Chapter 3 Ashton
ASHTON
Sometimes I wonder if my life would be like this
if I’d just forwarded that stupid message to ten people back in middle school.
Oh well . . . You live and learn.
—Ashton’s Secret Thoughts
The faint buzzing in my head is absolutely not a good thing.
Buzzing isn’t good. My body is my tool. It’s how I make my living.
I take care of it. I rarely drink. Don’t smoke.
Have never touched an illegal substance.
I drink plenty of water, train every single day, and do my best to get a solid eight hours of sleep as often as I can.
I know my body. I listen to it. It doesn’t buzz.
Waking up to a drum line using the inside of my head as a practice field is definitely the first indication something is seriously wrong . . .
And the second?
Oh, that would be the ache I feel in places that haven’t ached in a very, very long time.
This is so not good.
My eyes feel like they’re glued shut, and it takes a monumental effort to force one open.
And . . . Oh God, I regret it immediately. Sandpaper feels like it’s replaced my eyelid.
Why the hell is it so bright in my—wait . . . I pull the blanket up and, oh shit—this itchy thing definitely isn’t the blanket from my bed, and, oh God, no . . . I’m naked under it.
Naked.
I don’t sleep naked.
I don’t ever sleep in less than flannel pajamas or sometimes full-on sweats. My roommates and I are way too cheap to turn the heat up in our apartment. We’re barely home, and when we are, we layer. It works and keeps the electricity bill down.
Which leads me to—why am I naked?
I can’t be . . . Please let me be wrong.
I peek under the blanket just to make sure I’m not imagining this . . .
Son of a bitch.
I’m not wrong, and I’m not clothed.
This can’t be good.
No sweats.
No flannels.
Not even a sock in sight.
Holy. Shit.
The only thing covering me is this thin, white, starched, itchy blanket and one big-ass arm. An arm that doesn’t belong to me. One that’s draped around my waist. A truly masculine arm wrapped in ink and corded muscle that absolutely isn’t supposed to be lying possessively across my body.
I think I’m going to be sick.
As if all this isn’t enough to send me spiraling, that massive arm I’m going to act like isn’t attached to anything or anyone pulls me back against an equally massive body, and the face attached to that body buries itself against my neck and inhales with a sexy hum.
So much for acting.
Mother. Fucker.
The room spins before righting itself again, and last night comes crashing back into crystal-clear focus. So clear, it’s in flawless, beautiful Technicolor.
The canceled flights.
The hotel.
The champagne and complete lack of food . . . unless you count chocolate.
Damn it. I seriously should have eaten something yesterday.
Or maybe not have finished a magnum of champagne.
The asshole with his arm around me, holding me like—fucking hell—like he gave me orgasms . . . So many orgasms I lost count after—what . . . five?
Internally I squeak. Externally I’ve been rendered mute.
Chaos . . . I swear to God, chaos follows me everywhere I go, and last night, I grand jetéd right into its arms. His arms. Jamie’s arms. Chaos’s arms.
What-the-fuck-ever.
I leaped, and now I’m screwed.
Was screwed.
What’s the proper tense when you were an active participant in the screwing?
Because I’m fairly certain I gave as good as I got.
I gave with so much enthusiasm—
Oh God . . . Kill me now.
Slowly, with the careful grace only a lifetime spent working with the best ballet masters in the world could give me, I roll over, barely moving Jamie’s massively muscled arm, only for my stomach to flip when the rest of him comes into view.
And yup, there he is. The literal bane of my existence.
Screw him for looking so goddamned good.
The morning light streams in through the curtains we never bothered to close last night, catching on his warm hair and sun-kissed skin. How is this man sun-kissed in the middle of February?
I allow myself a single moment to drag my eyes along his big body, and holy fucking hell . . .
Jameson Murphy is more beautiful than a damn Adonis. All gorgeous golden skin covering massive muscle, and—oh lord—that ink wrapping around his arms and down his chest. Ink I traced with my fingers and my lips, and son of a bitch, my tongue.
My vision darkens as flashes of Jamie lifting me in the air and sliding inside—
I press my thighs together and accidentally knock against his—
No. No. No . . .
I want to say I did not sleep with Jameson fucking Murphy.
I need to say it.
Every single molecule in my body demands I scream it from the rooftop of this shitty airport hotel. But even if after last night I should probably consider myself a bit of a hussy, as of this morning, I’m still not a liar.
“Stop thinking so loud, Ace. It’s early, and your feet are fucking freezing.
Come here.” His sleep-thickened voice, deep, and raspy, and incredibly sexy, curls around me the same way his body does.
Jamie tugs me closer and rubs his hot feet over my cold ones, holding me captive as I suddenly become very aware of every single inch of my body pressed closely to his.
The way the backs of my legs feel against his thighs. My ass against his—
Nope. Not going there.
Jamie kisses my temple, thankfully interrupting that train of thought before it can speed right off the tracks. “Relax, Ashton. I’ve got you . . .”
That’s what I’m afraid of—
Any other day.
Any other man.
Any other time, and maybe I could relax.
Maybe I could forget about the shit show waiting for me in Kroydon Hills and sink back into this man and the way my body danced under his last night. The way I came alive with each touch. The way I want to dance the encore this morning, even if I know it’s a horror-film-worthy bad idea.
My phone vibrates again, and I feel the damn thing like it’s cracking against the walls inside my skull.
I guess that explains the buzzing from earlier.
Only this time, I’m conscious enough to realize not only is it a phone, not a drum line, but shit—it’s Jamie’s phone, not mine because I’m the asshole who let myself fall so deep into my own pity party last night that I never charged my own phone.
Jamie presses his lips to my temple, and another image assaults me like a sucker punch straight to the gut. The kind that steals your breath and doubles you over as you fight to remain on steady feet. Because this image is visceral. I see it. I feel it. I taste it.
Jamie’s massive body hovering above mine, beautiful and powerful.
Moving inside me.
His giant hands framing my face. So big but so gentle.
His—
The vibrating stops, and a puzzle piece snaps into place somewhere in the deep recesses of my hungover brain.
Shit.
My eyes fly open as icy cold fear trickles down my spine.
Our flight.
“Jamie, check your phone,” I snap, yanking the sheet up to my chin and pushing out of his hold and off the bed, searching for my clothes. “Has our flight been rescheduled?”
He sits up, and my breath catches in my throat.
Seriously . . . this man is beautiful. His vibrant green eyes crinkle at the corners as he stretches slowly and reaches over to grab his phone like we’ve got the luxury of time on our side.
Newsflash—we don’t. I don’t. Not even if—
Nope. I’m absolutely not going there.
The flickers of last night don’t hold a candle to the real thing right in front of me.
Close enough to touch. To taste. To get lost in. Again.
Jamie’s muscles bunch as he turns, and yes, I stop breathing.
Because apparently, I’m a certified psychopath who had the best sex of her life with her sworn enemy, and instead of jumping the hell out of this bed and running anywhere that isn’t here, I’m standing still, a sheet wrapped around me and what I can assume is a rat’s nest on my head, staring at him with what I can only guess is, at the very least, a little bit of drool pooling in the corner of my mouth.
But really, how could I not?
He’s a work of art. A big, broad, beautiful work of art.
I’m used to dancers’ bodies. Long and lean, emphasis on lean. Beautiful, graceful muscles strong enough to throw themselves and me into stunning turns and exquisite lifts, graceful leaps, and gravity-defying spins. Muscles that have held me. Caught me. Carried me.
Safe muscles.
Safe men.
What I’m seeing now is anything but what I’d call graceful.
And it’s certainly not safe.
He’s not safe.
Jameson Murphy looks more like a gladiator ready to do battle than a dancer ready to step on stage. His strength is different. Primal. Still stunning but in a beautifully dangerous way.
Why is that so damn attractive?
And that ass . . . Fuck Captain America because this man . . . this man has America’s ass.
Chris Evans doesn’t have anything on Jamie Murphy.
“Shit,” he groans as his head drops, and my nerves skyrocket.
We can’t both freak the fuck out.
Not now.
And I call dibs.
“What?” I ask, snapping out of my lust-filled, exhaustion-fueled stupor.
Fear trumps lust all day, every day. “Is the airport still shut down? Are we stuck here another day?” I mean, that would mean one more day before I have to deal with my mother and the very different type of storm waiting for me in Kroydon Hills, but it would also mean one more day before I put this all behind me.
My eyes flutter back down over Jamie’s abs stacked like perfect building blocks, stopping at where a thin blanket is draped across his hips, and get stuck on those two perfect muscles creating that delicious V.
The one that sends my mind spiraling. Pretty sure I sucked that spot last night before I sucked—
Oh, fuck me.
Total hussy.
But at least it was fun.
Even if I’ll take that thought to the grave. “Well? What does it say?”
“It says our flight leaves in an hour and ten minutes.”
Total. Chaos.
One hour and five minutes later, I slide into my economy window seat at the back of the plane, thankfully having passed right by Jamie sitting by himself in first class.
We were in such a rush getting out of the hotel room, we didn’t even have time to talk.
Not that he didn’t try, but it was easy to block him out as I ran in circles looking for my bra.
Unfortunately, that new flight time didn’t leave me room for a shower, so as I sit here, I still smell him on my skin and feel him—everywhere.
I drop my head back against the seat and turn my face to the warm sun streaming through the window, watching as we taxi for takeoff, the bright white snow lining the side of the runways nearly blinding as it reflects the even brighter morning light. Not a single ounce of fog in sight.
“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” the captain’s voice comes over the loudspeaker.
“Today’s flight looks like it’s going to be about two hours and forty-three minutes.
We’re going to try to fly around the storm that hit us in Chicago yesterday, but I’m expecting a bit of a bumpy ride to Philadelphia.
Please stay seated and keep your seat belts on.
Your flight attendants will be around shortly for drink service. Thanks for flying with us today.”
With my eyes closed, I lean my head against the window and pray for a quick flight, but like everything else in my life, that doesn’t happen.
The woman in the center seat pulls out her laptop as soon as we’re in the sky, hitting me with her carry-on and computer before she gets her mini office situated.
Even though I try to make myself as small as possible against the far side of my seat, her boney elbow continuously jabs into me.
But it’s not until the person in front of me reclines their seat all the way back that claustrophobia begins to set in.
I’m in the last row. I have nowhere to go and no way to recline.
Between all-elbows next to me and the guy I’m referring to as daddy longlegs in front of me, I’m smooshed into what feels like a tiny hole.
And I don’t even have a charged phone to connect earbuds to so I can tune out the world and fall asleep.
It’s going to be a long two hours.
At least if I could sleep, I could shut down my rapidly running thoughts.
I’ve always been someone with a noisy brain.
That person who is a terrible sleeper because I just can’t quiet the noise.
It’s so easy to hyper fixate on whatever the newest issue is.
Struggling with a combo on stage. Or with finances. Or with my family . . .
Hell, sometimes I can’t sleep because I’ve watched one too many episodes of Criminal Minds, and my brain won’t stop thinking about all the ways the locks on my apartment door suck, or how many people see me go about the same routine day in and day out.
Have I made it too easy to be grabbed and bagged for human traffickers?
The constant noise is incredibly annoying most days.
Today, it’s maddening loud.
Today, every time I close my eyes, I see Jameson Murphy. Naked. And guess what?
I don’t hate him any less now that I’ve had his penis in my mouth than I did before he gave me five—no, six—orgasms. I’m not sure even my favorite vibrator has managed that feat in one night, which I’m pretty sure makes me hate Jamie more, not less.
And then there’s Finn.
What the hell am I supposed to tell my best friend?
Oh hey, buddy. I screwed your brother senseless. You know, the one I can’t stand. Yeah, that one. By the way, his dick is as massive as his ego. Maybe that’s why he’s always been such an asshole.
I’m sure Finn would just love that.
He and Jamie are close but in a kind of competitive way.
Jamie’s always been the brawn to Finn’s brain. Even when Finn played football in high school and college, he was never as big or as good as Jamie. But when it came to studying and book smarts, Finn was the one who shined.
I could always just not tell him.
Act like last night didn’t happen.
That seems like the best course of action, even if it’s the coward’s way out.
Of course, it would’ve helped if we’d discussed exactly just how last night didn’t happen, so Jamie and I could be on the same page.
But that would have meant talking to him, and there was no time for that.
Not to mention there’s no possible way I had the mental capacity to deal with that conversation before an inordinate amount of caffeine. Something I’ve still yet to have.
By the time our flight lands, I’ve been up for four hours, had one incredibly crappy-ass coffee, no Wi-Fi, no nap, and no way to speak to my mother’s attorney.
Basically, I’m the chaos I’m typically bitching about.
I guess it’s time to embrace the bitch.