Page 102 of Speak of the Devil

With our mouths attached, caressing tongues, and our hands roaming each other’s bodies, he starts a slow back and forth. This time, we don’t just have sex. We make love.

One a.m. isn’tthe hour I expected to have a private concert with Shane drumming to tracks of guitars of their recent songs. Since the studio is across the hall from his bedroom, the commute was easy at this hour.

Concert posters for Faris Wheel hang on the walls, but there are no frames, only padding to keep it soundproof from the rest of the house. The two Grammys are in a case directly in front of him. Inspiration? Motivation? Maybe both, but it makes me proud as hell as I sit for a personal drum solo.

Wrapped up in one of his long-sleeved T-shirts that has me drowning in cotton fabric, I sit in a black velvet chair in the corner with my legs tucked under me, mesmerized by his talent.

Closing his eyes, Shane loses himself in the music, letting the rhythm take over. When he opens them, the drums are loud and hit with a passion that seems to come from deep inside him, like there is no other option for him. But the way he weaves the melody in with the ear-catching beats has me astounded.

I could never deny my sexual attraction to him, and seeing him shirtless with sweat running down his forehead, the muscles in his arms and abs flexing, is making it even harder at this moment.

He puts all of himself into the song—body and soul. I can imagine he does this and more during a live performance. The sticks are dropped into a pocket hanging from what I learned is a snare drum earlier when he taught me a few paradiddles. “Are you tired?” he asks, rubbing his shoulder.

“I’m getting there, but I’m good to hang out a little longer if you want to play some more.”

Spinning off his stool, he stands. “No,” he replies, heading for the door. “I’m going to shower and then crash.” His mood has shifted in the past hour or so since we came into his studio. It’s late, and I’m sure he’s exhausted, especially after that workout on the drum kit. I could barely keep my eyes open when he was inspired to play.

“Oh.” I stand, coming toward him. “Alright. You can crash after playing like that?”

“Yep.” He hits the switch behind me and closes the door to the room. “I had to learn that trick years ago if I wanted to sleep while on tour. I could fall asleep in the middle of an arena. Tours are loud and chaotic. We had to get sleep when and where we could the first couple of years we toured. One of us was stuck driving while the others hunkered in the back of a Suburban.” We enter the bedroom, and he chuckles to himself. “I used to sleep in a sleeping bag wedged between the bass drum and a bag of cables.”

“Now look at you with this glorious bed to sleep in.”

Wrapping his right arm around my waist, he pulls me to him. “It’s not the bed I look forward to sleeping in. It’s having you here.” He takes a breath that appears to sober him. “I’m going to take a shower.”

Craving the closeness, I hold him to me. His heat is intense after that workout, yet the sweat doesn’t bother me, not when I’m living my very whirlwind romance. “I’ll wait up for you.”

“You don’t have to.” He kisses the corner of my eye. “You look sleepy. Go to bed. I’ll be out shortly.”

I step back, but he pulls me in again, cradling my head. With his lips pressed to the top of it, he whispers, “I love you.”

His tone borders on a goodbye more than a good night. I look up, needing to see his eyes and hoping for insight into hisfeelings. I could ask a thousand questions, but I’m learning that doesn’t always get me the answers with him. I don’t want to read too much into something that can most likely be explained by the late hour.

He’s probably just tired. The past two days have been exhilarating and exhausting. It’s caught up with me, so I’m sure he’s feeling the weight of it as well. “I love you, too.”

We kiss before he retreats into the bathroom. When he shuts the door, a bar of light at the bottom is all that connects the two rooms. Though my chest feels empty without him as if he took that into the other room with him.

I sit on the edge of the bed, listening to the faintest sounds of the shower running. Not a peep from him, no singing while washing up. Silence. There’s no sleeping when I feel like something might be wrong.

I pad across the floor and crack open the door. It’s already steamy in the room from the hot water running, but not so much that I can’t see him through the clear glass of the shower. With one hand pressed high to the stone wall, Shane’s eyes are closed, and his head lowered.

There’s very little movement, really only the water pouring over him, pounding his neck and covering his shoulders. There’s such peace found in the moment, but also sadness. I want to go to him, but does he want me to?

I take the chance and strip off the T-shirt. I open the door, the sound alerting him to my presence. Opening his eyes, he lowers his arm when he sees me. And then, he offers me his hand. I slip mine in his and am pulled straight into his ardent embrace. My head is kissed, and then my cheek, the water soaking me as he douses me with sweet affection.

Reaching up, I caress his face. “Talk to me. Tell me what’s going on.”

He searches my eyes for a moment before he says, “I’m having trouble with my left shoulder.”

The image of him leaning against the shower wall comes back, him rubbing his shoulder when he brusquely stopped playing, even the arm he held me in the bedroom. I turn to his left and kiss the arm that’s holding me like I’m precious cargo despite the pain. “For how long?”

“A while.” A grimace sits squarely on his face, telling me more than he has. Men and their pride.Geez.

“The past few months, the past year?”

“About five years on and off.”

“Oh, Shane.” Five years with pain? He’s stronger than he needs to be and too stubborn to ask for help. I run my fingers gently over the culprit shoulder. “This is not my area of expertise, but tomorrow, I can do an assessment of sorts so we can get you in to see the right specialist. Do you think it’s your rotator cuff or muscular?”

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