Chapter 34
34
Cate
Shane kisses the inside of my wrist, then holds it to his chest. “I should warn you.”
“I’m too comfortable to be worried. Warn away.” Making a sheet angel with my free arm and leg, I ask, “How is this the most comfortable bed that ever existed? What count are these sheets?”
He chuckles. “I have no idea. I didn’t buy them.”
I still, looking at him on the next pillow over from me. “Who did?”
“I don’t know.”
Rolling onto my side, I snuggle against him and prop my leg over the top of his. If I could climb inside this man, I would. The closer, the better. “I want a bed fairy when I grow up.”
“You can have mine.”
Doodling across his chest with my fingertips, I ask, “Do I even want to know how many women have enjoyed this bedding and mattress?”
“We said no pasts.” His tone is tempered, but he’s right.
“Ah, yes, we agreed,” I admit begrudgingly because my mind is already spinning, imagining a high number being pulled from a bingo basket.
“One.”
Okay . . . I don’t love it, but it beats two or ninety-nine. “She must have been special to be the only one before me.”
“She wasn’t before you, Cat. She is you. You’re the one.” He drapes his arm over his head. “Now I sound like an asshole feeding you lines.”
“There can never be too much romance, Shane.”
“Good.” He pulls me on top of him, running his hands over my hips. “Because you’re the only one I want in my bed.”
“Yeah, that’s too much.” When his eyes widen, I laugh. “I’m kidding. I’m kidding.” I lean down and kiss him, lingering against his lips. “Tell me again. I’ll be serious this time.”
“I’m not falling for your tricks. I can tell you’re delirious.”
“How can I not be? I reunited with my high school crush, who happens to be an amazing musician, though he never plays for me.” He laughs, the sound rumbling around the abs I’m currently straddling, causing me to wiggle because it feels so good.
“Drums aren’t usually the woo-a-girl instrument, but I’ll play for you. I also play bass guitar. I clearly chose the wrong instruments to get the girls or the glory.”
“It was never about your talent, babe. You got the girl anyway.”
Running his hands up my back, he pulls me down and kisses my neck. He tilts to catch my eyes, and says, “I did indeed.”
“Correction. It was never about your musical talent. As for your tongue—Ah!” He flips me to the bed and crashes his lips into mine. Reaching between us, I position myself at his tip, rocking to inspire him.
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’t the 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 his feelings. 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?”
“I don’t know. Both probably.”
“Why haven’t you had it looked at?”
He releases a sigh, then looks down as shame weighs down his brow. “I’m the third member in a band. Number one spot goes to Nikki. Two is her twin. There’s no slacking. There are no off days allowed. I have to earn my spot every time I walk onto that stage.”
“I thought you guys were close.”
“We are. Laird’s my best friend, and I love Nikki like my own sister. But they’re moving on with their lives. Tours are scheduled around what’s best for them while I’m given scraps. It’s not their fault. They’d never get rid of me. I can’t show weakness, though. They have families now. Music is all I have.”
There’s so much to unpack, but he’s been silently suffering, making the injury worse because he believes he’s replaceable. I hug him. I don’t know how to fix this, but I do recognize that he’s trusted me. Over his cousins and managing team, he told me. I hold him tighter. “You have me. We’ll get it looked at, and we don’t need to tell anyone.” When he lifts my chin and our eyes connect, I’m glad he can’t tell my tears from the water raining down on us. He doesn’t need to worry about me. I’ll be there however he needs. “Tonight, though, let’s get some rest. I’ll make some calls after the holiday weekend.”
“I’d have a big garden with flowers overflowing the beds in the front and back of the house. Fruit trees to pick our own lemons and limes, oranges, and figs. Avocados, of course.”
Standing at the edge of the pool, looking over the property, he turns back and smiles. “Of course.” His mood has shifted this morning. A spark resides in his eyes as if a weight has been lifted. I’m glad he’s allowing me to take on some of his burdens. That’s what partners do. Though the sex this morning could have played a part in improving his mood as well. It was amazing.
“Lots of vegetables in raised beds.” His beautiful backyard has a stunning view, but there’s not much space to do what I’d like to accomplish with my home. I sip my coffee, knowing I’m getting ahead of myself. “And lots of kittens.”
“Kittens turn into cats.”
“That’s why I want them. I could never have a pet growing up. We moved around too much.”
He returns to sit in the chair next to me. “Why is that?”
I shrug, something I generally do when people ask about my parents. It usually works to distract them, but he’s still staring at me like he’s genuinely interested. “Why did we move so much?” I repeat, giving myself time to determine whether I want to talk about this.
“Yeah, you never talk about them. All I know is you moved to La Jolla to live with your grandmother.”
“I was close to her. She had a lot of health problems that she didn’t take care of and passed away before she saw me graduate. That was hard because she encouraged me to go to college and inspired me to go into gerontology. If she would have had the support of a nurse or doctor, I know she would have lived longer.”
His attention doesn’t divert from me even when a bird starts singing from the roofline above us. “She’d be proud of you. I am.”
“You are?” My heart clenches. Swoons. I’m tripping over myself in love with this man, determined to protect what we have at all costs.
“Absolutely. You’re incredible and giving. You care about others and save lives.”
I reach over and cover his hand resting on the table. “I appreciate that, but you do the same in a different way. You may not realize it, but you do. You make people happy by creating music that touches hearts and helps people through hard times. Your songs are played at weddings and baby showers. Music is universal. It’s an art form for a reason. It evokes emotion.”
He covers my hand with his other. “I love you, Cat. It means a lot when people relate to the music, but I want to tell you something. It doesn’t always have to be even, fair, or tit for tat. It’s okay for you to shine your brightest without me needing the spotlight. You don’t need to take the credit away from you by giving it to someone else. You’re amazing. That’s a full sentence. Full stop.”
Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. A tear slips free despite my objections. I tip my head and wipe it away. His words are healing, a balm I didn’t know I needed.
He trusted me with his secret. I can trust him, not only with my heart but with the past that shaped who I am.
“My dad walked out of my life when I was nine and never looked back. It’s like I never existed. Last I heard, he had a new family—two daughters and the son he always wanted—with a woman out in Yuma, Arizona. It’s been a few years, though, so I don’t know if they’re still there.”
The sympathy clouding his eyes is the last thing I wanted. “This is why I don’t like talking about my parents.” I attempt to pull my hand back, but he doesn’t let me. “It makes others feel bad for me, and I feel worse.”
“It wasn’t you, babe.”
“What wasn’t?”
“He left because he’s an asshole. You don’t need to keep dragging his weight around like it’s yours to carry. That’s on him. He’s an asshole, but someone else’s problem.”
“I understand I’m not to blame. I was nine, though. That doesn’t change the hurt I carry. He walked away because I didn’t matter.” I hate the shame that rushes my veins. Logic doesn’t lessen the pain. “I wouldn’t make a sound when he was home to avoid his temper. I had to be perfect because I understood the consequences.”
I take a breath to prevent the mix of anger and frustration from rearing their ugly heads. It doesn’t help. I say, “I’m not carrying that pain around because I want to, but it’s instilled and embedded into who I am. So I don’t talk about it. I don’t think about him or his family in Yuma, my half-siblings. I think about my grandmother who loved . . .” I choke on the grief as it comes rushing back. Struggling to swallow, I lower my head, needing out of his concerned gaze.
The feet of his chair grind against the concrete as he slides it back from the table. He wraps around me from behind, resting his head in the crook of my neck. “He fucking missed out on someone extraordinary. His loss.”
My throat loosens, and a breath finally enters my lungs. No reasoning ever helped heal the pain. It never did, but Shane does. I kiss the arm he’s tucked under my chin and then turn to look up at him. “Thank you.”
His nod is enough as he comes to sit down again, staying on the end of the seat and still holding my hand. Might as well get it all off my chest. “My mom got a job modeling in Paris when I was seventeen. She lied about having a kid and said she was twenty-five. She could pull it off since she had me at sixteen and looked young for her age.”
“How long did that last?”
“Until she met a rich man to marry. They live in Bordeaux. I’ve never been because I’ve never been invited. I’m the dirty secret she carried into her marriage.”
“Shit, Cat. Fucking awful. You don’t talk to her?”
“I get a birthday card some years, if she remembers. She somehow managed to take credit for my hard work in college, saying I got my brains and looks from her. No money. No present. She has millions in the bank and lives the life of luxury in France. I struggled to pay my tuition. My grandmother paid for my room and board. So yeah. That’s what you’re getting into with me.”
“Sometimes people can have it all but don’t realize until they lose it.” Kissing my hand, he says, “I’m not afraid of your past or fears. I can handle orderly, neat, and predictable because I know where that need now comes from.” He brings me to my feet and into his arms. “I can handle you. It’s a privilege, and we can handle anything as long as we’re together.”
I love you doesn’t seem enough for how Shane makes me feel. Safe, for the first time in my life.
And then my leg vibrates. We look between us. I’m already holding my breath while he digs the phone from his pocket. A grin springs to his cheeks as soon as he sees the screen.
Holding it up for me, he says, “It’s Mr. Waldrip.”
“Who’s Mr.— Oh my God ! Our government teacher? How in the world.” I bounce, gripping his arm. “Answer it. Answer it.”
“Hello? Yeah, this is Shane.” He plugs his other ear and walks inside the house. “Thanks for calling me back . . .”
When Shane says he has his ways, I’ll never doubt him again. The man worked miracles in a matter of hours and helped heal a part of me just by being here for me. I love you is definitely not enough for how I feel about him. He’s amazing. Full stop.