Page 52 of Out of the Blue

In Trent’s suite, I do more research into how to overcome writer’s block. If only I could write some lyrics for him, but I’m shit at it. Like most things. Except for social media. I sit taller. Pulling up the band’s Instagram, I get confirmation of my skills as over two hundred responses have been made to Maurice’s post.

Buoyed by my success, I work on the blog post about how TLR got its name. This one’s going to take some time, but I want it to be perfect. Over an hour later, I print it out—thank goodness the suite comes with a mini-business center—and email it to Mr. Hewitt. Resting my head against the cushions, weightlessness flows through me.

I’m good at my job.

If only this would make me good enough.

My gaze travels to my purse, holding my room key. I haven’t told Raine to dispense with getting me a room, even though I haven’t stepped foot in my own quarters for a while. An image of Big Rolls appears in my mind’s eye, and he’s all over his newfiancée.Keep getting those room keys, I remind myself. I’ll never be homeless ever again.

The front door to the suite blasts open and Trent crosses the threshold. In three strides, he grabs me under my arms, lifts me upright, and kisses me with a ferocity I’ve never felt from him. When he releases me, it’s all I can do not to collapse.

Still entwined with him, I ask, “How did it go with your fath—Braxton?”

He disengages and spins so his back is to me. “He’s arranging for the tickets and backstage passes to be left in an envelope at Will Call.”

“That’s good news,” I reply to his back.

He turns his head. “Yeah.” He pauses. “He read me an article from a local Connecticut paper.”

I was so caught up working on the blog posts, I must’ve missed the review. Shit. I have to do better. In a tight voice, I ask, “What did it say?” I hold my breath.

His cheek clenches. “It called me a young Braxton Hunte.”

My eyebrows rise to my hairline. “What?”

He hikes over to the kitchen, takes out a Bud from the fridge, and twists off the cap. After taking a long drag, he slides his thumb over the opening. “Plus,hetold me he likes our band a lot.”

His voice mimics the tenor pitch of his father’s exactly. I don’t dare mention this. However, if he wants TLR to win the competition, the critic’s review—and Braxton’s opinion—will mean something to Apex. And then I can keep paying my bills. Perhaps with some left over to buy new clothes?

Knowing how angry Trent is about this development, I need to be careful with how I get to the root of the issue. “Seems like he’s on your side. I mean, TLR’s side. That’s great, right? What you’ve been working toward?”

Trent doesn’t move. “Of course it is. But I’m not sure how I can survive it.” He licks his lips. “He even gave me some pointers on how to improve.”

I cross some of the distance between us, knowing he’s in a very delicate place. “What do you want to do?”

“I want to get the fuck away from him. And at the same time, I want my band to make it to the next level. It’s our last chance. You know the rest of the guys are married, and they’re ready to start families. If it doesn’t work out this time, we’re breaking up.” His face crumples.

I want to hug him and eliminate his worries. But visions of my own financial situation going up in smoke dance in front of me. I straighten my shoulders. TLR can win. I’ve got to get him focused. “It’s not over yet. There’s still another month of this leg of the tour. You guys are keeping even with California Skies.” Maybe slightly ahead, but I keep this part to myself.

“This situation is so screwed up.I’mso fucked up. I have stage fright that pushes me back on my heels, I can’t write a lyric to save my life, and I’m opening for the frigging man who isn’t even aware he’s my father.”

Despite all my worries, or maybe because of them, my heart breaks in half for the man in front of me. Who seems to be downplaying his major successes, at least in the pre-gig jitters department. “Oh, Trent.”

I can’t stop myself. I cross the remaining space between us and wrap my arms around his middle. Beneath my hands, he’s a solid rock, with no hint of his passionate soul. His pain sears me because I’m so well-acquainted with it. I kiss his heart, which is covered by his shirt, and rest my ear against his hard pecs. His heart rate beats a fast rhythm.

After a few seconds, his arms go around my waist, yet his posture doesn’t waver. I kiss his pecs again. One of his arms travels upward and his fingers thread into my hair, pulling it into a ponytail.

My head falls backward and I stare into his hazel eyes, which are blazing with so many emotions. Pain, anger, frustration, yearning.

Swallowing hard, I whisper, “Take me.” I can offer him this.

Trent’s mouth covers mine in an instant. His hand leaves my waist and slides downward, until he’s cupping my ass. I understand his need—to feel something other than his own reality—and feed it by opening my mouth under his.

He growls. His tongue accepts my offer as he squeezes my butt cheek, all the while he never lets go of my hair. If anything, he exerts more pressure and my neck cranks backward. I raise my leg to his thigh and leave it there.

We remain locked together in this erotic position. Our mouths grind against each other’s, both his hands pumping on various parts of my body, my leg rubbing against his, my arms hugging his trim waist.

He breaks our kiss and trails tiny bites down my exposed neck, which I accept without hesitation. He pants, “I need you.”

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