“Me gusta eso, eso. Mi fuego, más, más. Te necesito.”
And as pleasure ripped away her words, she screamed into the bunkhouse, filled it with the glory of what he did to her, the first to care enough to seek it from her, and he scrambled up her body, slipped on a condom and was inside her, hot, hot heat and fire for only a moment before he also was coming, his shout helpless and a little defeated.
His body trembled as he pulled off the condom and then pulled her into his arms. He muttered against her temple, “Stay with me. Be with me.” He squeezed her tight. “Need you.”
Unable to speak, Sofia just nodded against his naked shoulder.
It was simple. It was inevitable. She was his. And he was hers.
September 8
After a sleepless night thinking about Sofia’s accusations, her anger, and the haunting feel of her in his arms, Aish dragged himself out of bed at 5 a.m. and called Devonte. He’d been making notes on the morning’s script and mainlining espresso when Devonte stumbled in with a still-yawing makeup girl twenty minutes before the bus was supposed to leave. She’d barely had time to cover the yellow bruises under his eyes and flat iron his hair. The sprint to the bus had made Aish feel like hurling.
Maybe it was time to start working out again.
Now, Aish had to nudge a snoring Devonte awake as the luxurious passenger bus came to a stop beside a vineyard.
Canceling their private transportation was probably cruel to his overworked manager. But as much as that news story wanted to put the blame on Sofia for the interns threatening to go home, Aish knew it was his fault, too. He was so good at wooing a crowd that he’d been offered acting gigs, and yet, here, with his music career on the line, he was forgetting to entertain. He was only around the interns when they worked; he’d skipped the “fun” activities and took most of his meals in his room. Solitude was a hard habit to break.
But he needed the interns to stay so he could keep the cameras on. He needed those cameras sending sparkly vibes to the public. He needed the public to keep him in their good graces long enough so the label would accept a reputation-cleansing fourth album.
He needed Sofia to give him a chance to apologize.
And none of that was going to happen if Sofia kept thinking of him as a “selfish, self-involved man-child.”
So he’d canceled their car and torn up his room looking for the intern schedule and buttoned his long-sleeve cuffs at his wrist.
He walked off the bus and stood outside with the group in the morning sunlight, getting a few “good mornings,” which was progress over the shocked stares when he got on. A low, hazy fog lingered among the rows. Like California’s Russian River Valley where his uncle grew grapes, the Monte had cool nights and warm days, which made for great grape growing. But the day was warming up fast and Aish could tell it was going to be another scorcher.
In a vineyard was one of the few places he didn’t miss his best friend like a missing limb. John hated the work, and once Young Son had made it, never returned to Laguna Ridge Winery with Aish to lend a hand whenever their recording and tour schedule allowed it.
Aish sometimes thought the repetitive, exhausting, exhilarating work was what allowed him to withstand a decade of nonstop rock ’n’ rolling. John never needed a break from the booze or the drugs or the sex or the limelight. Especially not the limelight, which, as the years went along, started casting John in an uglier glow.
Aish felt a stab of guilt at the uncharitable thought toward his best friend. His brother. He needed to clear up any public doubts about John and he wasn’t going to do that focusing on what his best friend had done wrong.
Instead, Aish would focus on helping Sofia. He could help the interns see her talent, help the world see how interesting and compelling she was. Squash the rumor that they were going to pull the plug early on the internship, forcing him to lose his one best chance with her.
This morning, she looked unbearably sexy in oversized canvas work pants, a long-sleeve white T-shirt, and swept-aside bangs as she began to motion to vines trained on wire trellises. But his heart sank when he realized she was doubling down on the stilted-somber performance. Nothing of what he’d said yesterday had sunk in.
A few gnats buzzed above her soft, sun-streaked hair.
Aish began to sidle around the group to get closer to her. Devonte caught his arm. “What’re you doing?”
“My cue’s coming up.”
“No, it’s not. What’re you up to?”
Aish tugged his arm away and kept moving. Devonte muttered behind him.
From the other side of the group, he could see Namrita trying to head him off. But he was closer to Sofia.
Within handholding distance from her, he stopped and adopted the look of a captivated audience member. Sofia side-eyed him but ignored him.
He raised his hand and gave a swipe at the gnats above her head.
Sofia startled back, brown eyes wide. “Aish!” she said, under her breath.
“Sorry,” he said quietly. “Just...” He pointed at the gnats that had regathered above her.
She huffed and kept talking.
He let his eyes wander over her face. With her hair short, her delicate cheekbones were more prominent. Her eyes bigger. Her skin was as fine as porcelain with a healthy olive tan.
Holding her close yesterday, stroking his nose into her soft hair, filling his lungs with the spicy-sweet scent of her, had overwhelmed him. Memories had carpet-bombed him, tried to convince him of the insane: that she still wanted him, that he was essential to her. He lost all sense when he touched her. Always had.
Sleepless in his bed last night, that senselessness tried to convince him that he could make the
