“I’m afraid of what might happen.”
“With us? I promise you, I won’t even touch you if you don’t want me to,” Jayce’s eyes are wide with sincerity.
“It’s not that. It’s—what if the paparazzi catch on to me? What if they find out my name?”
“We’ll be careful. We’re not even booked under my real name at the hotel.”
I’m suddenly shy. “Would we be sharing a room?”
“Yes, but it’s a suite. You’ll have your own bedroom. I won’t come near you unless—” He trails off and now he looks shy.
“Unless what?”
“Unless you ask. I know this thing with us, it’s not … normal. I promise to give you all the time and space you need until you decide what you want from me. Even if you don’t want anything.”
I close my eyes, feeling the weight of his meaning. “OK.”
Jayce loosens his hold on me and steps back. “You don’t want anything from me?”
“No.”
I see resignation in his eyes and I grab his hand when he turns away. “I mean, no, as in, no, that’s not it. I do want … something with you. I’m just figuring it out. And I meant OK, I’ll go.”
“To LA?”
“Yes. If you really want me there.”
His arms are around me in a heartbeat. “Oh, Violet,” he breathes into my hair. “I definitely want you.”
Those words echo in my head above everything—the sounds of him making dinner, his talk of the Viper Records contract and the next steps to get an independent agent to review it, the clink of our wine glasses and the sounds of the city that filter up to his apartment terrace.
It’s all so domestic. So normal, as if the elephant in the room, the question of where this is all going for us, doesn’t hang over us. I suspect he’s trying to prove that he is normal, or can be, anyway. Isn’t this what normal couples do? Make dinner and eat together?
We sink into the couch on his terrace, finishing our wine. When I put my glass down, he pulls me under his arm so my ear is against his chest. His heartbeat is strong and I feel his fingers sift through my hair.
This is safe. Well-fed and relaxed from the wine, I let myself melt against his hard chest and feel my scalp tingle under the pressure of his fingers, the smooth strokes that weave through waves of hair and send energy through the roots and down my spine.
“Jayce, I think I’m ready.”
His eyes are on me immediately, but he’s silent.
“You know, for us to try. The control.” The last word sounds like a gargle.
“You’re not ready.”
“I am.”
“I can see it in your eyes. There’s still fear there. I don’t want to control you if you’re afraid of me. Even the smallest amount.”
He’s right, there’s fear. But I’m not afraid of him. I trust him to protect me and treat me with care. But I don’t trust that it will last, and I’m afraid that once I’ve given in to his wish to control me, I’ll lose my novelty.
He’ll move on.
“Please, Jayce. I want…” the words die in my throat. How can I tell him that what I want more than to be dominated is the simple reassurance that I’m not like the others? That we’ll last.
“Violet. Listen to me. There’s nothing I want more than for you to say you’re ready, but you can’t just say it, or say you’ll try, when I see you still have doubts. You have to know it. I don’t want to take advantage of you.”
Jayce moves a few inches away from me and I stretch to get that closeness back. My body pleads with his.
I watch his expressions, intense and indecipherable, and then he has a decision.
“I won’t say yes yet,” he continues, “but I can’t tell you no. So tonight, we’ll find a way between those. You want to try that?”
I nod.
My head drops lower and I stretch out on the couch, my feet up and my head in his lap. I roll to my back as he continues to stroke my hair, watching expressions cross his face like clouds across the sky.
I close my eyes and focus on breathing, the heat between us, the current humming like power lines on a summer night.
“Don’t move.” He lifts my head from his lap and places it gently on the couch cushion as he stands. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
I hear him walk inside, the refrigerator door open and close, and dishes clank on the counter.
“Eyes closed?” I hear him at the door to the terrace.
“Yes.” My senses are on alert, wondering what he’s up to.
“Open your mouth.”
My eyes flutter open at this request and Jayce holds a plate above me but I can’t see what’s on it.
“Closed.” He says sternly. I obey. “And just to make sure you keep them closed, lift your arms.”
I lift my arms and feel him tug at my shirt, pulling it up over my stomach. My body quivers in anticipation, feeling warmth pool deep in my belly. Jayce lifts the fabric up higher and I angle my shoulders to let him pull it off, but he stops when the neck of my T-shirt reaches my nose, trapping my arms above my head and effectively blindfolding me with the material still covering my eyes.
“That should hold you,” he chuckles.
I whimper, feeling the night air caress my exposed stomach. The lacy cups of my bra don’t offer much protection.
“Now, open your mouth.”
I do, and a bumpy, fragrant object brushes my lower lip. I bite into a burst of juicy sweetness. Strawberry.
“This one’s easy. We’ll play a little guessing game. You get it right, you get another.”
I chew and swallow the berry. “And if I get it wrong?”
“Then I get one.”
It sounds simple, but I know there’s more to the game. I guess correctly on the tangy grape and subtly gritty pear, but then he places a piece of cheese on my tongue. It’s sharp and salty.
“Parmesan?”
“Aged cheddar. And now one for me.” I feel a cool slice of something placed on my stomach, just above my navel, and then Jayce’s breath just above me. His hot mouth covers the slice, his teeth grazing my skin. “Delicious. Pear.”
I squirm and press my knees together, feeling warmth gather between my thighs as I remain imprisoned by my T-shirt and my own will.
I’m letting this happen. Wanting this to happen.
“Another?”
“Yes.” My voice is barely a whisper as hormones zing through my system, tasting the depth of dark chocolate, bitter and sweet, as it melts on my tongue. Another flavor, pebbled texture but exceptionally sweet, follows it.
“I—I don’t know.”
“Fig.” Jayce tells me. He trails a piece of fruit down my chin and neck, finally letting it rest between my breasts. “My turn.”
Jayce’s tongue follows the path of the fruit, hot and moist, until it curls and flicks the fruit into his mouth. His tongue returns to the place where the fruit rested and he traces the lace edge at the top of my breast, then dips inside the cup to brush my nipple. “So sweet.”
I shudder, a soft moan escapes me.
“More?”
I nod and open my lips for another taste, but this time I taste Jayce’s lips as he holds a morsel of chocolate between his teeth. I close my lips over this gift, but then reach my lips for more of him.
Jayce deepens the kiss and the flavor of chocolate and fruit and his tongue in my mouth sparks a hunger. I kiss him like my whole body is starving for his touch, feel his cool fingers trace my ribcage, his thumbs brush over my bra and then sweep inside it to pluck my nipples into firm buds.
I pant with want, begging him to take this further, and he pulls my shirt the rest of the way over my head, so our eyes finally meet. Freed from their prison, my arms reach immediately around his neck and I pull him closer into a deep kiss.
Jayce wedges his hands beneath my shoulders and knees, pulls me up from the couch and carries me to his room.
“I couldn’t help myself,” he confesses as he lays
me out on his bed. I let him undress me down to my underwear, tuck me in bed, and watch as he removes everything but his boxers. He slides under cool sheets next to me and holds me close. “I just wanted a taste, but you are too sweet. I need more.”
CHAPTER 33: JAYCE
“Take a nap, or a shower, or whatever. I don’t care what you do, just give me an hour and then we’ll figure out dinner.” I dump Violet’s gym bag on her bed in the hotel suite and back out of the room as fast as possible.
I hear a weak “OK” as I shut the door and instantly I feel guilty. I don’t need to snap at her. It’s not her fault that the flight to LA was a nightmare.
On one side: Gavin, Chief, Dave and Kristina.
On the other: Me, Violet, Tyler and Stella.
I feel like a human shield who took fire from both sides. The girls were in some covert little war, pitching snide comments at each other.
Among the band, it was more overt. We tried to do a meeting on the flight and none of us could agree on anything, even stuff as simple as the order we’ll record songs tomorrow.
“I don’t care how you change up the song!” Chief finally shouted at us all when the playlist argument devolved into a bitchfest about one song that’s not guaranteed to be part of our album. “We’re going into the studio tomorrow and recording something, even if I have to grab you by your balls and drag you in there.”
It’s going to be a fucking disaster. I wish I could time-travel back about five years to when we’d just spend our Friday nights playing and drinking on the house. We’d take some girls home or stay up all night jamming, and we’d sleep off the hangover the next morning. No talk of hitting a studio stupid early.
But Chief’s got a punishing schedule for us now that the album rollout is planned. We’re going to get it done, come hell or high water.
It’s going to be hell, I guarantee you.
I drag my suitcase to my bedroom on the opposite side of the suite and strip for the longest, hottest shower possible. My skin blisters under the prickly water pressure until my muscles finally release the tension I realize I’ve been carrying the last seven hours we’ve been in transit.
Carrying. That’s a pretty good word for all the baggage and bullshit that goes with our band now. I get that it’s the price of fame, but the cost is staggeringly high. Sometimes I wonder how much of our effort and attention is really on our music. I’d bet craft doesn’t even get into the double-digits, percentage-wise.
The water’s never going to run cold in this hotel, so finally I give up and flip the handle. I’m scrubbing my hair dry with a towel when I walk back into my bedroom naked.
A little squeak alerts me I’m not alone. I pull the towel off my head and Violet’s on my bed, up by the pillows on top of the covers. Her face is crimson and her eyes are on her lap.
“I’m sorry! I didn’t think you’d come out of the bathroom so … so … naked.”
I tuck the towel around my waist and chuckle, enjoying the pretty pink flush that colors her cheeks and her neck. I unzip my suitcase. She’s had my dick in her mouth, so it’s not like I’m showing her something she hasn’t seen before.
I watch her as I drop my towel and pull on boxers and then shorts, but she keeps her eyes down. “Why are you here, Violet?”
“I wanted to talk.”
“So talk.” I fight to keep the irritation out of my voice. She was pretty much the only person on the plane who didn’t piss me off. Well, Gavin’s girlfriend was fine, too. Even when feisty little Stella kept pushing Kristina’s buttons, daring her to say another rude thing, Beryl stayed out of it.
“Who’s side are you on?” Kristina demanded.
“I’m Switzerland,” Beryl said, turning back to her e-reader. “You’re not going to make me choose between my boyfriend and my best friend. I choose both. Always.”
I snuck a glance at Violet then and she sat apart from all of us, curled up on a skinny leather airplane couch, watchful. Now she’s in the same position on my bed, a defensive posture that suggests she doesn’t quite trust her surroundings.
“I heard Kristina and Stella fighting over something about dresses and going out. You promised we could stay in tonight.” Her eyes plead with me.
“We will. We’ve got room service, and a zillion channels, and I can have them send up playing cards if that’s what you want to do.” I walk around the edge of the bed and sit near Violet’s bare feet. Her slender arms are wrapped around her knees.
“So they’re all going out and you’ve got to stay here and babysit me?” Violet’s chin juts out. “I’m sorry I asked. You can go. I’ll stay here. I’m fine.”
“No, that’s not what I meant at all. I don’t know what everyone else is up to tonight, but considering all the togetherness on the flight”—I wrinkle my nose and Violet smiles a little, catching my meaning—“I figured it would be better if we all just did our own thing.”
“So what’s the deal with the dresses and going out, then?”
Guilt washes over me. I signed her up for something she didn’t want to do, and now I’m too chickenshit to come out and tell her what’s expected tomorrow. At what point did I think this was a good idea? Like she wouldn’t notice that it’s a photo op?
“There’s a thing tomorrow,” I explain. “Some actress’s birthday party. Kiki Kennedy?”
Violet’s lips part with surprise. “I know who that is. She’s in the next superhero movie.”
“Right. And it makes our label very happy when we show up to things, even though they don’t have much to do with our music.” I reach for Violet’s hand, maybe to anchor her here for a moment longer. “The band’s expected to make an appearance.”
We’re supposed to look good and turn on the charm, and the girls are expected to be the best kind of arm candy—what guys want and girls want to be. I don’t tell Violet this, but she puts the pieces together lightning-fast.
“And you want me to go?” she asks in horror, as if I’ve asked her to cover her body in spiders. “I thought Kristina was talking about a normal party. If I go anywhere near a publicity mess, my life is over.”
I stutter out excuses, but Violet pulls her hand out of my grasp and practically leaps off the bed like I’ve stung her.
“Is that the real reason you brought me here? To be your groupie?” Her lip curls in disgust and I open my mouth, but she holds up a hand to silence me. “Don’t. Don’t make it worse than it already is. Don’t talk to me.”
Violet slams my bedroom door and then her own, and I don’t hear another peep from her through the long, painfully quiet night.
***
“Nobody fucked up their voice last night, did they?”
Chief stares us all down and we shake our heads, schoolboys brought in for interrogation by the principal. I sip tea and Gavin chugs water. We’re bringing our A game.
Tyler, always our comic relief, sticks out his tongue. “All better!”
Chief introduces us to Ravi, a little Indian dude with Coke-bottle glasses who couldn’t be much over thirty. I catch Gavin and Dave exchanging looks—this guy is totally new to us, and it looks like our label just signed us up with a producer who’s more sound tech than creative director.
He’s in for a wild ride. Gavin or Dave will chew him up and spit him out.
We start with an easy song, “Can’t Fall for You,” in the sense that it’s something everyone can agree on. The lyrics have been solid for a couple of weeks now and I’m happy with the instrumentals. The song hits a sweet spot for Gavin’s voice, and when the rest of us fill on the chorus, it’s a ballad with real sing-along punch:
I know better than to fall
Know my heart and build a wall
Been through the forest and been misled
Been down that dark path to your bed
And I can’t fall
Can’t fall for you
Again, this time, no matter how you beg me
No matter how my heart bleeds for you to take me
We rocket through that recording, four takes in under an hour. Ravi’s quiet coaching boosts the tempo, brings my guitar forward in the bridge, but nothing throws us.
Until the next song. “This Girl’s Gone,” is a powder keg in just about every way, and I’m struggling to keep my cool as Gavin gets bossy with Ravi, Dave bitches at Tyler over some timing thing, and I feel like we’re still not getting the chord progression right on the end of the first verse. An hour ticks by without even one take to show for it and my stomach grumbles for lunch, still another hour away.
“Let’s take ten.” Ravi’s out of the booth and into the studio, his voice cool and smooth.
“We don’t have time to take ten. Lunch is in an hour, and we’ve got to get this track down,” Gavin counters.
Ravi straightens up to his full height—maybe five-five—and looks Gavin dead in the eye. “I said. Take. Ten.”
Ravi’s voice isn’t even one decibel louder, and his expression doesn’t change. But just like that, the balance of power shifts in the room. We know who’s in charge, and it sure as hell isn’t Gavin.
I slouch on the stool behind me and idly pluck at my guitar, trying to figure out “This Girl’s Gone” without the rest of my band.
Ravi turns to me and his eyes narrow. “Jayce, are you deaf? Get out of here, man. Back in nine.” He holds open the door from the studio to the hallway like it’s a gentlemanly gesture, but it feels like a cattle prod. He’s asserting his power over me as well.
When we come back in the room, the mood is different. We pick up our instruments, do our takes, and under Ravi’s sharp, subtle guidance, things just start to flow.
While I was fantasizing about that Viper Records contract in the first half of the morning, Ravi forces total concentration after the break. He prods and pokes us whenever we lose focus—a little comment, a gesture.
“You’re here to work, to perform and produce,” Ravi says when we hit a snag long after lunch. “We’re not here to bullshit or hash out our creative differences. Nobody cares about whether something was your idea or even a good idea. They only care about the sounds that actually make it into your mic.”
Revenge Bound Page 16
