Rock Rhapsody

by Rachel Cross

  Amy sat silently.

  He grabbed her by the back of the head and pulled her over into his lap, kissing her desperately. She crawled over and straddled him, pushing the seat back as far as it would go. He licked into her mouth, holding her hips down on his erection. Amy tried to soothe him, stroking his back and murmuring, but he wanted none of that. No tenderness. He had to have her. Now.

  He peeled her panties down from under her dress; in her contortions to get them off, her knee jabbed into him and he didn't care.

  He cursed, hands moving to his fly while he lifted his hips and struggled with his jeans.

  “Wait, Shane, wait,” she mumbled into his mouth. “Do you have something?”

  His hands stilled and he swore. “In the trunk.”

  She moved off until she was lying half on the gearbox, head in his lap.

  Was she. . . “No Amy,” he tried to pull her up, “you don't have to do that.”

  “I know I don't have to,” she said, wetting her lips she glanced from him to his cock. He groaned, thickening with anticipation. “I want to.” She worked him free of the bunched jeans. She tilted her head, watching him.

  He couldn't take his eyes off her glistening lips, her pink tongue peeking out.

  He groaned and slid down in the seat as she gave him a few experimental strokes.

  “Amy,” he panted. “Amy.”

  She teased him at first. And when he was well beyond teasing, she sucked strongly until her cheeks hollowed, then licked the underside decisively. How could he be on the verge so soon? She'd just started.

  “Amy . . . I'm close,” he said hoarsely, but the sight of her working his cock, looking up at him sent him right to the edge.

  “Mmmm,” she mumbled, her mouth full, her hand pumping the base of his shaft.

  “Amy,” he gasped. “Please . . . fuck . . . stop. If you don't want . . . I can't . . .” And then it was too late, she was taking all of him.

  Afterward he sat in the seat, calm and relaxed for the first time in hours, staring down at her. Feeling like this after sex was a revelation. There was no shame. No panic. None of the usual anxiety about how to extricate himself from the person he was with. He helped her across to his side of the car and cuddled her against his chest. Here was this woman he'd thought was spoiled. Instead she turned out to be generous, sympathetic, and hotter than hell. He hadn't anticipated finding someone he cared about this much about. Their first few weeks in Los Angeles had been so blissful, he hadn't even noticed other women. Hadn't cared. But lately he'd more than noticed. The more he tried to push away the fantasies, the harder they were to stifle. Thoughts about the checkout woman at the grocery store—hell, he'd gotten worked up fantasizing about the flight attendant in first class on the way here while Amy slept in the window seat next to him. Guilt rolled through him.

  Apparently being with one person, faithful and happy, wasn't part of his repertoire. If he cared about her as much as he did, why were the temptations coming back?

  He reached into the cooler in the backseat, handed a bottle of water to her and she drank, gratefully.

  His body still trembling, he took out another water and finished it, crushing the plastic and tossing it into the back seat. She made a move to slide back over to her side of the car, but he held her tightly, his heart still racing. “Thank you.”

  “You don't have to thank me,” she whispered with a shake of her head, grinning. “It's not like you haven’t done that for me, countless times.”

  “I know, but here. And like this.” He gestured to the car.

  She shrugged. “Figure skaters are flexible. And adaptable. You needed it.”

  He crushed her up against him and admitted what he could no longer keep inside. “I'm crazy about you, Amy Astor, and it scares the holy hell out of me.”

  • • •

  Amy watched Shane steer the car back onto the highway.

  “You wanna tell me about it?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “Shane.”

  She resettled back in her seat waiting, fearful. Her gut clenched.

  “I fucked my brother-in-law's sister.”

  “Oh.” That was not good, and guys could be weird about their sisters' sex lives—at least from what she'd gleaned from Kyle's relationship with his. But surely if they were both consenting adults? Her body relaxed.

  It bubbled out of him. “It was at Nat's wedding. And Danica was married. She has a big mouth—everyone knew by the end of the weekend. Her husband divorced her and she's been married twice since then—she's not even thirty. So Jesse hates my guts. And he'll never let Natalie take anything from me—hell, I can barely see her without causing problems between them. If I give her money, it will end them. For her sake, I try to stay away.” He rubbed his mouth. “I love my sister, but I made a mess of things. Jesse's not a bad guy, but he's an angry, stubborn son of a bitch.”

  “God.” She felt his eyes on her and tried school her features into something other than disgust. He was going too fast to keep looking over at her the way he was—probably trying to gauge her reaction. She met his glance with an attempt at a reassuring smile that must've had the opposite effect.

  “I know,” he said. “It's a screwed up situation. I've tried talking to Danica, to Jesse—it's useless.”

  “Try again,” she suggested. “You're both older—you've changed.” But had he? She hated to keep thinking about his past, since most of what she knew was gossip and rumors, he was tight-lipped about his history. She'd known he had issues with this stuff from the onset. There was something about the way he looked at women that made her uncomfortable. It wasn't anything as blatant as flirtation, nothing like he'd been with that waitress at Spoke, but he exhibited a level of awareness—like with the flight attendant on the way here—that tied her stomach in knots. If it had been less subtle she would've said something.

  “And say what?” he said.

  “That you're sorry? That you were stupid?”

  “Do you think I haven't tried that over the years? And all the shit that continues to come down about my life adds fuel to his fire.”

  Silence reigned in the car for several miles. At least he was able to associate his problems with his past with the problems in his present. That was good, right?

  Chapter Fourteen

  The next day Amy popped her head in Mandy Marx’s open door. “I'm heading downstairs, can I get you anything?”

  “I could use some company,” Mandy said in her thick Tennessee drawl that made Amy smile. The woman indicated the overstuffed recliner in the corner of the massive suite, a few feet away.

  The poor woman, alone in this enormous house. A house that TruAchord’s money had built, no doubt. Her husband was dead and her kids wanted nothing to do with her. And yet she'd been so gracious in her vulnerability. She was a tiny little thing, barely five-foot-three, and all the coffee and cigarettes kept her lean. But she looked older than her years, and according to Shane, she had a lot of vices.

  “Of course.”

  Mandy’s smile was sweet and Amy relaxed into the chair. Granted they'd only been here a day, but there was nothing about this woman to indicate she was as difficult as Nat and Shane said. Mandy Marx wasn't a monster.

  “So, darling, how did you meet my Shane?”

  “We both live in LA and he's . . .” She hesitated. Surely it wasn't a secret from his mother? “He's been learning to skate for an upcoming role, so I've been working with him.”

  “Right. You're the skater who quit all those years ago. You couldn't handle the bigger contests?”

  Amy stiffened. “No, actually. I . . . it wasn't a healthy environment for me.”

  Mandy Marx narrowed her eyes, but her face was set in compassionate lines. “Poor dear. You need a will of iron and self-disciple to succeed at the top levels. Don't I know it. My Natalie didn't have it either.”

  Amy swallowed and tried again. “It wasn't anything to do with my will—”

  “No? '
Cause looking at you, angel, I'm thinking maybe it was the self-discipline part. For a skater, you're . . . a big girl. Was that always the problem? That was a problem with my own daughter. She couldn't keep the weight off to be world-class. Some women don't have what it takes to be their best selves.”

  Amy sat back in the chair, heart slamming around in her chest. The heat rose in her face. Had this woman just called her fat?

  “You know,” Shane’s mother continued, conversationally, “don't take it to heart that Shane looks at other women—he always has. Those girls who were over yesterday?”

  Amy pressed her lips together. The twenty-year-old twins who had used Mandy's health as an excuse to bring food and flirt with Shane? He had been distantly polite, but, ever vigilant, she'd caught his covert, heated glances at them during their brief visit. It made her ill. Apparently he was looking for something—for someone else.

  “He's always liked Southern women. Well, there's not lot he doesn't like as you probably know.” She laughed delightedly and Amy recoiled, her skin like ice.

  “A lot of men don't tell you what does it for them, and they'll make do for a while, but I happen to know Shane likes his women tiny. You can never be too rich or too thin, but as long as you have one of those two things going for you, Amelia. . .”

  Now Amy noticed what she hadn't before. The cold, calculating depths of those pretty, wide, aquamarine eyes.

  She stood without another word and strode out of the room, reeling from the attack. She made her way to the landing, holding her churning stomach, and scurried down the stairs. Shane looked up from the bottom of the steps, one foot on the riser.

  “Amy?”

  She brushed by him with a muttered “later” on her way to the front porch. The air was thick with humidity and the smell of vegetation—and it was barely 10:00 A.M. She had to get out of there.

  The street was quiet—perhaps a walk or run would release some of her pent up rage and humiliation. Before she could commit, however, the screen door slammed and Shane's arm came around her shoulders. She shrugged it off, wrapped her arms around herself, and took two steps down the porch into the sun.

  “Did you tell her?”

  “Tell her what?”

  “About my struggles with food.” She faced him to gauge his reaction, her vision blurred by tears.

  His mouth dropped. “Fuck no.”

  His body went rigid as he turned back to stare at the house. Without a word he went back inside.

  She heard raised voices. Shane’s furious cursing, his mother's plaintive tones. Moments later he returned with his keys and her purse. He handed it to her and took her other hand.

  “C'mon.”

  They drove back to the two-lane divided road in silence. Halfway to the hotel, Shane pulled off onto the shoulder. “There. See that tree?” He pointed to a large oak in the forest on the side of the road. She glanced over at his expressionless face, sunglasses hiding his eyes. She nodded slowly and he pulled back onto the road.

  “That's where my dad killed himself.”

  “Shane. I thought he died in a car accident.”

  “Yep.”

  “But . . .”

  “Do you know how many single car accidents are suicide? I'm sure it was in his case. He was healthy. The autopsy showed he died of traumatic injuries from the wreck, not a heart attack or seizure or something.”

  “Maybe he lost control or nodded off—”

  “No. He killed himself to get away from her.”

  Amy stared at him in horror. If his mother had done that kind of damage to her spouse, what had she done to Shane and his sister? She shifted uneasily in the seat. “You can't know that.”

  “Can't I?” He turned into the parking lot of the motel, shut off the engine, and opened the driver’s side door. She was still sitting stunned in the passenger seat when Shane came around to open the door and help her out. She followed him into his hotel room.

  He tossed his sunglasses, keys, and wallet onto the desk and sat on the bed, pulling her down beside him. She sat cross-legged, facing him on the threadbare orange and brown comforter.

  Shane stroked the fingers of one hand down her face. “Whatever she said—”

  “She said I was too fat to be a figure skater.”

  He inhaled sharply. “That bitch.”

  “Or to be with you. In the guise of being helpful.”

  “When she's not being passive aggressive, she's outright aggressive. I'm so sorry, Amy. She's cruel and manipulative and a bully. We shouldn't have come.”

  He would get no argument from her. And he hadn't contradicted what his mother had said about her being fat. Maybe she was putting on a few pounds. Maybe that's why Shane was still eyeing other women. It astonished her how much it hurt to see him give those twins—and the flight attendant—the once over.

  That's why this needed to come to an end. As soon as her plane took off, this relationship was over. It was only a few weeks until she went on the road for eight months. Couldn't he wait that long? Or maybe he was the type of guy who had to line up the next thing before the first thing was over. She shuddered, wrapping an arm around her abdomen. The end couldn’t come soon enough, because she had fallen for Shane, hard. He was still tactless, but she now found his directness refreshing. He was considerate and caring. Maybe that was the Southerner in him. She pushed those thoughts away. “And your dad?”

  “Dad was . . . not a strong person. He wasn't capable of defending my sister and I. He appreciated having kids because it deflected some of her venom,” he said, bitterly.

  She reached for his hand and threaded her fingers through his.

  “With us both out of the house, her viciousness turned on him, it was more than he could take. And he had his own issues with depression and avoidance. She's a pariah.” Shane shrugged.

  “I guess that explains your . . .”

  He frowned. “What?”

  Amy's mouth twisted. This was the wrong time to bring this up. The absolute worst time. She was still shaky from his mother's nastiness and his revelation about his father. She would not bring up the other part of what his mother had said. “Never mind, Shane.”

  He drew back. “No. I want to know what you were going to say.”

  She shook her head and tried to take his hand back, but he stood.

  “Tell me.”

  Amy rubbed a hand across her mouth. Her stomach twisted into a knot. “Your attitude toward women.”

  He stiffened. “What attitude?”

  She shrugged. “It's that after meeting your mother and knowing what life must've been like in TruAchord, I can see where women are. . .”

  “Are what?”

  “Your experiences haven't been good,” she hedged.

  Tension hummed between them.

  “Shane, I don't want to fight.”

  He scowled. “Amy, you can't say something like that after meeting my mom and hearing about my dad. I want to know what the hell you're talking about.”

  Amy rubbed her face with both hands. It wasn't the confrontation that sickened her—but there wasn't any tactful way to say it.

  “You don't have a good history with women. I only meant I could see why.”

  Anger emanated from him in waves, his lips clamped together.

  “Please, Shane, let's not do this now, here.”

  “I love women, too much maybe,” he said.

  She stared at him, aghast. “No, you don't.”

  “I have a past, Amy, and there are a lot of women in it. If that bothers you. . .” He shrugged.

  “I understand your past, Shane. But those weren't all relationships, were they? And it's not only that. It’s the way you look at women, even when we're together. And what you've said about them.”

  “I don't know what you're talking about.” He towered over her, arms folded across his chest, blocking her ability to stand.

  She pulled her knees to her chest and hugged them to her.

  “You size women up. E
verywhere we go. And yeah, it's disturbing, now that we're . . . together.”

  “So what if I notice attractive women? I'm not stepping out on you.”

  “Aren't you?”

  “What the fuck, Amy? I've been faithful.”

  “Have you really, I mean, in your head?”

  “What?” he said, harshly.

  “It's not that you notice women.” She paused, trying to put into words what bothered her most about his mother's comments. “It’s the way you look at them, like you're fantasizing about bending them over the nearest object.”

  He backed away from her, the skin over his cheekbones flushed with anger, his hands clenched into fists. He laughed, but it was forced. “So now you know what I'm thinking? I had no idea you were so insecure.”

  “Fuck you. Men who do what you do—ogle women—always say 'don't be insecure, baby, if I appreciate what's out there. I'm not going to stray' or 'all men do it, whether you notice or not.' But I am secure in myself. The way you look at other women when we are out doesn't say anything about me, but it says a whole helluva lot about you.” Now if she could convince herself of that, she'd be golden.

  He stared at her clenched jaw. “What does it say?”

  “That you're a man who objectifies women. You did it to me, too, before you knew me. Before we became friends. But it’s more understandable now. I mean, if I were raised by Mandy Marx, I'd be a misogynist too.”

  “A what?”

  “A misogynist. It’s a—”

  “I know what the word means, Amy. I don't know how you could apply it to me. My problem isn't that I hate women, quite the opposite.”

  “Bullshit. Your interactions with women are almost exclusively sexual. Even our relationship, Shane. Despite the fact that we started out as friends and I care about you, haven't you noticed the . . . shift?”

  Fury was etched into his face. “What are you talking about?”

  “You use women.” She took a breath. “You use me.”

  “You feel used?” His tone, his very demeanor, was incredulous.

  “You don't want to have sex with me. You need to. It's different. And coming out here with you, it's apparent. Between your mom and TruAchord. . .”