Sorry about last night. I know you don’t want a girlfriend. I didn’t mean to be one of those girls.
She was apologizing? To me? My brain couldn’t wrap around any of it, so I texted back, One of those girls?
The ones that want more from you.
I stared cross-eyed at the phone for a few seconds before yelling for Shawn and Joel. Then I told them what happened with Peach—skimming over the good parts and the part about her being a virgin, since that was a secret she shared with me and I’d take it to my grave—and asked them if the text meant what I thought it did. Did it mean she wanted to be my girlfriend?
They told me I was a fucking idiot for needing a text message to tell me that, and I slowly realized what a tool I’d been. She thought I didn’t want a girlfriend, and in a way, I really didn’t. Other girls wanted to date me for a lot of fucked-up reasons, but those girls weren’t Peach. I didn’t want a girlfriend—I just wanted her, in every way possible.
Another text rang through, this one asking if we were still friends, but hell no we weren’t friends. I was so tired of pretending not to want the world from her. Waking up without her next to me and worrying that I’d never get to fall asleep with her again knocked some sense into me, and I knew I had to grow a pair and do what it took to be with her.
When she asked me a few weeks after Mayhem why I asked her to be my girlfriend onstage, I told her it was because I wanted the whole world to know how I felt about her, but that was only part of the truth. I also had that word friends ringing in my head and was terrified of being rejected for what would have felt like the hundredth time in my life, all one hundred times by the only girl with the power to break my heart. I finished the set and walked offstage, my heart leaping into my throat when I saw her waiting with her answer.
I thought that hearing her say yes made me the happiest man alive, but it didn’t even compare to the moment she told me she loved me. Before Peach, love was just a word that girls threw at me from the crowd, but now I know what it really means.
It’s mayhem. It’s forever.
It’s her.
Don’t miss Joel and Dee’s story . . .
Riot
Coming February 10th from
Avon Impulse!
Read on for a sneak peek!
“KISS ME,” I order the luckiest guy in Mayhem tonight. When he sat next to me at the bar earlier with his Leave It to Beaver haircut, I made sure to avoid eye contact and cross my legs in the opposite direction. I didn’t think I’d end up making out with him, but now I have no choice.
A dumb expression washes over his face. He might be cute if he didn’t look so. freaking. dumb. “Huh?”
“Oh for God’s sake.”
I curl my fingers behind his neck and yank him to my mouth, tilting my head to the side and hoping he’s a quick learner. My lips part, my tongue comes out to play, and after a moment, he finally catches on. His greedy fingers thread into my chocolate brown curls—which I spent hours on this morning.
UGH.
Peeking out of the corner of my eye, I spot Joel Gibbon stroll past me, a bleached-blonde groupie tucked under his arm. He’s too busy whispering in her ear to notice me, and my fingers itch to punch him in the back of his stupid mohawked head to get his attention.
I’m preparing to push Leave-It-To-Beaver off me when Joel’s gaze finally lifts to meet mine. I bite Beaver’s bottom lip between my teeth and give it a little tug, and the corner of Joel’s mouth lifts up into an infuriating smirk that is so not the reaction I wanted. He continues walking, and when he’s finally out of sight, I break my lips from Beaver’s and nudge him back toward his own stool, immediately spinning in the opposite direction to scowl at my giggling best friend.
“I can’t BELIEVE him!” I shout at a far too amused-looking Rowan. How does she not recognize the gravity of this situation?!
I’m about to shake some sense into her when Beaver taps me on the shoulder. “Um—”
“You’re welcome,” I say with a flick of my wrist, not wanting to waste another minute on a guy who can’t appreciate how long it took me to get my hair to curl like this—or at least make messing it up worth my while.
Rowan gives him an apologetic half smile, and I let out a deep sigh.
I don’t feel bad about Beaver. I feel bad about the dickhead bass guitarist for The Last Ones to Know.
“That boy is making me insane,” I growl.
Rowan turns a bright smile on me, her blue eyes sparkling with humor. “You were already insane.”
“He’s making me homicidal,” I clarify, and she laughs.