Finn Beckett

by Mj Fields

  “I can get the infor—”

  “Next question,” he cuts me off.

  “Date of birth?”

  “November nineteenth, 1991,” he answers coldly.

  I don’t want to lose him. I want to keep him engaged and comfortable, so I ask a simple question.

  “Can you tell me your band members’ birthdays so I don’t have to bother them?”

  He looks at me quizzically.

  “I guess I could get that information from—”

  “Memphis is August sixth; he’s the youngest in the band—1993. River is January twentieth, same year as me. Billy is March twenty-eighth, also ’91,” he answers without even thinking.

  “Your musical inspiration?”

  “Zeppelin. Memphis loves Eddie Vedder; River is a Nirvana junky, and God willing, I hope he doesn’t end like Cobain did; Billy likes all the old jazz.”

  “Jazz?” I ask, almost shocked.

  His lip curls up at the corner in a smirk. “Not sure this was ever in the stars for him, but I’m grateful he’s here.”

  “Because he’s the responsible one?”

  His head whips around, and he looks at me. “He’s one of them. I’m the other.”

  “Right,” I say as I tap the notes into his phone that Finn Beckett is responsible. After all, it’s his bio, not mine.

  He flicks his cigarette on the beach and kicks some sand around, covering it before he sits.

  “Keep ’em coming, Sonya.” He digs his feet into the sand and places his hands behind his head, looking up at the stars.

  “Hobbies include star gazing?”

  He looks up at me. “I like a clear, night sky”—he points up—“and Orion, the Hunter.”

  “Resident star gazer,” I confirm.

  “Sure.”

  “Do you have siblings?” I ask.

  “Nope. You?” He looks at me, and I shake my head.

  “When did you become—” I stop when a chilly night breeze captures my breath.

  He stands up and smacks his hands together, ridding them of sand. “Cold?”

  “Yeah.” I nod.

  He reaches over his shoulder and grips his Henley, pulling it over his head. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a tattoo, a V, and light sprinklings of dark hair trailing down under the waistband of his jeans. Then he pulls down the white T-shirt, covering himself. “Here.”

  “It’s okay.” I hold my hand out, stopping him from giving me his shirt.

  “You’re cold, Sonya. Either go inside or put this on.” He sets it on my shoulder as he walks toward the house.

  His scent devours me once again. I place the phone in my bra and pull it over my head, slowly enjoying the delicious scent that is Finn Beckett as the shirt warms my body.

  I look back, hoping he hasn’t caught me, to see he is pulling a double chaise lounge toward me.

  “Have a seat,” he says in a rough voice.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Sit or go inside, Sonya.” He sounds frustrated, annoyed.

  I need this job, and not just for the paycheck, so I sit, and he sits next to me. Draped over his shoulder is a blanket, black and red plaid. He sits down and covers himself, then me.

  “What else do you need to know?”

  Everything. Everything and why, I think to myself.

  “Did you go to college?”

  He looks at me with raised eyebrows. “No, not everyone is afforded that privilege.” The way he says it is like he is judging me.

  “I didn’t, either.”

  “No?” He sounds shocked.

  “Uh-uh,” I say, wishing I hadn’t given him that information.

  “Huh.” He chuckles.

  “What’s huh mean?”

  “I pegged you for the spoiled, little, rich girl: Daddy’s money, Mom’s good looks, ivory tower, and an Ivy League education. I’m rarely wrong.”

  “Self-confident,” I say as I type borderline arrogant and totally wrong in his phone.

  Seeing what I typed, he huffs, shaking his head.

  “I’m rarely wrong,” I mimic him, and he chuckles.

  “You are dead wrong,” he says with humor in his voice.

  “Tell me why.” I look up into his eyes. Please, I plead inside.

  He looks away, grabbing the Jack Daniels bottle that sits next to the chaise. He takes a drink then hands it to me. “Have a drink with me.” It’s not a demand; it’s a request.

  I grab it from him then take a drink, and its burn coats my throat.

  “You want to know this for your article or so you can make a decision on how to answer my question?”

  “Both,” I say then regret it immediately, so I take another drink.

  She hands me back the bottle, and I take a long gulp.

  It’s not like she can’t find out the answers if she wants to. With the way she seems to be around every turn, I highly doubt she will give up until she finds out.

  “Like many musicians, music is an escape. It gives me a high. And as arrogant as it may sound, I’m damn good at what I do. If I wasn’t, I wouldn’t be doing it. Unlike most, I don’t do it for the crowd. I play for me.”

  She takes the bottle from my hand, drinks, and then hands it back. “So your band mates play for the crowd?”

  “They’re talented as hell. They love rock and roll. They catch a buzz when we are in woodshed mode, but they like the rush the crowd gives them.”

  “So you’re saying you don’t like the spotlight, or the rush, as you call it?”

  “I like that I can make a living doing what I thrive on.”

  “What would you be doing for a living if you couldn’t make a living at it?”

  “Probably be back in Canton, turning wrenches at my dad’s garage.” My hometown slips out, but oh well.

  “For the money?” she asks.

  “Because I enjoy that, and if I have to make a living any other way, that would be my second choice.”

  “Are you close with your father?”

  I shrug. “I suppose. Haven’t seen a lot of him lately, but yeah.” I take another drink, thinking for a second that I should make a trip home. “You?”

  She shakes her head.

  “Your mother?”

  She laughs, taking the bottle from my hand, and drinks down the biggest chug I have seen her take so far.

  “I’ll take that as a no.”

  Complicated relationships build walls. I know this firsthand.

  She hands me the bottle. “How about your mother?”

  “Junkie, and I don’t see her,” I say without thinking. “Please don’t put that shit in your report or whatever.”

  “It’s a bio—your bio—Finn. If you don’t want it in there, it doesn’t happen.” She leans back in the chaise and takes a deep breath. “I’m working for your label. That means I am working for you. If you say not to put it in there, and I do, I’m pretty sure I’ll be unemployed.”

  “True,” I say, leaning back.

  I get lost in my head as I listen to the breeze and ocean sounds. The sky is clear, and despite the unsettled feeling inside of me, the storm is hidden by my buzz right now and a girl who seems far less a threat. It’s still there, though.

  “Answer a few questions for me.”

  “I’ll do the best I can.”

  “How did you get a job with Stevie, with Forever Four, if you aren’t educated?”

  “You’re not educated,” she points out.

  “No, but I have talent.”

  “So do I,” she says, taking another drink.

  “Right.” I can only imagine what that talent is. Right about now, I would like to find out, both sexually and to ease my foolish curiosity about what should be none of my business.

  “I have a very big social media following.”

  I take the bottle she hands me. “How?”

  “How did I get a big following?”

  “Yeah. If you aren’t musical or in entertainment, how the hell does that happen?”


  “It’s a secret.” There is a playful tone in her voice, and I look over to see her smirk.

  “I’ve told you mine. Now tell me yours.”

  “I never liked that game,” she says, biting back a smile.

  I turn to face her. “You play it a lot?”

  “No,” she says quieter.

  “I think the game you’re talking about is I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

  She turns toward me. “Isn’t it the same thing?”

  “No, Sonya, not even close.” I lean closer. Her scent mixed with the evening ocean air is alluring. Then she wets her lips, and smelling her isn’t the only thing on my mind. I wet mine then lean in as she closes her eyes.

  As soon as my lips touch hers, another storm, one inside, consumes me. Her lips are warm and inviting, but her body stiffens. I run my hand up her arm then up her back. I then take the back of her neck and position her head so I can better explore the cause of my desire. Running my tongue over her lips, I part them and feel her shoulders slump, her muscles relax, and her mouth open. I taste Jack Daniels mixed with a clean, minty taste that makes me immediately hard.

  I stroke her tongue with mine, slowly testing the dangerous waters I know damn well I have no business testing. I can’t stop, though. The noises she makes deep in her throat are full of pleasure, but she isn’t giving me back what I want so fucking badly right now.

  I pull back and hold her face in my hands. “I don’t know what the fuck it is about you. I do need an answer. You wanna fu—”

  “I’m a very complicated person, Finn. I’m not looking for a good time or to be a notch on—”

  “God help me, I’m not asking that from you. I want to know what the fuck it is about you that has me so messed up. Who the hell are you?”

  “I should go.”

  “No, dammit. You should tell me, just fucking tell me, why you look at me the way you do. Why you—”

  “I’m sorry. This was a bad idea.” She starts to get up, but I pull her closer.

  “You want me. I know damn well you do. Make no mistake about it, you’ll have me. You’ll have me so fucking deep inside of you I will be fucking you from the inside out, just like you are me right now.”

  She trembles, shaking under my hands.

  “Are you afraid of me?”

  She shakes her head.

  “You understand, when this happens, you won’t be a notch? I’m about the music, not everything else this business fucking brings.”

  “Why?” she gasps. “Why me?”

  “I have no fucking clue, but I can assure you that you started this, and I’m not gonna let it end until I can figure it out.” I let go of her and stand up. What the fuck is wrong with me?

  “Don’t go.”

  I look down at her. “Tell me why I should stay.”

  She shrugs. “I don’t know. I don’t know, either, Finn. I want to hate you—”

  “Why?” I’m asking her to answer a question I can’t even answer. I feel the same damn way, but desire for her is masking the hate.

  She looks down as she fists her hair. “Everything you stand for. Your life. You sleep with—”

  “I fucked Stevie when I was seventeen and she was twenty. Kellie, she was there, and I knew she just wanted a—”

  “What about everyone else?!” she yells, causing me to take a step back.

  “What does it matter?” I yell back.

  “It’s reckless. It’s irrespon—”

  “Be that way with me.” I feel like I’m begging for a piece of ass, and I’m not. I don’t beg for ass. I grab it when I want it, when it’s uncomplicated, and I go. “Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

  I’m pissed at her. So pissed, and I don’t know why.

  She stands up. “I work for your—”

  “I don’t give a damn.” I stare at her.

  “If this ends badly—”

  “It already has. We both know it seems like a bad idea, but neither of us is walking,” I interrupt. “Throw every excuse you can at me, and I’ll shoot them all down.”

  “I can’t. I just … can’t.”

  “But you want to. I know damn well—”

  “It doesn’t matter what I want, Finn. I’m drunk, and I haven’t been with a man in years, so of course I want—”

  “Why?” I question her two-fold excuse.

  “Because I don’t like being used, taken advantage of—”

  “Then use me.”

  She doesn’t say anything to that.

  “You make me feel, and you make me want to hide. I want you under me.” I need her.

  “Because I scare you?”

  “I scare you, too. Admit it. I scare you. And you know what takes that fear away? Facing it head on.”

  She swallows hard. “I wasn’t supposed to want you.”

  “No girl should want a rock star,” I tell her, stepping forward and taking her hand. “But I told you that lifestyle doesn’t interest me. I have you under me; no one else holds that position.”

  She nods, fucking agreeing with me. It’s about fucking time.

  “No one can know. It would put my job in jeopardy.”

  “Agreed. What else?” I yank her closer.

  “When it ends—”

  “Hasn’t even begun.” I take the bottom of her chin and lift it. “That’s about to change.” Wrapping my arm around her back, I lift her so we are eye-to-eye, and her breath hitches. “You kiss me now dammit.”

  She leans in, and our lips collide recklessly, fiercely, and savagely. All the emotions I have felt since seeing her running after Tales, since I met her angry eyes, explode in a kiss, a kiss that will lead to one of two things: fucking or hating.

  I suck her tongue and her lips as I breathe her in. My hands leave her hair to run down her back, resting on her tight, little, apple of an ass. I lift her up, and her legs wrap around mine.

  Not close enough.

  I pull her skirt up as she claws at my shirt. Lifting it, I pull back as it comes over my head.

  “Jesus, Sonya,” I say as I hold her ass up with one hand and pull my arm out of one sleeve then the next.

  I carry her toward the house as I knead her ass in my hand while sucking on her neck, scraping it with my teeth and trying my best not to hurt her. But I need more. More of her, more of this feeling that the storm is a lie, that my feelings were confused, that this—this right here—is what it was about from the minute I saw her.

  Lust.

  I use one hand to open the door then kick it shut behind me.

  “River,” she moans, pulling away.

  “He’s passed out.” I squeeze her ass when I say it. “Never say another man’s name while I have my hands on you. All I want to hear is Finn or God, understand?”

  “Yes,” she pants before kissing me hard.

  I push her against the wall of the hallway next to the door to my room as I reach over to open it.

  Once inside, I kick the door shut and rush to the bed. I set her on it, not wanting to take my hands off her, afraid, so fucking afraid, she will change her mind. When her hands rush to my jeans and start fumbling to unbutton me, I know that fear is unfounded.

  I pull her shirt up, and through the moonlight steaming from my windows, I see red, though I’m unsure if it’s her bra’s true color or the filter in my mind, my eyes, from my anger. I quickly lean in and kiss her neck. Then I grab the strap with my teeth and pull it down her arm as I feel the first button of my jeans open.

  “Don’t you stop, Sonya,” I demand. “If you stop, if you hesitate, this is done before it even starts. If you want me, you take me.”

  My head is in a fog of desire and need. A need I know is driven by the fear of a lie that I can’t have more, one that needs to be abolished so I don’t slip any further away than I already know I am capable of.

  I unsnap her bra with one hand as I kiss and tug the other strap down. I pull her arm free, and then her hand urgently returns to unbuttoning my button-fly je
ans.

  She pushes down my jeans, and my heavy, hard, and needy cock hits her face.

  “Fuck,” I hiss as I look down, pulling her hair away so I can watch her look at me. “You like what you see?” I groan, pivoting my hips so it touches her face again.

  She swallows hard, licks her lips, and peers up at me through her dark lashes, her eyes liquid amber. “Yes.”

  Taking her trembling hand and wrapping it around me, I guide her strokes up then down as I groan. I squeeze, tightening the grip, then use my other hand to take the back of her neck and pull her closer.

  When I let go, she doesn’t move back, so I know what she wants.

  I trace her lips with my finger then push it slowly inside her mouth. Her tongue caresses my finger, and then I push another finger inside.

  I watch as her mouth gives my fingers what I know it wants to give my dick. I try to be patient—it’s normally not an issue, but with her, I need to know. Need, desire, both, and more—that’s what I feel. Fuck, that’s what it was from day one.

  I hook my fingers in her mouth and pull her forward, using my other hand, the one guiding her strokes, to rub my cock across her lips.

  “Suck my cock, Sonya,” I groan as I pull my fingers out of her mouth and replace them with the tip of my dick that is already beading with pre-come.

  Her tongue flicks across, licking it clean, and I can’t help thrusting forward.

  “No restraint,” I hiss as I pivot my hips and push farther into her hot, little mouth. “None.”

  I lead her back, cock in mouth, so she is lying across the bed. Then I step one foot onto the platform bed’s mattress while the other stays grounded on the floor, knee bent so I’m standing over her, my cock still in her mouth.

  Her tongue strokes me harder as her grip tightens around it. I reach back, eyes still glued on the way her lips look wrapped around me. I rub my hand over her silk panties that are wet with desire, and all of a sudden, I am the thirstiest man alive.

  I slip my finger under them through the side and groan when I feel how swollen and hot she is. “Your pussy wants me so bad.”

  I’m not asking her.

  I’m telling her.

  I know.

  My head is spinning with too much to drink and lust. I can’t deny it, and I didn’t expect to feel it for him.