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“Merrill,” I groan.
“So, you know how the record label has been pushing for you to get a new album out and to set some tour dates?”
“I haven’t been living under a rock. Yeah, I know.” Could he just get to the point already?
“Well, you’re not the only one who’s had a bit of a lull lately.”
“O…kay?”
“I’m talking about your songbird. Miss Chelsea Garten. You’re both signed with Pelican.”
It’s like he’s speaking another language and I can’t understand any of the words he’s saying even though I know I should be able to. “What?”
“The label wants the two of you to do an album together, and maybe a short tour. It could be what you both need to reinvigorate your careers.”
“Are you serious?” I hear my voice and it almost sounds angry, but that’s not how I’m feeling. “That’s what you’ve been working on all week?”
He chuckles on the other end. “I told you to let me worry about it, kid. Now are you in or not?”
“Hell yes, I’m in.” I don’t even have a chance to think about it before I’m answering. The chance to see Chelsea again? To sing with her again? Absolutely I’m in. And knowing that we’ll be spending long hours together alone in the studio, with her wide smiles and tantalizing curves doesn’t hurt my enthusiasm one bit.
“Great, I’ll let them know.” He hangs up without another word, and I just stare at the phone for a minute. Not even a “goodbye, call you later with updates”? He must really be eager to move on this deal. I am too. I mean, why the hell wouldn’t I be? Getting to spend time with Chelsea, making beautiful music and putting smiles on those kids’ faces…
That thought has me punching my screen to call him back immediately.
“You can’t change your mind,” he says as soon as he answers.
“No. I’m not trying to. But make sure the label gives a cut of the profits to Wish Givers.”
“Oh! Oh… That’s good. That’s a good angle. All right, done.” And he’s hung up on me again. If he wasn’t practically a father to me, I’d be annoyed as hell at how rude that is, but he’s Merrill and it’s nearly impossible for me to get legitimately angry at him. He’s been with me through too much shit.
For the first time in days, I’m grinning ear to ear, thinking about the coming days with Chelsea. I’d nearly resigned myself to never seeing her again, but now that there’s the promise of working with her, I’ve got a spring in my step and an excitement that can’t be extinguished. I head off to the shower, stripping down on my way there. I’ve been doing practically nothing but moping and watching YouTube the last few days, and I’ve neglected my hygiene. A good scrub will do wonders—besides, I don’t want to stink when I get to see Chelsea again.
I’m practically giddy with the thought, and I’m not the only one. Thinking about spending time with her has got my cock twitching, and my balls tightening with the memory of her blue eyes dancing with joy. The way her body swayed in time with the music…
I groan, letting the hot water wash over me, down my back, but it’s not even close to distracting me. My hand finds my cock automatically, imagining her soft lips parting and enveloping my length, those eyes looking up at me while her mouth is stuffed with my hard cock. God, the things I’d do to that tight little body the first chance I get.
I hear her soft voice in my mind, begging me to fuck her, to make her come, and that does it. My balls seize up and I explode, imagining her begging, “Fuck me, Ian.”
I slump against the wall, almost embarrassed about how quickly fantasizing about Chelsea made me come so hard. But what can I expect? It’s been over three years since the last girl I slept with. It was on that failed return tour, when nothing was going well and I just wanted a warm body in my bed to make me feel better. But she didn’t. None of them ever did. A long string of unfulfilling relationships—if you could even call them that—and one-night stands left me feeling like I’d be better off alone.
There’d been a few other offers in the years since I decided celibacy and sobriety were a package deal, but I politely declined each of them. Even Kandy Florin, the reporter writing the latest piece about my new image and fight for success. I could’ve slept with her to make sure the story would be flattering, but that seemed like a thing the old Ian would do. Thankfully, she shrugged it off and never mentioned it again—it would have been beyond awkward for her to be angry at me while she’s been following me around for the last few weeks. Not to mention how likely it would have been to sour our working relationship when I didn’t call her the next morning.
There’s always the possibility that she’ll still eviscerate me in her article, but she seems professional and pleasant enough, so I don’t think it’ll be much of an issue. Besides, I’ve got bigger things to worry about—like how I’m going to avoid sleeping with Chelsea.
Ha. I know I should avoid it. Like I said, celibacy and sobriety go hand in hand for me. Casual sex just flares up old itches for drinking and doping and that is not what my new image needs.
But I’m not sure that sex with Chelsea Garten could be “casual.” She doesn’t seem the type. I’ve Googled her pretty extensively and she’s got the perfect good girl, clean-nose image that the record label’s wanting. I wouldn’t be surprised if this whole collaboration is their attempt to get her reputation to rub off on me.
Not that I mind for even a second the thought of Chelsea rubbing anything on me. But I shove that thought aside before my cock can spring to attention again. I need to be able to keep things professional and jerking it to the thought of Chelsea spread out naked underneath me isn’t going to help that mission one bit.
So instead of indulging in more fantasy, I finish washing up and get out of the shower, forcing thoughts of a naked and panting Chelsea from my mind. It’s not even a guarante
e that she’ll agree to this thing. While hanging out with her can only do good things for my reputation, for her hanging out with me will do the opposite. But maybe she’s looking to edge up her image some. A guy can hope, right?
I’m toweling off my hair when I hear the phone buzzing from the living room. I practically run for it, leaving wet footprints in my wake, fighting not to slip on the hardwood as my dick swings free and I round a corner. I get to it just in time, and it’s Merrill again.
“What’s the news?” I answer.
