and did that crazy stretch-thing she’d seen a video of on YouTube once that looked ridiculous but actually did help relieve shoulder tension.
Emme’s dining room table, a giant wooden monstrosity that had been her grandmother’s and that she had never once actually eaten a meal at, was covered in papers. Maps, brochures, flyers for shows, packing lists, to-do lists, to-call lists. Her poor ancient laptop strained under the weight of twelve open tabs, one of them the spreadsheet she was trying to complete so that she could give her tour members and her housesitter an accurate schedule.
Her housesitter. Shit. She still hadn’t found a housesitter.
What she wouldn’t give for a backrub.
A backrub, preferably, from a particular leanly muscled, tattooed bass player, whose hands and forearms flexed while he played …
Emme closed her eyes and leaned back in the rolling desk chair. For a moment she shoved the spreadsheet, the laptop, the compulsive to-do lists in color-coded ink all into the back of her brain and slammed the door. She listened to the stretch of her limbs as she pulled back from the table, sighed into the imaginary touch of warm hands against the back of her neck. He’d start off slow and firm, because his hands would be strong and he’d be good at this. She could tell by the way he played. Okay, she couldn’t actually tell by the way he played, but she could pretend that bass-playing ability somehow translated into back-massaging talent.
Yes, she’d let him rub her shoulders, tell him to dig his thumbs into the spot right next to her scapula, where a million tiny knots gathered every time she left another unanswered voice mail. He’d probably pull off her shirt, to do a better job, and then his hands would creep around to the front of her body to cup her breasts …
But she still wanted her backrub, goddamn it. Yes, she wanted his hands on her, but she didn’t want him to grab and paw. He’d be better than that, surely. Wait for her. Follow her lead.
Yes. Follow her lead. So, she’d take her own shirt off, so that he could feel her skin, see it on display for him. Maybe he’d turn her so that he could see her breasts.
Or maybe she’d tell him that he couldn’t look, to keep his hands where they were, or she’d put her shirt back on and walk away. That thought sent a bloom of warmth down low in her body.
He’d want to kiss her, the back of her neck, maybe the center of her back, as his hands worked at her shoulders, exactly at the pace and pressure she told him to keep. She’d love that, too, his breath against her skin, his lips on her body, but maybe … maybe she’d tell him “no.”
Not yet. Not until I say so.
And maybe she’d like that even more, because her clit pulsed once, hard, at the thought.
“Later, if you’re good enough,” she whispered into her empty dining room, and yes, that was it. He’d have to earn the taste of her skin. She’d make him work for it.
Would he run away from that? Or would he push her over, take his kisses, pull her hair and put his teeth against the side of her neck? Other men had, and she’d liked it well enough. Or maybe not really well enough.
Maybe he’d just swallow hard and obey her orders, fingers shaking now, because he’d be turned on, frustrated, but in control of himself because that was what she commanded.
Maybe she’d have lost interest in the backrub by this point. Or maybe his hands would still feel good, letting her relax for once, letting her trust her own instincts, and so she’d make him keep going. She’d sigh to let him know how good it felt, and he’d react to that, gripping more tightly to keep from touching her anywhere other than her back and shoulders.
Emme wasn’t sure how they’d both gotten naked in her imagination, but they were, and as much as she wanted to turn around and look at him, she’d let him reach over her shoulder instead, let him graze the back of his knuckles against her jaw. He wouldn’t be rough; he’d be tender, because he’d be so overwhelmed that she’d allowed him to touch her at all.
And then she’d put her hand over his, and pull it down, over her clavicle and into the hollow of her throat, lower still over the top swell of her breast. He’d be breathing heavy now, panting even.
Emme slid her own hand over her T-shirt, over her own breast, as she imagined. His hands would be bigger than hers, probably harder than hers. He wouldn’t already know her body the way she did. Would he be hesitant? Overeager? Or just overwhelmed and grateful?
The fabric of her shirt muffled the sensation of her hand; frustrated, she whipped the T-shirt off and tossed it onto the dining room table. Papers scattered all over the floor when it landed, but she closed her eyes again, determined to recapture the daydream.
Oh, right. She’d probably let him kiss her then, on the juncture between her neck and shoulder. Maybe she’d ask him to lick her there, as she pulled his hand down over her breast. Emme felt goose bumps rise under her fingertips as she trailed her nails lower, her bra tightening as her breasts swelled. She shoved the cup down out of the way, impatient for her own touch against her nipple. By the time she touched herself there, she could barely stand the sensation, thrusting into it and pulling away at the same time.
Her finger might be too much, but his tongue—his tongue would be perfect. So she’d tell him to lick her there, too, and she’d wind her fingers in his hair as he did, pulling until she got him to the exact right spot, the exact right pressure.
And maybe he would look up at her as he licked, those blue eyes of his meeting hers as she watched his tongue on her body.
Fuck. She was too wound up, dying for release. She couldn’t tease herself any more or she’d break something. Emme unzipped her jeans and shoved them down just far enough to get her hand inside, beneath the elastic of her underpants.
Oh, God, she was a mess, a hot, slippery, glorious mess, just from imagining a backrub. She’d gotten herself off plenty of times since the Indelible Lines disaster; she’d worn out the batteries on her vibrator twice and was beginning to wonder if the motor could last much longer, but it felt like years since she’d had an orgasm.
And it had been, at least, since she’d had one involving another person.
Never mind that the other person was currently only involved in her imagination; it was still better than she’d had in ages.
Emme circled her clit with two fingers. Tom’s would be rougher from playing bass and washing glassware in the bar; they’d feel so much better than her own. And his face would be lust-glazed and desperate as he watched her.
Maybe he’d kneel in front of her and lick her there, too. She could order him to. Or maybe she could just demand that he take out his cock and let her use it, slide down onto it, fill herself up with him.
She worked two fingers deep inside herself, but it wasn’t enough. She added a third, until she felt her body open, rubbing her clit with her other hand as her hips moved.
She’d ride him, and take her pleasure from him, and tell him to hold off until she’d come and come and come all over him. And he’d do it. He would take it and hold out and not give in, leaving her empty and disappointed and a little regretful after it was over; no, he’d wait until she told him she was done before letting himself come, and she wouldn’t stop until she was sated and exhausted and finally, finally relaxed.
And she wouldn’t make it easy for him, either. She’d use him hard and selfishly, and he’d watch her body moving on his and feel her all around him, the way she could feel her own
pussy tighten around her fingers as the tension built in her body, built until it had nowhere to go, no higher to climb, and then snapped.
Emme couldn’t help her strangled cry as the pleasure, sharp and jagged, cut through her. Her body pulsed twice, three times, nearly painful. The scent of her arousal filled the room, her jeans tangled around her thighs, her hands sticky.
She winced as she pulled her fingers from her body, pulled her bra cup back up over her exposed breast.
Well.
What a stupid fantasy. He seemed different from all the other guys she’d known, sure, but she had no doubt that he’d be like them in bed—pulling her hair, trying to impress her with moves like tossing her around on the bed or putting their hands around her neck. Okay with the right person, maybe, but not what she’d ever really wanted for herself. Things that had always left her feeling a little dissatisfied. Lacking.
Where had her T-shirt landed, again?
Emme was in the process of yanking her jeans back up over her ass when her phone rang.
Oh God, she was a complete shameless mess. She grabbed her shirt off the table and wiped her hands before answering the phone.
“I put you on the prayer list this morning,” her mother said, without even a hello.
Emme felt her cheeks flush. Jesus Christ, did her mother know what she’d just been doing? Did the woman have a telescope aimed at her dining room window? “Why?”
“Since you’ll be traveling soon, I thought it would be good for you to have prayers to keep you safe.” Emme could hear her mother exhale her cigarette smoke as she spoke, could picture her, sitting on the back porch, still in her flowered Sunday dress, blonde hair perfectly styled, sneaking a cigarette that she thought her husband wouldn’t know about before going inside to make dinner.
“And, of course, to keep you away from temptation, since you’ll be on the road.” Her mother’s voice developed a bite.
“Thanks, Mom,” Emme said.
She’d tried to be understanding when her mother had married Donald and gone from single-parent agnostic nurse to doctor’s wife church-potluck-host. But then her mother had made her embarrassment with Emme perfectly clear, both with her image and her actions, and Emme found herself reacting like a teenager with a curfew instead of a twenty-nine-year-old woman with her own life.
“Have you found a housesitter yet?”
It didn’t help that her mother seemed to have some kind of radar for her hot-button issues and the inability to keep from putting her thumbs right on them.
“No. I thought I’d see if the Mastersons’ kids wanted to mow the lawn and get the mail. I figure fifty bucks a week, for two teenagers, easy work?” Emme thought about trying to shrug her shirt back on. Something about talking to her mother while half-dressed made her feel squirmy and uncomfortable.
Vulnerable. That was probably the feeling she was going for.
“Hm.” That one syllable, filled with judgment, followed by another inhale of smoke. “I’d check on that idea sooner rather than later, if I were you. Don’t count on it, is what I’m saying. Donald’s landscapers could probably come over and do your lawn while you’re out—”
“I can’t afford Donald’s landscapers,” Emme said. Don’t sigh like a frustrated teenager, she’ll hear it and pounce on the weakness.
“Well, dear. I’m sure if you asked nicely, maybe tried to show a little gratitude toward him, he might be willing to consider it as a gift.”
Like your plastic surgery? Oh, that thought was so unkind, Emme didn’t like herself at all for having it.
“Tell him I said thank you,” she managed. “That’s real sweet of him. But I think the Mastersons’ kids will do a good job, and all I really need is the lawn mowed and the mail taken care of.”
Emme could hear her mother trying not to sigh, herself, on the other end of the line. “The thing is, Emily … the house could use some work. Mama always kept it up real nice, and she was so proud of her garden, but you just use it as a place where you store all your … music stuff. The neighbors are going to start to complain if you don’t take better care of it.”
Take better care of it was her mother’s way of saying stay home and decorate and garden. Or hire someone else to do it. That wasn’t an option with her career, or with her income.
Career had been her mother’s focus, once. All through Emme’s childhood, when she worked nights in the ICU, when Emme stayed with her grandmother here in this house. And then, when Emme was a teenager, she’d met Donald, and now home and church and image were her concerns. And Emme’s image reflected on hers.
Poorly.
Always, poorly. From Emme’s loss of control of her temper in grade school to her singing too loudly in the choir at church.
To the breakup of Indelible Lines, and the explosion of Emme’s reputation due to the entire Internet’s speculation about her role in that breakup. If Emme had only become famous for her music first, instead of for her scandal, her mother might feel differently, but as it was, she’d embarrassed her yet again. Probably the only person who had ever been proud of her was her grandmother, but that was a depressing thought.
“I see the Mastersons getting back from church,” Emme lied. “I’m going to try to catch them now. Tell Donald thanks, again, and I’ll send you my schedule once I get it finalized.”
She hung up and gave herself over to the hollow feeling of disappointment before she tossed her T-shirt back on, straightened her shoulders, and picked up her to-do list off the floor.
The sun had almost set by the time she’d finished the last bit of data entry on her spreadsheet. She still hadn’t heard back from the Great Vanishing Booking Manager of Tupelo, but his bar was the only stop Emme hadn’t double confirmed. The orderly cells, lined up in a row with her budget and accommodations list, next to the packing list and schedule of rest days, the saved routes between stops, each its own computer file and additional backup printout, just in case, washed her in smug satisfaction.
Emme took a sip of her tea and sorted the papers into piles, then into color-coded binders. Yes, all of her tea mugs were dirty and piled around her table haphazardly. Yes, her living room furniture was designed for function, not decoration. But no one, not even her mother, could accuse her of being disorganized. Not in control.
Except that she still hadn’t found a housesitter.
Emme tossed on a pair of sandals and crossed the yard to the Mastersons’ place. Mrs. Masterson—Amy? Emme never could remember—answered the door when she rang the bell.
“Hi there.” Emme smiled what she hoped was a next-door-neighbor kind of smile. A nice, nonthreatening smile.
Mrs. Masterson didn’t open the screen door. “Yes?”
“I was wondering if I could ask you a favor. Or, more rightly, if I could offer your kids a job for the summer.” Emme wasn’t sure why she was nervous. She’d stood up onstage in front of a hundred fans and sung about heartbreak, but for some reason Mrs. Masterson, in her jeans and brightly printed T-shirt advertising the annual employee picnic for the bank where she worked, had Emme’s armpits breaking out in sweat.
Maybe it was because Mrs. Masterson crossed her arms and tilted her head without speaking.
“I’m going out of town for a few months, and I need someone to pick up the mail and mow the lawn,” Emme continued. “I’d pay, of course. For the kids I was thinking fifty dollars a week? But of course, I could negotiate …”
Emme trailed off. Something wasn’t right. The closed door, the crossed arms, the shuttered expression on her neighbor’s face.
“Thank you,” Mrs. Masterson said. “But the kids will be busy this summer.” She turned to shut the door.
Oh, hell. I am not hiring Donald’s damn landscapers. “What about—” What was his name again? Oh, right—“Mike? If y’all could use a little extra income, I’d happily pay double for him to bring the riding mower over once a week.” She smiled again, trying not to look too desperate.
Mrs. Masterson unf
olded her arms. She pushed the screen door open, slowly. “Stay. Away. From my husband,” she hissed. “I’ve read the news about you. I’ve seen the men coming and going over there. Stay away from my husband, and stay away from my kids. I don’t care what you do, as long as you’re over there, and you don’t bring it over here, but leave my family out of it.”
Emme held up her hands and stepped back, nearly missing the porch steps. “I meant no offense,” she said. “I honestly just need someone to mow the lawn while I’m out of town. You’re not interested. Okay.”
Mrs. Masterson nodded as though Emme had conceded some kind of point. “Good,” she said. “Good.”
Emme fought down a rising tide of anger as she backed off the porch. What the hell did her neighbor think she was doing while she was out of town? Seducing her husband long-distance? From his riding lawn mower? Corrupting her kids with soul music?
She ought to be used to it by now, the reactions from the strangest places, the judgments from odd corners when she least expected them, but they just kept coming, sucker punches the moment she let her guard down.
In the end, she sucked up her pride and asked Donald to pay for the damn landscapers. Her mother’s triumphant reaction to the request only made her twice as glad to finally take to the road.
Chapter Three
Emme had never had a sexual experience in the backseat of a car.
Somehow she’d made it through her teenage years without any of the typical fumbling, at least in a wheeled conveyance. But she thought about backseats and their possibilities more and more as the van drove through Tennessee. She was going to develop a van fetish if she wasn’t careful.
The backseat gave her a good vantage point to try to unravel the mystery of Tom, and plenty of time to wonder about her own daydreams. And, of course, to remember how he’d played that night onstage.
A good bassist was the backbone of any band, and a bad bassist could destroy one. Tom was one of the best she’d ever heard.
But despite weeks of rehearsal and almost a week on the road, she still didn’t know anything about him. Not enough, anyway. She knew he owned one of Louisville’s most famous blues bars, and that his father had owned it before him. She knew he had learned to play from a downright blues legend. She knew he spent most of his spare time on his phone with Marcos, his bar manager, muttering about call-offs or revenues or orders or bookings; or texting with someone he apparently didn’t enjoy talking to, and that was it.
Have Mercy: A Loveswept Contemporary Erotic Romance Page 2
