When the plane touched down, jolting Cash awake, he found Marilyn still dozing, resting her head on his shoulder. Staring out his window he saw the waiting SUV’s and his mind began to wander. Two more venues. Though he was close to complete exhaustion, he considered the last few shows the most important, and was going to give them his all.
The closing days were bittersweet, a flavor he’d tasted many times before. The endless hotel rooms, constant traveling, planes and cars, parties and girls, the bizarre unreality was coming to its end. He’d return to his ranch in Texas, sleep for a week, then hang with his horses, rest and regenerate.
The plane rolled to a stop. Unbuckling his seat belt he followed the motley, hungover group as they headed down the gangway. Conversation was sparse, and as they piled into the vans Cash wondered how Charlie was getting on with the bus, wishing he’d had the luxury of spending a night in the peaceful little town, and the opportunity to sample another of Becky’s pies as she sat across from him. The memory of her sparkling eyes as she had placed the surprising French Press coffee in front of him, flashed through his mind, and unexpectedly the first few lines of a song floated into his head. Grabbing his cell phone he began to type.
Dancing freckles under sapphire eyes,
A pure heart that knows no lies,
Sprinkling sunshine with her smile,
I want to sit and stay a while.
A while, a while, I want to stay a while,
And warm myself in her sunshine smile.
It was how he penned his songs. He didn’t consider himself a writer because he didn’t consider what he did writing. There were no arduous hours toiling over a piano or plucking at his guitar; his process was effortless. The lyrics would drop from the heavens, and when he picked up his instrument the melody would play itself.
“Everything okay?” Marilyn asked, watching Cash type urgently into his phone.
“Yes, great, hang on.”
She sat silently, studying the famous Cash Colt, hair mussed and white shirt slightly rumpled, wondering what he was writing so fervently, or to whom he was texting so frantically. The drummer, Lenny, sitting opposite them, bleary-eyed and looking twice his age, glanced up.
“There he goes, another number one single,” he murmured.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“He means it’s how I write songs. Lyrics pop into my head and I write them down, then later they turn into a song,” Cash answered for him.
“Like, poof, magic,” Lenny added dramatically. “Some call it genius, I call it dumb luck.”
“Can I read them?” she pleaded, eager to see the first words of a potential hit.
“Nope, sorry,” he replied, dropping his phone back into his pocket.
“So, Marilyn, what do you do when you’re not hitching rides on private jets with rock stars?” Lenny asked wryly.
“Just stuff, I guess,” she replied vaguely, waving a dismissive hand in the air.
“How do you survive doing just stuff?” Cash inquired. “Do you have a generous benefactor?”
She may have stowed away on his bus, but she didn’t strike him as a wandering flower, and he’d noticed the watch on her wrist wasn’t inexpensive, nor her designer hobo bag.
“Alias a sugar daddy,” Lenny piped up.
Cash shot him a ‘not cool’ look. He and Lenny had been best friends since high school, but sometimes Lenny could be crass, and often spoke before thinking. It was a character trait Cash had never been able to rectify.
“Neither, thank you very much,” she quipped defensively. “I do work for a living, I just don’t talk about it.”
“Really?” Cash pressed, and leaning in whispered in her ear, “Is it something naughty?”
She giggled, and lifting her arms around his neck whispered back,
“As a matter of fact, it is.”
“Perfect,” he replied, lifting his head. “I want to hear all about it.”
“Hey, no fair,” Lenny complained, pretending to be hurt. “I was the one who asked.”
“That’s life,” Cash grinned.
The SUV had been rolling its way into Manhattan, and Cash gazed out the window, thinking about the small town they’d just left, the mountains, the trees and the quiet. He was a country boy at heart, and while he enjoyed the energy of the city he could only take it for so long.
“I love New York,” Marilyn smiled enthusiastically. “Absolutely love it. It’s so alive and so vibrant.”
Cash shifted his gaze and studied her, considering it odd that she’d just voiced the absolute opposite of his thoughts. Besides her Cartier watch, she was wearing various necklaces and bracelets, and while her clothes were casual, they were expensive. He did find it somewhat intriguing, but he didn’t give it more than a passing thought; she was there for one reason and one reason only, so he could scratch his itch.
“Maybe you’ll have time to get in some shopping,” he suggested, and as he expected she smiled broadly, her tired eyes lighting up with anticipation.
“Now that sounds like a plan,” she declared. “I know exactly where I’m going to start.”
“I’m sure you do,” he quietly remarked.
The SUV pulled up to the small, boutique, five-star hideaway, a favorite of his and many other famous names, who the preferred personal service it provided. In seconds they were whisked inside and up to their rooms, Cash in the luxury penthouse on the top floor, offering spectacular views of the city. It offered two, on-suite bedrooms, separated by a luxurious lounge, dining room and cocktail area with a full bar.
“Man, I’m aching for a bath,” Marilyn declared.
“Take that,” he offered, pointing to the smaller bedroom. “I’m going to grab a shower. Are you hungry? I’ll order something up.”
“Yes, definitely. Thanks, Cash. I eat anything except red meat, and I should clarify that statement,” she grinned. “I love red meat, just not cooked.”
Cash grinned back.
“You really are a bad girl. Works for me. See you in a bit,” and wandering into the master bedroom, peeled off his clothes, ready for a long, hot shower.
In her bathroom, Marilyn started to fill the tub, squeezing out the foaming gel supplied by the hotel. The soft aroma immediately filled the room and she sighed happily. A boring party with narcissistic rockers, then sleeping the night on a thin pad in a cramped compartment was not her idea of a good time. She was a champagne and caviar girl. Not only had she suffered through the discomfort of the tour bus, she’d left her good friend, Susie Capshaw, stranded in the backstage area. They’d shared a limo, but the car had been booked by Marilyn, so Susie would have to sort things out with the driver, and Marilyn knew her friend would be furious. Marilyn, however, had Cash Colt in her sights, and when the opportunity presented itself, she’d jumped.
But Marilyn wasn’t a fan or a groupie chasing her idol.
Marilyn Sanders was a bored trust fund baby who fancied herself a journalist, and was in search of a big break. For a couple of years she’d heard rumors about Cash Colt being kinky, but for all the press and predictable scandal surrounding the band and their lives, nothing had ever been written about Cash and what that kink might be. She’d finally tracked down one of his adoring female public, a well-known groupie who had proudly spread the word that she’d bedded Cash Colt, and he was the best ever. After a couple of bottles of wine, the girl had opened up about what had made him such a great lover. Cash loved to spank, and tie up, and blindfold, but most especially he loved to spank. Initially the girl had been stunned by what the rock star was doing, but discovered just how fantastically orgasmic the whole thing could be.
Marilyn had her breakout story.
Writing an exposé about one of the world’s most famous rockers was just the sort of thing that could jettison her career, and without giving anything away, she’d finagled a meeting with the editor of a national rock and roll magazine and pitched her idea. She’d been right. They were interested.
After the meeting, it occurred to her that a firsthand account would garner more attention than a secondhand report, and if she could get pictures so much the better, then one morning at 3 am she woke up with a jolt. She wasn’t going to just write an exposé for a magazine, she was going to write a book. An unauthorized account of her time on the road with Cash Colt, and she already had the title. The Spanking Rock Star. She was convinced it would be a bestseller and put her name in lights. All she had to do was make it happen, and Marilyn was a very resourceful young woman.
Her plan had worked perfectly. Her father was a powerful entertainment attorney, one of the reasons she was able to land the interview with the editor of the magazine, and obtaining an all access, backstage pass hadn’t been an issue. Slipping into the bus with the rowdy group was frighteningly easy, but once inside she discovered Cash wasn’t on board. Though she was tempted to join the fun, she needed to keep a clear head and save herself for Cash, and managing to slip quietly away, she found a back compartment in which to hide. All she had to do was wait until she met the famous rocker, and then offer him what he wanted most of all, her backside.
She hadn’t counted on the intense bottom roasting. Her ass was still tender, but what had taken her by surprise was the heat that had fired through her sex, and the urgent need to climax when he’d finished. Even more startling was the unfamiliar closeness she’d felt towards him when it was all said and done.
Slipping gingerly into the warm foaming water, she sank down gratefully and closed her eyes. As she began to relax, the memory of her body pressed against the tree, the cold air whispering across her naked butt cheeks, and Cash’s stinging, slapping hand, consumed her thoughts. The spanking had sparked her pussy and made her almost weep with need.
Her fingers found their way between her legs, and she massaged her magic button as she surrendered to the intoxicating memory. Moments later an unexpected surge of energy rippled through her, enveloping her in a lasting, powerful orgasm that took her breath away. As the delicious tingles made her sigh contentedly, she opened her eyes and stared absently at the ceiling.
What the hell is happening to me? What has happened to me? Dammit, Cash, what the hell?
It was the middle of the afternoon, a quiet time in the diner, and Becky was sitting in the booth she’d shared for a few precious moments with a hunky guy named Cody. He’d had a quiet confidence that made her feel safe, and not only did she sense that he could take care of himself, he appeared completely comfortable in his own skin. He wasn’t a big guy like Roy, yet he’d seemed larger than life.
Roy was nothing but a spoiled boy in a grown-up body, all puff and bluster, and insecurity. His unexpected and explosive presence in the diner had been frightening, and she hoped her dad had been right, and that Sheriff Hollister would be able to stop him causing any more trouble.
Closing her eyes she recalled Cody’s thick black hair, and the intensity of his hazel eyes. He had strong features, but there was a softness to his demeanor, he had been so easy to talk to, and he’d left her an unbelievably generous tip. Reaching into her apron pocket she withdrew the note he’d left. It had been an exciting and wonderful surprise and she still didn’t quite believe it.
I’ll be back.
She stared out at the street, hoping and praying she’d see him, still trying to understand where the handsome, beguiling guy had come from, and why he had disappeared so quickly, though she was still convinced he was somehow connected to the tour bus.
Perhaps he gave you a false name, or maybe he’s traveling incognito and no-one is allowed to talk about him. Maybe he’s a big star you just haven’t heard of.
Words of a song began to float inside her head. Grabbing her pen, she pulled out her order book, tearing off the top page.
You’re a stranger to be sure,
but my heart’s a sayin’ you’re so much more,
You were here for a flash, then had to go,
but my heart’s a sayin, there’s more to know.
You’re stuck in my head, I can’t shake you,
but it doesn’t matter, ‘cos I don’t want to.
You’re a stranger to be sure,
but my heart’s a sayin’ you’re so much more,
She’d often wondered how it happened, how the lyrics appeared out of nowhere, and when she picked up her guitar the music would simply be there. Her dad had told her she had her mother’s talent, but she didn’t know about that because she couldn’t remember her mother.
When her father thought her old enough to understand, he had said her mother was his great love, and Becky was a precious gift she had left behind. Becky had cried, then he had cried, and in her heart she had understood. Though her child’s brain couldn’t quite process the emotional storm, the conversation had given birth to her first song. She was seven.
Since that painful episode she had written many songs. They were tucked away in the bottom drawer of her dresser, and though she sang mostly covers at The Cowbell, people were always demanding she perform her originals.
One of her most ardent supporters, a woman she called Auntie Joan, had driven her hours away to an American Idol audition, and while the folks had told her she could sing and play the guitar well enough to go further, she would have to share her ‘story,’ and she couldn’t do that. Making public the saddest part of her father’s life was not going to happen. It was private and personal, so that was the end of that slippery dream.
Her Auntie Joan had been a surrogate mother for as long as Becky could remember, and on their long, disappointing drive home, the kind woman upon whom she had come to rely, reassured her.
“Sad, private matters are just that,” she’d declared firmly. “You were right.”
It was back to the stage at The Cowbell, and Becky resigned herself to her face without much regret. She found the noise and garbage and the rudeness of people in large cities extremely unpleasant. Riding her horses, baking her pies, and singing on the weekends brought her happiness and joy…but change was in the air.
Cody Cox had stirred something inside her. Something new, something exciting, something that was making her restless. She’d never been restless before and she wasn’t sure if it was a good thing or not, but she was sure she wanted to find out.