A Lush Betrayal (31 page)

“Ms. DiLorenzo?” he asks very politely.

“Yes?”

“If you’ll follow me. Mr. Jamison saved you a seat up front.”

I walk behind him while Joss says a few things to the audience and tunes his guitar a bit, as if he’s stalling, waiting for me to get seated.

Once I’ve been shown to the table that sits front and center before the stage, Joss smiles down at me again. Then he talks some more.

“Almost a year ago now, I met someone.”

The crowd gives him a hard time. Not rudely, just teasing. Some of the women yell that he’s broken their hearts. The men say, “Thank God too!”

“You guys know it’s been a pretty rough year for me, and I’m afraid I made it a pretty rough year for her too.”

This time there’s sympathy from the audience.

“But tonight is sort of a fresh start, and I hope it can be a fresh start for both of us.”

Then he starts to play, and with the first words that fall from his lips, I realize it’s the song about me.
The Girl From Shangri-La.
I sit raptly and listen as he sings about a woman who is his paradise on earth. How he fears that what they had didn’t mean the same to her that it did to him. How she taught him to fall in love and now he can’t fall out. I listen to his smoky voice sing what he feels about me, and I realize tears are rolling down my face and pressure is building in my heart.

As he strums the last dying chords of the song, I put my hands over my mouth, afraid if I don’t physically stop myself I’ll cry out how much I still love him. He looks at me from the stage, and somewhere in the corners of my consciousness I hear him say, “I’m going to take a five minute break and then I’ll do another set.” Everyone claps, some house music comes on, and Joss sets his guitar carefully aside as he stands up and hops off the stage, walking straight to my table.

I stand on shaky legs, trying quickly to wipe the tears away. He looks at me, reads me as if I’m a book.

“You came,” he says quietly.

“Yes,” I nod, my voice trembling.

“Did you like the song?” He seems genuinely concerned.

“How could I not?” I ask, feeling tears trying to squeeze out yet again.

“Aw, Mel, please don’t cry,” he whispers as he steps closer.

This causes me to break down entirely, and I shake with sobs as he wraps his arms around me and simply holds me, stroking my hair.

His lips are next to my ear, and he’s pressing me to him as if he’s afraid I’ll try to escape. “I’m so sorry, baby. I’m so sorry,” he says over and over again. “I love you, Mel. You have to know that. I will always love you. Only you. It’s only ever been you.”

I try to catch my breath and stop the tears. The front of Joss’s t-shirt is drenched, and I’m sure I look like hell. He pulls away to look at my face, running his fingers gently under my eyes to wipe at errant tears.

“Talk to me, baby. Tell me what you’re thinking. Do I have any chance at all here?”

I finally look up at him, into those perfect, crystal-clear green eyes. He’s so scared, so vulnerable. I’ve never seen the rock god Joss Jamison look this way. I take his hand and hold it over my heart. “Do you feel that?” I ask.

He nods, his breathing heavy and his hand trembling.

“It needs you, Joss. I need you. Only you.”

There is no warning at all as his lips crash into mine. His big, warm hands cradle my jaw and his fingers dig into my hair. I feel the shock of the kiss from my chest all the way to my toes. There are no preliminaries, no gentle touches, just sheer, unadulterated need. His breath comes in gasps, his biceps under my hands are tensed, and his tongue invades my mouth with hot longing. I hear a small squeak come from me as he surprises me with the force of his onslaught. But then I give in to it and feel as if molten light is being poured through my body, warming all the places that have been so cold and dark without Joss.

As his hands start to wander from my face and skim down my sides, his thumbs brushing the undersides of my breasts and then working down to cup my ass and draw me closer, he breaks the kiss and rasps in my ear, “We should probably go home to finish this.”

I giggle, slightly embarrassed. “You’re probably right,” I gasp out.

“I have one more set. I’ll go fast. Will you sit right here and wait for me?”

I answer by wrapping my arm around his neck and rocking
his
world for a few more seconds. I leave him breathing heavily and quietly swearing as he tries to adjust his jeans so he can go back onstage. He gives me one more hard, quick kiss and then walks up to his stool, grabs his guitar, and sits down.

The house music stops and the spotlight comes back up.

“Portland,” he says, grinning. “Is this a great fucking night or what?”

W
HEN
J
OSS
is done performing, he asks me to come backstage with him. I wait in the hallway while he ducks into the dressing room, grabs his jacket, and puts his guitar in its case. Then he strides out, guiding me down the hall to the exit. We walk out into a cool spring night, moisture in the air creating a soft, filtered look to the lights in the parking lot.

“Did you drive here?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I answer, pointing to my little Subaru hatchback parked nearby.

“I’ll bring you back to pick it up later?”

“Okay.”

He leads me to a long dark sports sedan. I notice the hood ornament.

“A Jaguar?” I ask, squinting at him.

He shrugs. “Why not?” He opens my door for me, and I realize that I’ve never been driven in a car by Joss. We’ve always ridden with chauffeurs. It strikes me suddenly that, while we spent all day and all night together for months, I’ve never seen where Joss lives and I’ve never had him drive me somewhere. We’ve never been to a grocery store together or cooked a meal with each other.

I sit in the car and wait for him to walk around to the other side and get in. “Where are we going?” I ask.

“I’m hoping to my condo,” he says, one eyebrow raised.

As he starts the car and the engine literally purrs to life, I observe, “You know, I’ve never ridden with you driving.”

He stops for moment, thinking. “I guess that’s true. Are you scared to drive with me?” He winks.

“No, but you have to admit we had a weird relationship.” He turns out of the parking lot and heads toward downtown. “I’ve never seen where you live, yet I called you my boyfriend most of last summer.”

I quickly realize that the Jag is in fact the perfect car for him. It’s as smooth and sleek as Joss, and he drives it as though it’s an extension of him. He doesn’t respond to my observations, instead turning on some Bonnie Raitt. Her gravelly voice fills the darkened car as we speed along Portland’s urban avenues until we come to a medium-sized building, obviously a depression-era WPA project with Art Deco design details.

Joss turns sharply into the parking garage beneath the building and winds around until he gets to a row of stalls with doors. He punches the button, and after one of the garage doors opens, he pulls the car inside then shuts the door. We exit the car and he leads me through a small door into a hallway that ends at a set of elevator doors. He’s still silent, and I start to worry he’s changed his mind or I’ve made him question the whole thing by mentioning that we’ve never done normal things.

Inside the elevator, he punches the number three and up we go. When we get off, I see that there are only two doors on the floor. Joss leads me to the one on the west side of the building and unlocks it as he ushers me inside. Lights go on automatically as we enter, and I’m faced with a large open floor plan. A living room, a kitchen, and a dining room are all within view of the foyer. The floors are dark wood, and the walls range from taupe in the living room to a creamy white in the kitchen. All the rooms have high ceilings and thick white wood trim.

Before I have a chance to say how lovely I think it is, Joss’s hands and lips are everywhere. My face, my neck, my back, my hair, my skin.

“Mel?” he whispers as his fingers play with my hair and his lips brush across my collarbone.

“Yeah?” I squirm under the attack.

“Would it be okay if we talked about all the stuff we need to later? Like after I’ve been inside you for five or six hours straight?”

He starts walking me backwards. I have no idea what’s behind me or where I’m going, but I don’t really care as long as he keeps licking my earlobe and caressing my—Oh, dear God, that feels good. Before I know it, we’re in a room that’s dark, a sliver of light from the street outside peeking through the gap in the curtains.

I feel the pressure in my core building, and my heart struggles to keep a steady rhythm. Joss reaches for the buttons on my blouse and starts to undo them. They’re small and there are a lot of them. He stops. “Is this a special shirt?” he asks huskily.

“Um, not really.” I respond.

Before the words are even fully out of my mouth, he’s ripped it down the front, popping those little buttons off every which way.

“Shit,” he grinds out and he looks down at me, my pale blue silk and lace bra glowing in the low light. He brushes the backs of his fingers down my torso. His expression is reverent, and I watch him, seeing myself through his eyes. I’ve never felt so beautiful.

He slides the blouse off of my shoulders and I let it drop to the floor. Next he reaches behind me and unsnaps the bra, tossing it away quickly. Then he cups both my breasts in his hands.

“You’re the most perfect creation I’ve ever seen.”

I can feel myself blush. I reach up and stroke his face, the light stubble on his jaw. He leans into my touch, his eyes closing for a moment. He kisses my palm then the tips of each of my fingers before he lets go of my hand and returns his touch to my breast. I kiss him on the face, the neck and the mouth, and slide my hands under the hem of his t-shirt. He shivers at the contact, and I lift the shirt and pull it over his head. He growls then and pulls me close so we’re skin to skin.

“I missed this so much,” he whispers. “Just being able to touch you.”

“Me too,” I gasp as he takes my breast in his mouth and gently sucks. I moan and unbutton my jeans when his erection presses against me.

“Great idea,” he says as he undoes his own perfectly worn jeans and drops them, along with his boxer briefs, to the floor. I do the same and then we’re on each other—stroking, licking, and kissing. Hands, tongues, mouths, and fingers, slide along each other’s bodies, encouraging, emphasizing, captivating. Joss takes my hand and leads me to the bed.

He sits down, bringing me along with him gently. We lie side by side, just exploring one another after being apart for so long. As his hand slips between my legs, he sighs. “I love you, sweet Mel. I want this—you and me—forever. Promise me that’s what you want too.”

I arch against his fingers that are stroking my center so slowly and smoothly. “Yes,” I gasp. “It’s all I want, Joss. I love you so much. I missed you. I don’t ever want to be away from you again.”

“Never again, baby. Never again.” And then there are no more words. He’s inside—my body, my heart, my very soul—and I know that no matter what, this rock star is mine and he always will be.

Joss

I’
VE FINISHED
up my run and I’m stretching outside the apartment. It’s a typical Seattle summer day, not too hot and not too damp. There’s very obvious giggling nearby and I fight the urge to look up. Pretty soon I hear a girl’s voice near my shoulder.

“Excuse me?” she asks.

I stand upright and turn to face her. She can’t be more than seventeen, so I smile and try not to look too irritated. “Yeah?”

“Are you—” She and her equally young friend dissolve into giggles. I keep the smile pasted on my face. “Aren’t you Joss Jamison?” she finally gasps out.

“You know,” I respond, “don’t be embarrassed, because you’re not the first person to ask me that, but no, I’m sorry, I’m not. I just look a hell of a lot like the guy I guess.”

She turns bright red. “Oh my God. I’m so sorry!” she squeaks out.

“No problem. Really.” I give them another smile as they turn and hustle off. I roll my eyes and finish my stretch before heading upstairs.

I enter the apartment and find Mel curled up on the sofa with Mesopotamia and a newspaper. She smiles as I walk in and inside my chest my heart does the thing it does every time she smiles at me.

I threaten to hug her with my sweaty self, get the requisite shriek that we guys love so much, then flop down next to her. Mesopotamia, who barely tolerates me, hops up and stalks off.

“I can’t believe you got up so early after that late performance last night.”

“Yeah, I couldn’t sleep thinking over all that stuff Dave had to tell me.”

“About the amphitheater tour?”

“Yeah, playing places like Red Rocks and the Hollywood Bowl. What a rush that’d be. But I need to put together a backup band and a crew.”

“Well, if anyone knows how to do that, it’s you,” she smiles sweetly.

“What about you? No homework today?”

“No.” She peers at me over the paper. “All I have to do is submit that last digital portfolio I finished shooting last week and then I’m done. One MFA on the way.”