hands were trembling from nicotine overload and not desperation as he pulled his phone from his pocket.
YOU’RE IN, the message read.
How fucking long had it been, since he’d been part of anything? Since his life had looked like something other than just a repeat of his father’s days, without the warm numbness of alcohol to ease it along? Since he’d had a chance to feel optimistic—hell, to feel
anything
other than a sense of perpetual duty?
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d done anything just for himself. Maybe back before J.R. died. Certainly long before his father had died. Maybe not even then.
He slid his phone back into his jacket. Funny how those two words made everything feel just a little bit lighter.
Chapter Two
The booking manager in Tupelo had to be the biggest asshole on the planet.
That, or his voice mail was broken, or maybe it translated all her messages into Elvish when he received them, so that he had no idea that she needed confirmation of their show more than just the night before they were supposed to play.
Because if he didn’t want to book them that night, she’d have to rearrange the stop in Tuscaloosa, or skip Tupelo altogether, and then rebook the hotels, while Dave bitched about extra miles put on his van when they had to backtrack.
Emme breathed out, and slowly inhaled. Leaned her neck forward, rolled her head side to side. Put her hands under the seat of her desk chair and did that crazy stretch-thing she’d seen a video of on YouTube once that looked ridiculous but actually did help relieve shoulder tension.
Emme’s dining room table, a giant wooden monstrosity that had been her grandmother’s and that she had never once actually eaten a meal at, was covered in papers. Maps, brochures, flyers for shows, packing lists, to-do lists, to-call lists. Her poor ancient laptop strained under the weight of twelve open tabs, one of them the spreadsheet she was trying to complete so that she could give her tour members and her housesitter an accurate schedule.
Her housesitter.
Shit
. She still hadn’t found a housesitter.
What she wouldn’t give for a backrub.
A backrub, preferably, from a particular leanly muscled, tattooed bass player, whose hands and forearms flexed while he played …
Emme closed her eyes and leaned back in the rolling desk chair. For a moment she shoved the spreadsheet, the laptop, the compulsive to-do lists in color-coded ink all into the back of her brain and slammed the door. She listened to the stretch of her limbs as she pulled back from the table, sighed into the imaginary touch of warm hands against the back of her neck. He’d start off slow and firm, because his hands would be strong and he’d be good at this. She could tell by the way he played. Okay, she couldn’t actually tell by the way he played, but she could pretend that bass-playing ability somehow translated into back-massaging talent.
Yes, she’d let him rub her shoulders, tell him to dig his thumbs into the spot right next to herscapula, where a million tiny knots gathered every time she left another unanswered voice mail. He’d probably pull off her shirt, to do a better job, and then his hands would creep around to the front of her body to cup her breasts …
But she still wanted her backrub, goddamn it. Yes, she wanted his hands on her, but she didn’t want him to grab and paw. He’d be better than that, surely. Wait for her. Follow her lead.
Yes. Follow her lead. So, she’d take her own shirt off, so that he could feel her skin, see it on display for him. Maybe he’d turn her so that he could see her breasts.
Or maybe she’d tell him that he couldn’t look, to keep his hands where they were, or she’d put her shirt back on and walk away. That thought sent a bloom of warmth down low in her body.
He’d want to kiss her, the back of her neck, maybe the center of her back, as his hands worked at her shoulders, exactly at the pace and pressure she told him to
YOU’RE IN, the message read.
How fucking long had it been, since he’d been part of anything? Since his life had looked like something other than just a repeat of his father’s days, without the warm numbness of alcohol to ease it along? Since he’d had a chance to feel optimistic—hell, to feel
anything
other than a sense of perpetual duty?
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d done anything just for himself. Maybe back before J.R. died. Certainly long before his father had died. Maybe not even then.
He slid his phone back into his jacket. Funny how those two words made everything feel just a little bit lighter.
Chapter Two
The booking manager in Tupelo had to be the biggest asshole on the planet.
That, or his voice mail was broken, or maybe it translated all her messages into Elvish when he received them, so that he had no idea that she needed confirmation of their show more than just the night before they were supposed to play.
Because if he didn’t want to book them that night, she’d have to rearrange the stop in Tuscaloosa, or skip Tupelo altogether, and then rebook the hotels, while Dave bitched about extra miles put on his van when they had to backtrack.
Emme breathed out, and slowly inhaled. Leaned her neck forward, rolled her head side to side. Put her hands under the seat of her desk chair and did that crazy stretch-thing she’d seen a video of on YouTube once that looked ridiculous but actually did help relieve shoulder tension.
Emme’s dining room table, a giant wooden monstrosity that had been her grandmother’s and that she had never once actually eaten a meal at, was covered in papers. Maps, brochures, flyers for shows, packing lists, to-do lists, to-call lists. Her poor ancient laptop strained under the weight of twelve open tabs, one of them the spreadsheet she was trying to complete so that she could give her tour members and her housesitter an accurate schedule.
Her housesitter.
Shit
. She still hadn’t found a housesitter.
What she wouldn’t give for a backrub.
A backrub, preferably, from a particular leanly muscled, tattooed bass player, whose hands and forearms flexed while he played …
Emme closed her eyes and leaned back in the rolling desk chair. For a moment she shoved the spreadsheet, the laptop, the compulsive to-do lists in color-coded ink all into the back of her brain and slammed the door. She listened to the stretch of her limbs as she pulled back from the table, sighed into the imaginary touch of warm hands against the back of her neck. He’d start off slow and firm, because his hands would be strong and he’d be good at this. She could tell by the way he played. Okay, she couldn’t actually tell by the way he played, but she could pretend that bass-playing ability somehow translated into back-massaging talent.
Yes, she’d let him rub her shoulders, tell him to dig his thumbs into the spot right next to herscapula, where a million tiny knots gathered every time she left another unanswered voice mail. He’d probably pull off her shirt, to do a better job, and then his hands would creep around to the front of her body to cup her breasts …
But she still wanted her backrub, goddamn it. Yes, she wanted his hands on her, but she didn’t want him to grab and paw. He’d be better than that, surely. Wait for her. Follow her lead.
Yes. Follow her lead. So, she’d take her own shirt off, so that he could feel her skin, see it on display for him. Maybe he’d turn her so that he could see her breasts.
Or maybe she’d tell him that he couldn’t look, to keep his hands where they were, or she’d put her shirt back on and walk away. That thought sent a bloom of warmth down low in her body.
He’d want to kiss her, the back of her neck, maybe the center of her back, as his hands worked at her shoulders, exactly at the pace and pressure she told him to
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