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The ivory-colored body had faded and the strings were warped, but it didn’t matter. The thing that was at first a distraction became a lifeline. Music was an escape. A living, breathing entity that got me through more than a few rough years.
Learning to play came naturally, but it wasn’t until I was eighteen that I took it seriously. Echo’s dad had a lot to do with that. For the brief moment in time we’d been a family, the man had fascinated me. I saw what music was to him. What it did to him. He made the guitar talk. Say the things inside him he didn’t care to say out loud. Or couldn’t.
I’d run scales for hours, fingers flying over the frets. Over and over…and over. Technically, I was up there with the best. I was more than good. I was Axel Mansfield good. Eddie Van Halen good. Stevie Ray Vaughn good. But playing blues or country or anything with feel makes a person dig deep. And you’ve got to be willing to put yoursel
f out there. Put some words down on paper. Add some melody. Maybe even sing. Once that happens, it’s a game changer. And for me? My world exploded.
I had interest from a manager. Then came a record deal. I was wined and dined as if I were the number one draft pick in the NFL. No longer was I playing for myself. At first, I was booked into clubs that seated maybe five hundred. I’d play for hours, giving back as much energy as I got. Electric sex is what I called it. By the end of that first year, I’d gone from small clubs to small arenas that held a couple thousand.
And then Axel got involved. He invited me to open for his world tour, and my career shot into the stratosphere. I was an overnight sensation. A lethal combination of looks and talent, or, as my manager likes to say, the whole damn package. I’d gone from those small shows to playing huge arenas. I had corporate suits relying on me to make their bottom line shine. I was responsible for the livelihoods of the promotors, the merchandising people, the tech guys and the roadies. Their families ate and their bills got paid because of the juggernaut I became. I toured all over the world—more than once. Slept with models and actresses and pretty much anyone who caught my eye. I ate them up like candy.
Yep. Boyd Appleton was big fucking business, and I hated all of it except the time I spent on stage. When had it all gone to shit? Where was all the joy I’d felt? When had making music become a fucking job? At twenty-five, I was burnt out, which was a major inconvenience for the corporate suits at the label. And all those folks depending on me to earn a living.
It was why I’d come out here. To get back to basics. Just me and my guitar. I thought the quiet and solitude would help me and my mojo. And it had. I only had a few songs left to finish.
But now she was here.
I tossed my notebook and glared at the bedroom door. I hadn’t heard a peep out of Echo, and instead of getting the lyrics down for the song I’d written the day before, I was holed up in the damn bedroom like a hermit, wondering what the hell she was doing on the other side. I’d wasted most of my day because, other than a bunch of crossed-out lyrics, I had nothing.
Fuck it.
I jumped off the bed and headed out to the main room. The lights were on, the fire was nearly dead, and she was nowhere. Outside, the storm raged in the darkness, and I was pretty sure Echo wouldn’t have ventured out in it, considering the fact her clothes wouldn’t keep a polar bear warm. I glanced up at the loft and noticed the ladder had been moved. Mystery solved.
I worked on the fire and, once that was up to snuff, headed to the kitchen. Echo had cleaned up her mess like I’d asked, and her leftovers were packed up in the fridge. I reached into the freezer and pulled out a container of chicken soup—the homemade kind. My manager’s wife, Dot, was the best cook I’d ever met. She was from the South, and like a lot of folks from the area, food was as important as family. When she heard I was headed to the Catskills to work on new material, she made it her mission to make sure I didn’t starve.
Thank God for Dot.
As I waited for the soup to heat up, I cracked open a cold beer and stared up at the loft. I wondered what she was doing up there. Not much in the dark, I guessed. I wondered, and then I began to get pissed off because I was wondering. What the hell did I care? She could be naked, spread-eagle on the bed playing with herself, and I wouldn’t give a rat’s ass.
That thought was followed by an image that had been burned into my brain for years. From that summer. I slammed my eyes shut, but it only made things worse. The room disappeared, and there was only us by the swimming hole. Me on my back, Echo, wet from the water, standing over of me, her fingers sliding down to open up her swollen sex. She spread her lips, her engorged clitoris taunted me. She dipped her fingers deep inside and then slowly massaged every inch of that sweetness before she sank to her knees and took my cock deep inside. She rode me like a pro, and to an eighteen-year old kid, she was the hottest thing I’d ever seen. Hell, I’m not sure any other woman had ever come close.
And there you go. Instant fucking hard-on.
The soup was boiling, and I damn near burned my hand pulling the pot from the heat. Swearing, I grabbed a large bowl and filled it to the top, taking my dinner over to the counter. Sliding onto one of the stools, I glared upward again.
This wasn’t going to work. Echo Mansfield needed to go, or the songs would never get finished. I decided that as soon as the storm was over, I’d break into the main house and figure out a way to get someone out to pick her ass up and haul her the hell away from my cabin. If that didn’t work, I’d hike to the next place up the road or the next one until I found someone with a damn phone.
After I ate, I decided to burn off some energy with the weights I’d brought. I did more reps than I should have. Enough crunches to make my abs burn. And then I jumped rope until I nearly passed out from lack of oxygen.
And I still felt like a caged animal.
Again, the loft drew my gaze, and before I could stop myself, I climbed the ladder and jumped up top. It took a bit for my eyes to adjust to the dimness, but when they did, I spied a single bed tucked in the back corner. Echo was obviously buried underneath a pile of blankets.
A pile of blankets that moaned.
Frowning, I moved closer. “Echo?” I spoke quietly because Lord knows the girl overreacted most of the time—she wasn’t called a drama queen for nothing. But she didn’t answer. I watched the lump in the blankets for a few more moments and then shrugged. She was obviously sleeping, and I had no desire to tangle with her tonight.
I spun on my heel and was about to step onto the ladder when I heard her moan again. But this time, it was different. This time, it sounded painful.
“Echo?” I headed back to the bed and reached down, pulling the blanket lower. Her hair was a tangle of blonde, but I could see most of it was damp. She was burning up. I felt the heat like a whisper in the night. She thrashed a bit, and her hand clamped down on mine. Glittery eyes flew open, and she licked dry lips.
“Where am I?” she croaked.
“At the cabin.”
She struggled to sit up and then groaned, sinking back to the bed. For a few seconds, she lay there with her eyes closed, but then smiled weakly. “Boyd?”
“Yep.”
