Cover Me: A Rock Star Romance (13 page)

I run when I’m mad, but you wait for me and lead me back by the hand.

They weren’t perfect, but this is what we did with Cover Me. We let the words come naturally and by the end, we had the right melody with the right lyrics and Derek Bass went platinum.

A shiver ran through me and I x’d out of the unsaved document. “Cold?” Derek asked, and stopped playing.

“It’s eighty degrees. How could I be cold?”

“You shivered.”

I shrugged.

He set his guitar aside. “Sometimes I have no idea what’s going through your mind.”

I closed my laptop. “Sometimes it’s better if you don’t.”

He leaned back and ran his hands through his hair. “Oh good, the anger’s back. I was starting to get a false sense of security there for a minute.”

I leaned back beside him. “I’m not angry.”

“Hostile? Irritated? You’re something.”

I linked my hand with his. “I’m fine.” The past would stay in the past if I had to beat it into submission. It played no part in the present or future. We’d still been in high school back then.

It was over.

Derek

B
ess and I
got roped into having dinner with my parents and now the four of us sat in the family room watching a sitcom about a family oddly like mine—the adult son moves home. I wasn’t planning on staying indefinitely though. Only long enough to write a few songs.

Bess’s words, so often repeated, ran through my mind.
It’s never only anything with you.

Well, that might be true with other things, but when it came to getting the hell out of my parents’ house, I’d
only
be here a short time.

Bess and I sat on the couch, Mom in her swiveling rocking chair crocheting, and Dad in his recliner. I kept my eye on Bess through dinner and couldn’t concentrate on the T.V. due to watching her every expression for signs that she was turning inward and finding old animosity toward me. If my indie music career didn’t pan out, I had a definite future as an eggshell walker.

She had to talk to me about the past and what I’d done to hurt her. It wouldn’t go away unless we faced it. Bringing it up would start another argument though, and I wasn’t ready to plow into one tonight. I wanted a twenty-four hour period where she and I got along.

It had taken all day, but my hangover was gone and I had an idea that might work to my advantage. “I’ll be back in a minute,” I said, squeezing her hand.

“Where are you going?” She sounded like I was throwing her to the wolves.

“I’ll be right back.” I ducked out the door to the garage and dug around in the bins where Dad kept his fishing crap. It took me a little longer than I thought it would to get everything out and organized and I wasn’t sure she’d go along with it.

Back inside, I leaned over the back of the couch and whispered in her ear. “Come with me.”

“Where?” She stood and came around the side of the couch.

Mom looked up. “Where are you two headed.”

“Out,” I said. “Thanks for dinner.”

“Thank you for having me,” Bess said, while I hustled her out the garage door.

I grabbed a fishing rod and tackle box. “Up for some night fishing at the wharf?”

She gave me a stunned smile. “Fishing? At the wharf?”

“I left my fishing hat in John’s car and lost my sunglasses, so we’ll have to risk me being recognized when I take you for ice cream afterward.”

She pressed her lips together, considering. “I do love ice cream.”

“I know you do.” I headed out of the garage and across the yard. “Did I mention you’re driving?”

“I figured.”

I held the rod up to her car, horizontally. “Jesus, this thing’s almost as long as your Prius.”

“Is this one of those ‘that’s what she said’ jokes?”

I laughed. “It could be.”

She slid her hands around me from behind and grabbed my cock. “You have a pretty nice Prius.”

I groaned and shook my head. “I’d rather be compared to something big, like an Expedition, not a Prius.”

“Oh! Ha!” She kissed my shoulder. “I meant it like the literal size—big for a man’s cock, you know?”

“Well, if we’re talking literal size, then yeah, it’s hard to fit this beast into my pants.”

She let out a throaty laugh against my back. “You’re so modest.”

“Humble too. Like I’d never brag about having a girlfriend with giant boobs.” I propped the rod against the car, turned in her arms and grabbed two handfuls of her firm round breasts.

She let out a little squeal and pried my hands off. “Take your long rod and your humility and get in the car.”

It took some maneuvering, but I managed to get the rod and tackle box in with us. “I’m buying you a bigger car,” I told her. “You don’t have to drive it when I’m not with you if you don’t want.”

“Or you could drive,” she said, turning down the main road through town.

“When we’re back in L.A. I will, or I’ll hire drivers. You’re the means for staying incognito while we’re here. Deal with it, woman.” I poked her side, making her jump.

“You deal with it.” She poked me back and I grabbed her finger.

“Oh, I’ll deal with it.” I flicked my tongue over her finger, seductively, then put it in my mouth and sucked on it.

“If you keep that up, I’ll pull over and we won’t make it to the wharf.” She reached over and rubbed my crotch.

“Is that supposed to be some kind of threat?”

“No,” she said, giggling, “but I want my ice cream, so behave.”

She parked at the wharf and we made our way to a spot way out near the end away from the restaurants and most of the people. “I haven’t been here since the last time your dad brought us,” she said. “When we saw all the sea lions.”

“And the pelican stole his bait.” I chuckled remembering how he waved his fist at it, calling it every name he could think of.

She leaned over the railing to try and see underneath. I bet they’re down there now.

“It was hotter than normal today, they probably spent all day under there in the shade.”

“They like the sun.”

I ran my eyes up the backs of her legs, watching how she stretched as she leaned forward over the rail and her shorts exposed more and more. Not able to help myself, I slipped a hand up her shorts and squeezed her ass. She arched her back, giving me more than a handful.

“Woman.” I took my hand back and adjusted my shorts. “You’re going to get me in the tabloids for feeling you up in public.”

She stepped back from the railing and sat on a bench watching me get ready to cast off. “Is it terrible? Always being worried about being spotted and photographed and never having privacy?”

I let the line out and leaned against the railing, holding the rod, watching the dark water lit only by the pier lights. “You get used to it, but it’s always there, in the back of your mind, and every time you walk outside, someone’s shoving a camera in your face.”

“Do you worry about what people think? Like what if a picture of you and I comes out saying I’m your girlfriend and your fans hate me and go crazy? What then?”

I set the rod down on top of the railing and turned to her, putting a foot up on the bench beside her and leaning down to look her in the eye. “I worry about what they think of my music. My personal life is none of their business.” She couldn’t be afraid of public perception. The last thing I needed was another obstacle. The trust issue was bad enough, but I was working on it. I couldn’t change who I was and what the rest of the world thought about it. “There’s no reason anyone would hate you anyway.”

She put a hand on my knee. “Women will hate me because they want you.”

I smirked. “You had me first. Like since we were kids, first. Too bad for them.”

She grabbed my shirt and edged forward, pulling me down to kiss her. “To me, you’ll always be the kid with the scraped up knees who knocked out his front tooth falling off a skateboard, not the Derek Bast the rest of the world knows.”

Her lips pressed against mine, firm and tender, a confirmation of our togetherness. She’d always be the girl in the pink tutu twirling around her front yard singing
Over The Rainbow.
She was always mine, right from the start.

That’s why I was in love with her.

I wanted to
convey with my lips what I couldn’t with words. That
this
—being together, committed, strong—was everything I imagined it could be. When I thought of going back to L.A., it scared the shit out of me. Here we were who we’d always been when we were together—Bess and Derek, best friends goofing off—but back in the real world, other people and problems would surface.

I knew I had to be strong to face his fans. The more we were able to keep to ourselves, the better I could take it. I didn’t run a tabloid. The Scene focused on facts and the reviews were based on professional merit and critiqued the music, not the person behind it. It was the same for actors and anything else we covered. But the tabloids weren’t afraid to tear a person down.

I wasn’t a model or an actress. Derek was sure to be blasted for dating a nobody magazine publisher. They’d be certain to comment on my height, or lack thereof, my glasses and blue-black hair. They’d probably even speculate on if my boobs were real. They were.

“Are you okay?” he asked, parting his lips from mine. “You seem…” He traced his finger down the side of my face. “I don’t know.”

“I’m good.” Intimidated, but that was my problem. I’d handle it.

I gave him another kiss and out of the corner of my eye, caught his rod falling over the railing. “Oh no!” I pointed and he turned just as it disappeared.

He shrugged. “Looks like I’m buying Dad a new one.”

“Sorry for the distraction.”

He sat beside me and took my hand. “You’re the best kind of distraction.”

I leaned my head against his shoulder, studying our linked fingers. His had callouses from his guitar. They were long and nimble, almost squared off at the ends with short nails. I thought about the times he’d touched me with those fingers. How obscenely amazing it felt. How he knew where and how to circle and rub with the right amount of pressure.

He’d had practice, that was clear. “Who was the last person you were with?” I asked.

He sighed. “You’re pulling it all out tonight, aren’t you?”

I lifted my head and looked at his beautiful face. Bottle green eyes, smooth, tan skin, lips meant for licking. “I want to know.”

He dropped his eyes to our hands. “You don’t know her.”

“So? Who is she? Were you in a relationship, or was it a one-time thing?”

“It wasn’t one time, but it wasn’t a relationship either. Not the kind you and I have.” He squeezed my hand.

“And? Who was she?”

“Ali Wilson. She’s a model.”

The name wasn’t familiar. I guessed she wasn’t a supermodel. “What does she model?”

“Victoria’s Secret underwear.” He twitched when he said it, like he was expecting me to freak out. I wanted to. I mean, I pictured her tall, thin, perfectly-proportioned body next to his and it fit much better than mine. And it hadn’t been a one-time deal either, which made it worse.

“Why weren’t you in a relationship with her if it was more than once?”

“She was always travelling for photo shoots and I was on tour. It couldn’t happen.”

“Oh. But if she was in L.A. and you were in L.A., you would’ve been together?” A puzzle was coming together in my mind. I didn’t like the way it fit.

He looked up at me. “I can’t say that. That’s like asking me if Unholy Union would’ve ever had a number one record. It’s in the past and over with before it ever started and there’s no way to tell. I don’t want to know, anyway. I’m where I want to be by choice.”

I nodded, knowing what he said was true. There was never a way to predict what could’ve been.

“What about you?” he asked. “The last person you were with?”

I thought back to the night about six months ago after a premiere of a documentary about a wrongly accused woman sent to prison that was so dull I almost fell asleep. I was going out with the director at the time. A short-lived affair of a handful of months. He was overjoyed with the reception his film received. I refrained from commenting other than congratulating him. We drank champagne until the early hours of the morning, then spent the night at his place. A small apartment in the city with a view of the highway. His mattress was hard and he had two cats that liked to sit on the dresser and watch. They were quite the captive audience. He stuck his cock in and went to town. If I wanted an orgasm, it was my responsibility. That was his normal M.O. We broke up two days later when my less-than-glamorous review of his film ran in The Scene.

“Tell me it wasn’t Jack Fucking Stewart.”

My stomach clenched. Derek didn’t need to know this, but Jack Stewart wasn’t my favorite topic either. He’d seeded some deep set self-doubt in me where men are concerned. “No. Lonny Fenwick. I’m sure you have no idea—”

“Director,” he said, pinning me with his eyes. “Did that women’s prison documentary. I saw it. It wasn’t great.”

I let out a breath of a laugh. “It was terrible. There was potential, but he sucked the life out of it with the drug rehab angle instead of focusing on her trial and the evidence and the way the case was handled.”

Derek lowered his chin, eyeing me. “How long were you with him?”

“What makes you think we were together?”

He gave me an amused, condescending grin. “You don’t do one night stands, Bess.”

I sat up straighter, turning my body toward him, indignant. “How do you know?”

“Okay, was it a one-time deal?”

“No, but that doesn’t mean there haven’t been others.”

He smirked. “Fair enough. I don’t need to know the entire list of men you’ve been with.”

Did he expect me to say the same? “Well, I at least want to know how many women you’ve been with.”

“Okay.”

I waited, but he said nothing else.
“Okay?”