Scorching to the Touch, page 24
I’m well aware Industrial November made her career. At the start, I even gave her some leads. I liked her once. Those first few years when she was still a green reporter, still sweet, not yet battle-hardened.
It all washed away the more she prioritized her career over her integrity. Watching her moral downfall as her career soared was a sorry sight if I ever saw one.
When we finally had a night together at last year’s New Year’s party, it was explosive, but so damn angry and bitter. I had already lost any ounce of respect I had ever afforded her, and I’m sure she had lost all respect for me as well.
I stand a few feet behind the group to attempt to overhear what her aim is in being here tonight.
“After you bought a date with Fritz at the celebrity bachelor auction, I thought nothing came of it. But here you both are. Care to make a statement?” Joanna asks.
Erica blinks at her, a crease forming between her brows. “A statement?”
Before Joanna can answer, Fritz explains it to Erica. “Joanna writes for Steel Hard Rock magazine. Has been following the band for a while.”
Joanna laughs softly. “You could say Industrial November made my career,” she says.
Erica’s laugh is different now. A bit nervous. I’m sure Joanna didn’t notice, but I know Erica like the back of my hand. “Well, then,” Erica says. “Officially, no comment.”
Before Erica can make her escape, Joanna fires the next question. “And off the record? Have you two been dating since the charity auction?”
I swallow. If either Fritz or Erica ever speaks about their “relationship,” brutal NDAs will trigger, ending them both, not to mention their careers. And Industrial November … Industrial November will go down with them.
I don’t let either of them open their mouth.
“Joanna,” I snarl, and she turns to face me. “What are you doing here?”
That honey-water-sweet smile of hers, the one she uses during interviews, is plastered on her face, and I want to bite her lips so hard, I’d wipe off that grin.
“I’m covering the launch of Yoalli Tequila,” Joanna says.
“You’re a music writer. Did you forget that?”
Her eyes narrow a fraction before she rebuts. “And the highest-earning bass player in the world has teamed up with Velvet Fire to launch this exclusive tequila. There’s a story here, and I’m going to find it.”
I step forward and grab her arm. I scramble through my brain to find something I can redirect her with. Anything to get her off Erica and Fritz’s trail. “The only thing you’re going to find is my ire,” I say and walk away with her firmly in my grip.
I lead her out of the venue and toward the terrace.
The evening is cool when we step out, and the quiet is an inviting contrast to the party taking place inside.
“There’s no story here, Joanna. You know Fritz. Businessman first. This was a business decision.”
Joanna scoffs at me. Scoffs. The audacity! “I’m sorry, but that banquet hall heated about a million degrees when Fritz’s eyes landed on Erica—the second she entered the room.”
Thinking quickly on my feet, I say, “Fritz is now on the board of Velvet Fire Tequila Co. It’s a pretty boring story, if there is one. And nothing to do with music.”
Joanna shrugs. “Maybe. But if I’m the first to break the news about a secret relationship …”
She trails off when I approach her and get so close, I can feel her tequila-laced breath on my lips. We all got samples of the reserve batch this evening, and the grapefruit and caramel notes still linger in the space between us. “There is no story here, Joanna. Get that through your pretty little head.”
“You don’t get it, do you?” she asks, sounding a little sad now.
“Get what?”
“I’m a music writer, Roger. A music writer. When have I ever written about their personal lives? Yes, there has been a lot of gossip reporting, but I dare you to find a single line of any of it in any of my pieces.”
“Joanna—”
She holds up a hand to silence me. “No. Listen to me. I don’t care about their personal lives. I’m here to write about music.”
“Then you’re wasting your time at a business function.”
“Am I? Because I know one of these days, Roger Kemp, you are going to lead me to Milo Mezzasalma, and I’m going to strike gold.”
When she mentions our old guitarist’s name, my eyes narrow. At that minuscule reaction, she tilts her head, a tell she has when she’s sniffing a story. When she’s studying someone, their body language, what they say verbally, and, more importantly, what they don’t say. For Joanna Elliott, what is not said is just as important as what is.
“Milo is not—and has not been since the day he walked away—in contact with the band. You have to let this go.”
She pouts her lips dramatically. “I know for a fact he co-wrote songs with Bren for the last album.”
“You’re delusional. Bren swore he’d never speak to Milo again after they cut him from the lineup.”
“Here’s the thing. There’s a cadence to the songs they write together. It goes unnoticed by most. But Milo—Milo co-wrote with Bren in the Breaking This Way album. So that has me wondering, does Fritz know? What about your new guitarist, Karl? Are they aware they’re still playing Milo’s music?”
My heart sinks to replace that cinderblock in my stomach.
This fucking brilliant woman.
She’s going to ruin me.
And the biggest international rock band the world has ever seen will go down with me.
BLAZING IN THE BLIZZARD EXCERPT
TWO: JOANNA
I lean over the terrace and cross my arms in front of me, giving Roger a head start going back inside. It’s dark out now, and I can no longer see the expansive agave fields before me in front of the hacienda. They took my breath away when I saw them yesterday as I scouted the location for today’s party and took photos.
The Mariachi music filters into the terrace, with the party in full swing. I have to go back inside—that’s where the information is. I take a spine-strengthening breath and pull my shoulders back.
Roger has to lead me to Milo. He just has to.
I’ve followed this lead for nearly a year with very few results. If I fail, my editor will cut the story, likely take me off covering Industrial November, and reassign me. On the other hand, if I succeed, I can make editor. So there are no two ways about it. I have to find Milo and be the one to break this story.
When I’m halfway to my table, I stop as I notice Roger huddled closely with Industrial November’s vocalist, Bren. Those sandy brown tresses are unmistakable even from the back of Roger’s head. Nearly a foot taller than most men in this room save for Bren, Roger is easy to spot.
Bren hasn’t noticed me standing behind Roger either. They’re speaking in German for privacy, but Roger really should know better by now. I understand them perfectly.
“We have a problem,” Roger says.
“Is the problem about five-six, curvy, brunette, and smarter than you?” Bren asks cheekily.
Roger groans in response. “I have a situation. She’s sniffing around Milo.”
That information changes Bren’s playful tone into a serious one. “She can’t find him.”
“I know. I’m due to check in on him, but Bren, we might have to tell the guys. If she breaks it … it’ll be worse if it doesn’t come from you.”
Bingo. I knew I was right. Now just lead me to him, you jerk.
“Okay. What do we do?” Bren asks.
“I should head to Kansas City tonight. There’s a snowstorm coming in tomorrow afternoon, and I don’t want to risk flights getting canceled.”
“Okay. Why are you hesitating, then?” Bren asks.
Roger’s tone grows more exasperated with every word. “With everything going on with Fritz and Erica? I can’t leave. What if Fritz does something stupid?”
“I’ll handle Fritz. You go check in on Milo. Make sure he’s good. Move him if you need to.” Bren pauses. “What? I got this. Have some faith in me. Damn.”
“Okay. I guess I have no choice. So help me god, Bren, if you don’t tame Friedrich Hartmann, I will end you and your band.”
I tiptoe away so they don’t see me and pull out my phone to book the next flight to Kansas City.
When I ordered takeout to a car instead of a residence, the delivery guy gave me a funny look but said nothing after a hefty tip.
I’m parked in my Jeep Wrangler outside the condo building where the band has settled. I’ve been here three hours, and so far, no signs of Roger. Briefly, I wonder if he might have beaten me to KC, but there is no way. I selected the flight that would get here the earliest, and I didn’t see Roger on that flight.
I bite into my double cheeseburger without peeling my eyes from the garage entrance. I didn’t get a chance to eat dinner at the party, and there was no way I’d make any stops and risk missing Roger. A stakeout is a stakeout.
By three in the afternoon, I finally glimpse his ridiculous lime green Porsche 718 Boxster. Disgusting color? Maybe. But it sure has been helpful in trailing him when he visits the band in Kansas City.
As I follow at a distance so he won’t spot me, the heavy snow plumes dusting my windshield are worrisome, and I squint at the darkening sky. The storm will not miss us, and we’re two hours outside of the city now. In the middle of nowhere, with no signs of Roger stopping.
If we keep going much farther, we’re going to be caught in the middle of it. On the bright side, Roger has given no indication he’s aware I’m tailing him.
Three hours into our drive to nothingness, it finally happens. Roger’s sports scar skids so much that he loses all control and spins several times before he flies off-road and gets stuck.
For one second, I consider stopping so he won’t see me, but I have the gnawing suspicion it’s already too late. And besides, visibility is dangerously low, so keeping on driving doesn’t seem like the best idea either.
I pull up next to him on the side of the road and get out of the Jeep. When I knock on his window, he startles for a moment, then gets out of the car. The snow starts to build on his warm-brown hair. He’s let it grow so much since I saw him last year, and it frames his eyes, nearly reaching his cheekbones.
“What are you doing here?” he asks. “You’re like a curse.”
“Well, it looks like you need some help,” I say, eyeing his car behind him.
He glances at the sky for a moment, his hands on his hips, while he takes a deep breath. Finally, he looks at me with those hazel eyes boring into me. Instead of anger, as I’ve become accustomed to, he says coolly, “do you have cell service?”
“Let’s check. It’s in the car.” I wave him over, and we both get in. I immediately check my phone for bars, but none come up.
“Great,” he grumbles. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “I can’t believe I’m about to say it—”
I flash him my teeth. “Oh, it’s not so hard. I’ll help you out. Joanna, will you help me?”
“You know what? Forget it.” He’s opening the door when I pull him back by his coat sleeve and reach over to shut it again.
“Oh, come on. I’m only teasing. There’s nothing we can do right now.”
“Can you drive us back?”
I snort. “Look outside. I can’t see a damn thing. We’re going to have to wait.”
An hour of uncomfortable silence later, his growling stomach breaks the silence. I can’t help but laugh. “Hungry there?”
Roger rolls his eyes, but the ghost of a smile creeps into the corner of his mouth. I reach in the back seat for my takeout bag and rummage through it. “I have half of a three-hour-old cheeseburger,” I say, handing it to him.
“I’ll pass on the salmonella. Thanks.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m sure it’s perfectly fine.”
“I won’t risk it.”
I rummage through my purse next and pull out a granola bar. “What about this? Think we should ration it in case we’re stuck here for days?”
“We’re not going to be stuck here for days. This is a heavily trafficked road.”
“You don’t know that.”
“The storm will be long gone by tomorrow.”
I’m about to hand it to him, and his hand stretches out, but I pull the package close to me again. “I don’t know. What would you give me for it?”
Roger’s entire body turns as he readjusts his seating position to look me in the eye. That piercing glare intimidated me so much those first few years on the job, but now I can face it like a total ice queen, without so much as a flinch.
“Are you extorting me, Miss Elliot?”
“I would never,” I say, pretending to clutch my imaginary pearls.
“Fine. What do you want for the cereal bar?”
“One hour with Milo. On the record.”
Roger runs a hand over his face. “This again.”
“Yes, this again. That’s where you were going, wasn’t it? To see Milo?”
“Du bist eine Hexe—”
“I’m not a witch!”
Roger blinks at me. “I forgot. You learned German.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “You think that a decade following a German metal band wouldn’t be enough of a reason to learn it?”
“What is your obsession with them, anyway? Are you in love with Bren or Fritz like everyone else?”
“Oh, yes. My interest in music has to be some silly little girl crush. Right? Don’t be so dense.”
“Well, what is it then?”
I shift in my seat, still clutching the granola bar.
“Come on,” Roger says. “Out with it. We might be here all night. Might as well talk.”
“Fine. If you must know, it’s not them I’m in love with. It’s … the lifestyle. Music reporting is a dying field, at least in print media. But that’s all I ever wanted to do. I should have been there in the seventies. You know? Following Patti Smith. I should have covered the end of punk and the rise of hairbands. Stadium tours.”
“You wanted to be a groupie?”
“In a sense. I just wanted to be … there. And write about it.”
Roger nods as if he’s finally understanding me. “What?” I ask.
“You were born in the wrong decade.”
“I was. And Industrial November is the closest I’ll ever have to that. No other band comes close.” When he stays quiet and pensive for a long time, I add, “Would a crush on Bren have been easier for you to digest than a passion for writing about music?”
“No,” he says, leaning forward, resting his forearm on the wheel in front of me. With one finger, he trails the wrapper of the granola bar still in my hand. “I cannot give you Milo. What else do you want besides his location, hmmm?”
His voice has gotten hoarse, and even in the dark, I can make out his pupils expanding with his arousal. I remember that from last year, how they consumed the hazel of his iris, darkening his gaze when he looked at me.
His finger drops, trailing down my belly, and runs over my jeans’ fly over and over. Up. Down. Up down. “Is there anything you want? From me? Anything I can give you right here, right now?”
The motion of his hand over my jeans makes me stutter for words, and all I can do is bite my lip.
A flash of that party a year ago, him carrying me to his room and taking the frustration of a decade out on my body.
They say angry sex is hot, but hot is an understatement. Lucky for us, I’m sure Roger and I will never see eye to eye.
Instead of continuing to bite my lip, I decide to lean forward and bite his. A guttural groan escapes his throat, and he bites my lower lip back. He bruises my mouth with the ferocity of another angry kiss, conjuring so many memories of that night. Flashes of barely there bite marks on my thigh, my fingers digging to his back, and my ponytail in his grip all greet me behind my eyelids until I’m breathless.
I didn’t notice him unbuttoning my jeans or undoing my zipper, so it’s the feel of one finger plucking my panties to the side that has my eyes flying open, and I break our kiss.
Searching my eyes, he asks, “Want me to stop?”
“Hör auf und du stirbst.” And I mean it. This man will die if he stops.
He chuckles, and I grab his coat lapels to pull him to me.
His tongue remains in my mouth the entire time he fingers me. He teases, pumping his fingers with agonizing slowness.
I pull away for only one second when I can no longer take it anymore. “I need to come,” I whimper.
He grabs my hand and pulls it into my jeans, his own hand covering mine, our fingers lining up. “Teach me how you make yourself come.”
With our hands not breaking contact, I pleasure myself, humping my hand, and by extension his, until I come in waves so strong, the white from outside seems to flood all around us for a flash. For one second, I lose sight, and when it’s back, Roger is smiling at me. My hand cupping my pussy, and his hand cupping mine.
He raises an eyebrow. “That was worth at least one granola bar. No?”
I laugh and hand him the bar. His hand leaves mine to take it, and I hurry to zip up my pants again.
When I snort, he asks, “What?”
“Granola whore.”
Keep reading the rest of Joanna and Roger’s story in Blazing in the Blizzard. You can find it in the Rock My World anthology.
AFTERWORD
All art is a reaction to existing art.
A push and pull between artists of the same generation, and our collective reaction the present times and our experiences.
When I started seeing more plus-size representation in leading characters for romance novels, to say I was ecstatic would be an understatement.
Until I started seeing the pattern.
You see, after a lifetime of only seeing bigger people as the villains of the story at worst, or unlikeable and lazy at best, there was a collective reaction in art.
Plus-size leading characters could exist, but they could only exist in so far as they were likable. Extremely likable.
It all washed away the more she prioritized her career over her integrity. Watching her moral downfall as her career soared was a sorry sight if I ever saw one.
When we finally had a night together at last year’s New Year’s party, it was explosive, but so damn angry and bitter. I had already lost any ounce of respect I had ever afforded her, and I’m sure she had lost all respect for me as well.
I stand a few feet behind the group to attempt to overhear what her aim is in being here tonight.
“After you bought a date with Fritz at the celebrity bachelor auction, I thought nothing came of it. But here you both are. Care to make a statement?” Joanna asks.
Erica blinks at her, a crease forming between her brows. “A statement?”
Before Joanna can answer, Fritz explains it to Erica. “Joanna writes for Steel Hard Rock magazine. Has been following the band for a while.”
Joanna laughs softly. “You could say Industrial November made my career,” she says.
Erica’s laugh is different now. A bit nervous. I’m sure Joanna didn’t notice, but I know Erica like the back of my hand. “Well, then,” Erica says. “Officially, no comment.”
Before Erica can make her escape, Joanna fires the next question. “And off the record? Have you two been dating since the charity auction?”
I swallow. If either Fritz or Erica ever speaks about their “relationship,” brutal NDAs will trigger, ending them both, not to mention their careers. And Industrial November … Industrial November will go down with them.
I don’t let either of them open their mouth.
“Joanna,” I snarl, and she turns to face me. “What are you doing here?”
That honey-water-sweet smile of hers, the one she uses during interviews, is plastered on her face, and I want to bite her lips so hard, I’d wipe off that grin.
“I’m covering the launch of Yoalli Tequila,” Joanna says.
“You’re a music writer. Did you forget that?”
Her eyes narrow a fraction before she rebuts. “And the highest-earning bass player in the world has teamed up with Velvet Fire to launch this exclusive tequila. There’s a story here, and I’m going to find it.”
I step forward and grab her arm. I scramble through my brain to find something I can redirect her with. Anything to get her off Erica and Fritz’s trail. “The only thing you’re going to find is my ire,” I say and walk away with her firmly in my grip.
I lead her out of the venue and toward the terrace.
The evening is cool when we step out, and the quiet is an inviting contrast to the party taking place inside.
“There’s no story here, Joanna. You know Fritz. Businessman first. This was a business decision.”
Joanna scoffs at me. Scoffs. The audacity! “I’m sorry, but that banquet hall heated about a million degrees when Fritz’s eyes landed on Erica—the second she entered the room.”
Thinking quickly on my feet, I say, “Fritz is now on the board of Velvet Fire Tequila Co. It’s a pretty boring story, if there is one. And nothing to do with music.”
Joanna shrugs. “Maybe. But if I’m the first to break the news about a secret relationship …”
She trails off when I approach her and get so close, I can feel her tequila-laced breath on my lips. We all got samples of the reserve batch this evening, and the grapefruit and caramel notes still linger in the space between us. “There is no story here, Joanna. Get that through your pretty little head.”
“You don’t get it, do you?” she asks, sounding a little sad now.
“Get what?”
“I’m a music writer, Roger. A music writer. When have I ever written about their personal lives? Yes, there has been a lot of gossip reporting, but I dare you to find a single line of any of it in any of my pieces.”
“Joanna—”
She holds up a hand to silence me. “No. Listen to me. I don’t care about their personal lives. I’m here to write about music.”
“Then you’re wasting your time at a business function.”
“Am I? Because I know one of these days, Roger Kemp, you are going to lead me to Milo Mezzasalma, and I’m going to strike gold.”
When she mentions our old guitarist’s name, my eyes narrow. At that minuscule reaction, she tilts her head, a tell she has when she’s sniffing a story. When she’s studying someone, their body language, what they say verbally, and, more importantly, what they don’t say. For Joanna Elliott, what is not said is just as important as what is.
“Milo is not—and has not been since the day he walked away—in contact with the band. You have to let this go.”
She pouts her lips dramatically. “I know for a fact he co-wrote songs with Bren for the last album.”
“You’re delusional. Bren swore he’d never speak to Milo again after they cut him from the lineup.”
“Here’s the thing. There’s a cadence to the songs they write together. It goes unnoticed by most. But Milo—Milo co-wrote with Bren in the Breaking This Way album. So that has me wondering, does Fritz know? What about your new guitarist, Karl? Are they aware they’re still playing Milo’s music?”
My heart sinks to replace that cinderblock in my stomach.
This fucking brilliant woman.
She’s going to ruin me.
And the biggest international rock band the world has ever seen will go down with me.
BLAZING IN THE BLIZZARD EXCERPT
TWO: JOANNA
I lean over the terrace and cross my arms in front of me, giving Roger a head start going back inside. It’s dark out now, and I can no longer see the expansive agave fields before me in front of the hacienda. They took my breath away when I saw them yesterday as I scouted the location for today’s party and took photos.
The Mariachi music filters into the terrace, with the party in full swing. I have to go back inside—that’s where the information is. I take a spine-strengthening breath and pull my shoulders back.
Roger has to lead me to Milo. He just has to.
I’ve followed this lead for nearly a year with very few results. If I fail, my editor will cut the story, likely take me off covering Industrial November, and reassign me. On the other hand, if I succeed, I can make editor. So there are no two ways about it. I have to find Milo and be the one to break this story.
When I’m halfway to my table, I stop as I notice Roger huddled closely with Industrial November’s vocalist, Bren. Those sandy brown tresses are unmistakable even from the back of Roger’s head. Nearly a foot taller than most men in this room save for Bren, Roger is easy to spot.
Bren hasn’t noticed me standing behind Roger either. They’re speaking in German for privacy, but Roger really should know better by now. I understand them perfectly.
“We have a problem,” Roger says.
“Is the problem about five-six, curvy, brunette, and smarter than you?” Bren asks cheekily.
Roger groans in response. “I have a situation. She’s sniffing around Milo.”
That information changes Bren’s playful tone into a serious one. “She can’t find him.”
“I know. I’m due to check in on him, but Bren, we might have to tell the guys. If she breaks it … it’ll be worse if it doesn’t come from you.”
Bingo. I knew I was right. Now just lead me to him, you jerk.
“Okay. What do we do?” Bren asks.
“I should head to Kansas City tonight. There’s a snowstorm coming in tomorrow afternoon, and I don’t want to risk flights getting canceled.”
“Okay. Why are you hesitating, then?” Bren asks.
Roger’s tone grows more exasperated with every word. “With everything going on with Fritz and Erica? I can’t leave. What if Fritz does something stupid?”
“I’ll handle Fritz. You go check in on Milo. Make sure he’s good. Move him if you need to.” Bren pauses. “What? I got this. Have some faith in me. Damn.”
“Okay. I guess I have no choice. So help me god, Bren, if you don’t tame Friedrich Hartmann, I will end you and your band.”
I tiptoe away so they don’t see me and pull out my phone to book the next flight to Kansas City.
When I ordered takeout to a car instead of a residence, the delivery guy gave me a funny look but said nothing after a hefty tip.
I’m parked in my Jeep Wrangler outside the condo building where the band has settled. I’ve been here three hours, and so far, no signs of Roger. Briefly, I wonder if he might have beaten me to KC, but there is no way. I selected the flight that would get here the earliest, and I didn’t see Roger on that flight.
I bite into my double cheeseburger without peeling my eyes from the garage entrance. I didn’t get a chance to eat dinner at the party, and there was no way I’d make any stops and risk missing Roger. A stakeout is a stakeout.
By three in the afternoon, I finally glimpse his ridiculous lime green Porsche 718 Boxster. Disgusting color? Maybe. But it sure has been helpful in trailing him when he visits the band in Kansas City.
As I follow at a distance so he won’t spot me, the heavy snow plumes dusting my windshield are worrisome, and I squint at the darkening sky. The storm will not miss us, and we’re two hours outside of the city now. In the middle of nowhere, with no signs of Roger stopping.
If we keep going much farther, we’re going to be caught in the middle of it. On the bright side, Roger has given no indication he’s aware I’m tailing him.
Three hours into our drive to nothingness, it finally happens. Roger’s sports scar skids so much that he loses all control and spins several times before he flies off-road and gets stuck.
For one second, I consider stopping so he won’t see me, but I have the gnawing suspicion it’s already too late. And besides, visibility is dangerously low, so keeping on driving doesn’t seem like the best idea either.
I pull up next to him on the side of the road and get out of the Jeep. When I knock on his window, he startles for a moment, then gets out of the car. The snow starts to build on his warm-brown hair. He’s let it grow so much since I saw him last year, and it frames his eyes, nearly reaching his cheekbones.
“What are you doing here?” he asks. “You’re like a curse.”
“Well, it looks like you need some help,” I say, eyeing his car behind him.
He glances at the sky for a moment, his hands on his hips, while he takes a deep breath. Finally, he looks at me with those hazel eyes boring into me. Instead of anger, as I’ve become accustomed to, he says coolly, “do you have cell service?”
“Let’s check. It’s in the car.” I wave him over, and we both get in. I immediately check my phone for bars, but none come up.
“Great,” he grumbles. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “I can’t believe I’m about to say it—”
I flash him my teeth. “Oh, it’s not so hard. I’ll help you out. Joanna, will you help me?”
“You know what? Forget it.” He’s opening the door when I pull him back by his coat sleeve and reach over to shut it again.
“Oh, come on. I’m only teasing. There’s nothing we can do right now.”
“Can you drive us back?”
I snort. “Look outside. I can’t see a damn thing. We’re going to have to wait.”
An hour of uncomfortable silence later, his growling stomach breaks the silence. I can’t help but laugh. “Hungry there?”
Roger rolls his eyes, but the ghost of a smile creeps into the corner of his mouth. I reach in the back seat for my takeout bag and rummage through it. “I have half of a three-hour-old cheeseburger,” I say, handing it to him.
“I’ll pass on the salmonella. Thanks.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m sure it’s perfectly fine.”
“I won’t risk it.”
I rummage through my purse next and pull out a granola bar. “What about this? Think we should ration it in case we’re stuck here for days?”
“We’re not going to be stuck here for days. This is a heavily trafficked road.”
“You don’t know that.”
“The storm will be long gone by tomorrow.”
I’m about to hand it to him, and his hand stretches out, but I pull the package close to me again. “I don’t know. What would you give me for it?”
Roger’s entire body turns as he readjusts his seating position to look me in the eye. That piercing glare intimidated me so much those first few years on the job, but now I can face it like a total ice queen, without so much as a flinch.
“Are you extorting me, Miss Elliot?”
“I would never,” I say, pretending to clutch my imaginary pearls.
“Fine. What do you want for the cereal bar?”
“One hour with Milo. On the record.”
Roger runs a hand over his face. “This again.”
“Yes, this again. That’s where you were going, wasn’t it? To see Milo?”
“Du bist eine Hexe—”
“I’m not a witch!”
Roger blinks at me. “I forgot. You learned German.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “You think that a decade following a German metal band wouldn’t be enough of a reason to learn it?”
“What is your obsession with them, anyway? Are you in love with Bren or Fritz like everyone else?”
“Oh, yes. My interest in music has to be some silly little girl crush. Right? Don’t be so dense.”
“Well, what is it then?”
I shift in my seat, still clutching the granola bar.
“Come on,” Roger says. “Out with it. We might be here all night. Might as well talk.”
“Fine. If you must know, it’s not them I’m in love with. It’s … the lifestyle. Music reporting is a dying field, at least in print media. But that’s all I ever wanted to do. I should have been there in the seventies. You know? Following Patti Smith. I should have covered the end of punk and the rise of hairbands. Stadium tours.”
“You wanted to be a groupie?”
“In a sense. I just wanted to be … there. And write about it.”
Roger nods as if he’s finally understanding me. “What?” I ask.
“You were born in the wrong decade.”
“I was. And Industrial November is the closest I’ll ever have to that. No other band comes close.” When he stays quiet and pensive for a long time, I add, “Would a crush on Bren have been easier for you to digest than a passion for writing about music?”
“No,” he says, leaning forward, resting his forearm on the wheel in front of me. With one finger, he trails the wrapper of the granola bar still in my hand. “I cannot give you Milo. What else do you want besides his location, hmmm?”
His voice has gotten hoarse, and even in the dark, I can make out his pupils expanding with his arousal. I remember that from last year, how they consumed the hazel of his iris, darkening his gaze when he looked at me.
His finger drops, trailing down my belly, and runs over my jeans’ fly over and over. Up. Down. Up down. “Is there anything you want? From me? Anything I can give you right here, right now?”
The motion of his hand over my jeans makes me stutter for words, and all I can do is bite my lip.
A flash of that party a year ago, him carrying me to his room and taking the frustration of a decade out on my body.
They say angry sex is hot, but hot is an understatement. Lucky for us, I’m sure Roger and I will never see eye to eye.
Instead of continuing to bite my lip, I decide to lean forward and bite his. A guttural groan escapes his throat, and he bites my lower lip back. He bruises my mouth with the ferocity of another angry kiss, conjuring so many memories of that night. Flashes of barely there bite marks on my thigh, my fingers digging to his back, and my ponytail in his grip all greet me behind my eyelids until I’m breathless.
I didn’t notice him unbuttoning my jeans or undoing my zipper, so it’s the feel of one finger plucking my panties to the side that has my eyes flying open, and I break our kiss.
Searching my eyes, he asks, “Want me to stop?”
“Hör auf und du stirbst.” And I mean it. This man will die if he stops.
He chuckles, and I grab his coat lapels to pull him to me.
His tongue remains in my mouth the entire time he fingers me. He teases, pumping his fingers with agonizing slowness.
I pull away for only one second when I can no longer take it anymore. “I need to come,” I whimper.
He grabs my hand and pulls it into my jeans, his own hand covering mine, our fingers lining up. “Teach me how you make yourself come.”
With our hands not breaking contact, I pleasure myself, humping my hand, and by extension his, until I come in waves so strong, the white from outside seems to flood all around us for a flash. For one second, I lose sight, and when it’s back, Roger is smiling at me. My hand cupping my pussy, and his hand cupping mine.
He raises an eyebrow. “That was worth at least one granola bar. No?”
I laugh and hand him the bar. His hand leaves mine to take it, and I hurry to zip up my pants again.
When I snort, he asks, “What?”
“Granola whore.”
Keep reading the rest of Joanna and Roger’s story in Blazing in the Blizzard. You can find it in the Rock My World anthology.
AFTERWORD
All art is a reaction to existing art.
A push and pull between artists of the same generation, and our collective reaction the present times and our experiences.
When I started seeing more plus-size representation in leading characters for romance novels, to say I was ecstatic would be an understatement.
Until I started seeing the pattern.
You see, after a lifetime of only seeing bigger people as the villains of the story at worst, or unlikeable and lazy at best, there was a collective reaction in art.
Plus-size leading characters could exist, but they could only exist in so far as they were likable. Extremely likable.
