Page 74 of Hidden with a Rockstar
"I was thinking about going to Siren’s next show," Lena says. “Want to come? Just know you’ll have to be part of the pre-show rituals. I have a mask with your name on it.”
I laugh. "That sounds perfect."
She settles against my shoulder. Her hand finds mine on the couch cushion.
"I love you," she says.
"I know. You've been very patient about that."
"I'm not patient anymore." She turns to face me. "I'm just so happy you’re here. Everybody knows about us. Jani knows. My friends know. My parents knows. And you're still here."
I reach over and tilt her jaw toward me.
I kiss her. Her hand comes up to my neck. My hand goes to her waist. The sweatshirt is soft.
When I pull back, she keeps her eyes closed for a moment.
"That was nice," she says.
"Yeah."
"Do it again?"
I do. This time, when I kiss her, she shifts so she's straddling my thighs. The couch dips under her weight. My hands find her ribs, the soft give of fabric and the warm skin underneath. I can feel her heartbeat. I can feel her breathing. She pulls back just enough to peel off the sweatshirt—my sweatshirt—and drop it on the floor. She's wearing nothing underneath.
I pull her back down. We're skin to skin now. Her breasts against my chest. My hands on her spine. The sensation of her moving against me, the freedom of it, the visibility of it, the absolute luxury of not having to hide. I kiss her neck. Her collarbone. The soft spot where her shoulder meets her throat. She leans back to give me better access, and my mouth follows the curve of her, and she gasps when I reach a sensitive place, and the sound is open and unguarded because we're not hiding anymore.
"Let’s do this in our room." Her voice is rough.
I kiss her mouth once more. Then I lift her and carry her to the bedroom.
The mattress takes her weight, then mine. She’s soft everywhere, and when my fingers slide into her she’s rocking up to meet my hand, her nails in my back, marking me, holding me where she wants me. Her voice is loud, my name spilling out between gasps.
When she comes, it’s with my name and her body arching up off the mattress and her hand locked around my wrist, keeping me right there. The sight of her like this—unguarded, visible, mine—sends me over the edge with her. She holds me through it, her arms around my neck, her breathing in my ear, my name in her mouth over and over.
After, we lie still. Her head on my chest. My hand on her back. Sweat cooling on skin. The light from the window washing over us.
The first photo of us ran three days after the party. Someone got a shot of the kiss and sold it, and by Thursday there was a blurry, backlit picture of me holding a woman’s face in both hands on a music blog, under a headline that spelled my name wrong. I waited for the panic. It didn’t come.
Rhonda handled it the way she handles everything—out loud, and once. A single line from the band account: Yes, I’m seeing someone. Yes, I’m happy. No, you don’t get the rest of it—please respect that. Then she put her phone in a drawer for two days and let it be true.
And me—I started wearing a face mask again when we go out. Just so the two of us can eat a burger in peace.
A text from Marnie: Guys, lets haveSunday brunch? I really want to eat those jiggly pancakes.
Ravita: I’m keen.
I'm in.I send back.Rhonda might want to come too.
YES. Bring her.
The next day at lunch Ravita is across from me with her salad and her coffee.
"Your girlfriend," Ravita says, spearing a cherry tomato, "has terrible taste in bass strings, by the way."
I look up. "What?"
"Flat-wound on a P-Bass. Who does that? Round-wound or nothing."
