That night, we performed at Madison Square Garden, and I couldn’t wait to get off the stage and back to my family in the hotel. Suddenly, as if my rose-colored glasses had been stripped away, I saw everyone around me for what they really were—users and abusers. Other than my bandmates and a few select others, all of the people surrounding me didn’t care about what the best thing for me was, nor did they didn’t give two shits about my family. Their only concern was how I could help them improve their own lives.
As soon as I returned to the room, I woke everyone up—I hadn’t cared what time it was—and informed them of the decision I’d come to. The twins were really too young to understand, but they cheered anyway because I seemed so excited. Scarlett was hesitant to show any emotion, confused over why I’d had a change of heart and, as usual, putting my feelings first. I promised her I was one hundred percent confident in my decision; as soon as the current tour we were on was complete, I was finished. Done. Terminado. Finito. I wanted to give Scarlett the wedding and marriage she deserved, the kids the stability they needed, and for the four of us to enjoy the life we were blessed with.
It’s been almost a year since that day, and not one single moment have I regretted it.
“Come on, Angel. This has been fun, but we really need to get busy,” I say, looking over at the empty space she’d been sitting in. I scan the room, but she’s nowhere to be found. “Hey, where’d you go?”
Her hearty laughter echoes throughout the house. “I’m in here,” she calls out from the kitchen. “You were so lost in your thoughts you didn’t even hear me when I told you I was coming in here to unpack.”
Strolling through the archway that separates the two rooms, I hiss under my breath at the sight of her lithe body bent over putting away pots and pans—a body I’ll never be able to get enough of. Her black lace panties peek out of the cotton sleep-shirt she’s still wearing, and my cock twitches to life with the need to feel myself buried deep inside her yet again. Never fucking enough.
My legs move of their own accord, positioning me directly behind her so I can encase my arms around her tiny waist and press my erection against her ass. “You’re being good like you promised, I see.”
Setting down the skillet in her hands, she peeks over her shoulder at me, her lips curling up in a smirk. “I’m always good,” she replies with a shake of her hips.
She knows better than to test my resolve. For someone who prides himself in self-control—a vital attribute when it comes to sustaining a successful relationship while in the music business—I have no fucking willpower when it comes to her and her mind-blowing curves. Without another word, I hook my thumbs into the sides of her panties, push them past her hipbones, and let them fall to the floor. A seductive moan rumbles deep in her throat, fueling my need for her even more—as if that’s possible.
“Hold on to the countertop,” I growl hoarsely.
Immediately, her hands fly up and grasp the black granite surface, presenting her perfectly-shaped ass to me. She’s just as ready to take as I am to give, our voracious libidos always on the same page.
With one of my hands splayed across her ivory cheeks, the other brushes a feathery-light stroke across her already-wet folds. Her breath hitches on contact as she tries to grind her body harder against my hand. I withdraw it and slap her firmly across the butt. “Be patient or I’ll really torture you,” I warn wickedly.
Part of me wants her to disobey so I can spend the next few hours tormenting her supple body, driving her to the edge over and over without letting her free-fall into her orgasm until I determine she’s had enough, but her body stills, so I return my nimble fingers back to her glistening sex. Again, I barely graze her puffy lips with my fingertips, sweeping up and down several times until I realize she’s going to behave. Then, after dipping my middle digit into her tight slit, I drag it towards her front, coating her hardened clit with her own juices as I make small circular motions against it.
“Fuck, Mase. You’re killing me,” she mutters breathlessly. She’s trying desperately not to move, allowing me my naughty playtime with her irresistibly enticing body.
Luckily for her, I can’t take much more myself; my steel-hard cock is throbbing with hunger, and only her wrapping tightly around me will satisfy my craving. Withdrawing my hand from her swollen nub, I hastily pull my boxers down and align the tip of my shaft—already oozing with pre-cum—at her entrance, grasping both of her hips to keep her steady. Her fingers tighten around the curved edge of the counter, bracing herself for what she knows is coming.
Plunging deep inside her with one swift thrust, her tight walls stretch around my width, allowing me to completely immerse myself in her gripping, tight, searing-hot pussy. I draw back until only the head is still hidden in her slit—the sheen from her arousal covering my erection—before burying myself into her again. Over and over, I drive my cock into her molten core, digging my short nails into her creamy, soft flesh as I propel us to the height of our desire.
Our sweaty bodies slap thunderously against each other. The heady smell of sex hangs dense in the air like cumulonimbus clouds blanketing the sky. Electric currents whirr with lightning-fast speed between our bodies. We soar higher and higher, the storm within us growing more intense with every movement until the passionate tempest claims both of our bodies. Together, we burst free, flooding each other with our all-consuming orgasm until we’re both fully-drained and sated.
Looping my arms around her slender frame, I pull her down with me as I collapse onto the floor, my legs no longer able to hold me up. Nuzzling the nape of her neck, I hold her back flush against my chest and whisper, “You are fucking crazy.”
She tilts her head back on my shoulder so she can look at me, sensual satisfaction swimming in her bright emerald eyes as she grins impishly. “Always a good crazy.”
SCARLETT
Our hope of having the house unpacked and ready to go before the twins came home over that long weekend quickly proved to be a pipe dream, especially when Mason and I couldn’t keep our hands off of each other or our clothes on for any period of time. We quickly accepted our failed expectations, and instead, we spent the time without kids having a second honeymoon of sorts, christening every room downstairs in less than forty-eight hours.
In all actuality, it took us a little over a week to get all of the boxes unpacked and everything set up precisely the way I wanted. I’m still adding decorative touches to each of the rooms, which is apparently a never-ending project that continues to evolve as I go. I may buy stock in Hobby Lobby and Pier One shortly with as much money as I’m regularly dumping at both of those stores.
Today, I’m working in the game room, while Mase and the kids are outside swimming. Knowing I need to shower and start getting all of us ready for dinner soon, the last thing I’ll have time to finish is choosing some photos for the funky, animal-print frames I found last week. Searching through the storage closet underneath the staircase, I can’t find the bin with all of the photos we’d spent hours sifting through that initial weekend.
Sauntering through the house, I open the backdoor and call out, “Hey, babe, have you moved that container with all of the pictures? I thought I put it under the stairs, right?”
Three amused faces bob up and down in the shallow end of the pool amidst brilliant prisms produced by the sunlight reflecting off of the rippling water. A huge smile spreads across my face at the sight of them, overjoyed with how much our time together as a family has been enhanced in the short time we’ve lived in the house.
“No, I haven’t moved it. Are you sure it’s not in there?”
“Yeah, I’ve looked everywhere,” I reply with a shrug. “Oh well, no biggie. I’ll search for it later. Y’all need to get out soon so we can get dressed if we’re going to make dinner on time. I’m going to jump in the shower now.” A bunch of splashing and laughing ensues as I hear all three of them yell “yes, ma’am” out to me before I close the door.
An hour-and-a-half
later, the four of us load into our black Tahoe and head into the city for my birthday celebration with our closest friends and family. Twenty-seven years young. It’s hard to believe it’d been nearly nine years since I left my parents’ restrictive home, naïve, innocent, and unaware of the raw emotions connected with love and loss. Looking over at my husband and kids as we drive down the highway, my heart clenches with gratitude and love. Despite the sorrow I will always carry over losing both Evie and Ash, I know I’m truly blessed.
Pulling into the parking lot of Empty’s—which is closed to the public for the night—the kids scurry out of the SUV as soon as it’s in park, rushing inside to play air hockey with their Uncle Marcus. Smiling, Mase and I walk hand-in-hand through the heavy metal door, instantly surrounded by our loved ones. There are more people than I expected in attendance, and I glance over at my husband with a raised brow, silently scolding him for making this bigger than necessary. A tender kiss on my forehead is the only response I get.
Everyone seems to be having a great time; the barbeque on the buffet has been devoured, people are laughing and joking while playing pool and darts, and several of us can’t stop ourselves from dancing to the mixture of classic rock and Top 40 hits booming through the speakers. Someone announces it’s time to sing Happy Birthday and eat cake, so everyone gathers together near the stage, placing me in the center. Confusion sets in when a huge white screen I didn’t even know existed descends from the ceiling and the lights dim. Looking around for Mase, he’s nowhere to be found, until he strolls out on stage a few minutes later holding his acoustic. I’m going to kill him when we get home. His eyes meet mine, sparkling with mischief, and he shakes his head at me as if he knows my last thought.
“Good evening, everyone,” he says warmly into the microphone. “I know most of us have all been together recently for our wedding, but I really wanted to do something special for my wife to show her how much I appreciate everything she’s done for me and our family. I’m pretty sure her last six or seven birthdays have been spent on the road with the band, and definitely didn’t get the attention they deserved, so I’ve put together a little something to remind her of our journey here.”
As he begins to strum his guitar, a video appears on the screen behind him. The first shot is a collage of miscellaneous Polaroid pictures, with a quote reading, “Memories are timeless treasures of the heart.” Then, a steady flow of photographs from the past six-plus years—the ones we had laughed and cried over on our recent trip down Memory Lane—streams across the screen. Happy tears fill my eyes, not only at the reminiscent images, but at the awe-inspiring thoughtfulness he put into having this made for me.
“I can hear her heart beat for a thousand miles,
And the heavens open every time she smiles…”
When he begins to sing Crazy Love by Van Morrison, I can no longer hold back the emotions bubbling over, and so the waterworks begin. Feverishly, I try to wipe the moisture from my eyes and swallow back the sob lodged in the back of my throat so I don’t miss any of the video. He’s covered it all—our last first kiss at the homecoming celebration, leaving together on tour, the romantic proposal, the lengthy pregnancy, the twins’ birth and all of the ridiculousness surrounding it, our family traveling all over the world, and finally, the wedding of my dreams. The last image on the screen is one of us outside at our reception, Everett in my arms and Ashlynn in his, and all four of us are staring up into the dusk-kissed sky, mesmerized by the hundreds of butterflies fluttering around us.
Calling me up on stage to stand next to him, he sings the chorus one last time while staring into the depths of my soul through my glassy eyes.
“She give me love, love, love, love, crazy love
She give me love, love, love, love, crazy love”
Standing on my tiptoes, I press my lips to his in a tender yet overwhelmingly meaningful kiss and then whisper, “Always a good crazy.”
When the Sun Goes Down, a new series by Erin Noelle, is now available on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Kobo, and iBooks. Enjoy the first two chapters here.
Copyrighted by Erin Noelle
“We the jury, find the defendant, Robert Allen Green, not guilty in the sole count of the crime of murder in the first degree.”
The words not guilty echo throughout the courtroom like a shot in the night. Everyone is stunned to silence, including the man on trial and his team of attorneys. The young, teenaged girl sitting in the front row jumps up, tears streaming wildly down her face as she screams, “I saw him do it! I watched him kill my mom with my own eyes! How can this happen? What is wrong with you people?”
The judge bangs his gavel and calls for order in the court, while the adults surround the girl, pick her up, and carry her out of the courtroom. Right before they get her through the door, she turns over her shoulder and calls out in a choked sob. “You will pay for this! I will get revenge!”
“Miss Foster! Miss Foster! Is today puh-cussion day?”
“Miss Foster, can I play the bongo drums?”
“No, I want to play the bongos, Josie! Girls play the triangle!”
“Paul, you should play the bells, ‘cause you’re a ding dong.”
Chuckling to myself at the last comment, I attempt to get the class under control. “Okay, boys and girls, everyone take a seat on a colored circle and calm down. There will be plenty of opportunities for each of you to play all of the instruments today.” I don’t scold Josie for calling him a ding dong, even though I should; I have a hard time reprimanding students who speak the truth. Thankfully, all of the children listen and do as they’re told, without even an argument about who sits on which color.
I look around at their eager seven-year-old faces and my heart is filled with warmth. I love my job. The innocence of childhood is one of the few things that still brings joy to my life. Music is another… if only I could spend all of my days, here in the classroom, surrounded by these two untarnished things in my life. Unfortunately, that’s not the case, but I make sure to soak up every moment while I’m here. Turning my attention to the ten or so instruments I’ve set out for today’s lesson, I begin the hour long class.
Three classes later - all of which are second graders today - it’s time for lunch. I make my way down the hall to the teacher’s lounge and grab my food out of the refrigerator. My leftovers from the night before are almost finished heating up, when I hear an all too familiar voice screech behind me.
“Trina Foster! There you are, woman!” Her arms slip around my waist as she hugs my back, and I flinch just a bit.
“Hiya, Lauren. How’s your morning?” I ask, pulling my chicken and rice out of the microwave. I turn around to face her cute little freckled face and can tell by her expression that it hasn’t been a good one. “Uh oh, what’s wrong?”
She motions for me to follow her to one of the sofas. We both plop down after I set my food on the table nearest to me. “First, tell me about your spring break. Did you do anything fun? Go on any hot dates?” she asks hopefully.
I shake my head and laugh. “Boring, no, and no. Okay, your turn. What or who has got you all upset today?”
“Oh, just a bunch of shit. I found out that prick Jason is dating like four other girls, my rent is increasing a couple hundred dollars when my lease is up in the summer, I’m so pathetic I spent the majority of the week off at my parents’ house, and my kids are refusing to listen today.” She flashes a big, cheesy, fake smile at me. “So not much, really.”
I push my glasses up on my nose a bit and tilt my head at her. “Screw Jason, find a new place to live, be thankful you have parents to visit, and they’re kids; be patient. It’s the first day back after vacation.” Smiling sweetly at her, I take a bite of my lunch.
“Well, don’t you have all the answers? I think I’ll just call you Alex Trebek,” she teases, then takes a long slurp from her diet shake thing that she always drinks for lunch.
“No, no. I don’t look like an Alex at all. I could never pull that off
– my boobs prevent me from being a boy-Alex and I’m not nearly exotic enough to be a girl-Alex,” I reply deadpan.
We both burst out laughing to the point I think she’s going to choke on her drink. Everyone in the room looks at us like we are crazy, and I immediately get quiet. I hate to bring attention to myself here at work. I don’t need anyone passing judgment on me or assuming they know anything about me. I’d prefer they not think about me at all.
“Shh, Lauren, people are staring,” I urge her to stop making a scene.
“Oh, who cares, Trina?” she asks waving her hand in the air. “They’re all a bunch of old fogeys. We really need to get you to loosen up some.”
I simply shake my head and gather up my containers, leaving her sitting on the couch to go throw my trash away. We’ve had this conversation way too many times, and I really don’t want to do it again today.
“You are nearly twenty three years old. You need a life outside your job. It’s not healthy,” she hisses into my ear a few seconds later. “Come out with me tonight or one day this week… just one drink and we will be home early.”