Chapter Seven
Blackbird
Stella
I stared at the door not sure how I felt about what just happened; only sure it was unhappy and unpleasant and maybe a little sad.
Mace held onto me.
“Get out,” I said quietly, still staring at the door.
“Tell me you didn’t fuck him,” Mace replied.
I closed my eyes, hard, and swallowed. This was to obtain a measure of control in order not to scream at the top of my lungs.
Then, again quietly, I repeated, “Mace, get out.”
Mace didn’t let go. Mace didn’t move. Mace didn’t speak.
We stood that way, his arm still around me, me still pressed back to his front, both of us staring at the door, both silent, for what seemed like a long time.
Then his head came to my shoulder and he moved my hair away with his chin.
At my ear, he said (now his voice was quiet), “First night I was with you, you came hard and you came fast. The night I got back from Hawaii, you did the same. This morning, the same. Every time in between, it took a little more effort to get you to purr for me, Kitten.”
I held my breath. His words shook me. Simply what he said but also how much he remembered. I didn’t even think guys remembered shit like that.
“You didn’t let him fuck you,” he finished softly and he sounded relieved.
“Keep going, Mace, this is great. Pretty soon, I might hate you.”
Entirely unaffected by my words, he kissed my neck, let me go and whistled between his teeth for Juno. I heard Juno trundle off the bed and her claws on the wood floors as she approached us.
I watched him take the leash from the workout bag.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Juno needs out. We’re goin’ for a walk. We’ll be back.”
“No you won’t. I just kicked you out,” I reminded him.
Mace stopped a foot in front of me. Juno was there so he bent, clicked on Juno’s leash and straightened. He leaned into me, kissed my disbelieving mouth lightly then he and Juno were gone.
I found myself staring at the door again.
Then I found myself wanting to cry.
My boyfriend I didn’t want just broke up with me (I was pretty sure that was what just happened) and I was thinking maybe now I was wrong about not wanting him. My ex-boyfriend that I wanted back thought we were back together and now I was thinking I was wrong about wanting him back (I wasn’t sure at all about that). And someone I didn’t even know wanted me dead.
Totally Queen of Super Shitty Luck.
I shook my thoughts clear, cleaned Juno’s water bowl, gave her new water, refreshed her food bowl and unpacked my stuff from the workout bag (leaving Mace’s stuff in as a statement). Then I retreated to the bathroom. I was going to take a long, hot, lavender-scented bath and give myself a pedicure.
I was soaking in the bath, a wet washcloth over my eyes, when Juno and Mace got back.
I heard them moving around.
I heard the bathroom door open.
I prayed to all that was holy that the bubbles were holding up.
“You didn’t lock the deadbolt.” I heard Mace say.
I was silent.
“You didn’t set the alarm,” Mace continued, sounding closer, indeed a lot closer.
“Sorry, I get an ‘F’ for the day in security,” I replied sarcastically.
The washcloth was taken from my eyes. My hair was up in a knot on top of my head and I had a wide, pale yellow headband holding it back from my face for good measure.
I turned my head which was resting on a bath pillow on the back of the tub and looked at Mace. He was crouched down and close, he didn’t look angry but he didn’t look happy either.
“Babe, those particular grades end in ‘D’ which means ‘dead’,” he said quietly and in all seriousness.
Shit.
He handed the washcloth back, I took it and put it back over my eyes.
Then I heard his voice come at me.
“By the way, babe, not a good idea to soak with that wound.”
Great. He was right.
Obviously, considering he was right, I made no response.
When I heard the door click behind him, I pulled the washcloth off my eyes again and checked the bubbles.
Total body coverage.
Well, thank God for one small stroke of luck.
Hastily exiting the bath trying not to sound through the door like I was hastily exiting the bath, I toweled off, put on my robe and decided on a self-spa evening. After my pedicure (I went for a deep, violet purple), a nail file and buff and a mini-facial I threw in just because, I was no more clearheaded or relaxed. I was just as confused and just as scared and, additionally, my wound hurt.
I needed my music.
I’d been in the bathroom a long time. By the time I got out, even the summer evening light outside was dimming. I could see it around the blinds.
There was a faint light glowing by my mauve chair. Mace was in bed, surprising me by looking asleep. He didn’t move as I walked into the room. Juno gave a soft woof confirming this. Juno was good at being careful when her humans needed rest. It was weird for a dog to do but it was true.
Mace must have meant it that morning when he said he felt he only got ten minutes of sleep. I’d never seen him go to bed this early. He was always out to all hours, doing whatever crazy shit he did then doing crazy shit for my band and then up in the morning, early, usually starting the day going for a run.
I walked to my dresser, pulled out some underwear and put it on under my short robe, careful of the new dressing I’d taped on. Then I pulled out a pair of loose-fitting, peach jersey drawstring shorts and a soft yellow tank top with peachy flowers printed in a strip up the sides. I turned my back to the bed, shrugged off my robe and got dressed.
Then I walked to my acoustic guitar, grabbed it and sat on the edge of my mauve chair, settling the guitar on my thigh, close to my knee, deciding, if I played quietly, maybe I wouldn’t wake Mace.
But I had to play, it had been two days and too much happened. I needed it.
And Guitar Hero didn’t cut it.
My fingers moved up the neck, feeling the strings, snagging the frets. I strummed a few chords. Then put a few more together.
After awhile, I forgot everything. Eric, the way he looked at me, what he said to me and that entire scene. My new alarm system. Police checking in on me. The Rock Chicks in danger. Someone wanting to murder me. That same someone already murdering Lindsey. I even forgot Mace and Juno, who were in the same room with me.
My long since callused fingers moved along the frets, strummed and plucked at the strings, and, softly, I closed my eyes and began to sing The Beatles’ “Blackbird”.
And I kept my eyes closed, softly singing and strumming, picking and sliding until I plucked the last two notes. I opened my eyes and saw movement.
I looked to the bed.
Mace was awake, elbow in the pillow, head in his hand, eyes, I could tell, even in the mostly dark, on me.
Just like he used to do. Just like always.
“Kitten, come to bed,” he said softly.
Just like he used to say. Just like always.
Out of habit, having sunk into living the memory of what we once were, I didn’t hesitate.
I put the guitar in its stand, turned out the light and walked to the bed. I rounded it, Mace rolled, Juno moved to accommodate me (such a good dog), I shimmied out of my shorts and I slid under the covers.
Mace’s arm wound around my middle and he pulled me deep into him.
“Feel better?” he murmured into my hair, knowing how I needed my music.
“Yeah,” I whispered.
He kissed the back of my neck.
“I missed that too,” he told me, talking about me playing and singing and him watching and I felt a shiver slide across my skin.
I knew not only did he mean to say that out loud, he meant to say w
hat he said earlier out loud too.
And I didn’t know what to make of that at all.
* * * * *
I woke up with his hand under my tank top, not just under it but honing in on my breast.
“Mace –” I said, sounding sleepy.
His hand cupped my breast, the rough pad of his thumb slid across my nipple then back.
“Mace –” I said again, still sounding sleepy but my voice had dipped lower.
His thumb was joined by a finger, there was a gentle squeeze then a roll.
Pleasant happy tingles shot everywhere, a goodly number of them directed themselves straight between my legs.
Oh lordy be.
I twisted my head to him, my intent to say something, to protest but he pulled up, leaned in and kissed my open mouth. The kiss was deep, hot and he pressed his hips into my bottom at the same time he did another squeeze then swipe of this thumb. I felt his hardness against my behind and more pleasant tingles, far more intense, scored a path through every nerve.
I kissed him back, I couldn’t help it, I didn’t try.
We kept kissing then his mouth moved along my cheek, to my ear, his tongue traced its curve. His hand left my breast and trailed down, over my belly, between my legs then he cupped me there.
“Tell me what you want,” he murmured in my ear, his deep voice already rough.
“Touch me,” I whispered.
He touched me, his fingers pressing in, finding me immediately. I moaned and started to breathe heavily, my mouth open, Mace’s lips and tongue at my neck.
I pressed my hips into his lap and nuzzled. He made a noise that came deep from his throat and vibrated against my neck.
I twisted my head again and we kissed, hotter, deeper, his fingers playing me over my undies. I quit kissing and started panting.
His fingers moved away.
“What do you want?” he asked against my mouth.
I didn’t delay, I couldn’t and I didn’t try.
“I want you inside me.”
His thumb went into the side of my panties, pulling them up over my bandage and yanking them down to just above my knees. He positioned and entered me.
God, it was beautiful.
My neck twisted the whole time so I was facing him, his hand came back to my breast, his thumb and finger teasing my nipple, our mouths together, alternately kissing and breathing, my hips pressed into his as he thrust into me.
I got close but held back.
“Kitten,” he muttered. He felt it, he knew it, he didn’t like it.
He never did, he always wanted me to let go.
I always wanted to wait for him.
“Are you close?” I breathed.
He didn’t answer, instead he demanded, “Stop holdin’ back.”
“I want it to happen with you,” I told him.
His hand left my breast, went between my legs, his fingers pressed and circled.
I gasped his name, his mouth ground down on mine and he drove into me deep right before I came.
I was dazed and still coming down when, mouth still on mine, his strokes going deeper, faster, I knew he was close, his voice now hoarse, he said, “Christ, you feel sweet. No one fuckin’ sweeter.”
It was again something I suspected he didn’t mean to say out loud but I was beginning to think Mace didn’t do anything he didn’t mean to do. A different kind of warmth spread over me in a thick layer on top of my happy post-orgasm-Mace-still-inside-me feel.
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 belly and he didn’t pull out.
I blinked slowly.
Then I realized it had happened again.
Shitsofuckit!
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 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 fucked 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 still inside me.
Perhaps I was giving him mixed signals.
Ya think? My brain asked.
“Babe?” he called.
“What?” I replied, having still not formed a plan.
“What’s with black?” he asked.
This question confused me and I forgot all 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 all.
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 call, 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, all about giving, always about Mace giving to me.
“I don’t know,” I answered.
His arm tightened. “Tell 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 all 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 ballad in history then I whispered, “Well…” 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 really 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.
“Eventually I’ll 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, especially not to him.
“I like you there.”
Oh lordy be.
“Mace.”
“I’m keepin’ you there.”
“I don’t want to be there.”
“You wanna be there.”
“I don’t.”
“You’re lyin’ to yourself and you’re lyin’ to me.”
“I’m not.”
He kissed the side of my neck.
“You are,” he said against my neck. “And, Kitten, you should know, I’m good with that. I’ll be here when you stop.”
Effing hell.
“I’ll walk Juno,” he offered, clearly done with the conversation.
“Fine.” I was done with the conversation too and I couldn’t walk Juno without a Kevlar vest and a crash helmet, and, possibly, total body armor.
“Make room for my shit in your closet.”
I carefully pulled up my panties as I twisted to look at him.
“Not fine.”
His eyes were warm, soft and smiling which made me feel warm, soft and smiley (luckily, I kept this on the inside).
Damn his fucking eyes.
“Make lotsa room, babe, even after this is over, I’m stayin’ awhile.”
“Piss off,” I mumbled and turned back around.
His hand came to the side of my face that was on the pillow. He twisted me to face him again, his head descended and he touched my lips lightly with his.
“I’ll be back,” he whispered.
Effing, bloody hell.
Chapter Eight
This One’s for Linnie