Rough Country (Tannen Boys 3)

She explodes, losing the rhythm, but I keep pounding at her and rubbing her as she comes and comes.

She has never looked so stunning as she does right now—glistening with sweat, hair plastered to her forehead, naked and bare physically and emotionally, sitting astride me, with our combined cum making an utter mess of us both.

Fuck, I love her.

She collapses over me, panting erratically.

“That was . . . that . . . wow.” She gives up on sentences, making me smile.

We lie like that for several long minutes, luxuriating in each other’s body and presence. Eventually, I slide out of her, and she squeals, rolling off me as if I give a shit about having our combined cum on me.

“I’ll get you a towel. Hang on.” I climb out of the bed and head to her bathroom. I wet a washcloth and wring it out, but by the time I get back, Willow is snoring softly. Guess this long week is catching up to her.

Probably wore her out, my ego chimes in like a cocky bastard.

I decide to let her sleep while I get cleaned up to head to the airport, but I can’t help picking up her phone from the nightstand. I take a close-up of her face, fully relaxed in sleep, then one of her whole body, half-covered by the nest of sheets we left. I send the pictures to myself then leave them for her to find when she does her next blog posting.

Beautiful girl.

My girl.

Airports suck. Planes suck. Hotels suck. The city sucks. People suck. Everything sucks.

Or maybe I’m just nervous.

That’s a distinct possibility.

I’ve traveled a time or two, but it was for family trips when I was a kid, mostly. Traveling alone to what might be my new destiny is a pressure I hadn’t anticipated. And though my shoulders are broad and strong, this responsibility is something Brody usually handles. Not me. I’m the backup to the backup. Brody, Brutal, then me. Hell, Shay fits in there somewhere too, so maybe I’m her backup too.

“Mr. Tannen? Mr. Marshall will see you now,” the receptionist says behind a fringe of long, dark lashes, dyed blonde curly hair, and deep red lips. She gestures with one hand toward the hallway and I follow her.

To my destiny.

To my doom.

Both? Fuck if I know.

But at the wooden door, I take a steadying breath. Whatever it is, you’re good, Tannen.

Know myself, who I am, and where I came from. Take it or leave it.

Great in theory, but I’m really hoping they take it and want me and my music. My dream is so close I can taste it. All I have to do is not fuck this up.

“Bobby!” Jeremy’s voice is louder, his presence larger in this room than it had seemed at Hank’s last weekend. “Come in. Glad you got out so quickly. Big city treating you okay?”

He’s trying to put me at ease, setting the tone for the room, which means he’s the alpha dog here. I wasn’t sure that was the case, but now, there’s no doubt. If there’s one thing I can do, it’s read a room.

“Thanks. Yeah, checked into the hotel. It’s nice. Bed has six pillows.” I add that detail to highlight how fancy the hotel is, but the few people in the room smile as though I told a joke.

I scan the room, seeing a round conference table with six people seated at it. They’re mostly young, in their twenties and thirties, I’d guess, a mix of guys and girls, each with a folder in front of them. The woman seated closest to me quirks one salon-sculpted, perfectly-shaped brow when she sees me realizing that the folder has my name on it.

I’m not sure what to feel about that. On one hand, that someone took the time to make six folders with my name seems important. But file folders naturally end up in file cabinets, which means there are likely hundreds of folders just like these. Folders of folks who took their shot and flew, and some who fell flat back down to Earth.

“Sit down. Let’s talk through everything, Bobby,” Jeremy says as he moves to the head of the table. It’s round, so there shouldn’t be a ‘head’ position, but there always is. No room full of people is ever on completely even footing, this one included. And pretending that everyone’s equal puts you at a disadvantage from the starting line. Best to acknowledge and act accordingly.

Except talking through things doesn’t sound like something I’m going to be good at.

I don’t want to talk. I want to sing.

But I sit down like I’m told, willing to play along for this opportunity.

Jeremy clicks a few buttons on a remote, and the window shades roll down automatically, followed by a television on the wall turning on. Showoff, I think.