The venue is only a few minutes from my hotel, but I squeeze in a quick call to Aunt Ruthie from the back seat. We’ve been missing each other, phone tagging it. I know she’s busy with Glory Bee, and I’m busy with all I have going on, but it’s been weeks since we spoke voice to voice. How does that happen? How do the people who have always been closely woven into our lives become peripheral so quickly? Become . . . occasional?
“Aunt Ruthie, hi.” I clear the scratchiness from my throat before going on with the voice mail, try to sound a little less nasally because I know she’ll worry that I’m not taking care of myself. “Just checking in. I hope you got the money I sent. I know you’re not really digital, so I mailed it. If you need more, just let me know. I’m making pretty good money with this tour and . . . Well, just let me know. I hope you’re doing well. I’ve been thinking about you a lot.”
My mind grapples for something else to say. Even though she’s not listening, not there, I feel as connected to her as I have to anyone since I came back on tour.
“Hey, if you see Mama’s soap recipe lying around anywhere, let me know. The pear cinnamon. I’m down to my last bar and . . .”
Tears collect at the corners of my eyes as a strong desire to be home overtakes me. To smell biscuits baking first thing in the morning. To sit on the front porch, an evening breeze on my face, the scent of honeysuckle thick in the air. I sniff quickly as we pull up in front of the hotel.
“I’ll call back soon.” I clench my eyes tight, swiping over my cheeks. “I love you, Aunt Ruthie. So much. I’m gonna try to get home real soon, okay?”
I don’t even bother saying goodbye, just hang up the phone, thank the driver, and dash inside. As soon as I enter my hotel room, I peel off my clothes, leaving them in a rumpled pile of cotton at the foot of the bed. I’m too tired to even shower. My footed Jackson Five pajamas are right where I left them, under my pillow. I zip them up over my days of the week panties and pull the elastic from my ponytail, glad to have my hair loose around my shoulders and down my back.
Season three of New Girl waits on Hulu. I’m a real party animal. My wild life on the road. I glance at my phone, needing a little music before I join Jess and the gang. I flick through my playlists, but nothing strikes me. Nothing matches my mood until I come to the song that always meets me when I’m feeling adrift or alone.
Track number nine from Rhyson’s first album. I drop my phone in the dock, flop onto the bed, throwing my arms over my head, and let the sounds of Lost suffuse every aching cell. My eyes close over tears I refuse to let fall. If they start they won’t stop for a long time, and it’s unreasonable. This is what I wanted. This is what I’ve worked all my life for. A million girls would give anything to have this shot.
“Who wrote that sad shit?” a voice asks from the bathroom entrance, the person still hidden in a chunk of darkness.
Panic sits me up straight with a hand over my palpitating heart, a river of fear running through me. But as soon as the person steps into the room, into the light, my heart rattles in my chest for a completely different reason.
“Rhys?”
His name rushes from my mouth on a breath, and I’m off the bed, hurling myself at him top speed. Somehow my legs wrap around his waist and my arms tangle behind his neck. I couldn’t hold back and play this cool if I wanted to. Every part of me that’s been fighting to stay focused, to keep working, to be on, collapses against him. Surrenders to the feel of him in my arms and the smell of him. My fingers lace through his hair. I scatter kisses across his face, the sharp angles and taut skin warm beneath my lips.
“So I take it you’re happy to see me?” He chuckles, pressing his forehead to mine, hands squeezing my thighs.
“Happy?” I release something that’s half a sob, half a laugh, pulling back a few centimeters to let him breathe. “What gave you that idea?”
We stop grinning at the same time, laughter dissolving, our bodies exchanging sensual information. My breasts flattened to his chest. His erection growing and hardening against my core. Our breaths mingling and hearts tattooing beats through our clothes and into the other’s skin.
I move first, leaning in to capture his bottom lip between mine, sucking and pulling between my teeth. Licking into his mouth like there’s honey hidden inside. He groans into the kiss, walking backward until we reach the bed and dropping me so I bounce a little, his eyes roving over me head to toe.
“Pep, what the hell are you wearing?” Humor and desire tussle in his eyes.
I look down, laughing when I see the young Jackson brothers emblazoned across my chest, my legs ending in the footed bottoms.
“If I’d known you were coming, I could have made sexier arrangements.”
“Arrangements?” He quirks a dark brow, placing a knee on either side of my legs, hovering over me like a promise. “Lingerie would have been nice. Other rock stars have girlfriends who wear lingerie.”