Depths (8 page)

We pull into a little bar right by the ocean, and my disastrous date with Claire clicks into high resolution in my mind, making me all kinds of nervous even though this date is nothing at all like that one.

I follow Tracey into the bar and she doesn’t even make it to the counter before the bartender has a glass of something dark amber and strong-as-hell slid towards her.

“Make it two, Scotty?” She hands the first shot to me, and her sexy smile does a lot to pedal back Scotty’s scowl as he looks my way.

She holds the glass up. “To a night of being free and just a little crazy. Just a little.”

We clink and the shot burns down my throat. She closes her eyes and bites her bottom lip as she sighs. “That hit the spot. It’s been a long week.”

I follow her to a small, private table in the back, and a teenage girl with pink hair rushes over.

“No way. No way! Tracey Bellington? Scotty said you’d come in when you got back from your Tokyo tour! I am such a huge fan. I love you. Okay, okay.” She takes a deep breath and calms down as I look at Tracey and wonder what I’m missing. “I know this is, like, so unprofessional, but…” She holds out her waitressing pad.

Tracey laughs and takes it. “Forget professional. I got fired once for kissing the very handsome drummer of a very amazing folk band that I maybe happened to open for five years later.”

“You mean…” The girl fans herself and Tracey hands her the pad back with her autograph, surrounded by little hearts, and winks. “This is…this is so amazing. Can I…do you need…is there anything…”

“Does Roxy still make those amazing mussels? With the white wine sauce and the shallots?”

“Of course. Of course. And I will get those for you right away.” The girl turns and runs, and Tracey smiles as her cheeks go bright pink, her big brown eyes on the scratched table top.

“I’m so sorry,” I say, feeling like the biggest asshole in the world. “Clearly our waitress is way cooler than I am. What exactly is it that you do?”

“I play violin and do some back-up vocals for The Season of Release. Don’t. I can see you trying to pretend you know who we are.” She lifts her eyes and bats her long lashes in my direction. “We are only very marginally successful, and our fan base is mostly…” She glances at our waitress, wiping down the counter with her head turned back like an owl until she sees Tracey look and whips it back around. “Well, you get the idea. I just got back from a very limited world tour.”

“That’s…that’s incredible. That’s amazing.” I mean it.

This woman is
it.
She’s the whole package: confident, passionate, sexy, kind. I’m hands-down amazed to be sitting across the table from her.

She twists her hands together and sighs. “It is and it isn’t? It’s a mixed bag, if you want to know the truth. I always wanted my career to break out this way, but I never thought about what it would
really
mean. I mean, it’s awesome to be on a stage with screaming fans, getting paid to travel.”

She spreads her hands flat on the table top. “But leaving Sage for months on end? Having, private pictures of me pop up on the internet? Being hounded by photographers and fans?” She glances up at our waitress, who’s rushed over with glasses of ice water and two more shots before she darts away. Tracey’s smile is wistful. “Not fans like her. She reminds me of
me
when I was a teenager, so excited and awed by everything. It’s the groupies, the fame whores who make me rethink everything.”

She shudders, just a slight tremble of her shoulders. “Enough depressing talk.” She holds up her shot. “Last one. I’m not about to crash when I have someone as sexy as you on my bike. I need you to make it to my place in one piece.”

The shot rolls down the wrong way, and I choke and cough like a madman. Tracey’s throaty laugh is sweet and helps dissolve some of my piercing humiliation.

Our waitress brings us the tray of mussels, and watching Tracey eat forces me to lean back and enjoy. There’s something so sensual about the way she savors each mouthful, the noises she makes while she’s enjoying her food. And when we’re done, the band starts up and she grabs my hand.

“Dance with me, Cohen!”

Like I said before, I doubt many people tell this woman ‘no,’ and I’m not about to start that idiotic trend. I follow her to the dance floor and thank whatever gods allowed me to inherit my parents’ decent sense of rhythm.

The band is playing a fast song, and the beat kicks in, deep and frenzied. Tracey puts her hands over her head then pulls them back down her face, her neck, lower, letting them trail along every curve with excruciating slowness. She moves closer, rubbing against me the way she rubbed against the Ducati before we went roaring down the street.

Sweat glistens on her skin, her eyes are closed, her mouth is parted, and her body drags over mine like she has plans that she’s going to carry out, no questions. I rub my hands along her shoulders, down to her elbows, then get bolder. Touch her hip. Drag her closer. Tilt her back on my arm and watch the slow, smooth dip of her neck.

Suddenly the music changes. I don’t think I would have noticed except for the fact that Tracey has snapped to attention and is staring at the stage. My arms are still loose around her waist, and I follow her line of site.

A guy with a shaved head and a lot of piercings and tattoos looks at her with possessive eyes, nods once, and straps his guitar on.

Tracey presses one hand to her breastplate and shakes her head. “Um, can we go? I’m so sorry. Do you mind? Is it okay?”

“Sure. If you’re ready, I’m ready.” I get to pay the tab, only because Tracey is so shaken, she’s not really paying attention anymore.

Before we get on the bike, she stands up on her tiptoes and presses her mouth to mine, long and sweet and hard all at once. She pulls back, panting, and gasps, “Your place? Can we go to your place? Please.”

I know the answer should be ‘no,’ but I’m in no position to tell her ‘no.’ Again, I wonder if she’s ever heard it. I can’t imagine a guy who could resist her.

So I give her my address. We fly through the cool night and, when we get to my place, she drags me to the front door by my wrist like it’s her place.

“Tracey,” I say as we get to the door. I have the key in, she turns the knob and presses us into the foyer, kicking the door shut with one heel.

Her mouth covers mine before I can say what I need to say. A few incredible minutes later we stop for a split second so she can tug me back to the bedrooms.

“Tracey,” I try again. It’s hard to pull away from her.

“Cohen?” She smiles, tries to sound coy, but something about this isn’t quite right, isn’t the way I want this to happen with her.

Though I do want something to happen with her. Badly.

“That guy at the bar? On stage?”

She blows a short breath out and pulls at my shirt with her fists.

“That obvious, huh?” Her lips curve into a half smile that’s got way too much frown peppered in.

“Who is he?” I don’t really want to know. I just want to enjoy her in my arms for a few more minutes before this night ends worse than I had hoped.

“A boyfriend. A fiancé. For a few weeks. Almost my husband. But I got cold feet.” She presses her lips together. “And I got cold feet for a good reason. But it still hurts to see him and remember all the good stuff.” She puts her hands on my face. “Cohen? Sexy, sweet Cohen? Please let me forget Tanner. Just for tonight. Please.”

She’s definitely never heard ‘no,’ and it doesn’t occur to her that I may be thinking ‘no.’

Because, even though I know we shouldn’t, I let her lead me to the bedroom. When she kicks off her heels and strips off her leather and denim, I know I should tell her that she probably needs time, that things are obviously unresolved between her and Tanner.

But then she undoes the buttons on my shirt and unzips my jeans. With a flick and a push, we’re standing close, almost naked. Her skin is smooth and warm against mine, her hands small and gentle on my back. I kiss her and she moans into my mouth, letting me know how much she wants this, wants me.

My hands go to work and we move from being almost naked to completely naked in short order. She walks me back to the bed, our hands and mouths moving hungrily, our bodies twined together. It’s hot, it’s sweet, and neither one of us is very patient about it. I reach for my jeans and find one of the damn weird vegan condoms.

Tracey smells so good. She feels so good in my arms, wrapped around me, rubbed against me. And she’s whispering things, pleading in a way that makes everything rush too fast. I press deep into her, and it’s so freaking good. She feels amazing.

She doesn’t look into my eyes, there’s nothing sweet or gentle about what we’re doing, but if feels so fantastic. I pump into her and think of how she’s
not
Kensley; how it’s official that there is someone else, and I’m glad it’s her.

It’s incredible. We fall asleep, she wakes me up kissing my neck, her hand roving down between our bodies, and it starts all over again. By the third time, I’m half-nervous I won’t be able to get the job done, but my recent hiatus doesn’t seem to have done any permanent damage to my sex drive. When she’s finally tucked by my side, warm and satiated, I notice the sun shining warm, rosy dawn light and fall fast asleep, ready to make her breakfast. Ready to meet her little girl. Ready to help her forget the guy she left at the altar. Ready to listen to her music and make her part of my new life.

***

“No more!” Deo begs. “No more of this music! I feel like I should be watching an animal cruelty commercial. This is sad. This is so sad. Whit, my angel, make this madness stop.”

Whit plops between us on the couch and hands me a fresh beer. She ropes an arm around my neck and rumples my hair as she answers Deo. “He’s sad. Let him be sad.”

“I’m so cool with him being sad. Right there. Quietly. So I can ignore him. Explain why I have to listen to all of these whining girls and their fiddles?” He pulls Whit on his lap and kisses her shoulders.

“This music is fucking genius.” I would say I’m arguing, but you’d have to put some real effort into presenting your point to make an argument, and I have no energy for that. What I do put effort into is drinking this beer so I can deaden some of my depression.

“It’s alright,” Deo gripes. “
She
was alright. Take her off the damn pedestal, man. It was one night. One date. I know you never really wanted one, but you had a pretty decent one night stand. Appreciate what you had for what it was and stop acting like you lost the love of your life.”

“A one night stand with the perfect girl is like…it’s like getting to the airport in Hawaii, then getting right back on the plane and flying home. It’s depressing to have been that close to paradise without actually getting there.” I tip the bottle again.

“Jesus, Cohen. It wasn’t that freaking bad. It’s more like you landed in Hawaii and spent one incredible night in a pretty nice four star hotel—”

“Definitely a five star hotel,” I growl.

“Calm down, man. It’s just a metaphor. Anyway, you stayed the night. But you know what? Maybe in the light of day, you would have realized that the hotel wasn’t as swank as you thought. Maybe you would have realized that five star hotels aren’t your thing. That you’d rather sleep on the beach, you know?” He sits forward, all into this lame metaphor we’ve got going on.

“So you think I’m more a homeless beach bum than a swank hotel stayer?” I clarify.

Deo throws up his hands. “Yes! You’re finally listening! In real life and metaphor. Holy hell, I’m tapped. I’m done. Whit, doll face, help me out here. What do I do with this sad sack?”

Whit tilts her head to the side and considers, her dark eyes squinted. “You need to have a fun date with an escape hatch. You need a double date.”

Deo and I both groan and Whit slaps Deo’s arm. “Stop it. Both of you. Stop being man-babies. You need to go out with other people so if it’s not going well, there’s a whole group to pick up the heat. And if it’s amazing? There will still be other people to balance it out. It can’t get too insane, but it also can’t get too intense. Perfect.”

“I’m not going on a double date with this whiny asshole,” Deo declares, which is fine, because I’m not about to find a nice girl to date only to have Deo’s big mouth and lousy sense of humor fuck it all up.

Just when I’m about to say that all to his stupid face, my phone rings.

“I gotta take this.” I jump up and head to the back deck.

“Who is it?” Deo calls.

“Maren! From work.” I start to close the sliding door behind me.

“Hook her, man.” I look back at him as I accept her call. “The way you looked when you saw it was her on the line? I’ve only ever seen you look that way before a major swell. That’s love, dude. That’s beach-bum, perfect-for-Cohen love.”

Maren says ‘hello’ for the second time, and I do my best to slam the sliding door on Deo and his endless stupidity.

“Hey, Maren. I’m sorry.  I’m at my idiot friend’s house. You doing okay?”

“I am. And I did have to tell you that the Reyes account needs to be looked over tomorrow morning. Unless they want three sectionals, there’s an input error on their order, and it’s going to production tomorrow morning, so we still have a window to catch it.”