Rock Rhapsody

by Rachel Cross

  He pulled a few bills out of his wallet to cover his tab and spun on his seat—right into a gorgeous brunette with almond-shaped eyes and lustrous tanned skin.

  Erika.

  His heart raced as adrenaline and excitement surged through him.

  She looked him up and down, supremely confident, her gaze assessing. She put her drink down on the bar and took his hand.

  Her fingers were long, her palm wide, and he could feel the bones prominent beneath the surface.

  She led Shane down the dimly lit hall and he followed to an emergency exit.

  Before he'd even finished backing into the alcove, the thrill was dissipating. Adrenaline gave way to anxiety, his stomach roiling. He pulled her into his arms—she was all sharp angles and overpowering musky scent.

  He ignored his stomach.

  She lifted her mouth for a kiss, but he nuzzled her neck instead, unable to bring himself to kiss those pouty, shining lips. He was rock hard as his body ignored the message his brain was sending: abort. He spread his legs, pulling her body between them, his hands taking her protruding hipbones and rubbing her against himself.

  Her lips sought his again so he ducked his head, feigning interest in her chest. It wasn't right. There was too much of her and not enough all at the same time. The smell was off. It was all wrong, but still his body drove him, desperate for an escape from his own head.

  He never stopped rubbing her hips against his, stroking himself through his clothes. His hands went to the hemline of her short skirt, he slid it up, and cupped her narrow, bare ass. She made a sound. Excitement? Half-hearted protest? He didn't know and didn't care.

  Her sticky, hot lips were insistent on his face, and he avoided her kiss for the third time, averting his head.

  A rustling sound, a footstep, alerted him to their discovery and he lifted his head from her neck.

  • • •

  The knock came as Amy was closing her suitcase.

  She nervously glanced toward the door. Ike had called at noon to let her know she'd been released from her contract. He'd made her aware of her options—warned her that the word was out and the network was already getting flack for letting her go.

  She stepped up to the peephole and examined the man standing in the hallway. Sunglasses, hat, and some high-end teal ski jacket. Duffel strapped across his broad chest.

  Shane.

  Amy flung open the door and launched herself in to his arms. He returned her hug and with a final glance down the hallway, pushed her into the room.

  “Are you okay?” he said, his voice full of concern. “I'm sorry I wasn't with you. I can't imagine how hard that was, with Yarotska and Becky.”

  “You know?” she said, softly.

  “Babe, it's all over the place. Ike told me Morning in America aired footage. Lots of reporters downstairs in the lobby,” he said. “I came in through the kitchens.”

  She pulled the hat off his head and wrapped her arms around his neck, urging his mouth to hers. She didn't want to talk, not now. He yanked her tight to his body, holding her up against him. She stared into his blue eyes, hot and heavy lidded with desire. His face was rigid, intent, tense. Then his lips met hers and she stopped thinking at all.

  His kiss tasted of urgency, of desperation. Amy leaned back but he followed, hungrily, his tongue licking into her mouth, backing her into the bed.

  She moaned her pleasure as her tongue met the slick, wet thrust of his. Shane’s hands locked her mouth to his, spinning her out of control.

  She whimpered as his mouth left hers to explore her neck, leaving a burning trail of sensation. She felt his body bow with tension as it pressed against her knees to chest; his hands swept down her body, grinding her hips urgently against his.

  Her hands slid down to the muscles in his shoulders, stroked over the ridges of his abdomen. She pushed his jacket off his shoulders, lifted his shirt and sweatshirt and laid her head on his chest, panting, reveling in the sound of his thundering heartbeat.

  His body shuddered in her arms. He pulled away only to yank off his layers of clothing, his hands visibly trembling. She stripped off her shirt, shucked her cotton leggings, removing her panties in the process until they were both naked, breathing hard, staring at each other next to the bed. She explored his thickness, her hand wrapped partway around his pulsating hardness. She squeezed him, once, hard, and he made an anguished sound. He moved her back until she was sitting on the edge of the bed and pulled a foil wrapped condom from his jeans. Amy took it from him and rolling it over the engorged flesh, she glanced up at him. He was staring down at her, his cheekbones flushed with arousal, lips compressed into a thin line, but it was his eyes that held her attention. His gaze was focused and intent, more than passionate—

  “God, Amy,” he said hoarsely.

  She encircled him with both hands and tightened her fists, delighting as his expression changed to one of exquisite, painful pleasure and he cried out, surging into her hands. But his hot blue eyes were still locked on her, not on her hands, not her breasts, watching her.

  The ache of desire had become an insistent throb.

  She laid back onto the bed and spread her legs. One long finger trailed up her inner thigh. She shivered and shifted restlessly as his fingers moved to her cleft where she pulsed, slick and aching.

  “Shane,” she pleaded. Her hand at his shoulders urged him to her, desperate. “Please.” He gentled her with a deep kiss while his clever fingers stroked, coaxed, knowing how to make her gasp and beg.

  Her body shifted restlessly on the bed.

  Amy arched her back, eyes riveted to his. Slowly, so slowly, he pushed the broad head of his cock against her, rubbing and stroking her. Teasing. She pressed down, frantic to have him inside her.

  He resisted her and continued the slow, inexorable press forward, entering her, stretching her, making her wild. She raised herself up to accommodate him, ignoring the twinge of pain in her hip. His blue gaze was fierce, he panted, giving her the time she needed to adjust to his size. Her hands went to his hips and she clenched them, urgently, their eyes still locked as he withdrew, then started forward again as her hips rocked. He thrust all the way in and she let out a long, thready cry. His movements became more frenzied.

  He groaned his pleasure into her; she raked her nails down his back as he stroked in and out of her, establishing a relentless rhythm. She came with a long, thin wail, swept over the edge as he made a final thrust and came with a hoarse shout of his own.

  She curled up into him and closed her eyes, able to feel his body slacken as sleep took over him.

  Amy propped her head on her arm and watched his face, that ridiculously beautiful face, completely relaxed and unguarded for once. She had no idea how long she lay there, watching his mouth slacken, the slow deep breaths of sleep, but her hip was tightening up after all that activity and the physical therapist had given her some exercises to do when that happened. With a sigh, she slid carefully out of the bed, pulled on her leggings and shirt, and went into the suite.

  She cast a disparaging glance at her purse. Her messages couldn't wait forever. Kyle would want to know what was going on. She settled onto the loveseat with her phone and stared at the screen. There were two dozen missed calls—a bunch from Shane, two from Ike, one from the network, and several from Kyle. It would be faster to answer text messages. Six from Kyle asking if she was okay from last night, then the final text.

  Have you seen the photo? I'm worried about you. Call me. NOW.

  Oh God. Please, God, no.

  She opened the browser. Typed in his name. Two clicks later, she couldn't catch her breath as she stared at a photo of Shane and the hiked up skirt and bare ass of the brunette in his arms. The gossip site told her all she needed to know—when, where, who. Everything but why.

  • • •

  Shane awoke disoriented. He moved his hand to her side of the bed. Cold. He must've fallen asleep after they had sex.

  “Babe?” he called. “Amy?�
�

  He hopped out of bed and put on his boxer briefs. Yawning, he made his way to the door to the suite living room where Amy sat huddled up on the couch, pale, and avoiding his gaze.

  He stepped closer. “Amy?”

  “Is there something you want to tell me?”

  There was something wrong with her voice. It sounded thick.

  “Hey, are you okay?” He crossed the room to her and she held up a warning hand.

  “Shane, I'm giving you. . .” she took a deep shuddering breath, “a chance to explain yourself.”

  She still wasn't looking at him.

  He backed up a step, a mass of writhing anxiety in his belly. “What?” Crap. Was that paternity shit out there now? His attorney told him the baby was due any day—when was that? Last week? Where was his damn cell phone? He spied it on the table a few feet away. Fuck. He must have missed a call from Langley. Probably several from Ike.

  “Shane.” Now she was looking at him, her hand covering her mouth. “I think I'm going to be sick,” she whispered.

  “Some girl says I fathered her kid. It's all bullshit,” he said, trying to make his tone even.

  Her head cocked, her face remained expressionless, and she still was not looking at him.

  He couldn't get a read on her.

  “A paternity suit?” she said softly but with a hard edge.

  His gaze moved around the room. “It's nothing. The baby isn't mine. I took a test.” That was half of the truth. Most of the truth. Clay told him that by the time the baby arrived, either the baby had to be tested or the case dropped.

  “What test?”

  “A blood test. It was nothing.”

  “Did you have unprotected sex with her?” she asked, her face finally registering something—horror.

  “No, no. I used a condom, but it broke. I swear to God, Amy, it aged me ten years—and besides, it all happened before we met.” His legs, his whole body was shaking. He needed to sit down. He made his way over to a chair across the room.

  She watched, immobile from the couch.

  “You thought you fathered a child with who?”

  What was her name? Langley had told him, but it hadn’t registered.

  “Some girl I met in a club.”

  Amy flinched. She was paper white. Was she ill?

  “What?” Why was she acting like this? Busted condoms happened. If the press had gotten hold of the story, Ike was probably going nuts about now—

  “What was her fucking name, Shane?” she said, too calmly, rising from the couch, her body stiff, hands clenched at her sides.

  He got to his feet and took two steps toward her. “Whoa, babe.”

  She took a half step back, both fisted hands up, shaking. “Don't ‘babe’ me, you asshole. What was her name?” The words forced out from behind clenched teeth.

  It was on the tip of his tongue. Carla? Krista? “I was pretty sure the baby wasn't mine.”

  “Pretty sure? And you didn't think that was important enough to bring up with me?”

  He looked down.

  “And you don't know her name. Even now. Get out. Get out of my room and out of my life.” Her tone was defeated.

  “Amy,” he approached her carefully, speaking softly. “It was a fucked up situation.”

  She skirted him. “Get out.”

  He took another step toward her.

  Expressionless no more, loathing was etched into her perfect, pale face.

  He recoiled.

  She went into the bedroom and dragged his bag out of the corner, threw his clothes on top of it.

  He stood in the doorway, stomach churning. “Amy, please, wait.”

  She marched to the bathroom, he followed, only to be hit in the chest with his toiletry bag. He picked it up with nerveless fingers.

  “If you don't leave now, I'll call hotel security. I don't care who finds out.”

  “Amy, don't do this to us.” He walked into the room where she was dragging his duffel to the door.

  She raised her head.

  The disgust on her face laced through him.

  “I didn't do anything to us. You did. You ended it with your lies and your cheating.”

  “I didn't—”

  He froze at the foot of the bed. He saw it in her face then. It wasn't the paternity suit that had leaked. It was that girl—Erika.

  “Wait, Amy, it wasn't anything.”

  She pulled open the door.

  “I thought you were cheating on me! You weren't in your room last night; I sent people up to check.”

  She stared at him incredulously. “You thought I was cheating so you'd. . .what? Pay me back?”

  “But I didn't—it didn't get that far. . .”

  She turned her back on him, propped open the door with her arm and kicked his duffel bag out into the hall.

  “Fuck off, Shane,” she pointed to the hallway. “Or I'll call security.”

  He glanced at her face on his way out and his heart seized.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Dancing with the Stars had called again. Yesterday they'd sent someone up to the tiny two-bedroom house she was renting on the outer edge of Malibu. Ike's doing, she felt sure. She'd said no, repeatedly, ever grateful to Shane's attorney for figuring out that she was owed that endorsement money and then finding it. She had enough of a nest egg to able to pay for room, board, and tuition for the next four years—longer than that. Maybe grad school, too. With the investment advisor Clay Langley had recommended, she should be able to live off the interest of the money, if she was conservative.

  One month after being fired and breaking up with Shane, she was still a topic of conversation. Let them theorize that was why she left the sport, Shane, all of it. There would be no more skating, or dancing. Her orthopedist had made that clear.

  Despite the surgery, she had lost mobility. She wasn't allowed to do anything high impact—maybe forever. And he'd shown her on the films the areas of her hip still affected. She could need a hip replacement, he'd warned her, and she would have arthritis—there was no question about that.

  Every morning she woke up, happy for a split second, then the awareness sank in and the tears followed. She was going through life on autopilot. The only way she was able to sleep at night was to exhaust herself swimming. Physical therapy had improved her hip to where she barely limped and rarely had pain but she knew she shouldn't be driving herself to her physical limits each day.

  She was ready to make good on her promise to Rowena. She's gone to see her old tutor and her family in the wake of the breakup with Shane and hadn't turned her phone on the entire week she'd stayed there. All she'd done was sleep and play with the kids. Rowena had expressed concern about her weight—her eating. How could she eat? She was heartsick.

  Amy shoved her books into her bag. She didn't want to be late for her class at the community college. She wasn't enrolled—the semester was halfway over when she'd arrived in Los Angeles—so she wouldn't get credit, but she was hoping that something, some course would resonate and point her in the direction of the rest of her life. So far it hadn't happened.

  She was meeting with a college counselor in a few weeks to discuss transferring credits to the state college. Maybe there was some kind of test they could give her so she could figure out the rest of her life, now that she was retired. And alone.

  • • •

  Shane arrived at the studio with five minutes to spare. Goddamn LA traffic. He was no longer nervous. Everything made him angry these days. The way things had ended with Amy. The fact that she wouldn't take his calls. He didn't know where she was or if she was all right—or how she was recovering.

  He was pissed at Amy, pissed at this Kayla who had sent him into a tailspin when she claimed he was the father of her child, knowing full well he wasn't—she'd finally dropped the suit. And he was furious with Erika. He worked out, ran, biked, and skated—yes skated, with an underlying ferocity. He pushed himself in his workouts so hard, his trainer had asked him
who he was running from, and worried that the twenty pounds he had added for the role might be in jeopardy.

  He told himself he was trying to get into character before the audition, but somehow along the way he'd become Hank LaMott. An irredeemable fuckup.

  The worst part was that after all the training and bulking up and skating, the role he wanted so badly, he no longer gave two shits about.

  He knew what people thought of his turn as the Dark Avenger—that he'd been horribly miscast. And yet here he was, auditioning for the role of another antihero.

  At least they couldn't see right through him to what he really was. Darker and sicker and shadier than anyone else.

  Amy had come the closest to finding out. Even to him, his betrayal was monstrous.

  She hadn't understood what she was seeing. And what she knew was only a hint at what lay beneath. She couldn’t possibly love what he was, a gaping hole, one that he tried to fill with the compulsions of his body.

  They called him in the room. There were nods of greeting all around. The director's face was set. He was against this whole thing—clearly Ike had applied some pressure to even get Shane in the room.

  Not you.

  He'd been to auditions like this before, where they had someone else in mind for the role and no matter how he played it, he had no hope. Well, fuck them.

  He was here. He had memorized the lines, lived them lately. They'd picked the most harrowing scene from the script. The scene where LaMott accepted that love doesn't conquer anything and the past won't stay buried. His demons didn’t just revisit him, they wreaked havoc on the lives of the people he loved, and he was powerless to halt the consequences. Unable to communicate, without the tools to move forward, his rage simmered until this scene where it boiled over.

  He prepared to read the scene where he let go of the person he loved most to give her a chance at happiness—without him. Hank LaMott's only selfless act as he circled the drain allowed his lover to escape his misery. If only he'd been that selfless, he could've spared Amy the pain.

  Shane was to read the part with the woman his agent told him was a shoo-in for the role of the wife. For the first time in his life, in the guise of acting, he was connected to all his shame and rage. It was hideously unpleasant and impossible to mask.