12. Salt
TWELVE
SALT
“Are you fucking kidding me?” I whispered.
I clutched my guitar against my body and stared at my phone like it was radioactive.
Pepper’s text gleamed on the screen. Do you know of any BDSM clubs you can recommend?
The very thought of her going to one without me sent a wave of jealousy through me that made me nauseous. I stood up from the stool I was perched on, the strap tethering my guitar to me.
I was using my acoustic this morning, a sleek, black dreadnought that always tore up my fingertips after a few hours of practice. I liked the pain, though. It made the music sweeter.
My fingers moved over the strings out of habit. I tipped my head back, staring at the ceiling as I thought about Pepper on her knees for another Dom. Begging them the way she’d begged me.
I’d fucking lose it.
I waited all weekend for her text. All fucking weekend. Then I’d convinced myself that it’d been some sort of wild dream and I’d never see her again.
But here she was. Texting me on a Monday morning, asking me for sex club recommendations.
“Everything alright, man?” Eric asked.
“Yeah,” I said quickly.
I’d forgotten about them the moment her text came through. Jack was fucking around on his bass, the deep notes bouncing through the garage. We were still waiting on Tyler to get here, which would probably be another thirty minutes. He was usually late on Mondays.
“Did anything ever come from those suits at Beaumont’s last Friday?” Jack asked.
Fuck. I needed to stop thinking about her. I turned to look at them, putting my phone in my back pocket. “Well, I have a meeting this Friday with Rosethorn.”
“Hell yeah,” Eric beamed. “That’s great. I’ve heard good things about them.”
“Mostly good things,” Jack snorted. “They treat their artists well but they’re notoriously hard to get signed with. Their CEO is a bitch.”
My nostrils flared. “I met the CEO, and she was nice.”
His brows shot up. “Really? I’ve met her before in passing. I was a replacement for one of their artists. Their bass player was sick so I got a call for the gig. She was cold.”
That was the thing. Pepper was cold.
Except not with me.
“She made one of the sound guys cry.” He laughed. “A big burly dude too. I don’t know. She’s a bitch. The whole industry knows that.”
“Is she a bitch or is she just good at her job?” I snapped.
Jack held up his hands. “Look, man. I don’t know. I’m just telling you what I’ve heard. I’m a feminist.”
Damn. Maybe I needed a new bass player.
He continued before I said anything else. “But maybe you’ll have good luck.”
“Maybe,” I muttered.
I needed to get the fuck out of the garage before I blew up on him.
I throttled the chord I was playing and lifted my guitar, setting it down on the stand. “I’m going to go get some water and something to eat. Do either of you want anything?”
“I’ll take a water,” Eric said.
“I’m good. I’m going to fuck around for a bit,” Jack said, his attention returning to his bass.
I darted through the door that led into the house. The moment I shut it behind me, I pulled my phone from my pocket and texted Pepper back.
No hi? How are you, Salt? Good morning???
Bubbles appeared and then disappeared. I narrowed my eyes as I waited, growing impatient.
Why do you want to go to a BDSM club?
I’m looking for a Dom.
I blinked. Slowly. My heart quickened as I shook my head.
You already have a Dom.
You know it can’t be you, Salt.
I’d given this a lot of thought, between my delusional visions of us having a future together.
1. I’m not a signed artist with your label.
2. It’s not against the law for us to see each other even if I am. I looked it up.
3. I won’t recommend a club or Dom for you. Not sorry. I won’t share you.
1. You have a meeting with my label Friday.
2. No, but it IS unprofessional.
3. It was just a one night stand. I don’t belong to you.
I laughed. She was still fighting. Fighting everything so hard.
I reread her messages, then decided—fuck it. If she wanted something from me, she was going to have to earn it.
I do have club recommendations, but any worth going to, you have to be vetted for. I can get you in, for a price.
Name your price, then.
I have a show tomorrow night at 9PM at Russo’s. You will be there, you will wear a red dress, no panties, but with sheer black tights. Heels. Make sure it’s cheap so I can cut it off while you take my cock.
The bubbles appeared and disappeared a few times. She was probably going to block me. Probably tell Tommy to never talk to me again. And really, that would be best for both of us. To end this before it caught fire and burned us up.
I’ll see you tomorrow. I expect you to get me into the best sex club there is in all of Nashville.
Wouldn’t dream of taking you anywhere else.
The brat responded with a fucking thumbs up. A thumbs up. I glowered at it and sat back.
I’d see her tomorrow. I inhaled slowly and then exhaled. I went to my fridge, grabbed a couple of waters, and uncapped one. I stared at the wall as I downed it, thinking about Pepper.
Beautiful, infuriating, addicting Pepper.
I hummed a melody, thinking about everything I wanted to do to her. I needed to focus on band practice right now. The guys were over, and here I was in my kitchen thinking about fucking her. Imagining putting her in spreader bars, tying a vibrator to her pretty little cunt, and making her weep from the constant barrage of orgasms I would give her.
What would she look like straining against them, fighting every stroke of pleasure? My cock sliding in and out of her mouth, letting her head fall back so she could take me even deeper.
Fuck . I needed her.
I couldn’t get her out of my system. I tried. Because truth be told, she was right. The two of us were so different. Different worlds, different ages, different everything .
But the idea of even attempting to satiate my lust with someone else made me recoil.
I wasn’t sure I was patient enough to wait until tomorrow night. I picked up my phone again and sent another text.
Video call me when you get off work tonight. It’ll be fun.
You’ve lost your mind
You’re too young for me
Twelve years is nothing
Twelve years is A LOT
How about I give you an orgasm for every year between us
Salt, for fuck’s sake. Your frontal lobe hasn’t fully developed.
Maybe, but my cock has. Want to see it?
My god. This is exactly what I’m talking about. Why would sending me a dick pic be something I want?
I laughed again. I knew better than to send one, but it was still entertaining to see her flustered response.
She was really hung up on our age gap. Twelve years wasn’t that much. It’d be different if she were thirty and I was eighteen.
I knew what I wanted. I knew what I liked. And I’d been on my own for years, aside from when Nancy and Beth stepped in. Not only did I technically run my own business, I was building up my music career. Even if the meeting on Friday was a complete failure, I'd been building an audience. I wasn’t sure if they just liked seeing my mask and tattoos or if they actually liked my music, but still.
Besides, I’d be twenty-six soon. My birthday was in just a couple weeks. Less than, actually. I should probably have told her that, but I hated my birthday. It was always the worst day of the year.
I looked at her text message again, and decided to be a little reckless. I pressed the voice recording button.
“ Pepper, I want to see your face tonight, ” I said, keeping my voice low and seductive. “I want to hear about your work day. I want you to touch yourself at my command and help relieve any stress you have from working so hard. Is that such a bad thing?”
I ended the message and hit send.
And strangled a laugh when a voice memo appeared in response. I pressed play.
“ You’re a little shit, ” she snapped. “ You can’t send me things like that while I’m at work. You can’t talk to me that way while I’m in the office. What if someone heard me? ”
I pressed the record button. “ You mean what if you got caught? What if? What if you got caught talking to the twenty-five year old who fucked you all night this past weekend and wants to do it again ?”
I was no psychic, but I could feel her sexual frustration warring with her business brain all the way from here.
She didn’t respond this time. Maybe I’d pushed her too far.
I didn’t regret it, though.
My phone chirped. Another message.
I’m off at 5.