4. Dallas
Four
Dallas
A s soon as the red light blinks off, showing that I’m no longer live on air, I step down from the weather stage and set off to find Shelley. There’s thirty minutes until my next segment; thirty minutes for me to find the make-up girl and do some damage control.
Christ .
I’ll need a hell of a lot of damage control after that mess of a conversation. What was I thinking?
The snack table is busy, with a throng of crew workers arguing with Brenda by the coffee machine, but there’s no sign of Shelley. I check her station too, in case she’s powdering someone in her chair, but nope. She’s turned tail and run.
A headache squeezes my temples.
Can I blame her?
My gut churns as I do a loop of the studio, checking every shadowy corner for a sign of Shelley. Of course she’s disappeared like a wisp of smoke; of course I freaked her out back there. Going on about vices like that, making her uncomfortable.
I should be ashamed of myself. I am ashamed of myself. We’re at work, damn it.
And now I need to find Shelley and apologize—and reassure her that it won’t ever happen again.
“Hey, Dallas.” A voice follows me to the studio back exit, calling over the hubbub. “Dallas!”
Reluctantly, I turn to face the sound guy as he hurries after me, red-faced and panting.
“Yes?” I ask, my voice uncharacteristically sharp with impatience.
Can’t he see that I’m busy? Can’t he tell that I just freaked out the woman I care most about in the world, by clumsily half-confessing my crush?
“You’re still micced.” The sound guy gestures to my lapel, grimacing apologetically. “Sorry, man. You can’t take the kit outside.”
“Oh. Of course.”
Standing stock-still, it takes what feels like a year to get the mic pack off my belt and the wires out from beneath my jacket. The studio lights throb overhead, the argument from the nearby snack table makes my temples ache, and all the while, all I can think about is Shelley.
The way her green eyes went wide when I confessed to having vices.
The way she held her breath, stepping a tiny bit closer. The blush that spread over her cheeks. The way she strained to hear my every word over the din of the studio, pulse tapping in her throat, like she was… like she was hoping for something.
And… what if I didn’t freak her out?
What if she wanted to hear that stuff, and I’m so clueless about women that I missed those cues? What if that was my shot with her and I blew it?
“Nearly done,” the sound guy says, cheerful despite everyone else’s bad moods. “Got all tangled up there, didn’t ya?”
He has no idea.
I nod, jaw clenched, not trusting myself to speak without saying something rude. Shelley . Where did she go?
Thirty seconds later, the heavy door to the TV studio parking lot swings open under my palm. It’s midday, but the dark storm clouds gathered high above make it seem much later. The air is warm, and the static humidity makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.
“Shelley?”
My voice echoes along rows of shiny trucks and expensive cars, all glossy beneath a fine layer of dust. When those clouds finally burst, this whole city will get a good wash, and lots of parched yards will slurp up the rain.
“Are you out here?”
My voice echoes back to me, frayed at the edges. I squint down rows and rows of vehicles as I walk, one after the other, silently cursing my shitty eyesight. The lot is empty, with nothing but a few straggly trees in the distance watching me.
With a sigh, I turn back.
“Hi.”
Biting her lip, Shelley leans against the brick wall of the studio a few feet away. Must’ve been so focused on looking between the cars that I walked right past her.
“Shelley.” Relief makes my shoulders drop, even as my heart punches harder against my ribs. “There you are.”
The make up girl smiles wanly up at me, and there’s none of the usual ease between us. No teasing sparkle in her eye. My ridiculous talk of vices truly has dimmed Shelley’s shine, and now she watches me like a wary bird watching a cat.
My gut sinks.
Hell. The last thing I’d ever want to do is make this woman—any woman—feel unsafe. Shame clogs my throat at the thought, thick and choking.
“About earlier,” I force out, grimacing when Shelley presses her lips together. “About—what I said. I came out here to apologize. That was very unprofessional of me, talking about personal things like that.”
Shelley laughs weakly and shrugs. “Don’t feel bad. Lots of folks confess things to me in my chair. You should hear some of the things the anchors have told me.” She whistles, gaze drifting over my shoulder. Like she can’t bear to look at me too long. “Now that is some juicy celebrity gossip.”
And yet she doesn’t seem scared of any of them .
But then, none of the news anchors are head over heels for Shelley, thinking long and hard about her every night before drifting to sleep. So far as I know, anyway. And if they are… guess they’re smarter than to confess that at work.
“I’m sorry,” I rasp. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”
Shelley nods, but her smile is unhappy. A few escaped strands of her red hair have caught on the brick wall, and all I want to do, more than anything in the world, is step close and brush those hairs back into place.
To crowd her against the wall and kiss her, feel her, press her body close to mine.
To nibble on her jaw and down the soft, creamy line of her neck, until the troubled sadness leaves her eyes.
But it’s thoughts like that which got me in trouble in the first place. So I stay back, keeping a careful distance between us.
“Anyway,” I say. “I didn’t mean to corner you out here.” There’s no need for her to look like a startled woodland creature. “I just came to apologize and to assure that it won’t happen again.”
I’ll go to my grave without ever bothering this woman again, I swear it. I’ll keep a professional distance for the rest of my life, if only Shelley stops looking so guarded.
Overhead, the storm clouds swirl and darken. Thunder rumbles, strong enough to vibrate the concrete beneath our feet.
Beneath my shirt, the hairs on my arms stiffen. It’s coming. Looks like this storm is about to break—and hey, I’ll be the first to report it to the city.
Shelley blinks up at me, doe-eyed and baffled. Guess I don’t know what to make of this whole mess either, so I nod one final time.
“See you in there, Shelley. Don’t stay out too long—it’s about to rain.”
I turn to leave, but a soft voice halts me.
“Wait.”
When I glance back, Shelley’s tongue darts out to wet her lips. She watches me closely, twisting one of the ties of her black apron in her hands.
“She’s lucky,” Shelley blurts, a blush spreading over her cheeks. “Whoever it is that you want when you shouldn’t… whoever you’ve been pining after… she’s lucky, Dallas Adams.”
I swallow hard.
Doesn’t she know? Wasn’t I clear enough?
Christ, I’m not good at this. Squaring my shoulders one last time, I step forward and cup Shelley’s jaw with both hands.
“Oh,” she saws, her chest rising and falling rapidly beneath her tight black t-shirt.
“Yeah,” I say. “Sorry. I thought it was obvious.”
Her laugh is strangled. “Nope.” Two soft hands slide up my forearms to circle my wrists, holding me in place. Holding me to her. Holy hell. “But I’m starting to get it now.”
There’s a flash of lightning overhead; another rumble of thunder. As I lean down, it’s like the whole parking lot is holding its breath, and when our lips finally brush…
Static crawls over my skin, setting my nerve endings alight, while my skin goes hot and tight. One chaste kiss, and already I’ve never felt so alive.
“Huh,” Shelley says, tilting her head and pushing up onto her toes to kiss me harder. My heart riots in triumph, even as my body presses her back against the brick.
“Fuck.” The curse word slips out beneath my breath unbidden, and I feel myself flush hotter.
This is ungentlemanly behavior. Cornering Shelley in the parking lot outside the studio and pressing her up against a brick wall; kissing her hungrily and groaning into her mouth.
None of this is me, none of this is Dallas Adams, and yet with Shelley it feels so right.
“Oh god.” She yanks at my shirt, crumpling the starchy white fabric beneath eager hands. “Oh my god.” She kisses me back again and again, as greedy and desperate as I feel. “I can’t believe this is happening.”
“Me either.”
Another crash of thunder marks the first few spots of rain, gentle at first, then coming down harder and faster, speckling our shoulders and soaking into our hair.
The rain itself is balmy and warm, the scent of damp concrete rising fast and strong, but for once in my life, I barely notice the change in the weather.
Can’t see or feel anything except the woman arching against me, her body catlike as it rubs against mine.
“ Dallas ,” Shelley breathes into my mouth. Her hands are in my hair now, tugging and twisting on the dark strands, her nails scratching at my scalp. A bolt of arousal spears my abdomen, so fierce that my knees nearly buckle.
Need to get inside her.
Need to make her mine.
Except—except I’ve never done that. Never wanted to before. And I’m clueless, beyond the primal instincts making me rock against her, pinning the make-up girl to the wall with the rigid length of my cock.
What if I’m bad at it?
What if Shelley is expecting something else—a man of experience , like the lead anchor with his string of mistresses and the fans who scuttle in and out of his dressing room after the daily news.
What if she thinks I’m that way too, a celebrity lothario who knows exactly how to make a woman scream with pleasure?
Is that what she wants? Will the real me be a disappointment?
“Dallas,” Shelley sighs again, tugging my bottom lip between her teeth. She hasn’t noticed me turn wooden with anxiety, not yet. “I hoped it was me you were talking about back there. God, I really, really hoped it was me.”
“Uh-huh.”
Rain drops soak into the collar of my shirt and slide inside the fabric, soaking my chest and back. It’s still hot and muggy out here, but there’s a coldness seeping through my insides that I can’t seem to shake.
Now Shelley leans back, her green gaze clearing as she studies me. A pinch forms between her eyebrows. “Are you alright?”
My nod is robotic, but it’s a lie. No, I’m not alright.
I’m—I’m standing here, arms wrapped around the woman I’ve obsessed over for the last six months, the sweet taste of her lingering on my tongue.
And I’ve kissed her and squeezed her and pressed her against this wall; I’ve rubbed my clothed cock against her like a goddamn caveman.
And Shelley’s lapped up every ounce of it so far, she’s soaked up my attention like a happy little sponge, but she doesn’t know yet that I’m clueless.
She doesn’t know yet that I’ve never touched another person like this before.
She doesn’t know that the city’s sweetheart is… a virgin.
Shame washes over me, irrational and sickly, but no amount of internal lecturing about the very concept of virginity being outdated can help me right now. Not with the damp heat of Shelley’s core throbbing against my thigh.
Would she laugh at me?
Would she sigh?
Would she think I’m strange, like an alien pretending to be human?
“I… I need to go.” My frazzled brain casts around for a good excuse and lands on, “My segment is coming up. And the weather has changed.”
My hair drips into my eyes, as if to prove my point. Christ, we’re both soaked to the skin, too caught up in clinging to each other to notice the incriminating rain seeping into our clothes. Do I even have time to change before going live on air? Do I have time to get micced?
Even still, it’s a monumental effort to peel myself away from Shelley and step back. As soon as I do, the rain starts hitting the dry patches on her front where I’ve been sheltering her.
Shelley stares at me, baffled once more. And I’ve done it again, I’ve made things weird between us, but I can’t fix it right now. Can’t even think straight. I stumble back.
“Sorry.”
The back of my neck is hot as I hurry away. With every step back toward the TV studio entrance, I cringe a little more.
Which would have been worse: never knowing how Shelley felt in my arms?
Or tasting her once, and losing her immediately?