Hung Out: A Needles and Pins Rock Romance (39 page)

Mike met them in the driveway, escorted them into the house, and Gage left him to deal with the particulars of her security team. The moment he opened the door, Rascal hurled himself, leaping so high that Gage was able to catch him and despite the canine's large build and weight, lift him. The hyper dog noticed Scar and wiggled, dropping from Gage’s grasp and leaping onto her, his paws landing on her chest. Laughing, she knelt and endured the onslaught of dog kisses, scrunching her face and turning it protectively when Rascal became too enthusiastic.

“Enough, boy.” Gage reprimanded his dog, although he was secretly a tiny bit jealous that after his own months on the road, it was Scar his pet seemed to have missed the most.

“It’s fine.” She straightened while continuing to pet Rascal. As they came out of the hallway, her head swiveled. Eyes wide, she took in the boxes all around the den. “What’s going on?”

“I’m in the middle of sorting my shit out. You know, getting ready to downsize. The Rattler thing took a lot of time though, and even though the realtor keeps sending emails of houses, I haven’t had the time to think seriously about it. Now that the tour is over until the Christmas shows, though, it’s a priority.”

“But why? I thought Fire Flight wasn’t your main income…” She trailed off. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s a legit question. I don’t mind talking about anything with you.”

She was his best friend. Did she know that? Always. Even in the years apart. Even in this last time apart. Whether he’d realized it or not. Always his best friend since the night they’d suspiciously watched one another across the table of the restaurant where their parents had introduced them over dinner.

Gage, I want you to meet your new sister.

And Scarlette Rose, this is your brother.

We were married in Vegas over the weekend!

Their parents had unanimously announced the news, leaving the two tweens to take in that their lives had just drastically changed. He and Scar had gotten through it and more together.

He kicked at the corner of a box as he walked by. “I guess it’s mostly a precaution. I don’t need this much space. I still want to live in the canyon. But I was thinking of a more practical place.” They migrated to the studio, and he watched her pick up a guitar before she sank to the couch. “Long as I have a place to sleep and play music, I’m happy.”
And maybe a pool to watch you swim in…
His eyes went to the glow of the pool beyond the glass wall, and he let himself enjoy the memories.

She seemed to have a practice routine, and meticulously went through it before setting the instrument aside when their Pace delivery arrived. They carried the food upstairs to the sitting area of his bedroom, eating in front of the TV. Using two forks, they passed the containers back and forth, sharing the food. Scar scarfed down mostly linguini and occasionally stole from the side of fried ravioli. They both tossed random scraps to Rascal.

“I’m getting a shower,” she declared, sitting back with a pat to her full stomach.

He left her to his bathroom, while he carried their mess downstairs to the kitchen and checked Rascal’s feeding station. From the fridge, he grabbed a few drinks in case the morning bar in his bedroom wasn’t stocked. At the top of the stairs, he acknowledged how right it felt to know the light spilling into the hall from his bedroom included the presence of Scar just beyond.

The bathroom door was still closed, and the shower still running. He closed the drinks into the mini fridge, and called Rascal down off the bed long enough to turn it back properly. By his estimate, she’d been showering for over forty-five minutes.

Something felt off. Had her quick bounce back, hours after her ordeal, been deceptive, and she was now melting down? She’d eaten a lot and so fast. Was she sick?

“Hey, Scar?” Curling his hand, he lightly rapped his knuckles to a door panel. Several seconds ticked by, and then multiplied, becoming a minute. “Scar? You okay?”

Twisting the latch, he pushed the door open. Beyond the glass doors, the shower stall was steamy, but not too steamy to see that Scar was on the floor, rather than standing, or seated on the tiled bench.

Son of a bitch!

He should have forced her to go to the ER, to stay overnight in the hospital as the attending paramedics had advised. There had been picture after picture taken of every bruise for evidence. But what if the contusions on her neck, the scrapes on her head had only been the exterior indication of a concussion or worse?

In the back recesses of his mind, he recognized she must have felt this same terror when she’d found him on the shower floor. A few large strides carried him across the room, and he ripped open the door. He almost fell back in relief when she looked up in surprise. The redness and puffiness in and around her eyes were an indication that she’d been crying.

“What?” She wiped at her face, and leaned slightly, retrieving the cap to the marker in her hand.

“Didn’t you hear me? I thought something was wrong…”
Obviously something was wrong
. But it was mental. Not physical. “I knocked and called and…” He knelt to her level when she remained on the floor, her knees drawn up, the water swirling about her feet. “Are you gonna be okay, Scar?”

“Yeah. I was just… I had a tune in my head and… I was humming. I didn’t hear you. Sorry.”

His eyes went to the bench. She’d been using the flat top of it as a desk. Across it, were several lines of roughly penned guitar tabs.

She seemed absorbed with the scrawling, but he soon found her focus was no longer on her creation. “Why do you think he did that? Kept at me for the money even when his blackmail plan was ruined?” Rivulets from the continuing spray ran down her face, her body. “Why go to that extreme? Hurting someone to get into my house and…” A hiccup shook her chest. The aftermath of what had been a long sob.

“Who knows why people do the shit they do? I just thank God it’s over, darlin’, and you came through it.” Reaching out, he stroked a strand of her wet hair. Her irritation with his placating words was plain on her face, so he blew out a breath and gave her the no-bullshit version of his theory. “Probably he thought you were an easy mark since your mother was.”

Nodding, she conceded and fiddled with the marker in her hand. “I figured as much. I was about to, you know. Give him the money if I couldn’t get away. And hope he didn’t kill me or Mom before he was caught.”

He leaned in, putting his forehead to hers. “That’s the smartest thing you could have done under the circumstances. Well, other than that badass escape from bondage and knockout swing.”

She smiled, the barest twitch of her lips.

He pulled his shirt off and sat beside her, legs extending out of the cubical so that only his ass ended up damp.

Her eyes roamed the shower. “Why is it blank?”

His gaze followed hers, taking in the shiny white tiles. “My housekeeping gals say I got to let ’em clean it sometime. On tour’s that time.” He eyed the lines and numbers on the bench. “Besides, it’s not blank anymore.”

“Wait till you hear it.” She was more than excited about it. She was cocky and sure of herself. A budding musician.

“I can’t wait.” He couldn’t help it; his eyes drifted to her twin peaks. “Hum it to me.” Her chest rose with a negative sigh, and he cajoled, “You said you were humming it before I came in…”

She obliged, and he leaned his head back, staring into one of the showerheads, captivated by her voice and the melody. When she was done, she explained the nuances, and her face flushed with his quick praise.

“I missed it here.” Setting the capped marker atop what would become a future Scarlette Rose hit, she finally got to her feet without a shred of modesty in front of him.

It felt right.

“I don’t have the right tiles, so I have a whiteboard on the wall next to my tub.” She stretched an arm out and grabbed the towel hanging on the rod next to where he now stood. Pausing with it hanging from the fingers of one hand, she reached the fingers of the other out, tracing the singed rose on his chest. “Gage?”

“Hmm?” He felt trancey. Like he was inside a perfect bubble that might burst any second. But it was a happy bubble. He was more than content to float until it popped.

“I’m ready now. If you are.” She swiped at her hair with the terrycloth, and his gaze followed its every stroke along her body and limbs.

Ready?

His confusion must have been obvious.
Ready?
He was torn between jumping her and dropping to his knee despite no ring.

“I’m ready to figure us out.”

“I’m ready to figure us out too.”

“Is it going to kill your career?”

“Maybe. Maybe not. I don’t care anymore, though. What about you? You’re on the verge of something huge.”

“I don’t care either. I’ll still make music. But I can do that on an island somewhere. I don’t care about the rest.”

“The spotlight seemed to suit you. You were really digging it. Don’t lie.”

“I had a taste. You’ve had the feast. So if you can’t do this, I understand. I just need to know before I give my whole heart to you again. Because if we do this thing, we can’t hide our relationship forever. And this is feeling like…”

“Like what?” He’d seen her bite back the words with a wary dart of her eyes to his face. He was sure he knew what she’d been about to say, but he wanted to hear it.

“…a forever thing.” Her admission was quiet.

“It
is
for forever. You think I’m letting you go again?” Drawing her against him, he held on tight.

They kissed, migrating into the bedroom. He shucked his wet clothing, and only when he saw her digging through the bag he’d packed for her, did he pull on a pair of boxers.

Jumping her and fucking until they were both comatose was his first instinct. Hell, it seemed like it was his only instinct anytime she was running around without clothes and saying sweet, sexy shit. But, given what she’d been through, he was putting his cock in check.

He turned around, just as she did, and his jaw dropped. Still totally naked, she held the bottle of Champagne Rose.

Her eyes widened, taking him in, pausing in clear surprise on the Diesel elastic band at his waist. “Are you too tired?”

“Fucking never.” He hooked his thumbs in the elastic and disposed of the boxers, slinging them aside. Moving in close, he cradled her head in his hands. “I was trying not to be a selfish son of a bitch who can only think of doing bad things to you.” Left unspoken was ‘after the night you’ve had.’

“We made plans for this champagne.”

“Mmh, hmm.” He brushed his lips to hers. “Refresh my memory.” Just thinking about the words coming from her mouth had his cock standing at attention.

“Pouring it down your body so I can lick it off.” She swayed, the tips of her tits tickling his skin as she spoke.

“I like those plans. But I thought there was more.”

“To hold a sip in my mouth and suck you off while it bubbles around your dick.”

“Fuck, Scar…” He ground said dick against her. “You’re such a wicked bitch. You’re killin’ me…” Biting her bottom lip, he held her gaze, daring her to say the wrong thing again. “What else?”

Finally, ‘sip,’ ‘suck,’ and ‘pussy’ spilled from her lips, and he fell into a hypnotic-like stupor watching the formation of the dirty words and hearing the hitch of anticipation in her voice.

D
espite our slutty talk, things slowed down once we were stretched across the bed. We traded sweet, gentle kisses and tender touches. Like a song, these would crescendo into crazed moments of bruising, biting kisses, rough passionate grasps and desperate clutches. And then back down again.

We stopped to catch our breath, and he swiped the bottle from the bedside table. He’d already stabbed the opener into the cork and now he worked it. The top shot off, and I screeched when he held the spew over the bed instead of off it. Wiping my fingers down my belly, I swiped at the spray of liquid coating my skin and put my fingertips to my mouth. “How are we going to toast with no glasses?”

His brows shot up. “You really want glasses?”

“Maybe.”

He wiped a fingertip down my skin, trailing it down past my waist, way past the spilled champagne, barely brushing the lips he had yet to kiss tonight. “I can get glasses…” He tasted his fingers. “Might take me a while to find ’em.”

Rising up, I grabbed the bottle. Tipping it to my mouth, I took a sip. “C’mere.”

Like molten black lava, his eyes blazed, and he snatched the bottle back. “Nope. Me first. Or you. Depending on how you look at it.” He sucked in a sip and I saw his throat bob. And then another sip, and his head dropped for that intimate kiss.

My back arched when the warmth bathed my insides. I bit my bottom lip. Still, a moan escaped and immediately became a whimper when he promptly slurped any lingering traces back into his mouth.

Was this weird?

Shit. On a scale of kinkiness, with the rock star slash candy bar legend being a ten, how demented was this? I didn’t care now. Holy fuck, no. Not while he was lapping and sucking up each sip. From my pussy. From my navel. From the shallow valley between my tits. Not when his champagne-coated palate was against my tongue, making sure I had a taste too… I couldn’t care now. Would I care tomorrow? If the candy bar legend was true, had that iconic rock star’s girlfriend cared the next morning? Probably the only thing she regretted was having it witnessed, having it a topic of crude jokes, and having it thrown in her face for the rest of her days.