Total pages in book: 55
Estimated words: 55769 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 279(@200wpm)___ 223(@250wpm)___ 186(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55769 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 279(@200wpm)___ 223(@250wpm)___ 186(@300wpm)
Having his mom and Chloe back was a balm he didn’t know he needed.
But Stella did.
On that thought, he gave her ass another squeeze.
“You should go surfing while we’re here,” she suggested.
“Babe,” he warned.
“I’m assuming you got so good at it because you liked to do it. Don’t you miss it?”
He did.
But that held memories of Caitlin too.
He still snowboarded, and Caitlin loved her big brother, she’d been with him when he was on a mountain.
“I board,” he said, not meaning to do it, not used to sharing.
It just came out.
“What?” she asked softly, her throaty voice wrapping around the word, making it feel like a soothing touch.
And another invitation.
An invitation to share more in the safe space it seemed only Stella could give him.
“I snowboard. I don’t surf.” He shifted on the bed, discomfort gathering in his muscles. “She came to a lot of my surfing competitions. She also came to my boarding competitions. So why do I board and not surf?”
“Do you board by yourself?”
He shook his head. “No. Sometimes Eddie comes with me, or Lee, Hank or Monty.”
“So, you made it part of your new life, without her.”
He had. And he did it with men he respected, living a life doing work he was proud of after all he’d done when they lost Tiny.
He couldn’t say he was proud of what he’d done for Tiny.
He could only say it was a job that needed to be done, so he did it.
But what he did now with Lee and the men, he felt pride in that. In their brotherhood. In the family they gave him.
He ran the knuckles of his free hand along her cheekbone, murmuring, “You’re gorgeous and smart.”
“There’s a lot to me. I’m not just a wannabe Rock God,” she joked.
“Soon-to-be,” he corrected.
Her brown eyes melted, and she whispered, “Soon-to-be.”
“Glad we got that straight.”
She pushed up so she was closer to his face, and he had her tits to his chest, not her hands. It was by a slim margin, he liked anything of her touching him, but he preferred the tits.
“Is it just me, or is it a little freaky how good the boys are being?” she asked.
“It’s hella freaky,” he concurred. “But when you’re one album contract away from everything you ever wanted, you get your shit sharp.”
She nodded.
“Though, Pong’s right now passed out, flanked by two women down by the pool.”
She started laughing, the husky sound taking a firm grip on his dick.
So he rolled her.
“What are we gonna do on your day off?” he asked when he had her on her back and his hands were moving on her body.
“I have a feeling you have some ideas.”
Oh yeah.
He had ideas.
“Yeah,” he confirmed.
She arched into him, her fingers playing the skin on his back with the same talent she played her guitar. “Let’s roll with those.”
He put his mouth to hers, not releasing his hold on her gaze, and said, “Perfect.”
Stella was asleep.
Mace was awake.
It was late, but LA was a lot like Vegas, with a hazier, more laidback feel. It never shut down. You could feel the vibe of the city pulsing softly over the grounds of the Chateau into their room.
Denver was a city at the same time it was a town. It got quiet at night. Shit happened and people were out doing their thing, good or bad, at all hours.
But it wasn’t like LA.
And as he lay in bed on his back, Stella cuddled beside him, her head on his shoulder, her hand on his chest, it occurred to him that he’d forgotten how much he liked it.
He missed it.
He put his hand on hers at his chest and immediately felt Tiny’s ring on her pinkie.
He closed his eyes to concentrate on fighting the constriction that tightened his throat.
He needed a drink.
He lifted his head to kiss the top of hers, then carefully slid out from under her, making sure the covers stayed put around her body.
He pulled on some jeans, a tee, his running shoes, and headed out.
He went straight to the bar, and he was both surprised and unsurprised to see Hugo sitting on a stool, a snifter of cognac in front of him, his gaze to Mace like he was expecting him.
Mace took the stool next to him, ordered a bourbon neat and turned to Hugo.
“Feels like you’ve been waiting on me, man,” he noted.
“I have, and you took your time. Every night, been sitting here, expecting you to show,” Hugo replied.
Mace leveled his gaze on Hugo, who, like the rest of the band (save Floyd), could do stupid shit, but even so, he was less prone to it.
If Mace had to call it, he’d say Hugo would give it five to seven years to get the wild out. Then he’d find a good woman, start making babies, and become the band’s new Floyd, working with Stella to keep their shit tight and their train—which had more than enough power, it never had to meet its final destination—on the rails.