Emerald (Steele Investigations) (9 page)

“Heard you and Tom talkin’ a few weeks back ‘bout what kinda
music you like,”

“Yeah?” I reply sounding like a question because I’m not
sure where he’s going with this.  Tom and I had been discussing our music likes
and dislikes and we were amazed to discover that we both have very eclectic
tastes in music.

“Yeah.  Thought you might like these,” he smirks as he
separates two oblong shapes pieces of laminated paper between his index and
middle fingers.  In bold letters at the top, I recognize the words – Backstage
Pass. 

Wow.

Holy shit! A real live concert.  We have to go.  You
can’t say no.  We’ve always wanted to go to a concert.  This could be our only
chance.
  Selfish Jemma is screaming in my ear and jumping up and down.

What if your dad finds out?  It would be fun though…
Rational Jemma whispers.

“Well, who are the tickets for?” I grin big.  Honestly, I
don’t care if we’re going to see Swan Lake at the Ballet (though, somehow how I
don’t think macho man Travis Steele would be seen dead at the ballet), I’m
still giddy with excitement.

His answer is thrust the tickets closer to me.  My breath
catches when I see the band name. 
Oh my. 
How did he know?
 

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again – I love
Travis.  We should definitely explore the advantages of sexual gratitude, after
all, Travis needs thanking for the tickets. 
Selfish Jemma is trying her
best to look desirable as she splays on out a California Kind bed.

Sexual gratitude is an absolute no-no, Jemma.  Think
sensibly for a minute and stop letting your hormones get the best of you,
Rational
Jemma chides as she points a long, perfectly manicured finger at me and scowls
in frustration.

“How? Why? How?” I breath

“Heard the band was comin’ to Denver, rang my man Charlie
and told him my girl’s a fan.  He sent the tickets out.  That’s the how, babe. 
The why, is because I can.”

“Your man, Charlie?” I ask confused.

“Yeah, Charles Kelley – singer in Lady Antebellum, babe,” he
grins, looking at me like I’m the cutest little thing he’s ever seen.

“I know who Charles Kelley is,” I snap, “What I want to know
is how he’s
your man.”

“Met his brother, John, when I was doin’ some construction
work with him ‘bout ten years ago in North Carolina.  Got to know his brothers,
Josh and Charles.  Try to go and see ‘em when they’re playin’ this area.  Josh
is a solo artist and Charlie’s in the band.” He explains.

I think I’m in shock.  Travis Steele, super-hot-badass-macho-man-extraordinaire
has organized back stage passes to my favorite band, for me: Jemma
private-reserved-closet-so-full-of-skeletons-it’s-about-to-explode Calloway. 
Lord.

I don’t know what to say.  But I know what I want to do.  I
launch myself at him, smashing my lips to his.  He rocks slightly back from the
force but recovers quickly and clamps his arms firm around my waist, pressing
me against his hardness.  My pulse quickens and desire unfurls in my belly.  I
feel my panties dampen and my breasts swell and ache with need.

That’s what I’m talking about! Yippee!
Selfish Jemma
hoots.

I don’t know why I bother.
Rational Jemma huffs on an
eye roll, but there’s a hint of a smile playing on her lips – she wants this,
she just doesn’t want to admit it.

Suddenly he pulls back, breaking our kiss.  My eyes snap
open as my heart stutters, fearing his rejection. 

“What’s your favorite song they sing?”  He asks, his voice
gruff, his breathing labored. 

“American Honey,” I answer without hesitation.

He searches my face a beat and then his mouth is back on
mine -  slower this time.  His tongue enters my mouth a leisurely pace,
thoroughly exploring every crevice.  My fingers delve into his hair, tugging
gently causing deep groans to escape him.

His hands leave the small of my back and move down to cup my
ass, pulling me deeper into him.  I moan as his sex rubs against mine hindered
only by our clothing.  Leaving my ass, his hands travel up my back.  Lost in
his kiss, I don’t realize where his hands are heading until it’s too late.  He
cups my head, his palms at my ears and his fingers threading through my hair to
join together at the back of my skull.  I pull back, wincing in pain.

Shit.

“It’s later,” he growls, cryptically.  My confused eyes look
up to meet his – they’re narrowed and he’s scowling. 
Double shit.

Uh-oh.
Selfish Jemma is cowering behind an
overstuffed lounge chair, chewing her nails.

Rational Jemma has left the building.  In fact, I think
she’s already boarding a plane to Australia.

“Uh … Later?” I ask, nervousness, apprehension and fear all
clearly evident in my tone.

He doesn’t answer, just grabs my hand and leads me back
toward the living room.  He takes a seat on the lounge and gives my hand a tug
so I fall down, almost on top of him.

“Wha-,” I gasp before he cuts me off.

“Sit still,” he growls.  I open my mouth to snap something
back at him – I’m not sure what, but I’m thinking I could come up with
something sharp and witty, something
a la Selfish Jemma
– but he pins me
a glare that can only be described as
searing.
  I snap my mouth shut and
swallow hard.  Then gently, with more tenderness than I would have expected
from someone as macho as himself, Travis taps his fingers along my good cheek,
over my jaw and over my ear, sweeping my hair back as he goes.  His gaze
watches me intently, seeking any kind of change in my face that would indicate
sensitivity or soreness.  Of course, he finds no sign on pain.  I give a smile which
I hope looks reassuring and then, because I see no other option, I lie. 

“Travis, really I’m fine.  I thought I had a bit of a
headache coming on before, but I’m fine now.  Really,” I add for extra
emphasis.

He scowls at my trying to pull the wool over his eyes.

“Don’t fucking bullshit me, Jemma.”

Silently, he turns my head using his fingers at my chin and
repeats the process on my bruised side.  I indiscreetly (I hope) bite the
inside of my bottom lip as I try not to show any outward emotion.  I am watching
him watching me as he moves toward my ear.  Sliding my hair back, I watch as
his eyes narrow into little slits.  I see his jaw clench and tick twice before
I lower my eyes to concentrate fixedly on my knotted fingers resting in my
lap.  Even though I’m not looking at him, I
feel
his eyes burning into
my skin – scorching my flesh as he tries to extract the answers to his unspoken
questions from my soul.

“What.The.Fuck.Is.This?”  His words are measured and filter
through his tightly clenched teeth as he tries to keep his temper under
control.

I swallow hard again as my mind swims; excuses and
explanations spin through my brain like a whirlpool.  I can’t seem to slow them
down so I can grasp one thought and run with it.  My heart is thudding so loudly
I can hear it in my ears, along with the sound of my blood rushing through my
body – it sounds like  white noise.  It’s roaring.  So loud.  I need to get a
grip.  I need to come up with a plausible explanation.  I need to shelter
Travis from the truth.  If he finds out, I know he will seek retribution and
that will only end bad for him. 
Oh god, what if Rae finds out? And Kami?
Tom?
 

Fuck!
Why, oh why, didn’t I listen to Rational
Jemma.  I
knew
this was a bad idea.  I fucking knew it. I just wanted to
be normal for a little while, to experience a normal life.  And now because
I’ve been selfish, I’ve put everyone in danger. 

Ok, Jemma.  You need to get a goddamn grip.  Pull
yourself together.  Make up some bullshit story.  Get the fuck out of Travis’s
place. Then go back to the way things were BT (Before Travis).

Right.  I can do this.  I take a big deep breath in, raise
my eyes to look into his burning, rage filled emerald depths and then I lie as
my heart breaks.

“Look, Travis, I told you I was fine, I told you it was
nothing.  The other night I slipped while getting out of the shower and banged
my head on the corner of the vanity.  It’s embarrassing for me to tell because
it was stupid and I was clumsy, so please, just leave it.  Now if you don’t
mind, I’d like to go home.  Thank you for a wonderful day.  Your family is-,” I
choke back a sob and give a small cough to try and relieve the burning stinging
sensation that I know is the onslaught of a giant tear fest climbing up my
throat, and continue, -“wonderful and I’m grateful that you shared them with me
today.  I appreciate that.”

I unknot my fingers and push off my knees with my hands to
stand but I’m halted by a hand on my elbow pulling me back down.

“Don’t fucking bullshit me, Jemma,” Travis scowls at me.

“I’m not bullshitting you, Travis.  I told you what happened
and if you think it’s bullshit, then that’s your problem.  I’m sorry, but I
can’t help you with that,” I snap. 
Just take me home and forget you ever
knew me.
 

He stands abruptly and I blink up at him.  Clearly
frustrated with me, he runs his hands savagely through his hair before taking a
deep breath and pleading, “Please, Jemma, tell me what happened.”

“I’ve told you, Travis,” I continue to lie. 
Don’t cry in
front of him.  Just wait till you get home.  You’ll be home soon.

Conveniently, my two cowardess sidekicks have set sail on
the Queen Elizabeth II in search of sunny climes and stress free beach romps. 

“
Tell me what the fuck happened to you,”
Travis
roars.

Ho-ly shit.

“I can’t. I
fucking
can’t tell you.”  I scream at
him, letting all of my hurt, frustration, fear and anger propel my words into
the stratosphere.

He blinks, momentarily stunned by my outburst, and I’m sure
my face is a mirror of his.  A mixture of humiliation, dread and terror screams
through my veins, turning my blood to ice in its wake and I realize that I’ve
said too much.  He’s not going to let it go now.
Fuck! What have I done? 

I bolt up out of the chair and sprint across the room, past
the kitchen, running as fast as I can.  I make it to the elevator and press the
button over and over – willing it to hurry up.  The doors slide open –
thank
you God
– and I am hauled backwards with an iron like arm that I know is
attached to a
really,
really angry, (judging by his harsh breathing near
my ear) macho man.  He pulls me hard up against his rock solid front and unable
to control it any longer, my tears fall.  These are not dainty, lady like drops
of moisture falling elegantly down my cheeks.  No.  These are big, fat, floods
of water, running down my face, over my neck and only stopping when they reach
the fabric of my shirt.  They are accompanied by loud, hiccoughing sobs that
move my whole body like a convulsion.  I attempt to stop – this makes it worse
(and louder).  I try to cover my face in the hope that the old adage “if I
can’t see you, you can’t see me,” is true.  Apparently, it is not!  Travis
turns me around and pulls me in tight against his chest.  His arms wrapping
around my center, he squeezes tight and murmurs in my ear.

“Shh, baby.  It’s gonna be okay.  Nothin’ I can’t fix.  Calm
down.”

He repeats different versions of his whisperings over and
over until finally I’m cried out.

He pulls back to look at my face and I burrow into his neck,
not wanting him to see my tear-stained face.

“Hey, don’t hide from me,” he says gently.

Please just let me go, Travis. 
Please,”
I implore.

“Not gonna happen, babe.  Now, you wanna tell me what that
was all ‘bout standing here, or do you wanna sit and tell me?  Either way,
babe, you’ll be tellin’ me.”

Shit.

“Sitting,” I mutter in a vain attempt to delay the
inevitable.

“Right,” he mutters back, clearly aware of my tactic.

He leads me back to the chair I so hastily vacated not
fifteen minutes before.  I sit down next to him and he angles his body toward
mine.

“Spill,” he orders.

“Would you like a drink?  I’m kind of thirsty.” My voice is
full of hope – hoping he’ll let me go home, hoping that if he gets a drink it
will distract him and he’ll forget what he wants me to talk about.

“No.  Talk now.  You can get a drink later.”

I don’t even know where to start.  I don’t even know what to
say. 
I could scare him off.  Yes.  That’s what I will do.

“Travis, I can’t tell you anything because it will put you
in danger.  I don’t want you to be hurt because of me so I can’t tell you
anything.  I appreciate your concern and everything, but honestly, it would be
better if we stop hanging out and you let me deal with this myself.”  There
that should do it.  Straight to the point, not giving anything away, but
letting him know that being around me is putting him in danger – no one
wants
or
likes
to be in danger.  My heart cracks at the thought of him
letting me go.  Letting me leave to deal with this myself.  How I wish I could
share the load with someone.  But I can’t.  Broken heart or not, this is for
the best.

“Babe, I’m a PI.  My life is constantly in danger.  What
makes you think your problems are going to endanger me anymore than the cases I
work on every day?  Stop beating around the bush.  Spill it.” 
Hmm, well
that didn’t go as well as I planned.

“Your life is constantly in danger?” I ask, shocked that he
would willingly put himself in that position, “What about your family?”

“Babe, the people I find – not nice guys, they’re
bad
guys.  The baddest.  We’ll talk more about that
after
you talk.”