He settled a hand over hers and stilled the movement. “For a minute there, I thought you were begging Nathan to take you away from here. Away from me.”
She jerked her head up, the depths of her eyes gleaming an unfathomable turquoise hue in the sunlight. “Oh no, that’s…No, I don’t want to leave.”
The skin between her fingers was as soft and soothing as a classical guitar riff. He wanted her velvet touch gliding effortlessly over his body. Probably not an appropriate time to want such a thing, but it didn’t stop him from imagining it. “Going to the concert is a bad idea, Charlee.”
Her face crumpled, but she still managed to clench that stubborn jaw. “When do you leave for your next tour?”
Motherfucker. He hadn’t even thought about that. “In two weeks.”
“Two weeks.” She stared across the garden. “And what? I stay here and wait for your return? For how long?”
No fucking way. “It’s a sixteen-week tour.”
She nodded, swallowed, and maintained her faraway stare. “That’s a long time.”
Too long. “You’re going with me.”
A little noise squeaked in her throat. She looked at him with so much longing, her eyes burned with it. So did his. She didn’t ask him to repeat what he said. Hell, he wasn’t sure he could. Taking her on tour with him was dangerous and selfish, and Nathan would stab him before he allowed it. And the groupies…Christ, the groupies would eat her alive. How the fuck could he protect her on the road?
With an army of highly-trained bodyguards, that was how. He sure as hell couldn’t guard her with sixteen weeks and hundreds of miles between them. “I’ll deal with Nathan.”
That earned him a smile that made him want to make more rash promises.
“I’d like to make an amendment to the Charlee Constitution.”
He arched his eyebrow, waited.
“The amendment states that I go with you tonight. You know, as a practice run, see how the team guards both of us.”
Anything. Anything at all to keep her smiling like that. “I’m finding it very hard to say no to you.” He dropped to his knees and wedged his body between her legs, gripping her hips. “Amendment approved.”
She searched his face, her eyes a soft stroke everywhere they rested. “Let me touch you.” Two fingers hovered over his mouth, waiting.
The need for her touch was as a strong as his fear of the things it might rouse. Fuck it. He nodded.
Keeping her fingers at a teasing distance, she leaned in and kissed his cheek. “If the bad stuff creeps in, sing to me, okay? I’ll hear you.”
57
The flutter of fingers tickled Jay’s mouth. Charlee’s lips joined the sensation. Then her breath. The flutter moved over his cheeks and down his throat. His pulse picked up and the edges of his mind curled away, taking the sunlit garden with it.
He focused on the heat of her lips, the fragrance of her skin, but there was a flame at his back and it burned. Oh God, it burned.
“Sing to me.”
A lulling voice in the dark. Where was he? Not the shed. Not with the fingers trailing all too gently down his arm. Not with the sweet voice humming from the mouth pressed against his.
He blinked, tried to displace the darkness, couldn’t. So he sang. He could smell charred skin. He sang louder, let it pour out from deep within him.
Lay still. Stop sniveling, boy. He wanted to put his clothes back on. Aunt El wouldn’t leave if he fought her. He pressed his face in the musty mattress, tried to suppress the tears she hated, tensing as the bed springs shook beneath her weight.
A light, graceful peal shattered the dark. Someone laughing. He reached for it, sang along with the blissful sound. More laughter. He followed it out of the shed and into the blinding sun. She was there, inches away. Oceanic eyes, pale smooth skin of a pearl, cheeks rosy with the glow of amusement.
He held himself still, wishing he’d never have to leave the center of her dancing gaze. “Something funny?”
Her hands slid up his chest and rested on either side of his throat. She shook her head at him, smiling, still laughing. “I’m your oyster?”
The remnants of his nightmares rippled off him as he pulled her from the bench to straddle his lap. Her hands went to his back, circling over his scars.
“Tell me I wasn’t singing the oyster song.” He tucked her head under his chin.
“You’re mine oyster, which I…with tongue will open…and suck out your juices.” She half-giggled, half-sang the lyrics he’d drunkenly written one night while fantasizing about her. “Who did you write that for?”
“You’re my muse, Charlee. All of my songs are inspired by you.” His bandmates might’ve been annoyed with his three-year infatuation, but The Burn didn’t hit the charts until he started embedding her into their music.