Nashville Nights

by Alicia Hunter Pace

  “Yeah?” He cocked his head to the side. “Why is that?”

  “I think you were born to make music and share it.”

  “We’re talking about one concert.”

  “I know better than that, Jackson, and you know it, too. We’re talking about the rest of your life. And I think you’ll lose yourself if you don’t do what you were born to do.”

  “Oh, Emory.” He closed his eyes and shook his head. “I’m already lost.”

  There in the moonlight, he looked so vulnerable, so sixteen years old. She wanted to grab him in her arms and tell him not to worry, that she’d find him. But she couldn’t do that for him; no one could.

  “You don’t have to be lost,” she said. “You can do the show and find your way back.”

  He met her eyes and shrugged.

  “I haven’t tried to make you talk about what happened in L.A. I might be the only one. And I’m not going to try now. You don’t need to tell me how you feel or say a word. But hear this: You get to grieve. You ought to grieve. I can’t begin to grasp the magnitude of this. But you’re a good person and you have a right to your happiness and your success. That’s all.”

  “I ought to take off,” he said. “Unlock the door. I’ll watch you in.”

  “Goodnight, then.” Aching disappointment filled her—disappointment because what she’d said hadn’t helped at all and aching because he was leaving. She fitted the key in the door and closed it behind her.

  So that was that. It was humiliating to admit how much she’d wanted him to come inside, to hold and kiss her. She leaned against the door. It was probably for the best. She’d been a whim and a distraction for him for a few hours. It’s not as if they had something that was going somewhere—physically or emotionally.

  She just wished those few hours hadn’t meant so much to her.

  Might as well get some sleep. She crossed the room and began to turn off the lights.

  Then there were rapid, heavy footsteps on her porch followed by frantic banging on the door. She didn’t even stop to wonder who it was or be afraid. She knew who it was and she had nothing to fear from him.

  She threw open the door and Jackson rushed in and pulled her to him.

  “Please let me stay,” he whispered against her ear. “I promise to be careful with you. I won’t try to do anything you don’t want to do. Just let me come to bed with you and be close to you. I can sleep when I’m with you.”

  “Of course,” she whispered back. “Of course you can.”

  And the dull ache inside her eased and floated away.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  What now? He’d asked to stay and she’d said yes. Should she just lead him to bed? What should she wear? These were questions that had gone through her mind with her first serious boyfriend, when she was a virgin and unsure if she was ready for sex.

  And wasn’t this the same thing? It was unfair—having to start all over again.

  Jackson pulled back and met her eyes. “I’ll do whatever you want but do we have to sleep on that couch again? In our clothes? Because that wasn’t optimum comfort.”

  “No. We don’t have to do that. I have a bed, a pretty comfortable one.” She hesitated, still trying to work out how to navigate the miles and miles that lay before them to the bedroom.

  He must have mistaken her hesitancy for reluctance because he smoothed her hair and said, “I’m going to tell you again, and I’ll tell you as many times as you need to hear it: I will not make love to you until and unless you ask me to. That’s a promise.”

  She felt a smile bloom on her face and opened her mouth to tell him she believed him but he shook his head and shuddered.

  “You can bring a man to his knees with that smile,” he said.

  “I had no idea I had that in my arsenal,” she said lightly.

  “You have no idea you have an arsenal.”

  “Do you have an arsenal?” she asked.

  He grinned, chasing away some of her nervousness. “No. I have a guitar kit. But I’ve got Dirk and he’s got an arsenal.” He ran his thumb over her bottom lip. “But nothing in it is equal to your secret weapon.”

  That gave her the courage to take his hand and lead him to the bedroom. “I sleep on the left,” she said as she turned the covers back.

  “Then I hope I get to, too,” he said.

  He removed his shoes and stripped down to his boxer shorts and T-shirt. “Is this okay?” he asked.

  “Sure.” She tried to sound nonchalant. “I’ve seen more of you than that in running shorts.”

  “Can I take off my shirt? I won’t if you don’t want me to.”

  “Go ahead. It’ll save having to crank down the thermostat.”

  His body was better than she’d imagined and she’d imagined a lot. If he’d slacked off on working out—as Ginger complained he had—it didn’t show. His wide shoulders tapered to a flat muscular stomach and lean waist. He had just enough body hair and there was a tattoo the size of a half dollar on the left pec over his heart. From this distance it looked vaguely heart-shaped. And those arms—the corded muscles were impressive enough but she’d never seen the area usually covered by a t-shirt sleeve before. She still couldn’t make out what the all-black tattoo that circled his bicep was but it was no more than an inch high and was very appealing.

  The whole picture was spectacular.

  “The federal government should issue a list of men who are not allowed to wear shirts,” she said, “and you ought to be on it. I’m going to write a letter about that.”

  He threw back his head, laughed, and struck a bodybuilder pose. “Yeah? Who else would be on that list?”

  “Matthew McConaughey, Matt Bomer, Tim McGraw, Henry Cavill, Jon Bon Jovi—”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa!” He held up his hand to cut her off. “McGraw? Really? I kind of hoped you’d say that, all of a sudden, you couldn’t remember anybody else on the list.”

  “Sorry.” She shrugged.

  “I don’t think you are.” He lay down and propped himself up on a bent elbow. “Are you going to turn me in to the etiquette police for not standing until you sit?”

  “No.” She opened her dresser drawer. What to wear, what to wear? “You see, as long as you mention that you know better, you can get away with breaking a few rules. As in, ‘I know I’m not supposed to eat asparagus with a fork unless it’s covered in sauce, but I just cannot bring myself to pick it up with my fingers.’”

  “No shit?”

  “It’s a well-kept secret. We try not to let men find it out. Else you’d be saying things like, ‘I know I’m not supposed to lay down right on the buffet table but I’m tired from all my channel changing and beer drinking, and I need to be here beside these hot wings so I can reach them better.’”

  “Well, hell.” He rolled over onto his back and picked up a pillow—her pillow—and tossed it back and forth. “Cat’s out of the bag now. And I’m telling.”

  “You do that.” Those pink silk pajamas might do. They were pretty but modest. The bottoms were shorts but they came almost to her knees and the top was loose and covered enough that she could get away without a bra—her white utilitarian bra that matched her white granny panties. “Who are you going to tell?” She closed the drawer.

  He was silent for a second. “I don’t know. My friends.” He closed one eye and squinted at her through the other one. “Dirk. Sammy. My brothers.” He smiled wide. “You.”

  There was something about his tone of voice and his expression under that smile that made her want to bend double with pain for him. He was trying to make light and be charming but somehow she knew he was calling the roll of his band members and road crew in his head, reliving good times they’d had. And there had to have been many. Musicians like that became practically family and it had always been said that Jackson was especially tight with his people.

  She couldn’t give away that she suspected what he was feeling, but found that she could hurry through brushing her teeth and chan
ging without thinking about herself.

  “Do you need anything?” she asked, her hand on the lamp switch.

  He stretched out his hand to her.

  She’d meant water or another pillow but that hand would do for an answer. She switched off her lamp and went into his arms.

  “It’s not dark,” he said.

  “That’s because you didn’t turn the lamp off on your side of the bed.”

  “Yeah, that would do it.” He sat up to reach for the lamp but she stopped him.

  “Wait. I want to get a look at these tattoos.” She traced the one over his heart. It was an old-fashioned, heart-shaped lock. “A lock?”

  He laughed a low little laugh. “You’ll note there’s no key. I like to call that tattoo ‘Young and Stupid.’ At the time, I thought it was a very clever subliminal message that my heart was off-limits. This was directed, of course, to any young lady who had occasion to be up close and personal enough to see it. Truth is, though it wasn’t particularly cryptic or clever, no one ever got it. Which goes to show what kind of judgment I showed in my selection process.”

  “Did you have a key tattooed farther south?”

  He laughed. “No. I just have the two. It’s a good thing I didn’t think of that. How about you, Emory? Got any ink?”

  “Only in my pen. Let me see this one.” She put her hand on his arm and he turned to give her a better view.

  It was made up of flames entwined with stylized letters, though she didn’t find them difficult to read—J.M.B., L.J.B., and C.M.B.

  “What a lovely tribute to your parents and sister, Jackson,” she said softly.

  His head snapped up and his surprised eyes went more silver than sage. “How do you know that? I thought no one could read it except me.”

  Her stomach turned to stone. “I’m sorry. I can see I said the wrong thing and that the tattoo is very private.” She felt like she’d peeped into someone’s window or read a private diary.

  He remained motionless for what felt like a long time. Then he closed his eyes.

  “No. It’s fine. It’s just that no one has ever been able to figure it out. It was designed to be unreadable.”

  “I’m sorry,” she repeated.

  He met her eyes again and they went soft. “Nothing to be sorry for. Maybe the letters have only been unreadable because I’ve never shown any better judgment in my selection—until now. I kind of like that you know what it means. No one else does.”

  And then in one smooth motion, he turned off the light, pulled her close, and kissed her long, slow, and sweet.

  And every emotion she’d ever felt—all the fear, anger, and pain she’d been living with since the attack turned to fire for this man. She ran a hand up his bare side and he felt so good that she did it again and again. It had been so long since she’d touched and been touched like this that she wanted it to go on forever. And then he moaned, and she froze.

  “Don’t be afraid, Emory. I made you promises. I meant those promises and I mean to keep them. You’re free with me. You have the power. Don’t be afraid to let me know how you feel.”

  How did he know how desperately she wanted to conceal how much she wanted him?

  “It’s not wrong to want,” he said. “And wanting doesn’t mean I’m going to take. If I could give you pleasure I wouldn’t expect anything in return and it would be the biggest honor of my life. And that’s saying a lot.” A smile crept into his voice. “I’m a Grammy winner and a member of the Grand Ole Opry.”

  And she began to laugh. “How is it that you always take me to the place I need to be? Where I’m not anxious?”

  In the moonlight, he looked at her through his eyelashes. “’Cause I’m a Grammy winner and a member of the Grand Ole Opry? Though God knows if Ginger were here she’d say, ‘You won’t be for long if you don’t get your ass over there and perform. They’ll kick you out!’” He sounded so much like Ginger that Emory laughed again.

  But the laugh only lasted until he captured her mouth again, feeding her with fire as smooth as satin. When she could stand no more, she pulled away and whispered to him, “The federal government should issue a list of the only men who are allowed to kiss and you’d be on it.”

  “Yeah?” His voice was heavy with want but it didn’t scare her. He ran his tongue up her jaw. “Who else would be on it?”

  “Nobody,” she said automatically. “Not a damn one.”

  “Good. That’s what I want to hear.”

  She ran her hands up and down his back and he trembled under her hands.

  “Jackson?”

  “What, baby?”

  Did she dare? Yes. She was strong. She was brave. She had a right to her feelings. He’d said so.

  “I think I want to take my shirt off,” she said softly.

  He let out a long groan. “Hell’s bells and damnation, there is a God! Then do it. Or I will. Just tell me.”

  “You can.”

  He hesitated. “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “You do know that all you have to do is say stop and I will. That’s always going to be true.”

  “I know.” And she did; there was no doubt in her mind.

  And slowly, so slowly, he pulled the silk over her head.

  And then nothing.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “I’m looking.”

  Was he waiting for permission? Surely, that was implied.

  “You can touch me,” she said.

  “I’m afraid to touch you, afraid of scaring you.” It had never occurred to her that he could be afraid, too.

  She took his hand and brought it to her breast. Heaven. They sighed together.

  “Jackson?”

  “Yes?” He squeezed her breast gently and ran a calloused fingertip over her nipple. “Is that okay?”

  “Yes.” She suspected her audible breath told him just how okay it was. “Dr—He . . . that person. He never touched me there so it’s okay. It’s just you.”

  “Oh, Emory.” His voice was like a breath, a prayer. He covered her mouth with his as he covered her breasts with his hands. And he slowly, tentatively slid his mouth to her breast, hesitating the barest second, she knew, to give her a chance to tell him to stop.

  But she didn’t want him to. She smoothed his hair back with one hand and let the other slide to the back of his neck. When she stroked him there, he let out a moan against her nipple and his hips jerked forward and the evidence of his desire pressed against her hip.

  “Sorry.” He would have pulled away but she stopped him.

  “I want to be close to you,” she said. “If that’s okay.”

  “It’s more than okay. It’s perfect. But I won’t get on top of you.” And to prove that he knew what she meant and what she needed he found a way to entwine with her until their groins were aligned.

  He gently began to move against her until her body was crying out for more and she had to move with him.

  “That’s my girl,” he said. “Do what feels good.”

  “I should stop,” she said.

  Immediately he moved away from her and she let out a groan of frustration.

  “It’s okay. See? I stopped.”

  “I didn’t tell you to. I said I should stop because at some point, I’m nothing but a tease.”

  He gently pulled her head to his chest. “No. You are not. We’re very clear. There will be no sex.”

  “Then what exactly is it that we’re doing?”

  He hugged her closer. “We’re two bad sixteen-year-old Baptists in the back of Daddy’s SUV doing our best to live up to the chastity pledge we signed after the youth revival last spring. They always hand that pledge out in the spring when stuff is all fertile and blooming.”

  Again, she began to laugh. No wonder the whole world was in love with Jackson Beauford.

  “Are we good at keeping our pledge?”

  “Yes, ma’am, we are. We’ve become well-versed in the ways of chaste love
. How could we not be, what with all the birds laying eggs and honeybees flying around frantic for nectar?” He kissed her again, gentle and sweet. “Do you want me to let you go?” he asked.

  “No. But it might be better for you.”

  “Trust me. It would not. But this isn’t about me. Can you trust me to let it be about you?”

  “That’s a hard proposition to turn down.”

  “Then don’t. Come here.” He turned over onto his back and pulled her on top of him. “Shift just a little.” He gently pushed her thighs apart until his hard penis was situated exactly in the universe of all things good. “There. That’s right,” he said with a moan.

  And they began to move together, all sweet fire and pure pleasure. His fingers drifted across her back and up her sides until she shifted to give him access to her breasts. The calloused fingertips of his left hand—his fretting hand—on her nipples were a perfect study in sensation.

  “Come for me, sweetheart,” he said. “I want to give you pleasure.” And with that he raised his hips and pressed her hard and fast against him. Then he thrust one, two, three times—and she began to fall apart in slow motion. The spasms came hard and deep and went on and on until she collapsed against him and began to cry.

  “Emory! What’s wrong?” Jackson sounded alarmed.

  “Nothing’s wrong,” she cried. “You can’t know. I thought I would never . . . You just don’t know what you’ve given me.”

  His arms went around her. “Then I’m glad.” His voice was raspy and his penis still throbbed against her. Overcome with relief and pleasure, she knew she had to return what she’d been given.

  She framed his face with her hands. “It may seem silly, but I still can’t . . . ”

  He shook his head and wiped a tear from her cheek. “Of course not. I told you this is about you. And you’ve honored me by trusting yourself to me.”

  Her heart was so full. How could she not trust him?

  “I want it to be about you, too.” And feeling like a caterpillar escaping from her cocoon, she slid downward, letting her tongue trail as she went.

  He raised her face. “Emory, you don’t have to.”