Kip Paxton may be the perfect man. He's a sexy, tattooed, foul-mouthed, drummer god for Broken Access, and if that wasn't enough he’s snagged the Guitar Goddess herself.
But in life, where one door opens…another closes, and sometimes the other door bursts wide f@$king open.
Finding out he’s been lied to his entire life—and that all his noble deeds were done in vain—sends him spiraling out-of-control. The secrets suck the life right out of him.
This time Henley and Kip’s entire crew will have to find a way to put him back together again before they lose him forever.
Prologue
Kip
GRIEF IS PERHAPS the
most perplexing of all emotions. We experience grief after a relationship
ends, or losing a significant lifestyle, but especially with death. I thought
as a child that death was final. A person lives a set amount of years, and then
they cease to exist. Caleb’s death taught me that there’s something out there
after we take our last breath. I’m not sure what it entails, but I sense it’s
peaceful. The people left behind after the life drains out of your body
struggle through seven stages of grief, they say.
Grief begins with
a jolt to your system. You aren’t sure what you’ve heard is correct, or if your
mind is playing tricks on you. Then, numbness
overtakes all aspects of the body. Most cases, people wonder if there is pain
involved in the process of death, if there is indeed an afterlife, and
if so, if their loved one is at peace. They probably wonder if they were part
of the life that flashed before their loved one’s eyes.
Chaos
sets in next. Life is in disarray, and the pain from the loss is astounding, at least for most people it is. Most
people are angry they’ll never see the person they love again. Angry
they must live the rest of their existence without said person. Not me. I’m not
angry because my father died. I’m angry because I feel guilty for not caring
that the motherfucker is dead. The guilt is all-consuming right now. I’m angry
because he never did a goddamn thing for me. He never played catch with me,
never told me what a great student I was, never fished with me, and he sure as
fuck never uttered an "I love you” in my direction.
I’ll
never make shit right with him, but I don’t think the opportunity would have
existed even if the miserable prick had lived to be a hundred. I don’t care if
he felt pain when he died, or if he’s in an afterlife, and I sure as fuck don’t
care if he is at peace. Hell, I felt nothing of the sort when I was around him.
I know he didn’t think about me during his last breaths. I’m not pissed off
that I won’t see him again, I’m relieved. I don’t care that I’ll live on this
earth for any amount of time without the son of a bitch because he didn’t give
a fuck about me. He made me feel insignificant, ignorant, and he made sure I
knew I was the biggest disappointment in his life.
For
the next few days, I’ll need to take care of his arrangements, greet people who
will say how sorry they are for my loss, and pretend I give a fuck. I have to
pretend to be the son of a soldier who served his country faithfully and with
honor. Too bad those traits didn’t spill over into the rest of his life. Before
I give in and play my part, I’ll do what I need to do.
I
need her. I need to concentrate on the way she tastes, smells, and feels. I
need to breathe in everything about her and touch every single inch of her
body. I need all of this so I can do what I have to do when I leave this room.
He doesn’t come first because I never did.
I
left Henley in Detroit when my mom called. I didn’t know how to tell her, to
say the words to her, so I left the hotel and everyone behind. I caught the
first flight home, turned my phone off, and did my best to make it through the
fog of numbness.
I
knew she was here before she ever trekked up the steps of my mother’s home. The
fury inside of me died down to mere flames when she called out to me. The
fireball of rage became blue flames, burning hot but not so hot she got singed.
We
pass a whiskey bottle back and forth, saying little. The rest of my friends
join me in silent support until I finally have the nerve to glance at her. My
fucking rock, my heart. Once I gazed into those gray depths, I couldn’t look
away. I’ve lost myself there before and always found my way back. Sometimes
getting lost in her eyes is the only thing I can do to stay safe. She stands
and goes to the bathroom, and I notice everyone else is gone.
Where
did they go?
I
stand and begin to clean up the mess I made when I destroyed my room earlier,
but I can’t find the motivation. I look around the room and notice the picture
beside my bed. I placed it there in middle school before I had my own room at
the Hendrix house. A smile crosses my face as I remember the day. We were
having a carnival at school and Henley’s mom snapped this picture. Henley and I
both had them framed as soon as someone developed them. My arm is thrown over
her shoulder and we’re both wet behind the ears. You don’t feel old or older
until you see photographs of the past.
Henley
Hendrix saved my life and told my dad to go fuck himself when she was only in
junior high. The day I saw her do that, I knew I loved her. Throughout the
years I’ve realized she has strength where I don’t, she still has fight in her
when I’ve given up, and she loves when people least deserve it. I have little
strength right now, no fight left, and I don’t deserve to be loved because I’m
glad my dad is dead.
She
opens the door to my bathroom, making my chest hurt, right smack dab in the
middle. I can’t take my eyes off her. I don’t know what I’d do if she wasn’t
here. I need her more than I’ve ever needed her in my life. I take in her
partially open lips and the doe look in her eyes. I swallow the need down the
best I can, but it takes a second to realize swallowing doesn’t lessen the
pain.
"Hen,”
I say.
"Kip,”
she answers.
I’m
trying to keep my tears at bay because what I feel for her is too much. It’s
too fucking much, and it hurts.
"I
need you,” I whisper.
"I’m
right here. I’m not leaving.”
She’s
not getting it. I need her to take the pain away, like she always has. I need
her to make it stop. All she must do is love me, and it will all be okay.
"Ineed you,” I repeat, trying to tell her what I’m saying, what I mean.
"I’m
here,” she says, slightly breathy, and I take that as my cue.
She
gets it. She understands what I need, and why I need it. I close the distance
and touch her face, taking in her beauty. I peer into those gray eyes and almost come undone. I lean forward
to kiss her but second- guess myself, wondering if I’m pushing this new
thing between us too far. I rub my nose against hers instead, giving myself
time to garner more courage.
Fuck
it.
I
finally touch my lips to hers and do it again, and again, and again. I take her
face into my hands because that’s what a man does when he loves a woman. That’s
what a man does when he wants to show her this is far more than getting off
inside of her. I push my tongue into her mouth and simultaneously press her
against the closest wall.
"I.
Need. You.” I say, emphasizing each word so she knows she’s the only goddamned
thing I need right now. She isn’t fucking close enough. I need to feel more of
her. I pull my shirt over my head and close in again.
"Henley.
I fucking need you. I need you,” I declare on the verge of both tears and
screaming.
I
swear she can see inside my fucking soul, always has. Whenever she sorts out
what she’s looking for in my eyes, she nods. Licking her lips only makes me
harder.
"Baby,
I need you so fucking bad it hurts. I need you,” I croak out as the tears fill
my eyes.
She
nods in understanding. I kiss her deeply, forcefully and pull her shirt over
her head, and then snap her bra loose. I break the kiss to reach to her chest.
Filling my hands with her, I lean down and pull a nipple into my mouth. While I’m
licking and sucking, she moans. It’s the most beautiful sound in the world. She
has the prettiest breasts I’ve ever seen. They’re natural, full breasts with
perfectly round pink nipples. Playboy tits.
Her
hand brushes against my cock while she works frantically to unbuckle my belt.
Her hands touch me again when she unbuttons and unzips me. Fuck. She uses her
hands to push my jeans down as far as they’ll go, and then her foot to push
them the rest of the way. I move my mouth from her chest back to her mouth and
reach down to work on her jeans. I push her pants below her ass so I can access
her pussy and rub on the outside for a second while listening to her moan. That
sound might be the death of me. Pushing the fabric to the side, I dip one
finger inside, working her clit with another while she comes undone.
"So
soft,” I say.
I
rip my fingers out of her, relieve her of everything below the waist while she
pushes my boxers down my legs. After we kick that shit to the side, I study the
planes and curves of her body, and press my mouth to hers. When I pick her up,
she wraps those pretty legs around me, and my cock touches her pussy.
"Condom,”
she says.
I’ve
always used condoms, never slipped up. I never trusted a bitch not to get
pregnant on purpose. I have a lifetime supply but using one with her doesn’t
feel right.
"Nothing
between us, Hen,” I say and assault her mouth again.
She
hasn’t replied, and it worries me. I need her to tell me she’s okay with not
using protection. I want to feel all of her.
"Hen?”
I pull my lips from hers to gauge her expression. "Say yes. Say you want to
feel me. Please. I need you. I need you to feel me.”
"Kip,”
she whispers and I’m afraid she’ll stop this whole damn thing.
"I
won’t hurt you. I’d never hurt you,” I promise.
"I
want to feel you,” she replies.
