Love on the Tracks

by Tamsen Parker

  I suck up my anxieties and close my eyes, hoping if I can focus on the music, I’ll forget about Rowan sitting two feet away. Unlikely.

  It works well enough that I can get into the groove and can even hear some of the comments the guys would make if they were here. Teague would tell me the melody’s too complicated, Christian would tell me to give him something to do, Benji would say he thinks I’m onto something epic but it needs fine-tuning, and Nicky would say it sucks donkey balls because that’s what he always says—until he doesn’t, and that’s always when I know I’ve got something good.

  Even though they aren’t here, I hear them, and I almost forget Rowan is sitting right by me until, alongside my frustrated tenor and the increasingly tense thrum of the strings, there’s a light and airy soprano. Not the kind of voice that would make someone a hit, or even stand out in a crowd, but sweet, pure, and with perfect pitch—which is more than I can say for a lot of the big names.

  What she’s doing, a simple but pretty harmony, hits something in my soul. Like a cold glass of lemonade on a hot summer day, it shouldn’t be remarkable—how many glasses of lemonade have you had in a lifetime?—but there’s something about it that will remain with me for the rest of my life.

  I finish out the section I’ve been playing over and over, and start to scribble. From those few bars, she’s jumpstarted something in my head, and the notes come to me. I read somewhere that a lot of writers hear voices in their heads. Well, I do too. Voices and instruments, words and beats. Though I’ve been stuck on those same repeating measures for months and I’d started wondering if I’d ever be able to hack it on my own, Rowan’s opened the floodgates.

  She sits quietly while I scribble, not asking me any questions or offering any advice. When I start to play again, she sings along until I get to the new measures, and then she’s quiet; listening. Really listening, because after scribbling some more things down and getting another burst of sound pouring through my brain, I start over again and she’s memorized enough of the new things to at least hum along.

  It’s like a being in a hurricane, so caught up I get in the madness, and it’s only when I look at the clock I realize we’ve been doing this for two hours. Rowan’s slumped over on her end of the couch, curled up with her eyes closed, still humming dreamily.

  Not quite awake and not quite asleep, I hope she feels like this has been a dream come true. God knows that’s how I feel.

  It’s fucking selfish of me, but I don’t want to stop. Not yet, not while there’s still fairy dust in the air. The song is almost done, and I think if I can get a few more runs in, it’ll click. But with another glance at Rowan, I know I can’t do it.

  She’d already had a hard day when she got here, and then what did she do, rest? No, she sat here with me and helped me work through this. She had said she’d take the couch, but I’d been planning to offer her the bed. She’s got a race the day after tomorrow, and no way am I going to be the person responsible for her getting a shitty night’s sleep.

  I set my guitar on the table and then kneel in front of her, laying a hand on her shoulder. “Hey, Rowan.”

  She makes a sleepy “mmph,” but otherwise I get nothing.

  There’s some hair in her face, so I brush it away, noticing for the first time she’s got a sprinkling of pale freckles across her cheeks. For some reason I can’t quite explain, that small detail twists something in my stomach. She’s really beautiful. In a way I didn’t appreciate at first, or maybe in a way I took for granted.

  It’s as though I’m seeing her for the first time. Yes, I’ve been attracted to her since the beginning, but she’s not just a hot body on a sled, not just a twittering fangirl. I’ve wanted her, enjoyed kissing her, but that want has turned into something deeper, and for the first time worry nags at me. On my end, I don’t have room to spare to take on any new obligations. As much fun as relationships can be, there’s a responsibility there too. Can’t imagine Rowan’s got a ton of spare time on her plate either. What’s going to happen to us at the end of these two weeks? The likely answer is nothing.

  Chapter Eight

  Rowan

  When I wake up, it’s not on my dorm room–quality bed in my room at the village. No, the bed I’m in is A, huge, B, firm but still soft in the way really nice mattresses are, and C, not empty. Whoa.

  I sit up, grabbing for the sheet even though I’m not naked. It feels like I’m wearing my track pants and a T-shirt, but no bra. How the—

  Then I take a closer look at the arm I brushed with my hand. It’s muscular but not bulky, and it has a dark dusting of hair starting at the wrist, and going all the way up to a nicely sculpted shoulder and a mop of black hair. So this is what Zane Rivera looks like when he’s not posing for the cameras, or for anyone at all. Or, as I got to see him last night, lost in thought.

  Listening to him compose was mind-blowing. I didn’t want to interrupt because I worried I’d ruin whatever trance he’d worked himself into, but it was incredible. And to think I might’ve had even a tiny part in that? I flop back on the bed and cover my face with one of the horde of fluffy pillows, muffling my excited squeak and trying not to kick my feet. I don’t want to wake him up.

  “Is that how you sleep every night?”

  Dammit. My face scrunches up and I’m super glad I still have the pillow even though it’s the original cause of my mortification. Eventually, I find it in me to remove it and drop it off the side of the bed, turning onto my side to face him.

  “No. Do you lure strange women to your bed to sleep platonically beside them every night?”

  He laughs and rolls onto his back, tucking his hands behind his head. “First of all, I didn’t lure you here. You invited yourself over. Second, you’re not strange. Well, you’re not a stranger at least. Third, I thought you’d be more comfortable here than on the couch, and fourth . . .”

  Some of the humor has drained from his face and I can’t help but wonder why. Instead of dwelling on it, I prod him with a poke in his T-shirt-clad ribs and a question. “Fourth?”

  He looks at me then, not turning his body, but just his head, and it’s that serious, earnest look he doesn’t often get. “I’m not sure this is the right time or place to talk about it.”

  I glance at the clock—it’s quarter after six, and if I want to get to the team run on time, I probably have to leave in an hour. “I think it’s a perfectly good time. And this bed is comfy as fuck. What did they make it out of, angel feathers and unicorn manes?”

  “Goose down I think,” he mutters absently, but then focuses on me again. “About the whole platonic thing.”

  Oh. Oh.

  “What about it? Did something happen last night? I don’t—”

  “No, no, nothing happened. I gave you my word I’d be a gentleman and I have been. I don’t truck with sexual assault. The only thing I did was take off your bra, under your shirt, and I wouldn’t have done that except I have three sisters who spent a surprisingly large portion of their high school years bitching about how uncomfortable underwire was. I didn’t want you sleeping in it all night.”

  Oh dear god. I never thought a conversation involving the word underwire could be swoony, but this one totally is. I can be cool. I totally can. “Okay. So?”

  He swallows, and his face scrunches up. “So, my feelings toward you have become not exactly platonic. If that’s not true for you, I stick to my story that I will be a gentleman. We can keep up this PR stunt the way we have been, or we can end it, totally your call. But if you’re feeling the same way . . .”

  There isn’t much in my experience that’s drilled down to my core. Especially not since my mom died. The hopeful look on Zane’s handsome face as he turns to look at me, the way the arc of his brows narrows at the same time his eyes squint slightly, as if he’s unsure, though . . . it hits square in that part of me.

  I want to tell him I am feeling the same way. My feelings from the beginning were nowhere near platonic, and spending time with hi
m has only deepened the shallow admiration and, let’s face it, hots I had for him. In addition to being crazy good looking and a huge star, he’s also kind and considerate, and more talented than anyone gives him credit for. That song he played last night, I could’ve listened to it forever. Simple, but soul-touching, it’s going to get played at proms and weddings . . . if he ever gets to share it.

  As much as I want to confess all that, I can’t. I’d scare the living crap out of him, some crazy girl declaring her love for him after we’d known each other for less than a week. Maybe he doesn’t mean he likes me romantically at all, but that sleeping in the same bed made him even more aware of my body and he’d like to tap that. With my consent of course. That is also an idea I can get behind.

  So I pick up the layers of bed linens and slide across the cool sheet separating us until we’re nearly nose to nose, chest to chest, our knees threading in between one another’s. “I am.”

  “Right. Okay then.”

  Any embarrassment I felt at my squee-fest on Talk America is erased by the completely bewildered look on Zane’s face. Like he can’t believe this is happening, and he doesn’t quite know what to do.

  “That’s great.” Swallow. God I want to lick his Adam’s apple, feel the light scruff that covers it like sandpaper against my tongue. But I’ll wait.

  “So, I don’t know if you have superstitions about, uh, fooling around before a big race? I know some people do, and if you’re one of them, then we can wait. Until you’re done with your races I mean. To do . . . whatever it is you’re up for doing.”

  “I have no superstitions, and I’m up for anything. Everything.”

  He may have had me at a disadvantage for ninety-eight percent of the time we’ve known each other, but I’ve finally found where I have the upper hand, which is maybe the last place I would’ve expected it from a guy who must have dozens of groupies begging to bang him any time he performs. Maybe that’s why he’s so disconcerted. He’s asking me. Which might explain why his eyes go the size of saucers and his mouth opens slightly. “Whoa.”

  “Basically, yeah.”

  Because I already cleared the first hurdle, which is always the hardest, and I can’t take the tension anymore, I lean forward, slide a hand to the back of his neck and kiss him. It starts out like it has before, just a firm press of lips, but it quickly turns into more than that, with tongues and even teeth, bodies pressed together and hands roaming.

  I’ve fucked mostly other athletes, which means I’ve had my hands on my fair share of built guys, but there’s something about Zane’s body that makes my heart sing in a way my other partners’ haven’t. Maybe it’s that we know each other better than most of my hook-ups, or maybe it’s that he’s brilliant in a way I can only begin to comprehend, but he feels perfect under my hands.

  I slip a hand not so subtly under his shirt, skimming the skin of his back with my fingers, enjoying the faint outline of his ribs under muscle. He’s wearing flannel pajama pants and it’s so frigging cute I can’t deal. So I press at the small of his back, forcing his hips toward mine, and I’m not surprised but only pleased he’s hard for me already.

  Do pop stars have stamina like athletes? I’m going to have to wait to find out, because we don’t have a ton of time, and I want him, badly. Fully.

  I break away from our desperate kisses long enough to ask if I can take his shirt off.

  He blinks, his long lashes making him look shy somehow. Who would’ve thought that I of all people could feel as though I was corrupting someone like Zane Rivera? But I do, and the sensation is heady.

  “Yeah, of course.”

  Before I strip the tee off of him, I sit up and pull my own shirt off, smiling at how he’d bothered to take off my bra under my shirt. If I ever meet his sisters, I will give them my compliments. In an exceedingly vague way, of course.

  When I’ve yanked my own top off, there’s a small choked noise from Zane. “Jesus, your body is . . .”

  The way he trails off makes something catch in my stomach. One of the reasons I like fooling around with other athletes is they know what to expect. One of the few non-athletes I’ve been with—a waiter I picked up at a competition in France—said I wasn’t “very feminine.” I was too stunned at the time to say much of anything, but I swear to god, I’ll punch Zane in his pretty boy face if he says anything remotely like that.

  “ . . . out of control. I knew you were strong, but—Damn, girl, you’re really fucking hot.”

  The catch releases into a laugh. That’s way better than someone insinuating I’m not a real girl because I have better abs than they do. In the end though, I don’t want to hear about how sexy I am. Actions, not words. So I urge him to sit up and pull his shirt over his head.

  I don’t want to waste the breath to tell him he’s beautiful, and I’m sure he gets more than enough compliments from all the girls who throw themselves at him regularly, so I get on my knees and take his face in my hands, crawl forward slightly so our chests are pressed together, and kiss him again. Not breaking the connection of our lips, he comes to kneel too, threading an arm around my waist.

  Jesus, the way the hair on his pecs brushes against my nipples makes me gasp. It shouldn’t surprise me that such a small detail sinks its claws into me this deep. So much of my life is spent making the smallest tweaks; a press of a shoulder here, a slight roll of a calf there. Luge is one of the most precisely timed sports in the world, thousandths of a second making the difference between winning and losing.

  So this feast of the senses—how Zane tastes, the scrape of his overnight stubble against my face, how his body shapes to my own, the small sounds he makes into my mouth—it’s downright decadent and I intend to gorge myself.

  He seems content to let me drive, and I don’t mind. I take what I want from him until I want more than what’s been offered, and then press my forehead to his, his bed-spiky hair pressing into my hairline and I trail my fingers along the waistband of his soft pants, close but not quite touching where he’s trapped between our hips.

  “I want to touch you. Stroke you. I want your cock in my hand. Can I?”

  His swallow is audible and it sends an intoxicating pulse of lust through my veins. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

  “Me too. What I’d really like is to have you inside me though. Can we do that? Do you want to fuck me, Zane?” I’m used to not being subtle about getting it on. I’m an athlete. My body is the topic of much conversation and attention, and I don’t have time for courtship rituals. Best to be upfront, although I hope he doesn’t find me crude.

  His voice doesn’t quite crack, but there’s a tremor running through it, as though it’s close. He doesn’t seem appalled though, more like entranced. “Yeah. Yes. Yes, I’d like to fuck you.”

  Permission given, I slide my hand into his pants and take him in hand. He’s hot and hard and smooth, and he groans when I stroke him. “Then please, for the love of god, tell me you have condoms. I’m on the pill, but I always double down on protection.”

  Partly because there’s no way in hell I’m letting myself get knocked up, and partly because I don’t want “Treat STI” on my list of things to do.

  “I do. Top drawer of the nightstand on my side. I’m a little surprised, though.”

  There’s some heavy breathing as I regard him, not stopping the slip slide of the grip I have on him. “About what?”

  Zane hasn’t come off as the slut-shaming type, but if he says something to the contrary, despite being horny as fuck, I’m out of here. It wouldn’t be the first time I left a dude with a case of blue balls, and it won’t be the last.

  “Don’t they bring in tens of thousands of condoms for you people? Why aren’t you packing?”

  He winks at me, or tries, but it’s more a flash of dimples and a pained exhale as I tighten my grip slightly, trying not to laugh.

  “All I have is my practice bag. I wasn’t anticipating spending the night. I’ve got a crap ton of them in my room, and if
I’d known we were going to end up having a sleepover . . .” He moans as I twist my hand and jack him faster. “I would’ve grabbed a handful.”

  Zane closes his eyes, and I take the opportunity to dip my head, laying my open mouth on the side of his neck, licking and sucking, though I won’t leave him marked. I think we’ve got enough gossip without him getting snapped with hickeys. I kiss and fondle him as he clutches me, holding on for dear life. I love it, feeling this powerful, and over someone like him.

  “Might I suggest that if you want to fuck, you stop that? I can put in a respectable performance, swear to god, but if you keep doing that, I’m going to lose it. I’d like to not embarrass myself in front of you.”

  While the idea of turning Zane on so much that I get him to spill in my hand certainly has things to recommend it, I really do want him inside of me. So I reluctantly let go and kiss him again.

  “Maybe you can settle down a bit while you get me ready. I’m going to need more foreplay than this.”

  Not that I’m not already wet and desperate, but I’m going to need something more before he presses inside me if I want a chance at coming.

  “I highly doubt touching you is going to calm me down, but I’m willing to give it a shot.”

  There’s that charming grin again, and I let him push me onto my back against the mound of fluffy pillows. He grabs my pants at the sides of my hips, but before he pulls them down my legs, he looks up at me, as if he’s asking for permission. Like I’m his queen and he wants to make sure this is the way I want to be served. I am all for Zane Rivera getting in my pants, and I tell him so. “Yes. Strip me, touch me, make it good.”

  He makes quick work of them after that, tugging the nylon along with the cotton of my underwear down my legs and discarding the whole bundle to the side of the bed.

  I expect fingers but what I get is him scooting down the bed and hooking my knees over his shoulders before he dips his head.