Goode To Be Bad

by Jasinda Wilder

  So, instead of getting something that she wasn’t ready or able to give, I drove her to the edge of madness and held her there. Licked and fingered her to the cusp of climax and kept her there, begging and pleading and crazed, thrusting and thrashing, crying and sobbing, tipped precariously backward in the chair and unable to totally give in.

  When it was obvious she couldn’t take any more, I picked her up out of the chair and carried her in my arms into the bedroom and set her gently on the bed.

  “Myles?” she panted. Eyes wet, breasts heaving. “Please?”

  I knelt at her feet. I gazed at her, and let her see the love in my eyes, let her see what I felt, what I’d told her I felt.

  I cupped her ass to lift her higher. “Now, Lexie.”

  And then I devoured her hard and fast and wild, and she screamed louder than she’d ever screamed, spine arching off the bed, bridged upward with her feet digging into the mattress, pussy grinding helplessly against my mouth, wetness bursting on my tongue as she exploded. Her teeth clenched down hard on her scream and it became a ragged whining growl as she came and came, sobbing through it.

  When it finally released her from its tidal sway, Lexie collapsed to the bed, panting. I slid up her body and lay beside her, brought the covers up around us and cradled her in my arms, pillowing her head on my chest.

  “Sleep now,” I whispered.

  She couldn’t even murmur in response.

  I fell asleep holding her, feeling her twitch as she fell into slumber.

  I woke to sunlight streaming hot and yellow on my closed eyelids and the sounds of the city blowing in through the open door to the balcony.

  And something hot and wet and soft moving on my cock.

  I moaned, fluttered my eyes open. “Mmm?”

  I looked down, and saw Lexie outlined under the sheet that was draped over my waist. Felt her hands cradling my balls and cupping my shaft as she went down on me, slow and deep.

  “Lex…”

  She hummed a negative. Batted the sheet away. Reached up and found my hand, placed it on her head. Pushed down on my hand. Encouraging me to guide her to what I wanted, how I wanted this.

  Sleepy, disoriented, already rising to the verge of orgasm, I was helpless to stop, to resist wanting this. Her mouth felt so good and I’d gone to sleep with a painful erection that hadn’t ever entirely faded.

  I gave in, and tangled my fingers in her hair, guiding her to slow down, to go shallower, and then deeper. She swallowed around me, gagged a little, and I held still and brought her shallower yet, not wanting or liking the gagging sounds. She stroked me, cradled and massaged me, and I lost myself in her soft wet mouth, gasping and panting as she took me to the edge.

  “Lex, I’m gonna come,” I breathed. “Right now, fuck, right now—fuck!”

  I tried to pull her away, but she went deeper, and I felt her mouth around my base and her throat around the head and I couldn’t stop myself from coming, from letting loose and I felt her swallow, gulp, her hands both wrapped around my cock as she backed away and pumped me wild and fast and I came again, and she swallowed and her tongue swirled and I felt like I was being ripped apart in the best possible way.

  I felt dizzy and faint, light-headed as the orgasm blasted through me.

  She didn’t stop there.

  Kept her mouth on me, held me in her hands and licked and kissed as I seeped and faded, aching, blissful and spent.

  Finally she crawled up my body and rested her cheek on my chest, not saying a word.

  And neither did I.

  I was conflicted.

  That had been one of the best—in fact, the best blowjob I’d ever gotten, including the first one from her that was the only other one even close in comparison. It had alleviated the boiling ache in my balls. It had felt good.

  But it wasn’t what I wanted.

  I wanted her.

  I wanted us.

  I’d take blowjobs any day and every day, and thank her with as many orgasms as she could handle. But that was meant to be her way of thanking me for last night, or this morning, or whatever it was. It was meant to stand in for the intimacy she was too afraid to give me.

  We couldn’t even have sex without some excuse behind it, because the kind of sex I wanted with her meant more than fucking, more than hooking up. So much more. And she wouldn’t dare let that happen.

  So she skirted the issue with oral play that in no way satisfied me, or her. I knew that, but I wasn’t sure she was allowing herself to recognize it.

  I wanted to be stronger—to have the courage and fortitude to deny her the oral distractions.

  To force the issue.

  But I wasn’t that strong.

  So I said nothing. Just held her. Let the mountain of unspoken everything and more pile higher between us.

  “Myles, I…”

  I touched her lips. “Shush, Lex.”

  “But—”

  “Are you ready to talk?” A thick, telling silence. “Thought so. So just…let it be, for now. Okay?”

  “This isn’t how I want things to be, Myles.”

  “Me either. I said my piece. Rest is up to you.”

  “I don’t want to lose you.”

  “I went after you, yeah?” I touched her cheek, rolled to an elbow and gazed down at her. “I found you. Brought you here. Gave you space. Didn’t push nothin’. I’m here Lex. I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

  “But if I can’t eventually give you what you want, you will.”

  I shook my head. “It ain’t about condom or no condom, babe. That’s the least important thing on the planet to me. It’s about what it represents. It’s about vulnerability.” I held her gaze. Let her see as deep into my heart and soul as she dared look. “It’s about there being an us.”

  She had nothing to say to that, and that told me everything.

  Moscow.

  No matter how I tried, I couldn’t get Lexie onstage—she flat out refused, and became angrier than she’d ever been when I tried to force it. So I let it go.

  Moscow was followed by three dates in Germany, and more refusals to perform. I would hear her playing my guitar or her ukulele, knew she was writing new songs, testing out melodies and snatches of chorus, tweaking. I knew music was coming back to her and that she wanted it.

  Paris, Barcelona, Lisbon. Some of the most beautiful cities in the world, and I made sure she saw them. We took time away from everything, just me and her in a blacked-out SUV, seeing the sights and hitting little cafes, sipping wine. The shows were all sold out and every single one was a huge success. We were making big bank on this tour and Mick was thrilled.

  We haven’t had sex in over a week. I refused to let her blow me instead of being intimate, and she refused to let me go down on her unless she could do the same to me.

  It was all falling apart.

  She refused to perform.

  Hid in the bathroom or sat on the balcony playing my guitar and ignoring me.

  Ignoring calls from her mom and sisters.

  She was coming apart.

  We were coming apart.

  It was all disintegrating. Dissolving. Breaking at the seams, crumbling at the cracks.

  Prague. Four a.m. local time.

  She was asleep. Well, passed out—that’s the other thing: she’s started drinking herself to sleep and I hated it.

  But I couldn’t just…leave her here, obviously. Couldn’t and wouldn’t stick her on a plane ride home. On a certain level, this whole thing was nuts. Why was I putting myself through this? Why was I continuing to accept her endless parade of bullshit? Especially now, as she increasingly fell apart.

  Because at night, as she fell asleep, she’d cling to me. Clutch me close and tight and hard, and nuzzle against me as if I were the only thing holding her in place, keeping her together. She’d wake up and sigh, and wriggle against me, fall back asleep, and in those moments of tenderness and sweetness, I knew why I was doing all this. And sometimes, there’d be hints of sweetn
ess from her. She went off exploring on her own, and brought back souvenirs for the guys and me, and another time went out while we were rehearsing and doing sound check and came back with a bottle of local whiskey and junk food. Little things, but gestures like that meant something, coming from Lexie.

  I didn’t know what else I could do. And then I had an idea. It would mean breaking things wide open. It was risky. It constituted an invasion of her privacy. She’d be angry with me—beyond angry. She may never talk to me again, if I did this. Yet, I felt I had to take that chance—that if I didn’t bring things to a head, we’d never have a future together.

  I unplugged my phone, grabbed the bottle of whiskey she’d gotten me, cracked the top and took a slug. I was still wide awake after our concert tonight, so I took the bottle and my phone out on the balcony and closed the door behind me. Sitting on a chair, I got comfortable and brought up the video of Lexie I took a couple weeks ago in Tokyo.

  I watched it…again. For the tenth or twentieth time.

  Goddamn, she’s good. I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that if I posted this to my socials, it would go viral. Millions of views in a matter of hours. She’s gorgeous. Her voice is haunting. It’s a hypnotic, mesmerizing video.

  Pure talent. Pure unadulterated star power, raw and unpolished.

  I uploaded it to my socials. I hesitated.

  I could lose her over this.

  But I was losing her anyway.

  She deserved her time in the sun—and the world deserved her music.

  She was too afraid of…of fucking everything to put herself out there.

  This video—more than her appearance on the Myles & Crow album, more than the other videos, even more than her encore with me in Tokyo—would put her on the map.

  I turned to look at her. Sleeping in my bed. Our bed. A hotel bed. Arm across her face, an empty wine bottle on the bedside table.

  I had to shake her out of this.

  This was the only way I knew.

  I hit the publish button.

  In a matter of minutes, she’s on my socials, pinned to the top of my website. It’s out there.

  No going back now.

  Lexie

  We were on the plane from Prague to Oslo and I finally, begrudgingly, went through the eight billion notifications on my phone. Calls from Mom, Charlie, and Cassie. Emails from Torie which I flagged and set aside for later because Torie was a mess I didn’t have the energy to deal with right now. A voicemail from Poppy:

  “Hey Lex. Just, you know, checking in. Miss you, girl. I’m, um, thinking pretty seriously about finally dropping out and moving to Alaska to focus on art full-time. Mom says Eva du Maurier lives there, and she’s one of my art idols, so maybe I could get some pointers or something.” A pause. “I saw your video. And, damn Lex, that was some ballsy shit. How you have the courage to put something like that out there, I’ll never know. But for real, I had no clue you’re so damn talented. I remember hearing you sing in your room a lot, but that video…damn. It’s on a whole other level. Anyway, I miss you; hope to talk to you soon. Bye.”

  Video?

  What video?

  Then I checked the text messages from Mom and the girls in Ketchikan.

  Mom: Why didn’t you tell me about the video? You’re amazing, Lex. A little risque, perhaps, but amazing. It has so many views already!

  Charlie: OMFG!!! LEX! The video. Call me!

  Cassie: Holy motherfucking shit, Alexandra. You have the biggest ovaries ever, girl. I can NOT believe you let Myles take and post that. Everyone is talking about it—everyone. You’re blowing up, Lex. Big time.

  I opened Twitter. My account suddenly had a blue check, my follower count was in the millions, and I had more comments and retweets and tags and shares than I’d ever seen.

  And there, at the top, was the video in question. I played it, and I dropped the phone on the table in front of me, hand over my mouth, heart stopped.

  It was me.

  On the balcony in Tokyo. Naked, wearing not a stitch except the guitar. You couldn’t see much, given that it was dark and the only light on me is ambient city glow and my bits were covered by the guitar. But it was obvious I’m naked in the video, and it was provocative, sexy. My leg was propped up on the rail, and I was leaning back in the chair, head tipped back, eyes closed. Plucking that lullaby I wrote for myself. Singing the wordless song.

  It was the most haunting thing I’d ever heard, and it was hard to believe it was me.

  I checked it on YouTube: less than twenty-four hours and it had over seventy million views.

  My head spun.

  It was posted under Myles North, the official, verified artist account. Yesterday…or this morning, early.

  I looked up, and Myles was watching me. Zan, Brand, and Jupiter were huddled together on the couch, watching something on Jupiter’s iPad, laughing as if it’s inappropriate. Not the video, then. And studiously acting like they have no idea what’s going on over here.

  “How—fucking—dare you,” I hissed. “You had no right to record that, and even less right to fucking post it for the world!”

  He looked…sad. He knew this was coming. He knew exactly what he was doing.

  “Why?” I snarled. “Tell me that. Why? The truth.”

  “Because you won’t. You won’t play. You won’t try. You’re too scared. And you’re too fucking talented to keep your music hidden from the world. The world deserves your talent, but you’re too fucking scared to put yourself out there.”

  “That’s my choice, not yours!”

  “I disagree. You know that people love you. You’ve seen it.” He stabbed the screen of my phone angrily. “Look at the fucking comments, Alexandra. Fucking read them!”

  Omg so talented!

  She’s beautiful AND talented? Can I plz be her?

  That voice tho! She’s incredible!

  Can we get a version of this in full light? Without the guitar? Damn.

  I’ve never heard anything like this in my life. More!

  I don’t know who this chick is, but she’s got the most amazing voice I’ve ever heard. When does her album come out?

  I saw a video of her performing with Myles in Tokyo, and OMG! She’s my new favorite artist. Where can I buy her music?

  And on, and on. Hundreds and thousands of comments. Some basic likes, some gushing comments. Some telling me to put on clothes for my next video. There was even a comment from a well-known Nashville producer: “Have your people call my people, we’ll get you signed.”

  My eyes stung. “Great, they like me. You still had no right.”

  He nodded. “I know.”

  “And you don’t care?”

  “I’m sorry, Lex. I know it was an invasion of your privacy. But your talent belongs to the world. Not hidden in a fucking bathroom. I’m not going to let you squander the talent you’ve been given. I’m not going to let you hide in the goddamn bathroom just because you’re scared. You can hate me if you want. Never talk to me again. I knew the risks when I put it up. I accept them. Because you want this. I know you do. You just don’t think you deserve it. But you do.”

  “Fuck you, Myles.”

  He blinked hard. “I’m sorry, Lex.”

  My phone rang and I answered without thinking. “Hey, is this Lexie Goode?”

  I fought back sobs. “Uh, yeah. Who’s this and how did you get this number?”

  “This is Benny Frey, and I represent RCA records in Nashville. I got your number from Mick, Myles’s manager. I’d like to speak with you in person to discuss some opportunities we have for you.”

  “I…”

  “I’d also like to congratulate you.”

  “For…what?”

  “Seventy-six million views in twenty-four hours. It’s a new world record.”

  “It is?”

  “You didn’t know?”

  “I didn’t know…” I laughed bitterly. “Yeah, you could say I didn’t know.”

  “You’re probabl
y fielding a lot of calls right now, so I’ll let you go. But I’m going to text you my info and you get hold of me when you’re ready to talk. I know you’ll be getting other offers—talent like yours only comes along once in a really, really rare while, but I know I speak for all of us at RCA when I say we’d like the opportunity to match any offer you may receive.”

  “Thanks?”

  A laugh. “Call me, whenever, wherever. Or just look me up in Nashville.”

  “Yeah, I…I’ll…I have to process things. But thanks for your call, Benny.”

  I set my phone down, shaking. “What the hell was that?”

  Myles laughed. “That was a top RCA exec hunting you down, hoping to be the first to snag you.” My phone rang again; I went to answer it, but Myles’s hand clapped over it, stopping me. “Advice? Don’t answer. Let them leave voicemails. I’d put it on mute, if not turn it off. It’s going to be ringing off the hook for days.”

  I choked. “I don’t know what to do, Myles. Why did you do this to me?”

  “You don’t have to do anything. You wait till the major players have their offers in. Mick is getting you an agent—not mine, someone else. So you’re on your own, not tied to me. Your agent fields the offers, brings you the best ones, and you accept or reject.”

  It was hard to breathe. “You’re not making an offer? You and Crow have a label.”

  He shrugged. “It’s just organized enough to let me put out Myles North records. I’m not set up to take on outside acts. And I guess I assumed you wouldn’t want my help.”

  “But I…I don’t know who to trust. What’s a good offer? What should I be wary of?”

  “Why ask me? You don’t trust me any more than you do anyone else.” He sounded so…bitter.

  “That’s not fucking fair, goddammit,” I snapped. “I do trust you. I mean, you did this without my permission and I’m absolutely furious with you. But I also recognize you didn’t do it out of, like, nefarious motives.”

  “Of course not. The exact opposite.”