Bounce (38 page)

“Tell me what you like,” he says in a hoarse whisper. “I want you to feel good, Sky. Tell me how to make you feel good.”

“You do, Grey. You are.”

“What else?” he insists. “What else do you like?” His fingers move down along my body, tracing over my lower belly, plunging farther down. My breath hitches as his warm fingertips close over me, and I rise to his touch.

“This?” he asks, looking up at me, his fingers moving, plunging. His gray eyes pierce me. “Like this?”

“Yes,” I say, though it's barely a whisper. He feels so good, and his eyes on me—it's so much. So much sweetness. So much pleasure. So good it almost tips into pain, into the best kind of ache. “Like that, Grey. Just . . .”

He touches me over and over, and his lips move over my body, over my belly, up to my breasts, his tongue making hot circles, his mouth and teeth and tongue everywhere, and we're kissing, and his fingers are moving, moving over me, and it's good. So, so good. I'm trembling under him, this hot spark flaring to life within me, igniting where his fingers move against me, igniting and sparking and flowing out like a wildfire, searing across my body. We're kissing and kissing, and my body trembles against his hand, all of me reaching for that place, that place of heat and light and sharpness.

And then it comes, lashing through me, so hot and intense that I cry out against Grey's soft sweet lips, still pressed to me. And he groans, too, the two of us locked together, this fever burning through me, rippling on and on from a deep sharp pit that unknots and seems to flow outward forever.

Words come from me, and from him, but I can't make sense of them, can't make sense of anything but this beautiful, perfect connection, his hands, his fingers and lips, his sweetness pouring over me, his need. And my own need. My need for more of him. To have all of him.

I push him gently onto his back on the bed. And he smiles, this gorgeous, avid, lazy smile. Smug and adorable because he knows what's coming next. He knows I want him to feel even a tenth of what he makes me feel.

Out of nowhere, he produces a condom and gives me a wink. “Extra magnum,” he says, which makes me laugh so hard while we put it on him together.

I climb onto him, feeling like a feather against the solidity of him. He's slick from the shower, still gives off waves of sweet-smelling heat. I straddle his hips and run my fingers along his pecs, stroking the muscles of his arms, his torso, bending over him to tease my tongue over his smooth flesh, to taste him. I graze my teeth over him, and he groans and grabs hold of my waist, tugging me down, his hips rising beneath me.

“Let me know if anything's not okay,” he says. “It's . . .”

“Extra magnum. I'm well aware.”

I move down, slowly, and his hands guide us, and he's a lot, but it's so good. He feels so good. His hips move beneath me, and mine move to join his, and we look at each other, just the two of us, caught together in a swirl of white sheets and fading sunlight.

My hair falls into my face, and he reaches up to move it back, holding it away.

“I want to look at you,” he tells me. “I want to watch you feel good.”

I moan. Because this is so perfect, and because I want to watch him, too, as we move together, as he fills me, as his eyes close, finally, and he throws his head back against the bed, his jaw flexing, all of him tightening beneath me.

His hands take control of my hips, gripping them as our movements intensify, as our breath comes harder and faster. I spread my body over his, my full weight against his massive warmth. I put my hands in his hair, kiss and lick and suck on his lips and tongue, the smooth skin of his shoulders. He groans, and I do, and we move together, faster, both of us trembling, both of us seeking after that light again.

He gets there before I do, his harsh gasps, the sharp movements of his body beneath me, telling me everything, pushing me over the edge. Again, that lashing, exquisite warmth, the ripples undulating like sun-warmed waves, flowing outward and over us, sweeping us along, as we rock together, trembling, sharing breath, fingers locked together now, bodies joined.

We settle, finally, and he takes my face in his hands and leans up to kiss me.

“Sky, beautiful Sky.”

“Grey, beautiful Grey.”

“Oh, shit.” His smile disappears. “I just realized something awful.”

“What?”

“We're Grey Sky. I mean, our names together. Grey. Sky. That's awful.”

I laugh and kiss him. Then I rest my cheek against his chest, listen to the fierce and steady beat of his heart. “Yeah, that kind of sucks.”

“I don't think we can be together,” he says.

“No, you're right. Not with those names.”

“We should break up.”

“Definitely.”

“When do you think? Like, three hundred years from now?”

I smile. “Maybe five hundred.”

He tightens his arms around me and kisses the top of my head. “Okay, five hundred years, and that's it.”

We doze and wake up to kiss again, to touch one another, to whisper all of the things we've spent months not saying. It's like that night in the darkness of my room when he held me, only so much better. Because now his body is mine to explore, now we can pour out our hearts to one another, tell each other our dreams and plans and know, because we're free to say it, that we'll pursue those dreams and plans together.

“Are you sure you want to keep acting?” Grey asks. “I don't like what it did to you.”

I smile and slide my bare leg over his. “Acting didn't hurt me.
I
hurt me.”

“Still . . .”

It occurs to me that being good at something, that making people happy with a gift, isn't all of it. It has to feed
me
, too. It has to give me joy the way music does. The way Grey does. I'm hungry, I realize. So hungry for so many things. Food, most definitely. But for my music, too. For a life that reflects my passions. That gives me life, makes me burn inside. I've been starving myself in more ways than one.

Mia comes to the door with a couple of carryout containers, which I grab from her like she's handing out fistfuls of gold doubloons. I don't even care what's in them.

“Whoa,” she says and peers around me into the room where Grey lounges on the bed, barely covered and smirking.

He gives her a jaunty wave. “Howdy.”

“Uh, howdy to you.”

I turn back to her with a look I know is the absolute opposite of a poker face. “Thanks for the food. And for everything.”

She grins. “So, I should come in, right? Hang out with you guys? You look like you want company.”

“Um, that's a big N-O, but thanks again.”

“Fine.” She gives me a phony pout.

I give her a kiss on the cheek. “I'll text you later.”

“You better.”

“I will.”

I close the door, and Grey is right there, taking the boxes from my hands. “I'm starving.”

“Me too.” I know I need to take it easy. I don't want to make myself sick. But it's like a switch has been flipped inside me again. I have so much more energy, such a stronger feeling of just plain
life
than I've had in a while. I guess intravenous fluids and a couple of orgasms will do that for a girl.

I start with a container of chicken soup, which is just heaven, and Grey tears into a turkey club sandwich, though he wraps up half for me and makes me promise to take a few bites at least.

While we sit there, I send an email to Parker and Jane, telling them to hold off on scheduling anything for me until further notice. They know I've been sick, but that hasn't kept them from coming at me with messages, phone calls, notes of concern wrapped within reminders of obligation. But I know I need to take care of myself first. I don't need my body to tell me that twice.

Next comes the tougher call—the one to my mom. I sit there and polish away the smudges on my phone screen with the edge of the sheet.

“You okay?” Grey asks.

“Yeah. Have to call my mom. Just not sure what to say.”

He leans over and smooths the hair away from my neck to press his lips there, trail kisses down to my shoulder. “Just tell her how you feel.”

“I know. I just . . .”

“Just what?”

I shake my head. “It's just hard to let her down.”

“Well, don't you think you're letting her down worse by making yourself sick and taking on too much?”

“I guess.”

He starts in on the French fries. “So, this thing I figured out, with some help from a friend, is that if you avoid something it just keeps coming at you, over and over again, to kick your ass in bigger and bigger ways.”

I sigh. “You're right.”

“I am wise beyond my years.”

He takes the soup from my lap, clears all the containers from the bed. Then he draws me against his chest and puts his arms around me. Grey kisses the top of my head. “Whatever happens, I've got you. More importantly, you've got you. Believe me.”

I feel a tingle in my sinuses that tells me I'm about to start crying. Lately, I'm just a wreck over everything, but I know that'll get better as I do. “I believe you.”

Picking up my phone again, I have Siri call my mom. I feel like I forget to breathe as the phone rings once . . . ​twice . . . ​three times before my mom answers.

“Oh, honey, are you all right?” she says. “I've been so worried about you. I wanted to come there, but—”

“It's okay. I'm out of the hospital. I'm doing better.”

“What a relief. You need to take care of yourself, Skyler. You can't worry me like that.”

“I know, Mom,” I say. “That's what I want to talk to you about, actually.”

Before I chicken out, I tell her I'll always do what I can for her, but I need to think of myself, too.

“I think you should sell the farm,” I say. “The land is worth a mint. You could get a nice apartment near Scotty, help with the girls.”

She's quiet for a long moment. I feel her disappointment beaming across the miles at me, but at least she doesn't reject the idea outright.

“You don't want me out there?” she asks, finally.

“I don't think either of us wants that, Mom. Not really.”

“And you're not coming home?”

“I'll come for a visit soon,” I tell her. “But I'm staying in LA. It's where I need to be.”

I look up at Grey, and he tightens his arms around me and nods. His expression is so adorable—enthusiastic and encouraging, but beyond that there's a maturity, a look that tells me he understands what this means to me. And he truly does have my back.

I can get used to this, I think. Even if it's only for five hundred years.

  
Chapter 43
  

Grey

T
his is so unusual,” Titus says as he pulls the guitar strap over his head.

“Yeah, it is. But it's kind of the same, too. We're still playing music for an audience.”

“My parents are out there. With all their lawyer friends.”

I laugh. “And I'm counting on them to be our most law-abiding fans.”

We're in the back room of Norman's, a club owned by one of my dad's friends. It's crowded in here, a small back office that's piled high with paint cans and blueprints, crates of vodka and industrial-sized cleaning solutions. Titus and I needed a second away from the commotion outside. Just five minutes for us both to process the insanity of the last twenty-four hours.

Yesterday, Sky and I came back from the Virgin Islands to find the entire band waiting at the apartment. As Beth swooped Skyler off to smother her with affection and care, the guys presented to me their idea. It was: Let's fuckin' play anyway!

After so many weeks of preparation, we were primed to play and, without the showcase, everyone felt wired and unsatisfied. We had, as Emilio put it, gig blue balls. Forget the showcase and Vogelson, who still hasn't replied. We
had
to play. Anywhere. ASAP.