Manster

by Cari Quinn

  I’ve never sexted before, thank you very much. But I’m all for new experiences. Are you doing this with everyone around you?

  He replied almost instantaneously. Dude must have seriously fast fingers.

  That put a whole deluge of thoughts in my head. Those fingers had felt amazing last night. But he hadn’t been hurried. In fact, he’d made sure to string out every tug, pull, and twist of my nipples until I’d been nearly insane.

  And there was no hope for me if I thought about that again. I’d successfully stuffed that memory to the back of my head as I worked. But as if I’d given my brain permission to relive it, my skin tingled and my panties grew soaked.

  I’d never had that problem before. At least never like this. Getting a little hot under the collar when Jason Statham did pull ups in a movie was a lot different than what happened with Hudson.

  “You okay back here?”

  I pressed my phone to my chest. “What?”

  Tabitha crossed her arms and leaned on the doorjamb. “Dirty texts?”

  “No.” But my voice must have been too sharp because she tipped her head back and laughed.

  “It’s normal. Just tell him to warn you before he sends snaps of his junk.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “They’re very proud of their dicks, darlin’.”

  I frowned. “But he’s famous. Kind of. Well, in some circles.” I huffed out a breath at her eyebrow waggle. “Seriously?”

  She shrugged. “Not like I googled Hudson Wyatt’s junk before so I don’t know for sure what he’s packing. If you want to forward some though, I won’t say no.”

  “He hasn’t sent me pictures.” Yet.

  “Don’t sound so alarmed. I swear, you’re going to have the vapors like my great-grams.” Tabs stood up straight. “Just have fun. That’s what he’s supposed to be for you, remember?”

  “Right.” I blew out a breath. “Fun.”

  I glanced down at his text.

  That’s the best part of dirty texts. Everyone thinks you’re talking about scores, Aunt Martha’s bunion, or picking up groceries. Instead I’m telling you that I want to kiss you until your dark eyes are huge and unfocused like they were last night. I want to put my mouth on your skin and taste that dark nipple I twisted and tugged on yesterday. You smell like coffee all the time. Do you taste like it too?

  Good freaking hell. How was I supposed to reply to that?

  Tabitha came farther into the room and plucked my phone out of my hand.

  “Hey!”

  “Oh, this guy’s in the majors.”

  “What? Why? What do you mean?”

  “Most guys are like ‘I wanna stick it in your pussy’.” Then she made a grunting sound. “Then you get a dick pic.”

  “That doesn’t sound sexy. I mean penises are, by and large, ugly.”

  Tabs collapsed into the chair next to me with a laugh. “God, you have no filter.”

  “Am I lying? I mean I’ve watched a few, well, movies.”

  “Porn?”

  I blushed. “I tried to see what the fuss was all about.”

  “Those are usually not made for us. And the monster cocks in the videos are definitely not like reality. Maybe half the size in reality. If you’re lucky.”

  “I think Hudson might be porn-worthy.”

  “Might? You haven’t…” She made a fist and thrust it forward.

  “Punched him? No. But I accidentally grabbed him and it was…sizable.”

  “Oh my God. What am I going to do with you?”

  “Help me text?”

  “No way. You’re on your own there. He’d know it wasn’t you if I gave you stuff to say. Just trust your gut and have—”

  “Fun.”

  “Right. Just don’t send him any pictures. All right?”

  “Why not? I mean, I wouldn’t, but why not?”

  “Because you don’t know him that well yet.”

  “He’s friends with Callie. I trust him. Mostly.”

  “See, at least you have that self-preservation instinct. He seems like a good guy, but you don’t know him yet. So all you have to do is remember that part.” She stood up and patted me on the head. “Fun.”

  I batted her hand away. “Jerk.” But she was right, I had to do it on my own. I was never going to learn my lessons if I didn’t do the work.

  Why did the idea of a lesson throw my whole system out of joint? Old tutoring fantasies? Considering I had been the one doing the tutoring when I went to college, that probably wasn’t right. And I certainly didn’t want to date any of the jocks who had hired me to get them through their calculus classes.

  I was good at math. Why I was good at building and running a business. Math made sense and never let me down.

  I couldn’t say the same was true about the men I’d let in my life. Except my dad. He was as loyal as the day was long, just wasn’t much good with the whole emotional nurturing thing.

  “Ugh.” I blew out a breath and texted Hudson back.

  If I tasted like coffee, does that mean you’d go down on me for hours? Especially the hickory kind? Maybe I should mainline it so it’s coming out my pores. Would you spend an hour on the lesson?

  God, was that stupid? It was stupid. I hit the backspace button, but hit return by accident. “Fuck.” God, he was going to think I was lame.

  When the bubbles flashed, I closed one eye before I read it.

  If your pussy tasted like that fucking coffee, I’d never leave your bed. Shall we test it out?

  I dropped my phone and slapped my hands against my hot cheeks. I couldn’t believe that had worked. That so shouldn’t have worked. Maybe he was just being nice.

  My heart raced as I picked up my cell again.

  I’m brewing a pot as we speak.

  Okay, so maybe that was a lie, but he didn’t know that. Maybe I should go brew one and take a picture. For Hudson, that was probably as close to porn as you could get.

  I stifled a laugh and went back into the cafe. Before I could tell myself it was stupid, I snapped a picture of one of my carafes of hickory coffee and sent it off.

  Not playing fair, kitten. There will be punishment for teasing me. I’m all the way in San Fran. There’s no way I can find a cup like yours.

  I swallowed and tried not to be inordinately pleased that my blend was the only coffee he wanted. And I tried doubly hard not to look at that as anything more than a coffee thing. Because I was terribly afraid I wanted to be his only coffee already.

  Fun. Just fun.

  I so couldn’t do this.

  All my cups are unique.

  There, my version of a reference to my breasts. It wasn’t the best dirty one-liner ever, but probably not the worst either.

  If he even got what I meant. Maybe I should post a sexting key for him since my thought patterns were a little off-center.

  Coffee meant pussy.

  Cups meant tits.

  Cat climber meant driving into home. My home. The one between my thighs.

  Good lord, I needed to chill.

  I stuffed my phone into my ass pocket and jumped in to help with the line of people. While I assisted customers, my cell buzzed a few times then went silent. I wanted to check it, but there were far too many eyes on me.

  By the time I got a chance to pull it out again, there were four more texts. But it was the last one that made my heart sink.

  Oh, no doubt there. Your cups are the best I’ve ever seen.

  I was almost certain I was flushing right down to my navel. And it was probably not due to Levi’s bakery treats causing my jeans to constrict like a tourniquet. But this time, I didn’t get to reply.

  I gotta go. Sorry, kitten. I’ll find you tonight.

  What did that mean? He was coming home tonight? The fact that I wanted it to be true so badly made me clench my fingers around my phone.

  This was why I shouldn’t get attached to him. What, was I going to sext with him while he was on tour? Maybe we’d share Fac
eTime stripteases and engage in mutual masturbation?

  I shut my eyes while my blood heated. It might be exciting now, but would it be when the nights got longer, and he was on tour for weeks or months on end?

  I tapped my phone against my forehead. Talk about jumping the gun.

  Even if I was almost positive his gun would be more than worth the leap.

  I texted a quick looking forward to it, then threw my phone into my purse. I was not going to be a slave to it any longer today.

  Liar.

  9

  Wyatt

  “If you look at that phone any harder, you’re going to shatter the crystal with your mind.”

  I looked up at Zach as I shoved my phone into my pocket. Piper wasn’t texting me back and I’d been staring at the stupid thing like a sixteen-year-old for what felt like a lifetime. “It’s too much of a pain in the ass to download all my apps again.”

  “Truth.” Zach dropped onto the uncomfortable couch beside me. “If that radio guy fellates Hunter any more, he’s going to have to just kneel in front of him.”

  I snorted. “Sometimes it’s a wonder they bother bringing us in with the interviews.”

  “Yeah, between Reed’s current Page Six status and Hunter’s pipes, there’s very little left for the rest of us.” Zach laced his fingers over his belly and kicked his feet out until he slumped down on the couch. “Bored.”

  “Me too. Want to go get into some trouble?”

  His eyebrow rose with interest. “What did you have in mind?”

  “There’s a guitar shop a few blocks down the street.”

  Zach was on his feet before I could even sit up. “Oh, man. Let me at it. Maybe I’ll find my Starburst.”

  I stretched out my legs then gripped the arm of the couch with a grimace. My thigh seized into a cramp. I breathed through the lightning-quick pain as nerves danced and knotted. I jammed two knuckles into the muscle to work it out. Damn planes always kicked up my old injury. My six-feet-four frame was not meant to be folded into a chair meant for children.

  There was nothing average about my inseam, let alone the width of my shoulders, but business class was easier than trying to find a flight that would allow for all of us to be in first class. Add in the fact that I’d slept on a couch made for my tiny Kitten and I was a hot mess.

  Her unexpectedly charming version of sexting was not helping matters. I was uncomfortable on about eleven levels. A music shop where I could beat out some of my restlessness was just what I needed.

  Since I couldn’t beat it out in other ways right now, this would have to do.

  I followed Zach to the elevators and shot off a quick text to our manager to tell her where we were going. I’d put up a post on social media to get something out of the day for the fans who gave a shit about me and Zach.

  For the most part, we didn’t care about the adulation that was poured on the lead singer and the lead guitarist of Hammered. All this bullshit was just part of being in a band. Zach was just as talented, but Reed had earned his moniker, Bats, for a reason. He was insane on stage and people loved him for it. Zach was quieter, with a longer attention span for a good shred. But that didn’t generate as much press.

  The thing that always burned me was that if they weren’t interested in us, then don’t fucking ask us to go to the interview or radio station. Was that so hard?

  We dropped our visitor’s passes at the desk before we hit the street. As with most of San Francisco, the steep incline of the hills was a bear, but it felt good to get moving. I’d been so wrapped up in Piper that I’d been neglecting the gym. That was never good for my leg.

  When we got to the wide window with the name Barney’s etched into the glass, Zach practically smashed his face into it to get a closer look. “Sweet fuck, do you see that?”

  I wasn’t a guitar guy, but I could appreciate the well-worn blue Les Paul in the window. It wasn’t the Starburst he’d been lusting after—I was well-acquainted with pictures of that, thanks—but I’d bet it was a good enough mistress for the afternoon.

  A bell jangled over the door and a kid popped up from behind the counter. His pleasant smile melted away into pure shock. “No way.” He spun around and then again before coming around the counter. “I was just listening to you guys on the radio.”

  I was impressed that anyone still listened to the radio. Then again, it was an XM channel that had been interviewing us today.

  The kid backtracked to the stereo console over the glass case and cranked it. “See? They’ve been pumping Hunter for the last twenty minutes.” His head bobbed on his long neck as he swiped long, dark hair out of his face. A faded Megadeth shirt hung on his lanky frame to complete the garage band look he was going for. “Not being subtle about it either. The dude on this show is a tool, but hey, I wanted to hear the new stuff. The song rocks, man.”

  “Thanks,” I said simply. It was usually better to let the fans get it all out before I tried to talk.

  Hunter’s voice pumped out through half a dozen speakers. The kid was right that the interviewer was a pushy fuck, but as usual Hunter took it in stride. He talked about the new album and the recording process for our new single set to drop in three weeks.

  The kid cracked his knuckles. “Do you guys think I could, you know, have a picture?”

  Zach smiled and went in for a bro hug with the kid. “Absolutely. As long as I can play that blue ‘57 Gibson in the window.”

  “Oh, man. Isn’t she sweet? Gus doesn’t let me play it too often, but she wails like nothing I’ve ever played before.”

  “Gus? Not Barney?” I asked.

  “Yeah, Barney’s been dead since before I was born.”

  When was that? A second ago. The kid had to be barely twenty. Not that I was that old—thirty-three wasn’t ancient—but I felt every inch of it in body and mind today. The heavy fog that had been rolling in on San Francisco didn’t help my leg either. The city was damp and hot in a way that Los Angeles rarely was.

  But it didn’t really matter what city we were in, there was always a music shop to make it feel like home. This one was outfitted with the latest in guitars, basses, pedals, and amps. Zach and the kid were geeking out about the newest pedals that had come in. I glanced around the surprisingly spacious room and finally found the small percussion area.

  Along the back wall was a descent Ludwig set. And though I was a DW guy, I just wanted to pound on something.

  That would do.

  “Mind?” I gestured to the bright gold setup.

  “No, man. I mean I’d love if you wanted to jam or something. You know, if that’s cool. I mean, it’s okay if you—”

  “Definitely,” I said. No need to let the kid fall all over himself. I held out my hand. “Wyatt.”

  The kid’s Adam’s apple jumped as he shook my hand. “Jake.”

  “Don’t get nervous, man. We just want to play.”

  “Right. Just like that. This is crazy.” He scratched the back of his head. “Is it okay if we record this?”

  “For your website?”

  “That’s cool, but nah, man. For me.”

  I laughed. “Works for me. Just tag us when you post it.”

  “Oh, man. It’s like fucking Christmas.”

  I shrugged out of my suit jacket and draped it over the counter as I rolled up my sleeves. I tugged the tails out of my jeans and settled behind the kit. It only took me a few minutes to find my way around the hardware. Some of it was set for show instead of use, but after a few adjustments, I twirled a pair of sticks set across the snare drum.

  I pounded through a quick warm-up and Jake just stood there, dumbfounded. It was nice to see someone give a fuck about me behind the drums. When we played for tens of thousands, the one-on-one personal touch got lost. And my being at the back of the stage often meant I was an island in the dark.

  My interaction was mostly with my bandmates, not the crowd. Especially with the monitors in my ears. Here it was just the love of the beat and the pur
e joy on Jake’s face as he and Zach dueled their way through our song, “Crossing My Line”.

  When Jake played the opening chords to “Ramble On”, Zach pretty much got a boner. They sang off-key until they righted themselves. It was all passion and garage talent and it felt good to warm my muscles and beat the shit out of something to bring my ragged edges under control.

  Switching to Led Zeppelin brought out the guitar-centric songs. I didn’t know them all. While I loved music, I wasn’t an aficionado like those two.

  An hour passed and I’d sweated through my dress shirt within the first half hour. A small crowd had gathered while we were playing. It wasn’t as if we’d kept the volume down on what we were doing.

  By the time we finished, I had three texts from Indie, our manager, asking us to wrap it the fuck up. Her words.

  Zach handed back the guitar with a heavy sigh and signed one of the newer Gibsons that was a staple in the shop. I signed a DW kick drum that Jake found in the back and we all made a few posts on our social media accounts. I was also the proud owner of a Barney’s T-shirt since I was drenched.

  Guess they were getting a little free press from me. Indie was going to love that. And speaking of our fair manager—our phones were full of excited fan replies and angry texts from Indie.

  Unfortunately, none of the texts were from Piper.

  I pushed that to the back of my head as we fought our way out of the cluster of fans that had moved in. I signed my shirt and gave it to a teen at the back of the crowd who was near tears from being so far away from the action. I shrugged on my suit jacket and followed Zach down the block and over an alleyway to lose a few fans who were following us.