A Shit Storm: Runaway Rock Star (Silver Strings Series E Book 1)

by Lisa Gillis

  “You smell good…”

  “Don’t.”

  “You feel good…”

  “Stop, I mean it!”

  His lips were back in her neck while he whispered the sweet words, and when she felt his tongue to her skin, she exploded.

  “Jack! What the hell? Get the fuck off me!”

  He froze statue still, his face still in the bend of her neck and shoulder. His hand remained splayed against her stomach, and his weight rested mostly on the knee between hers. Then suddenly he was off.

  That fast.

  In one smooth movement, he’d rolled to his side of the bed. Risking a glance, she saw him staring up at the high ceiling. Her gaze fell to the greenish night vision screen of their sleeping children.

  “I’m sorry, Jac—”

  “Just go to sleep.”

  “I’m sorry though… I just—”

  “Stop fucking saying you’re sorry!”

  “But I am…”

  “Shut up, Mariss. I mean it.”

  Her eyes ached and burned. Shoving to her elbows, she twisted to face him. “I can’t! Okay? I can’t do it when all I can think about is J.J. I never stop thinking of him. Not even for one minute!”

  His head twisted her way, and although his eyes were shadows, they were clearly focused on her face. “I can’t either. All day long, I wonder where the hell he is. If he’s okay. Why he’s doing this to us…” His voice cracked on the last utterance, and he sucked a sharp breath in. “And I just wanted to NOT think. I just wanted to forget for a little bit.”

  She wasn’t sure she’d ever felt shittier than that moment. Her eyes burned with fresh tears, and her throat ached. The blankets tugged slightly as he turned away. Wiping at the wetness on her face, she copied the motion, rolling against him, and resting her forehead against a shoulder blade.

  They hadn’t had sex since the morning she’d left to pick J.J. up at the airport and had come back without him.

  “I—” She caught herself before she apologized again, and instead, whispered a reply to his outburst. “I’d like to forget.”

  When he didn’t acknowledge her words, she pressed her lips to his skin. Again and again. She wrapped her arms around him, noticing once more that his body was more bone than brawn these days. Trailing her fingers blindly from his chest down, she touched her tongue to his back.

  This got a reaction. He stiffened, and his words were a growl. “Just quit, Mariss. I don’t need your pity fuck.”

  Despite his outburst, he was hard again, and she curved her fingers around this discovery. His breath grew ragged, and the sound hitting her ears seemed more like an angry rumble than an aroused one. She had reflected on that for about two seconds when he turned back to face her.

  His fingers clamped to her forearm, removing her caressing touch, and pinning her hand to the bed. When her other hand rose warily, he promptly grabbed it too, with his other hand, weighting it to her other side.

  She held his gaze more from feel than from sight, only making out the shadowy pools in the lighter planes of his face. They remained like this for a short span before he eased his weight over her, all the while pinning that palpable stare onto her face.

  A few seconds more, a question without words, and she nodded without moving—with only a studious stare into his soul, okaying whatever came next.

  His lips touched hers in a firm possessive kiss, and when she felt the slight drop of her head to the cushion of her pillow, she realized she’d risen to meet him halfway. He sucked the breath from her lungs and consumed her lips. Her wrists lay limp against the bed imprisoned, but when his tongue at last caressed hers, she strained restlessly against his grip.

  Too soon, the warmth of his forehead touched hers, his kiss abated, and she caught her breath. Completely stilled, he regarded her again, locking her into another mental telepathy match. Emotions rocked her in swells. She felt tender while timid. Possessive while owned. Euphoric yet desolate.

  Out of nowhere, she remembered the shower cubicle on the tour bus that Hang Fest day when Tristan had been a mere twinkle in the depth of his daddy’s eyes. She remembered the rumble of Jack’s voice against her ear.

  Want this, Mariss?

  He wasn’t speaking now, but in this silent cerebral link they shared, she felt the inquiry clear as if it had been a sound wave.

  Want it, Mariss? You sure?

  Suddenly she wasn’t so sure, and just as suddenly she’d never wanted to be joined with him more.

  The only movement between them was the rise and fall of their diaphragms as their breath steadied.

  She knew it, the moment when he saw the answer he sought in her face.

  His mouth ground to hers, the intensity of this next kiss mashing her lips to her teeth, and then clinking their teeth together. He withheld his tongue from hers, instead flicking it to her bottom lip in a soothing stroke after a bite. Rolling more fully onto her, he released his hold on her arms, and ground his lips to hers again.

  It was soon obvious that he’d freed her arms, because he had better things to do with his hands. The thin tee shirt was barely a barrier to his touch, and she flinched with the first pinch. He gentled—not by much, but enough that she relaxed into the rough ministrations of his hands on the sensitive peaks beneath the Jackal shirt.

  Their lovemaking—if that’s what this could be called—was like a hurricane gaining in ferocity with each passing second. There was no tenderness in this volatile embrace. It wasn’t a rollercoaster ride beginning slow and getting crazy. It was a cliff jump, beginning with a spiraling scream of every cell and ending with a scream that reverberated the bedroom walls.

  The first time she came, her cry was smothered in a pillow. A swat stung her rear, and almost quicker than she could register it, she found herself flipped. His thumb feathered her lips in a caress completely contradictory of every action just passed between them. It took a moment to focus on the shadowy planes of his face an inch above hers.

  “Again, Mariss.”

  Gladly.

  She fell into his rhythm, felt the buzz of his body as he drew nearer his brink. Her fingers were clutching, and a hum began in her throat.

  “Mariss…”

  Hurry. Yes… She was spinning faster and faster, about to fall into that sweet vortex…

  “Mariss!”

  Her name was a command, a plea, a heads-up—all three.

  “Yes! Oh Yes!” Falling faster …

  And because her body knew his, knew their pattern enough to sync, she unconsciously counted in her head with each rock.

  One. Two. Three.

  One. Two.

  And THREE.

  A scream began deep inside and tore through her throat and lips. She clutched desperately at anything physical to keep her grounded mentally, knowing as she did, it was an impossibility. She was lost.

  Floating.

  Chapter 22

  Making Up Without Making Out

  SENDER: Tristan

  SUBJECT Hi

  I’ve been thinking about stuff. About how sometimes things you guys told me were lessons in life that went over my head until I experienced them. I love you guys and miss you. T

  “Bedtime for me, kids.” Mark stretches. Sladen follows suit. Stepping over the pile of shoes we’d all shed, they cross in front of the television en route to the hall.

  Mark musses Sash’s hair and Sladen bends, giving her a hug.

  Dropping her feet from the arm of her chair to the floor, she declares, “Me too. Bed.”

  I wait until the guys are out of earshot. She stands and bends to the side table, scooping up her phone. When I catch her hand, she turns, a clear question shining in her face.

  “You mad at me, Sash?”

  Her eyes shift to a point behind me. “Mad?”

  “Yeah. Not happy. Angry. Pissed.”

  She doesn’t reward my sarcasm with a real answer or even one of her smart-ass retorts. Meeting my gaze, she assumes a warm friendly face—t
he one she puts on for Splynter fans, no matter how exhausted she is, or thirsty, or whatever the case may be. “Why would I be mad? Oh, you mean because of the mess?”

  “No!” I shout in exasperation.

  ‘The mess’ she’s attempting to use as a confrontation deflector stems from an incident earlier in the evening when she bitched at us all while washing a sink of dishes three days old.

  “Then what?” she asks. Both of her brows shoot up in a challenging arch, her arms cross over her chest, and her foot actually taps.

  “You know what!”

  She continues to stare blankly. As if she hadn’t skipped our tv time for the last three nights. As if she’s clueless of what I’m going on about.

  Over the last few days, I’ve done a lot of thinking about what went down the night of the gig.

  I’ve decided to handle things one at a time. I don’t like knowing she’s apparently on some sort of smack, but I’m in no position to pull an intervention. She’s taken me into her house. If I don’t like it, I leave. That simple.

  On the other hand, if I’m her friend, I can eventually bring up that subject with her. And I want to be her friend again. But I can’t with this other crap between us.

  Jumping up, I run upstairs for my guitar. Carrying it, I return to the first floor and step out the front door. A brisk breeze raises goose bumps through the long sleeved tee I’m wearing, but I ignore the chill and ease one leg onto the porch rail.

  I’m fingering the chords to one of our newest songs when the door slowly yawns open and Sash is backlit in the frame.

  She steps out, balancing a bowl of milk and stoops to set it on the porch. I notice she’s wearing her coat, and sure enough, instead of returning inside, she descends down two steps and sits with her back to me. The flick of a lighter sounds, and she bends, presumably lighting the joint she winds down with before bed each night.

  “I’m not mad. It was just weird, seeing you like that.” Her words are quiet, spoken on a sigh or an exhale.

  At the thought of Sash standing in the bathroom doorway while two ho’s and I did the nasty, I become uncomfortable with the conversation I’ve forced her into. For the fifty-seventh time, I wonder at what point she walked in and for how long she spectated.

  My fingertip is mashing a guitar string so hard it’s cutting into the callus. Relaxing my grip, I study the crease in my skin. “I know. And I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

  “What won’t happen again? You won’t have a groupie hookup? You won’t do a three way?”

  She’s deliberately messing with me. I see the evil spark of amusement within her eyes, widened for an innocent effect.

  “You’re an evil bitch, Sash.” My joking words are raspy with affection.

  “So I’ve been told.”

  I see her taunting expression turn to something else entirely. If I’d thought a hookup would ease some of my daily desire for this woman, I’d been wrong. And at times like this, it looks like my want for her is mutual.

  Taking the few steps that will settle me on the porch stoop next to her, I ease the guitar around so that it swings down my back out of the way. I smooth my fingers through the ends of her hair, enjoying the silky feel.

  Smirking, she leans her head into my touch. I’ve become used to playing with her hair or rubbing her shoulders, but it feels different tonight. Just like her look had seemed different.

  The bright purple shade she’d worn to work is faded, but still stains her lips. As I study the cleft of her upper lip and admire the perfect fullness of her bottom lip, her gaze hones to my mouth.

  Her face looms closer, and I realize one of us, or both of us, has moved in.

  My heart slams in anticipation of the kiss and then constricts when she leaps to her feet instead.

  I watch her boots ascend the stairs, and as they continue to carry her further away from me, I arc my head to catch her gaze. But she doesn’t look back. The door swings, making a soft clicking sound as she pushes it to.

  I want to bang my head on the porch rail, but I’m too emotional to scoot even a few inches to do so.

  A conversation with my dad is clear in my thoughts. He was having a heart to heart with me; basically trying to assure me life would go on without Gabs. During the talk, he told me about some of his breakups and then mentioned what seems to be a trait in our family.

  Loren men know their soul mates almost at first sight.

  The day Sash had sashayed across the parking lot, I’d felt spellbound.

  And Sash has kept me ensnared in her spell since that day.

  Chapter 23

  The Morning After

  Music blared with surprising clarity from the invisible speakers of his phone, and with a morning growl, Jack rolled enough to slide his finger over the screen, bringing blissful silence.

  By habit, his eyes went to the bedroom door, finding it cracked, which meant June or Zoë was already awake and had peeked in.

  “It can’t be morning already.” With that groan, Mariss pushed the hair from her face. Instead of opening her eyes, she squeezed them more tightly shut.

  His gaze ran down the wrinkled shirt twisted around her body, x-raying through it with ease. Putting out a finger, he hooked a lock of hair. “You okay, Mariss?”

  Her eyes popped open, and he saw the rush of memories glitter through them. Gently he brushed the pad of his thumb over lips he’d bruised just hours before.

  “Are you?” she countered with an arch of her beautiful brows.

  Until she asked it, he hadn’t felt the slight lingering sting of her nails on his skin. Resisting the impulse to touch the skin of his chin where she’d decked him at one point for jerking her hair too hard, he felt the quirk of a sated smile.

  “I love you, Mariss.”

  “Are you trying to get laid again?”

  “Maybe…” Bending to her, he barely brushed his lips to hers, careful not to breathe morning breath onto her. Speaking into her neck, he didn’t let the moment end with a joke. “But I do, you know.”

  “I know.” She pulled him in tighter. “I love you too.”

  Chapter 24

  Bottleneck

  SENDER: Tristan

  SUBJECT Hi

  Mom, today on the radio I heard that song you and JuJu wrote, the bubble gum yum one. Remember when I was like eight and used to sing it in the pool? I can’t believe you let me sing that! I really miss you guys. Love T.

  Sash and I seem back to normal.

  We play a local show the night after our almost kiss. It’s late when we get to the house.

  Sash nukes leftover pizza, and Sladen and Mark hang out long enough to scarf down their fill before going to bed.

  Sash and I wind down with a smoke while watching a band documentary. I have mixed feelings while smoking a joint with her now when I know her vices run so much deeper. I feel by okaying one, I’m condoning all, but I’m not willing to give up the intimacy of this special time together each evening.

  “Night, night.” She hangs over me, giving me a hug, and through the view of her gaping neckline, I shamelessly watch her boobs swing.

  “Night, Sashy.” Boldly I press a kiss to her hairline as I’ve seen Mark do a hundred and one times.

  As I close my eyes for sleep, I know I probably shouldn’t pray for such things, but I beg silently for the wisdom to handle the twists and turns of our relationship.

  Friday evening, we run through a quick practice and load our gear. Two back-to-back shows don’t happen often, but it’s happening this weekend.

  Sash drives and I ride shotgun. We hit a drive-through for burgers before leaving town. I don’t know about Sladen and Mark, but neither Sash or I had eaten since a bagel for breakfast while on break at work. As we succumb to gluttony, the pace of conversation is slow.

  “Dudes, can we just listen to something else already?” Sladen growls from the backseat area. “I can’t take it anymore.”

  Mark agrees and bumps my seat for emphasis. “Any
second I’m going to sprout parachute pants and jump to my demise.”

  Demise is Mark’s favorite word these days, ever since he wrote it into a song’s lyrics. The guys are complaining about the mix of an eighties session on the radio station Sash and I have been singing along to.

  “My ears hurt …” Sladen’s whine is pitiful.

  Sash giggles and shoots a quick look from the dark road to me. “Change it before Mark sprouts a tutu and leggings.”

  “Hey, I can hear you guys.”

  Although I grin, I say nothing and dutifully switch the satellite station from ‘Hair Bands’ to ‘Alternative Grunge’.

  The backseat seems content with the current tune pounding the speakers, and I reach to the floorboard, rummaging inside the sack between my feet.

  “Want another one?” I hold up what’s become our standard road trip food.

  Sash accepts the burger, and I delve into the sack to get myself one. I unwrap it and use the paper to hold it as I eat. Mark is now using the back of my seat as a drum kit, and I’m fine with that. In fact, I’m fine with my life these days.

  I fall fast from my happy high in the venue dressing room ten minutes before we take the stage.

  I’m flipping a brush around in my hair, tossing the strands this way and that, and joking that I may get blonde streaks.

  “No, definitely not. You’re perfect. Don’t change shit.” Sash points at my reflection. My mood soars even higher until she reaches into her purse resting by my elbow and slides out a tiny case.

  I don’t think anything of it, subconsciously assuming it’s makeup or tampons until she darts her eyes guiltily to mine before turning away. Through the mirror, I watch as she disappears into the adjoining lavatory and closes the door.

  The image invading my mind—Sash shooting up—is an ugly one.

  My eyes fall on Sladen and Mark who are laughing together as they talk, and I wonder if they know.

  Swaying with the beat, Sash bends at the waist, singing into the sea of faces. Just under a thousand in the house tonight. Those not at the bar or dance area surround the stage in a semi-circle. While they are treated to her angelic features, I’m treated to her sinful backside.