Rock Chick 06 Reckoning (16 page)

Mace must have meant it that morning when he said he felt he only got ten minutes of sleep. I’d never seen him go to bed this early. He was always out to al hours, doing whatever crazy shit he did then doing crazy shit for my band and then up in the morning, early, usual y starting the day going for a run.

I walked to my dresser, pul ed out some underwear and put it on under my short robe, careful of the new dressing I’d taped on. Then I pul ed out a pair of loose-fitting, peach jersey drawstring shorts and a soft yel ow tank top with peachy flowers printed in a strip up the sides. I turned my back to the bed, shrugged off my robe and got dressed.

Then I walked to my acoustic guitar, grabbed it and sat on the edge of my mauve chair, settling the guitar on my thigh, close to my knee, deciding, if I played quietly, maybe I wouldn’t wake Mace.

But I had to play, it had been two days and too much happened. I needed it.

And Guitar Hero didn’t cut it.

My fingers moved up the neck, feeling the strings, snagging the frets. I strummed a few chords. Then put a few more together.

After awhile, I forgot everything. Eric, the way he looked at me, what he said to me and that entire scene. My new alarm system. Police checking in on me. The Rock Chicks in danger. Someone wanting to murder me. That same someone already murdering Lindsey. I even forgot Mace someone already murdering Lindsey. I even forgot Mace and Juno, who were in the same room with me.

My long since cal used fingers moved along the frets, strummed and plucked at the strings, and, softly, I closed my eyes and began to sing The Beatles’ “Blackbird”.

And I kept my eyes closed, softly singing and strumming, picking and sliding until I plucked the last two notes. I opened my eyes and saw movement.

I looked to the bed.

Mace was awake, elbow in the pil ow, head in his hand, eyes, I could tel , even in the mostly dark, on me.

Just like he used to do. Just like always.

“Kitten, come to bed,” he said softly.

Just like he used to say. Just like always.

Out of habit, having sunk into living the memory of what we once were, I didn’t hesitate.

I put the guitar in its stand, turned out the light and walked to the bed. I rounded it, Mace rol ed, Juno moved to accommodate me (such a good dog), I shimmied out of my shorts and I slid under the covers.

Mace’s arm wound around my middle and he pul ed me deep into him.

“Feel better?” he murmured into my hair, knowing how I needed my music.

“Yeah,” I whispered.

He kissed the back of my neck.

“I missed that too,” he told me, talking about me playing and singing and him watching and I felt a shiver slide across my skin.

I knew not only did he mean to say that out loud, he meant to say what he said earlier out loud too.

And I didn’t know what to make of that at al .

* * * * *

“Mace –” I said, sounding sleepy.

His hand cupped my breast, the rough pad of his thumb slid across my nipple then back.

“Mace –” I said again, stil sounding sleepy but my voice had dipped lower.

His thumb was joined by a finger, there was a gentle squeeze then a rol .

Pleasant happy tingles shot everywhere, a goodly number of them directed themselves straight between my legs.

Oh lordy be.

I twisted my head to him, my intent to say something, to protest but he pul ed up, leaned in and kissed my open mouth. The kiss was deep, hot and he pressed his hips into my bottom at the same time he did another squeeze then swipe of this thumb. I felt his hardness against my behind and more pleasant tingles, far more intense, scored a path through every nerve.

I kissed him back, I couldn’t help it, I didn’t try.

We kept kissing then his mouth moved along my cheek, to my ear, his tongue traced its curve. His hand left my breast and trailed down, over my bel y, between my legs then he cupped me there.

“Tel me what you want,” he murmured in my ear, his deep voice already rough.

“Touch me,” I whispered.

He touched me, his fingers pressing in, finding me immediately. I moaned and started to breathe heavily, my mouth open, Mace’s lips and tongue at my neck.

I pressed my hips into his lap and nuzzled. He made a noise that came deep from his throat and vibrated against my neck.

I twisted my head again and we kissed, hotter, deeper, his fingers playing me over my undies. I quit kissing and started panting.

His fingers moved away.

“What do you want?” he asked against my mouth.

I didn’t delay, I couldn’t and I didn’t try.

“I want you inside me.”

His thumb went into the side of my panties, pul ing them up over my bandage and yanking them down to just above my knees. He positioned and entered me.

God, it was beautiful.

My neck twisted the whole time so I was facing him, his hand came back to my breast, his thumb and finger teasing my nipple, our mouths together, alternately kissing and breathing, my hips pressed into his as he thrust into me.

I got close but held back.

“Kitten,” he muttered. He felt it, he knew it, he didn’t like it.

He never did, he always wanted me to let go.

I always wanted to wait for him.

“Are you close?” I breathed.

He didn’t answer, instead he demanded, “Stop holdin’

back.”

“I want it to happen with you,” I told him.

His hand left my breast, went between my legs, his fingers pressed and circled.

I gasped his name, his mouth ground down on mine and he drove into me deep right before I came.

I was dazed and stil coming down when, mouth stil on mine, his strokes going deeper, faster, I knew he was close, his voice now hoarse, he said, “Christ, you feel sweet. No one fuckin’ sweeter.”

It was again something I suspected he didn’t mean to say out loud but I was beginning to think Mace didn’t do anything he didn’t mean to do. A different kind of warmth spread over me in a thick layer on top of my happy post-orgasm-Mace-stil -inside-me feel.

Then his breath caught, he shoved his face in my neck, he slammed in deep and I heard and felt him let out a heavy sigh.

When he was done, he settled behind me, his arm wrapped around my bel y and he didn’t pul out.

I blinked slowly.

Then I realized it had happened again.

Shitsofuckit!

What was I thinking?

When was I going to
start
thinking?

“You okay?” he asked softly.

I nodded my head.

His hand drifted to my bandage, his fingers running His hand drifted to my bandage, his fingers running whisper-soft along its edges.

“I hurt you?”

I shook my head.

His arm wrapped around my middle again.

My mind was racing to form a plan to get me out of my newest muddle. I mean, I
was
angry at him. He told my now ex-boyfriend he’d fucked me, doing it with a frankness that was just not nice, for Eric or for me. He wasn’t listening to me when I told him we weren’t together and he didn’t leave when I kicked him out.

This couldn’t go on.

Of course, I was lying with him in my bed, a bed I joined him in last night without a peep, a bed where I was lying, my panties at my knees, Mace stil inside me.

Perhaps I was giving him mixed signals.

Ya think?
My brain asked.

“Babe?” he cal ed.

“What?” I replied, having stil not formed a plan.

“What’s with black?” he asked.

This question confused me and I forgot al about forming a plan.

“Excuse me?”

“Your songs. ‘Blackbird’, ‘Black Water’, ‘Black Velvet’,

‘Black Betty’, a lot of the songs you sing have the word

‘black’.”

His question surprised me. He’d never asked me anything personal and he’d definitely never asked about my music, the most personal thing of al .

I knew he enjoyed it. He came to a lot of my gigs, I saw him standing in the dark, fingers around the neck of a beer bottle, his eyes on me and only me. And, just like last night, when we were at my place, even if he was doing something, on a phone cal , reading a book, if I started to play he’d always stop and watch and, I knew, he’d listen and I knew further, he liked it.

After he came to a gig, we had the best sex ever (which put our sex off-the-charts) because I was high from the gig and, I suspected, so was he.

Any time I played when we were alone, after I’d finish, he’d make love to me. I knew it was that because it was sweeter, slower, less energetic, al about giving, always about Mace giving to me.

“I don’t know,” I answered.

His arm tightened. “Tel me.”

I sighed and tilted my chin forward. His head came with me. I could feel his breath on my neck.

I didn’t want to get into this with him. It was none of his business.

Even on that thought, I answered. I couldn’t help myself and, again, didn’t try.

“My life was black. My Dad didn’t love me. My Mom used me as a shield against his abuse. I didn’t have any brothers or sisters and I didn’t share anything with friends. I was too young, I didn’t know how. I needed to turn black, my life, into something beautiful or good or cool. Those songs are al good, some of them beautiful, some of them just cool.” I felt a change in his body which translated into a change in the air. It made no sense to me except that I felt different somehow, warmer.

“Does that make sense?” I whispered, for some reason wanting to make certain he understood.

He didn’t answer.

I tried again, I didn’t know why, but I did.

“In Pearl Jam’s “Black”, Eddie Vedder sings…” Then I sang the five most important verses of perhaps the greatest rock bal ad in history then I whispered, “Wel …” I hesitated then in a low, soft whisper, “That’s me.” He moved, disconnected from me but stayed close and somehow, got closer.

“You aren’t black.”

“My world is.”

He was silent for a beat then he asked, “You ever see any light?”

When I was with you,
my brain answered.

“When I met Floyd,” I said. “When The Gypsies came together.”

“Me?” He went direct to the point I was hiding from him.

“You,” I replied honestly.

“Now?”

“We’re black,” I replied dishonestly, we were as black as the sun and this conversation proved it.

“You real y believe that?”

“Yes,” I lied.

“You want me to go?”

“Yes,” I lied again and it was hard. My heart was beating and my breath was packing up, enjoying its travels, it was ready to explore Texas.

“You’re under my skin,” he shared.

There it went, my breath, sitting in first class drinking champagne, straight flight to Texas.

Kai Mason was not a sharing type of guy.

Kai Mason had never shared anything with me, except his presence, his body and his ability to post bond for Pong on occasion.

Who
was
this guy?

No, no, I didn’t want to know. I didn’t even care.

“Eventual y I’l work my way out,” I assured him but I didn’t ever want that to happen. I knew it. I just wasn’t going to admit it, especial y not to him.

“I like you there.”

Oh lordy be.

“Mace.”

“I’m keepin’ you there.”

“I don’t want to be there.”

“You wanna be there.”

“I don’t.”

“You’re lyin’ to yourself and you’re lyin’ to me.”

“I’m not.”

He kissed the side of my neck.

“You are,” he said against my neck. “And, Kitten, you should know, I’m good with that. I’l be here when you stop.” Effing hel .

“I’l walk Juno,” he offered, clearly done with the conversation.

“Fine.” I was done with the conversation too and I couldn’t walk Juno without a Kevlar vest and a crash helmet, and, possibly, total body armor.

“Make room for my shit in your closet.”

I careful y pul ed up my panties as I twisted to look at him.

“Not fine.”

His eyes were warm, soft and smiling which made me feel warm, soft and smiley (luckily, I kept this on the inside).

Damn his fucking eyes.

“Make lotsa room, babe, even after this is over, I’m stayin’ awhile.”

“Piss off,” I mumbled and turned back around.

His hand came to the side of my face that was on the pil ow. He twisted me to face him again, his head descended and he touched my lips lightly with his.

“I’l be back,” he whispered.

Effing,
bloody
hel .

Stella

“This is like, ‘Beam me up, Scottie’. Fuckin’ cool!” Leo shouted.

Leo was staring at my alarm panel and video monitor as if the concept of home security had been invented twelve seconds ago and I was on the cutting edge.

“Gee-zus, but Mace sure don’t mess around,” Pong added, flipping the door down on the panel and starting to press buttons randomly.

Visions of a dozen police cars and shiny black Explorers screeching to a halt in the driveway, spraying gravel, officers and hot Nightingale Investigation Team members alighting with guns drawn and shooting everything that moved flashed through my head.

I leaped forward and slapped Pong’s hand.

“Pong, don’t do that!” I snapped.

“What?” Pong asked, looking innocent (or trying and failing).

“No pressing buttons on the state of the art alarm system that cost Mace the moon and the stars and the promised enslavement of his firstborn children,” I answered. “Clue in, Pong, this is serious business.”