Total pages in book: 180
Estimated words: 168121 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 841(@200wpm)___ 672(@250wpm)___ 560(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 168121 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 841(@200wpm)___ 672(@250wpm)___ 560(@300wpm)
Laz stood and moved toward the bunks. “The record company handles our publicity, our image, and interacts with the press on our behalf. Roy Oxford graciously declined to comment for Jay.” He held the drape aside, gaze falling on Charlee. “Don’t worry about the band. That asshole put us in headline news. Totally fuels our rockognition.” He grinned and dropped the drape behind him.
Creases fanned from the corners of her eyes. “Rockognition?”
“Recognition of a rock star.” Wil smiled, powered up his video game, and slouched into the couch. “Really, Charlee. We could give a fuck what people think of us. We just want to play music.”
Jay rolled back his shoulders and let his tension slip away. Roy’s slander might hurt his other targets, but he’d sorely misjudged what mattered to this band.
76
San Diego, Tucson, Albuquerque, and Denver whisked by. Four concerts in four days and Jay was straining through the simplest activities, even struggling to lift himself into their bunk. Sixty-six shows to go.
The sway of the privacy curtain brushed his arm, and the mattress vibrated with the propulsion of their metal home. He lifted his wrist from Charlee’s waist and angled it above his face. The tritium dials on his watch glowed through the darkness. Three in the morning. Mountain time? Central time? Whatever time, it was late and his eyes burned, refusing to close. Funny how fatigue did not equate to sleepiness. Especially when his mind wasn’t ready to shut down.
He flattened his palm against her lace-covered mound and pulled her ass into the bend of his hips. Tracing the thin material down her center, he followed the seam of her lips beneath. Christ, even in sleep, she was damp. He was too tired to stop his fingers. Maybe even too tired to take it further, considering the week they’d had.
Despite the sold-out tour, the stands had been thinner at the first three shows than what they were accustomed to. This was made worse by the sudden halt on the distribution of their albums to retail channels. The label stopped production on the basis of some bullshit legality related to the charges against him. Thank you, Sylvia Windsor, for alleging that he didn’t just fuck her, but he’d done so before her eighteenth birthday. He shivered.
Faye hadn’t wasted time sharpening her teeth with a legal defense. He’d given his statement to the D.A. following the accusation, and Faye assured him the charges would disintegrate without litigation.
Roy wasn’t after a trial. The fucker wanted to torpedo Jay’s character. Jay guessed the true motivation was to drive a wedge between him and Charlee.
True to form, Faye held a news conference in Albuquerque the previous day without the consent of Windsor Records. Jay had attended but left the talking to Faye. Her press statement highlighted convincing truths about his one face-to-face meeting with Sylvia and cited the reports she’d collected from witnesses of that meeting.
The communication soothed disgruntled fans if the ovation at their Denver show that night was any indication. Every seat in the canyon amphitheater held a bouncing, cheerful body.
Charlee, on the other hand, wasn’t so easily soothed. Her self-reproach for his bruised reputation and the cease in CD distribution put an ever-present slump in her shoulders. He and the guys tried to convince her it wouldn’t hurt their pockets, but her regret over all things Roy knew no bounds.
She wiggled her hips against his.
“You awake?” His whisper broke through the hum of tires on pavement.
“No.” A groggy croak.
With his arm trapped beneath her waist, he kept his hand pressed against her pussy. His other found the soft curve of her shoulder, traced her arm around the elbow, and twined their fingers.
She’d remained steadfast in her ultimatum, refusing him the caress of her touch. Still, her hand had become a permanent fixture in his. In every town, on every stage, steering through mobs and paparazzi, she never left his side. Reaching for her hand and lacing their fingers had become as reflexive and certain as his love for her.
He circled her wrist with his thumb. “Why aren’t you asleep?”
“There’s something hard jabbing my ass,” she whispered, though they both knew their bunk mates wore ear buds to bed.
He rocked his hips. “Can’t help it. You’re a wiggler.”
“And you’re a freak. Who sleeps in a t-shirt and no underpants?”
He missed sleeping nude with her. On the road, she slept in panties and nothing else while he wore a shirt at all times to hide the scars from their bus load of roommates.
He shifted their entwined hands into the valley of her tits, and she stretched her fingers to roll them over her nipple.
Christ, he was desperate for her touch. “Please. Put your hands on me.” He ground himself against her to emphasize the area that needed the most attention.
“Tell me about the shed.”