Chapter 8
eight
Bailey
M arcus sleeps through the day, the night, and well into the next day. I can’t imagine what he’s feeling, what he’s been through with his wild creative process. The curiosity to hear the songs he’s written is high enough to make me jittery, but even though he hasn’t woken any of the times I’ve checked on him or brought fresh water, I won’t even touch his work.
I know all too well what it feels like when someone breaks a confidence. The pain of how the man I thought I was starting to love used me and stole my work is still fresh enough to bring the sting of tears. When he turned some background music up loud and tried to seduce me in the workroom, he hadn’t taken no for an answer. Until he knocked over and broke a carboy containing the successful results of my experiments for a new Brachetto d’Acqui.
The light red wine flowed across the floor like my life’s blood.
Then when our argument rose above the music to catch the attention of the winery owner, the bastard blamed me. Said I came on to him. The open buttons on my shirt didn’t help my case.
My anger exploded when he showed the owner his notes. I hadn’t been careful about protecting my observations, tweaks, and recipes. I thought we were partners. But no, he’d copied every page from my journal. When I tried to show the owner the original notations, the prick had obviously altered or erased what I’d written.
There aren’t enough expletives and bad names to use for him.
Next thing I knew, he was cozied up to the winery owner’s daughter and I was out of a job. With no positive recommendation from my first position, no one was interested in hiring me for my second.
Until I met Alice. She’s got an obvious soft spot for hard luck cases. And I was clinging desperately to my last hopes. The Turquoise Creek Winery gave me a chance and I’m not going to ruin this opportunity.
Nor will I break Mars’ unspoken trust.
Enough thinking about shit I can’t change. I pat under my damp eyes with a napkin and glance toward the bedroom door. I can, and will, go forward from now on. I wouldn’t mind moving forward with him.
Another internet search last night gave me little more information about the man than I already knew. All the bio posts were essentially the same and obviously taken from a single source. Even though he’s a very public personality when he performs, there isn’t much truly personal info available about him, his family, or his past. It must be extremely difficult to keep that kind of information private. No wonder he’s hiding out here for a few weeks.
If he doesn’t get up soon, I’m going to wake him, if for nothing more than to make him eat again. To that end, I preheat my seldom used oven and follow the instructions on another of Georgia’s meals, this one a beef casserole topped with neat rows of potato puffs. It’s a blast from the past. This was one of my few favorites in my grade school lunchroom.
While the casserole is baking, I attempt to actually work on the wine I’m creating. I’ve already filled pages of my journal with notes and possibilities. All I need to get started is that shipment of grapes. Once again I set my work aside and with my chin resting in my palm, just watch the bedroom door.
My thoughts are floating aimlessly through sensual possibilities when the door opens and Mars pauses to look around the room. His gaze lands on me and he smiles. My world brightens like a switch has been turned on. My heart rate speeds up and my skin tingles with excitement.
How does he do that? No wonder he’s a star with thousands of screaming female fans.
“Bailey,” he says, his voice rough and gravelly. “How long?”
Even though I know pretty much down to the minute, I glance at the clock on my stove. “Almost thirty hours.”
His brows arch. “No wonder I’m starving.”
With a wave, I invite him closer. “There’s a tater tot casserole in the oven that’s almost done. I was planning to wake you then.”
He sits at the island, braces his elbows on the quartz surface and scrubs his face with both hands. Still holding his head, he glances sideways at me. “Thanks for keeping watch.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I felt you there sometimes.” He straightens and faces me. “But I couldn’t make myself wake up. Like when you brought fresh water. Brushed back my hair. I knew when you just stood there watching me sleep.”
Determined not to blush at being caught staring, I busy myself putting plates and silverware on the counter.
“It didn’t bother me,” he says, his voice gaining strength and clarity. “Made me feel cared for. I’m not accustomed to that. Usually I’m alone when I come out of those creative spells. And I’ve never felt this good, this whole and… repaired I guess is a fairly accurate word. Again, thank you, Bailey. You helped me feel human again.”
How does someone reply to that kind of a statement? I should say something rather than just stare at him. Sadly, I don’t have the words. I’m not creative like he is. His lips press to a soft, flat line and I feel I’ve disappointed him. I know that’s silly, but I still don’t know what to say. Or do.
“Come here, beautiful.” He holds out one hand and I take it without question. With a gentle tug he pulls me closer until I’m standing between his legs, his inner thighs pressing against my hips. After encouraging me to hold my palms against his chest, he rests his hands at my waist. “One of the things I thought about as I drifted in and out of sleep, that thing that helped me stay grounded, was kissing you again.”
“Stay grounded?” I say then catch my lower lip between my teeth at such a stupid sounding response.
Watching my face, he nods. “When the song writing force fades, sometimes it’s difficult not to slide away with it. So hard to open my eyes to reality again. There is a comfort in madness, you know.”
“I don’t understand.”
“When I’m lost, being controlled by the compulsion to create, it doesn’t matter what’s going on around me. There have been times I wished I remained unaware of life. Times I tried to force myself into the creative madness.”
His sad smile breaks my heart. “But you’ve always come back?”
“Yes. Always.” His expression eases. “And now, I know I’ll always want to return. I have something, someone to return for.”
My confusion must show on my face because he caresses my cheek. “You, Bailey. You’re my anchor. You ground me. I don’t know how, or why. I do know that I’m going to kiss you.”
His fingers slip to the back of my neck as he eases me closer, giving me the opportunity to deny him. As though I would—considering I’ve been thinking way too much about kissing him, too.
He nips at my lips, teasing with quick darts of his tongue. He’s trying to go slow, but I want none of that. I want his lips hard against mine, his tongue exploring and determined. No tentative pressure, just heat and desire. I turn my head and whisper, “I want a real kiss, Marcus.”
He jerks back, surprise parting his firm lips. “A real kiss? Every kiss I plan to give you is a real kiss.”
“I’m… I’m attracted to you.” My face flames. Damned fair skin. “I want to know if you… I mean it’s okay if you don’t. I?—”
His lips firmly on mine stops my rambling speech and calms my whirling thoughts. The masterful way he takes my mouth is exactly what I’d hoped for. Fisting a handful of my hair, he pulls my head back to press hot kisses at the base of my neck. His teeth trail a hint of sharpness to the tender spot where my neck meets my shoulder where his bite is no longer gentle.
His rough chuckle vibrates deep in my core and I moan and undulate against him. With the sharp sting when he tangles more of my hair in his fist I offer him the other side of my neck. He strokes his tongue over my collarbone then sucks hard on my skin.
“Yes,” I moan, clutching his shirt in my fists. I want him to mark me. My breath catches in my throat. I want what? That’s not like me. What am I doing? Then his mouth covers mine again. Hard, Demanding. Yes, oh god, yes… this is what I want.
Despite my moan of denial, he lifts his head. His expression is as amazed and confused as my emotions. There are no words spoken as he disentangles his fingers from my hair and I smooth the wrinkles in his shirt. We remain in a soft embrace, simply looking into each other’s eyes until he slowly pulls back. I frown until the rude buzzing of the stove’s timer registers past my sensual haze.
I ease from his warmth but he grabs my hand before I escape and kisses my palm. “We’re not done, Bailey. Not by a long shot.”
“No, we’re not, Mars. But the casserole is.”
Conversation while we eat is easy as we tell each other about our lives. From the hesitancy of his speech, I know he’s holding back, hiding something. I’m not much better, only saying that a disagreement over methodology caused me to leave my previous position. Hopefully I made it sound like I made the choice to leave, not that I was summarily fired.
Mars doesn’t talk much about the life of a rock star, keeping his focus on the music itself. He confides that someday he’d love to write music for movie soundtracks—not necessarily rock and roll though. I haven’t listened to much of his music, I’m more of an oldies girl, but from what I have heard, I sense the talent behind the hard riffs and powerful drumbeats.
Mars stretches then stands and reaches his arms toward the ceiling, lifting his shirt and exposing his taut stomach and the hint of powerful abs. “I need to move,” he says as he twists his torso. “Nearly a week cramped over compositions or sleeping off my creative hangover has made me stiff.”
I can’t help myself. My gaze drops to the bulge at the front of his sweats. I swear it’s the only thing holding them on his hips.
He clears his throat and uses two fingers to point to his eyes. “Eyes up here, beautiful. I need to go clean up the mess I left. Can I come back when I’m done?”
“What if I help?” I can’t bear to let him out of sight. He won’t be here long and I’m discovering how greedy I am. I want as much time with him, as much of him, as possible.
He hesitates for a long moment. “No one’s ever seen the aftereffects. But I guess you already have. I would appreciate the help.” He gives me a wicked grin and the nearly physical touch of his gaze skims me from head to toe then back to settle on my mouth. “Then we’ll get back here sooner.”
“Yes, we will.”
“I’m thinking maybe a movie and popcorn? I haven’t had the opportunity to see any of the recent releases. Uh, you do have streaming?”
Dragging my mind back from my own longing, I find myself laughing. “I do. And plenty of popcorn and butter.”
“I’m in heaven.”
As we walk to his guest house he grows serious. “The reason I didn’t want anyone to come clean is because sometimes I discover hidden bits of lyrics or melodies mixed in with the trash. And often those bits complete a song. Or hint at another. It feels like… like I’ve hidden parts of myself so that no one can put the whole me together.”
“That’s deep.”
He gives a self-deprecating snort. “Everyone has hidden bits. Let’s not worry about them and see if we can make taking care of this mess fun.”
By the time we have the cabin cleaned and messaged Alice about the trash, the sun hovers low over the rolling hills to the west. His steps are slow, dragging. We should have taken the ATV. He’s not recovered from his song writing bender. As much as I want to invite him to my bed tonight, he needs more rest and healing. I drizzle butter over a huge bowl of popcorn while he chooses a movie.
The fourth time his eyes close and his hand drops to his side spreading puffy kernels over his lap, I turn off the movie. He sighs when I kiss his cheek. “Marcus, go to bed.”
His eyes remain closed. “With you?”
“Not tonight. You still need to rest. I’ll be here in the morning.”
“We goin’ plum pickin’ tomorrow?”
I’d forgotten I mentioned harvesting wild plums to him. “Only if you’re up to it.”
He shakes his head as though clearing cobwebs. “Beautiful, I’ll always be up for you.” A yawn shakes his entire body. “M’be not tonight though. Tuck me in?”
In the bedroom, he throws back the covers then pulls off his tee and shoves his sweats down his legs. He’s… naked. Gloriously naked. Before I drop my gaze to stare at my toes, the shape of his cock is burned into my brain. Dear god, he’s beautiful. I’m going to dream of how he’ll look long and hard in my hand, the head glistening… shit. If I’ll even be able to sleep. I don’t want to disturb him, so no noisy toys tonight.
There’s the soft sounds of him settling on the mattress. The swoosh of the sheets as hopefully, he covers himself. “Good night kiss?”
Carefully, I lift my gaze. He’s lying on his side, snuggled into his pillow, the sheet pulled up over his shoulder. How can such an innocent pose be so damn sexy?
Leaning over, I tug the sheet a fraction of an inch higher then brush his hair back from his face. My soft kiss graces his forehead. “Sleep well, Marcus.”
“… too, beautiful. I love you.”
Wait. What did he mumble? No. He couldn’t have said that. And even if he did, he wouldn’t mean it. Probably something he says to any of his legion of fans as a way to get them into his bed. After my response and active participation in our kisses, he should realize he doesn’t need artifice and pretty words to have sex with me.
After the betrayal of my last so called lover, I thought I was done with relationships. Then I saw Marcus from a distance. I was hooked. A self-important and oft proclaimed god of rock and roll should have been easy for me to ignore even with my initial, strong physical reaction.
Now I’ve gotten to know him. A least a part of the real man behind the publicity, the spirit and heart of him.
I want him and for once I’m taking what I want.
So, do I now count myself part of his hoard of groupies? Maybe is the only answer I come up with. What I’ve listened to of his music is okay, but often harsher than I enjoy.
Still, that probability doesn’t alter the fact my entire body reacted with pleasure when he said, ‘I love you’. I back from the room and close the door. Those words, and how I responded need to stay in that room.