Page 85 of Making the Save
“Are you just saying that because you’re doing it with me?” she asked, wiggling against my dick. I kissed her because she was so wrong. I kissed her until she was soft and warm against me.
We’d been fucking like rabbits the last few days, only taking breaks so she could work on Paper Doll and I could finish the porch. Sometimes we ate. Sometimes we went to the hot springs.
Where we fucked some more.
“You need to send it to your label,” I said against her lips. “Who gets it? Like, is it a bunch of people or someone you work with directly?”
“It would be Marc. He’s been my producer on all my other albums. He’s got an amazing ear. I would trust his opinion. I just don’t think it’s ready yet.”
That’s because she was gun shy and self-conscious.
“Look, I’m just a hockey player,” I said, kissing her neck. Palming her ass in my hands and squeezing until she groaned. “And I don’t know shit about music except what I like. You need to take that masterpiece to someone who does.”
“Later.”
“Right now, babe,” I said.
She leaned back and laughed at me. “Remember who’s the boss,” she teased.
“How about this?” I said and put her back on the porch. Her feet against the fresh planks. “No more fucking until you send it to him.”
She gasped. “You wouldn’t.”
“I would.”
She reached for the hard ridge of my dick beneath my sweatpants and I caught her hand. “Try me babe,” I said, leaning in close. “Remember. I don’t lose.”
Her face screwed up in mutiny, but I knew I had her. “That’s…that’s unsportsmanlike behavior! Someone should give you a red card.”
“Wrong sport.”
“A five-yard penalty?”
“Still wrong.”
“A time out?”
“We’ll talk hockey once you send Marc that song. Until then…” I stepped back and held out my arms. “I’m off limits, babe. No fun for you.”
She scowled some more, and to make my point clear, I left her behind on the porch and wandered over to my tool box wondering what project I could tackle next.
“You don’t play fair,” she shouted at me.
“I play to win.” I shouted back. She went back into the cabin to grab her phone and stomped back out to climb the small hill where the septic was buried at the side of the cabin. The only place she’d get four bars.
I pretended to dig around in the box looking for nothing in particular, but I was watching her body language. She talked for a little bit and she laughed and her shoulders came down from her ears. Then she scrolled through her phone. She’d recorded the song on her phone yesterday and she must be sending it to him. She talked to him a second longer and hung up. She crossed her arms over her chest and turned to face me.
“He’s going to call me back after he listens,” she shouted across the clearing. “Might take him a few days. He really has to hear it a bunch of times before he can know if there’s anything worth-”
Her phone rang.
“Oh my god, it’s Marc,” she said, and answered. I stopped pretending to be looking for a tool. I was fully attuned to her and the tension in her body and the way after talking for a few seconds, she sagged. Her hands on her knees and then she did her overtime fist pump. Three in a row.
My heart literally soared in my chest.
Marc clearly loved the song.
I knew it. My girl just needed to be reminded that she was Sydney Fucking Malloy. And she had a gift.