Page 100 of Stolen Voices
Ripping the foam collar off my neck, I give it a good roll, gauging the lingering pain. It’s stiff, but the shooting pain is gone. Stepping back, I place my hands on my sacrum and lean into a baby back bend. My muscles are sore, but it’s nothing I can’t handle.
I’ve put my body through extensive training for this concert. Daily runs while singing for stamina, weightlifting for strength, and yoga for flexibility and posture. Some bruising on my ass can’t hold me back. My body is no stranger to being sore or in pain.
I pull open the shower door and turn on the water, letting it warm. Stripping off Eli’s shirt and pajama pants, I kick them to the side and scoff at the pile. It was naïve of me to think wearing his clothes was a symbol of belonging to him.
My nose crinkles at the lemon-vanilla shampoo/conditioner and matching body wash that smells nothing like my mom. As a reminder of her since she went away, I’ve been using the same sweet, flowery products she did. I quickly use it, savoring the hot spray for a minute before stepping out of the shower onto the bathmat and reaching for the clean towel hanging over the rack.
In the corner sits the same wooden chair I sat in last night, with my rehearsal bag sitting on top.
I push away the butterflies attempting to soar in my belly, knowing he did all this to help make me comfortable.
Stupid, thoughtful, sexy jerk.
Images of Eli helping me without his shirt on send a shiver down my spine. My thighs clench, recalling his rippling muscular chest and the delicious V that trailed down below his waistband to his cock. His very large and hard cock that I snuggled against, feeling every thick inch of.
Knock it off. Don’t forget he’s trying to run off and leave you here to fend for yourself after kissing you within an inch of your life.
My brain’s reminder has me reaching for my anger again as I go through my bag. I have little in the toiletry department, but I have a face and a body moisturizer, as well as a hairbrush. I search through the vanity drawers to find an unwrapped toothbrush with minty toothpaste and a blow dryer.
If Eli’s running again, he can wait.
With a devious smile, as I take my time with my routine. I rub my floral lotion over my body—making it silky soft—brush my teeth, and carefully dry my hair.
I upend my bag and look at what I have. Luckily, everything I need to survive is in here. Silla loves to throw wrenches at me by changing my schedule and appearances, to watch me fail and force me to turn to her for help. Too bad for her. I’m not good at failing. My bag could rival Mary Poppins’s. Every compartment is stuffed with clean clothes, underwear, dresses, shorts, leggings, tops, and workout gear. Everything.
I opt for a pair of black yoga shorts and a matching sports bra, which makes everything below the neck look smooth and tight, with hints of cleavage, stomach and butt cheeks hanging out.
Eat your heart out, Eli. I’ll teach him to walk out on me. And if he thinks for one second I’m not going home with him, he’s dead wrong.
Chin high, I walk out of the bathroom and out of the empty bedroom toward the living room. I stop in the hallway when I hear other voices besides Eli’s coming from the other room.
Curious, I peek around the corner and find more than I expected.
Mason, whom I recognize from last night, is sitting on the couch next to a gorgeous woman with shimmery honey-brown locks. A man who looks just like Mason and Eli combined—who has to be Jace, the oldest brother—stands behind an insanely beautiful woman who looks like she swallowed a basketball. She’s that pregnant.
A tap on my arm has me swirling around with a yelp.
When I look down, a mini version of the men in the living room is staring up at me with golden-brown eyes. Both his mouth and eyes are comically wide as he gapes at me.
“Hi,” I whisper.
The boy stands frozen, and his little cherub cheeks turn pink as he looks up at me in surprise.
Damn, he’s a little cutie.
“You must be Rhys.”
He nods, still stunned silent.
“I’m Callie.”
“I know who you are,” he mumbles.
Biting back a laugh, I squat down a few inches to look him in the eye. Eli said he’s eight, but he’s a tall eight-year-old. I’m five-seven, and he almost reaches my chest. “You do?”
“Yeah, my best friend, Sadie, watches your movies all the time,” he mumbles, bringing a smile to my face.
“Do you watch them with her?” I ask.
