Rock Chick Reckoning (Rock Chick #6)(40)

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.

Shitsof*ckit!

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 f**ked 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.