Wasted Heart (6 page)

“Oh, hell no, girl,” he states, smiling and recapturing my mouth with his. This time, his tongue moistens the seams of my lips, making it easier for him to glide between mine, and finally, he kisses me. No holding back. He devours me, my soul, my hopes, and dreams. Anything he wants. My body moves uncontrollably against his hard frame. He groans, the sound buzzing against my lips, and I can’t help the smile that forms. A soft giggle bursts from my mouth.

He pulls back, grinning, and whispers against me, “You find me funny?”

I shake my head, but my body betrays me with another chuckle. Dear God, why am I laughing? In one second, all these feelings of evident lust turn to complete nervousness.

“I’ll give you something to laugh about,” he mutters seconds before he pushes me down, flat on my bed and, without malice, pulls my t-shirt up to relentlessly tickle the sides of my abdomen. I playfully fight and scream for him to stop as I wiggle to get away from this torture. His body looms over me, his knees capturing mine, and finally, he stops prodding me long enough to pin my hands with his above my head. We both breathe heavily in the silence that has fallen over the room.

I look up, into the handsome face that stares back down at me. His skin is so smooth, but he has tiny laugh lines around his eyes. So many thoughts run through my mind. Minutes ago, I thought I may be ready for what comes next between two adults in these situations. Questioning what I’m feeling should be a clear indicator that, maybe, I need to slow down whatever this is between us to get to know him better. He slants his head closer to mine, obviously ready for round two. Now, I see the burning desire that I was worried didn’t exist before.

At the last second, I turn, and his mouth misses mine to land squarely on my cheek. I close my eyes, feeling his silky lips skim the side of my face, each one leaving a spark of lust inside of me.

“Syn?” he whispers, the puff of air washing a wave of warmth across my skin. “This is what I was worried about. Scaring you off. Not knowing how to handle you. I want this so damn much, but I don’t want to rush you. Rush us. Hell, I know I sound like an idiot, but all I see when I close my eyes is those yellowish eyes of yours. I even smell you when we’re not together. I want you so bad, Syn.”

Opening my eyes, I turn my head to look back up. I melt at the sight of him. My body softens underneath the weight of his solid frame, and the sensation of him laying on top of me dampens everything down low. I lean up to gently kiss his lips, letting my head fall back on the bed as he follows me. Our kisses stay “PG-13” as we explore one another, slowly this time. Minutes pass before he pulls back once again. Leaning over me, he waits for me to guide us.

Taking a deep breath, I let it all out in a loud swoosh sound, and he laughs.

“Well, that says a lot,” he states, those eyes of his staring at me too intensely.

“No, I just want to know you better. I’m sorry if I’m coming off like a tease. I don’t want that. Everything within me is changing because of you, and I’ve never felt like this before. Now who is scaring who?” I say, smiling up at him, letting him see the passion within my gaze.

He touches his lips lightly against mine, and then, with his own long sigh, he moves off of me to stand beside the bed. I sit up to stare back at him. Rubbing the back of his neck with his hand, he leans his head back to look at the ceiling. Glancing back down, he shakes his head and says, “God, girl. If you only knew.”

At that moment, I notice the entire length of his body seemingly vibrates. With need? Lust? I can’t help but zero in on the bulge in his jeans, and I instantly look away, nervous again.

“Look at me, Syn,” his deep voice commands as he places his hands on his hips. “I’ve never believed in love at first sight or any of that bullshit. All I can tell you is that the first moment I saw you, I said to myself, ‘There she is. The one. Underneath all those clothes and hat, hiding from the world, is my soul mate. Just waiting’.”

Oh, God. Dear, Lord. Did he just say that? My heart gallops within my chest, thundering loudly through my head. Wanted. That’s what he makes me feel. It’s wonderful. Amazing. Terrifying. Ok, yeah, I’m scared to death now.

Running his hand through his hair, he ruffles the soft brown strands. “Look, I don’t want this anymore than you probably do. I’m only twenty years old, and you’re younger. I’ve tried, these past couple of weeks, to slow whatever this is down. These feelings that drive me to drink. But the thought of you with anyone else but me? I can’t stand it. It crushes me inside,” he says, looking at me while shaking his head.

My mind is in a state of shock. I’m numb. My pulse rockets, and everything within me riots. Part of me wants to pull him back to me and finish everything that kiss of his promised, and the other…well, the other says this is way too fast. It’s way too much, too soon, and that’s the side that’s winning. He looks at me unsure, almost afraid.

“Say something. Please,” he pleads, dropping his hands by his sides.

Going up on my knees, I crawl to the edge of the bed and raise my hands to reach for his. Pulling him to me, I stare up into his eyes. I swallow and take a deep breath to say, “I…,” I pause, trying to find the right words. “I’m not ready to share my body yet. I don’t want to lead you on and promise a time frame that I can’t commit to right now. But, you make me want to. You make me smile and laugh, as you already know. You make me feel pretty and special. When I’m not with you, I dream about you. About us. No one has ever made me feel the way you do. If you want to see where this goes, I’m game,” I finish, squeezing the talented, strong hands that I hold preciously between mine.

Slowly, he leans down, once again capturing my lips. This is a kiss of promise. It pledges things that even I don’t understand, mysteries I’ve yet unearthed, but my body responds, kicking into high gear again. With one last brush of his mouth, he moves back. Still holding my hands, he pulls me off the bed to stand flush against him. Unlocking our joined fingers, he slides his arms around my waist, hugging me tight. I feel his body quiver next to mine.

His lips nibble at my neck for mere seconds before he pulls completely back and lets me go. Turning, he grabs his hat and slides it on. He reaches for his guitar and places it back in his case, and even in my dumbfounded state of mind, I can’t help notice how he roundly fills out the butt of his jeans. Hot. He turns before I can divert my eyes from his mesmerizing behind.

“Are you checking out my butt?” he asks, the smile back in his eyes, all traces of the last half hour under wraps.

“No!” I answer quickly.

“You were totally checking out my ass,” he says laughingly, walking towards the door. “I bet you are checking it out again,” he calls, not looking at me then turning before reaching for the door handle.

I feel the heat of embarrassment climb my chest, straight up to my face. I was so checking out his butt. I couldn’t help it though. It’s lovely, and it’s better than trying to dissect everything he’s said to me and what I’m feeling.

“Well, it is a nice buttocks,” I add. I’m so busted. Smiling back at him, I laugh again.

“Night, pretty girl,” he says quietly, opening the door and leaving. The door closes behind him.

“Night,” I say, staring at the closed door.

I’m sitting in the recording studio, tears rolling down my cheeks. I tightly lock away the sobs that threaten within my chest. Hours have passed. I am supposed to be writing songs; instead, I’m caught up in the memory of the moments that made me love him. That night, after he left, I lay in bed and feelings began to blossom. Grow. It was that night that he planted the seeds of love. I want to remember that feeling of wonder so I can write about awe-inspiring, sweet love instead of the break-me-into-ten-million-parts love.

“Are you okay, love?” Julie asks, leaning towards me and placing her hand on my arm.

I swat at my eyes, drying them, and nod at her. She reaches over to grab a tissue and hands one back.

“Now, put whatever that is in your head on paper. It makes for the best relatable material,” she says, her British accent making me smile.

I begin to write, the words flowing from my head, through my hand, and onto paper. Nothing seems wrong, and everything seems right. I can hear the melody playing, see the chords forming deep in my mind, and the words combining the piece into one. Closing my eyes, I see myself singing it to him, asking him what he thinks, the way I used to.
“What a fool I am,”
I think to myself.

Hearing male voices, I look up.

“Ryan, is he even going to show up? I’ve heard he couldn’t care less at this point,” Mel asks, speaking directly to Ryan who must have walked in only moments ago. He leans down to quietly respond back to him.

Hmmm, I wonder who they are discussing. I can’t hear what Ryan answers. Julie turns to them and joins in on the conversation. Picking up my guitar, I try to put the song on paper into use, ignoring the three of them. I lose myself in my music, letting it flow from my fingers.

At the sound of the door opening, I glance up. My hands go still, and my mouth falls wide open. Of course, I know who he is. I’ve seen tons of images of him. Internet. MTV. Magazines. For a while, the boy’s sexy mug was everywhere. Didn’t I recently read that he was in some fancy rehab where all those uppity Hollywood celebs go? I’ve heard of milk doing a body good, but drugs? Not so much. Despite the fact that drugs kill, I can’t deny the rush of blood coursing through my body at my first glimpse of him. Oh, the undeniably sweet song of lust.

Most people would undoubtedly describe him as tall and lanky, but I immediately notice the hard muscle beneath his lean, almost entirely tattooed, frame. My eyes travel from his black boots, up over his worn jeans and white “Mavericks” t-shirt, to a square, scruffy jawline. He speaks in a deep, low voice to Ryan, and I can’t help the electrical currents that zap my girly parts in response. Shaking my head, I concentrate on the intricate tats covering part of his neck, cringing as I imagine the sting of the buzzing needle. Following the inked path, I notice the small letter “j” underneath his eye. What the heck? I watch him run a tatted hand through his spikey, dark brown hair, sending it in all directions.

Finally, he turns to sit down with only a general glance in my direction, but it only takes a second to peer into his vacant stare and know. I don’t notice the rich color of molasses looking my way. I don’t dwell on the perfect oval shape of them either. My heart stops, choking the blood flow to my body. I gape into Rhye Clark’s dark abyss. An empty, soulless cavity.

An uncontrollable full-body shiver shakes me to my core, and my world changes. Instantly. Irrevocably.

“God, why can’t I just die?”
I think to myself, ignoring some chick that’s getting her stare on. I’m not sure what I just told that Ryan dude other than my name. Everything is jumbled up in my head. Too much static. I stumble over to sit in one of the black, cushioned chairs, leaning my head back and closing my eyes.

I had to listen to Josh trying to wake me up all morning. “Rhye, you are going to be late. Rhye, its eight o’clock. Rhye, it’s ten o’clock.” I came up with inventive ways for him to go fuck himself and told him in detail every time he came into my room. Stupid motherfucker.

This morning, after only sleeping a total of an hour because of insomnia, I woke up sick to my stomach, and my knees ached like a son of a bitch. Classic withdrawal symptoms of coming off the “H”. It’s their fault in the first place. Even after taking a long, hot shower, I can’t clear my thoughts. The only reason I didn’t stay in bed is because of homicide. I was two seconds from committing it had I not left. Josh would have been famous though.

Taking in a huge gulp of air, I know that my rolling stomach has to be empty after having the squirts this morning. Fuck, I blew that bathroom up. Let Josh deal with that shit. Literally.

“Rhye, I’m not sure if you have met Syn Landry?” Ryan asks.

I shake my head, not really caring if I do either. Begrudgingly, I raise my head and open my eyes to look at him. The dude, with that long facial hair of his, red, plaid, button-up shirt, and jean coveralls looks like he should be playing a banjo in a cabin, deep in the mountains somewhere. I get it; this is fucking Tennessee, but really?

“Rhye Clark, please meet Syn. She is a Grammy-nominated and very talented country music artist,” he states, looking from her to me.

Fuck me. Country music? Shit. Damn and hell. I groan, publicly voicing my level of excitement. I hate lame ass country artists. I grew up in Georgia with a bunch of good ol’ boys that listened to that white, trailer trash music.

I turn to see who he is talking to. My eyes travel over her. Damn, did my worst nightmare just come to pass? Me being paired up with a Disney reject? That’s what she looks like anyway. One of those mouse-eared kids that has grown too old for sing-alongs and probably flaunts her shit all over town. I’m sure her name is really Cynthia, but in true bad-girl fashion, she changed it to a wannabe slutty name like Cyn. Any other time, I would be down with accessible ass, but in all honesty, home girl is not my type, and I’m not into statutory rape.