Joy Ride (5 page)

But she was skittish, like a newborn colt going through the process of imprinting, eager for it but sidestepping as if afraid to like it too much. He’d already guessed her trip to Aftershock fell somewhere in that kind of thing. Where did she come from? What had brought her there?

He swallowed the rest of the coffee, set the mug on the bedside table, and leaned back on the pillows, still clutching the sheet. In his mind he went over every single thing they’d done, the memories scorching his skin. Being inside her was the closest to heaven he’d ever come, and he wanted more of that.

More of her.

The ring of the phone on the nightstand shattered his reverie. He snatched up the receiver, hoping it was
she
before he realized she didn’t have his number. Maybe she didn’t even remember his name.

God, he hoped he was wrong about that.

“Yeah?”

“Get up on the wrong side of the bed?” Rick Trajean, the lead guitar player and the band’s leader chuckled on the other end of the connection.

Marc shook himself mentally. “Sorry. Didn’t get much sleep last night.”

“I hope it was in a good cause,” Rick teased.

Maybe Rick knew who she was. Could help him find her.

“Listen, did you happen to notice someone new in the club last night? A blonde, tiny, drinking a beer?”

Now Rick’s laugh was full and loud. “Are you shitting me? That could describe half the women who come into Aftershock. What’s with you?”

Being an idiot. Rick’s right. Why would he even notice one woman from another in a crowd like that, unless she came onto him?

“Sorry. Stupid question. Forget I asked. What’s up?”

“Rehearsal at one o’clock tomorrow.” The club was closed on Mondays, which meant they could work straight through into the evening. Other days, they had to squeeze it in before five then go home, change, and psych themselves up for the night. “I want to work on those two new numbers.”

“Okay, okay. I’ll be there.”

“See you then,” Rick told him before hanging up.

Marc dragged his fingers through his hair. Maybe Nico, the bouncer could tell him something about her. Except if she’d been to the club before, he was damn sure he’d have noticed her. She wasn’t just another good-looking female. She was special. Very special. And if he didn’t see her again, he might drive himself nuts.

What could she possibly be hiding that made her refuse to give him her name? Or run away like that? Was she married? Living with a jealous boyfriend? Somehow he didn’t think that was her style. She didn’t look or act like a cheater.

Quit driving yourself crazy. Get up and do something
.

Wanting her scent and the imprint of her body to linger as long as possible, he left the bed just as it was, unmade. He needed to do normal things to get his brain back on track. Shower. Get dressed. Eat. But the remnants of whatever in his fridge were enough to take away his appetite.

Good thing I didn’t try to feed her. Okay. Shower then hit the grocery
.

Very few people knew that he often relaxed by cooking. He came from a family where food and cooking were a traditional pastime. His father was an accomplished chef and he’d passed the love of cooking and the talent on to him. In the early days of his career when he was still living at home, sometimes on the weekends he’d wake up totally drained from the performance the night before, needing something to smooth out the edges. He’d sit at the kitchen table drinking coffee while his father made culinary magic with his fingers. It fascinated him, drew him to try his hand at it. Now he found that working in the kitchen was a great counterbalance to the frenetic atmosphere of a rock club.

In the bathroom he stared at his face in the mirror, flinching when he spotted the thick beard stubble on his jaw.

I should have shaved last night. She probably has whisker burns all over her.

Damn! Where was my head? I was in such a fucking hurry I didn’t think of half the things I should have. Strike two. No wonder she ran off the way she did.

As if doing it after the fact would somehow absolve him, he took the time to shave very closely. Then he showered and washed his hair, and spent time taming it so he didn’t look like a wild man. A clean pair of jeans and a collared shirt with the sleeves rolled down and buttoned at the cuffs, one of the vests he loved to wear, and he was ready.

Marc the hot rock star was gone for the day, replaced by Marc, the nice guy next door.

***

Emma still couldn’t believe she’d actually done it. Not just running out of Andrew’s house in the grip of frustration that was choking her. Not even the daring visit to Aftershock where she’d been so seduced by the music. No, what shocked her was going home with a man she’d just met and having wild sex beyond anything she could have imagined.

And ohmigod! She’d cheated on Andrew.

Where was the guilt? Didn’t good girls feel guilty when they did something like this? Except in her mind it wasn’t really cheating. The minute she left Andrew’s house, it’d been over. Finished. She just had to make sure he knew it. Even without Marc that relationship was dead.

What would people think if they knew?

She actually smiled to herself.

Right now? Who cares!

She should take a shower, but she hated to wash away the remnants of his touch on her skin. Safe in the shelter of her own home, she alternated between wild exhilaration and the terrifying feeling she was swimming in water over her head. She curled up in the big armchair in her living room, eyes closed, and just relived every moment of the night with her bass player.

Yes,
her
bass player. She couldn’t stop thinking of him that way.

Guitar Man
.

Leaning back in the chair, she let torrent of sensations and emotions Marc had stirred within her cascade over her once more, hugging each detail to herself like a precious jewel. The image of Marc in the club flashed across her brain like an instant video, his body limned by the stage lights, wild with the beat of his music, the sound of his bass humming through the darkened room. In her mind she saw the image of him in the dim light of his bedroom, magnificently naked, his cock jutting proudly from its thick nest of curls.

She shivered remembering his talented hands on her body as he coaxed responses from her she hadn’t even known she was capable of. Stroked her as he did his guitar. If she tried hard enough, she could evoke the impression of his mouth on her nipples, pulling and sucking on them. Feel his fingers sliding into her, reaching for her sweet spot. His thick shaft filling her.

Emma squirmed in the chair, her sex throbbing with residual sensation. He’d put his lips
there
, right on her clit, sending heat rocketing through her. Oral sex had never been something Andrew enjoyed, either giving or receiving. Her other experiments in that area had been less than fulfilling, and she had resigned herself to a sex life without that special thrill.

One night with Marc and she discovered she not only loved it, but craved it. His every touch had been an all-out assault on every one of her nerve endings. And the sensations were still there, reminding her of a pleasure more deep and satisfying than anything she could have imagined.

It wasn’t just the act of sex that lingered with her. He’d been so tender, caring, attentive. Focusing on her satisfaction before taking his own pleasure.

Without realizing it, her hand crept down between her thighs and she began stroking herself through her jeans.

Ohmigod!

She yanked her hand back as if fire had scorched it. What was she doing?

Get your act together, Emma. Make breakfast. Read the paper.

All her usual Sunday things—things that could lock last night away in her mind where it belonged. One walk on the wild side was enough.

Wasn’t it?

Or had the hours with Marc released a side of her that refused to be hidden away again?

She glanced at her watch. After seven. She’d been sitting here caught up in an erotic reverie for more than an hour. Sighing, she pushed herself out of the chair and headed for the bedroom. A blinking red light caught her eye, and she realized there were messages on her answering machine. Almost resentfully and reluctant to let the real world return, she pressed the playback button.

“
Emma?
” Andrew’s voice. “
Emma, where are you? Where did you go? What’s the matter? Call me.”

“Emma? Me again. Pick up the phone. I want to talk to you.”

“Okay, damn it. I know you’re there. Answer the phone
.”

And the last one, Andrew’s anger evident.

“
Emma, where the hell are you? I want to talk to you? I drove over to your house and it’s all dark. Where did you go? We have to talk. Call me at once
.”

Emma’s stomach knotted. He drove to her house?

A confrontation with Andrew was the last thing she wanted this morning. He’d demand an explanation, and she wasn’t nearly ready to give him one. She needed more time to get her mind to function. No way could she tell him what she’d done. He’d never understand. And he’d tattle on her to her folks as if she were some errant teenager who’d broken the rules.

Okay, so he deserved an explanation. Some reason why she was basically going to tell him she’d thrown away the last few years of her life.
His
life. For a reason he’d never in this world understand. She just had to find the right words and at the moment, her brain couldn’t piece them together.

Well, maybe she had, in a manner of speaking. She’d gone along to get along for so many years that anything out of the ordinary was sure to shock everyone. But she’d do it again in a heartbeat.

Again? Really? Go back to that club? Let the music take hold of her body?

Go to bed again with Marc?

In a hot New York minute.

Get your act together, Emma. Next time you see him, he probably won’t even remember who you are
.

Next time?

Emma shook her head. Time to shower and change and get on with her day. Somewhere she had to find the courage to see Andrew and try to make him understand. It was time to step back into the real world.

***

Marc wandered up and down the aisles in the grocery store at a leisurely pace with his shopping cart, not really sure what he was looking for. Maybe he’d make a good marinara sauce. He loved blending the spices until he got the taste just right. Or he might try out the recipe he’d found for a chicken and vegetable casserole with wine. He stood at the meat counter for a long time, thinking barbecue could be the answer. Combining for the sauce to him was like putting together the notes of a song.

But nothing really appealed to him. All he could think about was his Music Lady—the blush of pleasure on her skin as she slowly came down from the grip of an orgasm, the sweet taste of her cream, the feel of her hard nipples on his tongue.

Jesus, Marc! Quit it. You’ll be walking around the store with the mother of all boners.

He meandered into the produce section. Maybe the fixings for a salad would inspire him. Yeah, that would do it. A big salad. He’d mix up his own dressing. Fix a steak. Maybe even a loaf of that sweet bread his mother always made.

He almost laughed out loud. What would all those people at Aftershock think if they could see him walking around the grocery store thinking about baking bread?

In the produce area he stopped short, his breath caught in his throat. He had to blink twice to make sure he knew what he was seeing. But yes, there she was. His Music Lady! Right here in his grocery store.

Wait. Did that mean she lived around here? In his neighborhood? Could he find out her address somehow, someway?

Yeah, right. Just paste “stalker” on my forehead
.

She looked so different today, in dark jeans and a pretty blue top, her blonde hair gathered up high in a ponytail that bounced as she walked. Her feet encased in neat little tennis shoes. She was holding a melon in both hands, staring at it as if the secrets of the universe were printed on the skin.

He finally unstuck his feet and moved forward, walking up to her slowly.

“Hi!”

She turned, startled, and a tiny frown creased her forehead.

“Hello?” It was a question, not a greeting. She blinked, a bewildered expression on her face as if she’d never seen him.

He reached out a hand to touch her, but she flinched so he quickly drew it back. What the hell was this all about?

“ML? It’s me.” He gave her what everyone told him was his most appealing smile, hoping that would put her at ease.

Instead she took a step away. “I’m sorry. I don’t know you. I think you have me confused with someone else.”

He felt his smile slipping. “You forgot me already? I thought I made a better impression than that.”

I sure tried my damndest
.

She stepped further away, dropped the melon into the bin. “Excuse me. I have to finish my shopping.”

Grabbing the handle of her shopping cart, she skittered past the rows of produce and hurried the corner into the frozen food section.

Marc stood there, staring after her. She didn’t
know
him? What was going on here?

Had he done something wrong?

Had she regretted it all this morning and was trying to pretend it never happened?

What do you think, asshole? A nice girl like her was probably just taking a quick walk on the wild side
.

But they’d connected. He knew it. Felt it. It was more than just sex. A lot more.

Okay, so she’d only seen him in the weird lights from the bar and the little glow of the bedside lamp at his house, but did he really look that different? Should he have rolled up the long sleeves of his shirt so she could see the tatt? She’d been so fascinated by it, running her finger over it. Would that have jogged her memory or as she deliberately burying it? He’d been all too aware last night wasn’t a usual event for her, and he’d tried to take as much care with her as possible. Make sure she was completely satisfied.