The fact that he seems just as unsure pretty much proves me right.
His fingers slide up my right foot, pulling it into his lap and digging his thumbs into the bottom of my arch. My eyes fall closed as he starts massaging in tight circles, breaking apart knots that have been there for years.
A moan teases at the back of my throat as he moves up, increasing the pressure on the ball of my foot.
“I got my first guitar when I was three,” he says after a moment of silence, and my brows furrow, but I don’t look up, not sure if he’d want me to. “It was this cheap little thing my mom bought, even though she didn’t know anything about instruments. Had a mahogany back, and nylon strings, and I loved it so much that I slept with it every night until I was seven.”
Snorting, I shift, resituating my ass as it starts to go numb. “When I was three, my mom got really high, broke out the windows in our trailer because she thought people were after her, and ended up leaving me alone for two full days while she hid out at some drug dealer’s house.”
I don’t know what exactly prompts me to tell that story, especially since there are at least a couple of decent ones I could’ve gone with, but the words pour out of me before I have a chance to think about their consequences.
Aiden’s fingers stall, and I can feel his eyes boring into me. Releasing a deep breath, I resist the urge to see the look on his face, afraid of the pity I might find.
A second later, he puts my foot back in the water and grabs the other, continuing the massage there. “Where was your dad?”
“I don’t know. When they were together, he worked a lot. Back then, he was trying really hard to get his contracting business off the ground, or so he said.” Sorrow pinches in my chest, burrowing deep as I realize how long it’s been since I’ve even thought about him. “I think he just couldn’t stand to be around Mom, though.”
“And your brother?”
I hesitate, that particular wound still not close to being scabbed over. I’m afraid that if I keep picking at it, it’ll never heal, and I’ll never be able to have a real relationship with him.
But, Aiden’s asking, and frankly, it feels kind of nice.
“He was a preteen when I was born, and he…” I swallow, my words thickening. “She always made it sound like he abandoned us to go live with our aunt. I guess she was trying to save face with me, but deep down, I knew his animosity existed for a reason.”
“She gave him up?”
“Yeah.” Tears sting behind my eyes and I blow out a breath. My heart aches, grief filling the cracks like glue.
No wonder Boyd always resented my existence.
I can’t imagine mourning a life that’d been stolen from me, and seemingly handed to someone else.
Aiden hums, caressing my heel with his thumb. “My mom went to rehab on my eleventh birthday. Everyone tried to tell me she was taking an extended vacation in Cabo, but I knew better.”
It feels surreal hearing him talk about his life after spending so much of my time learning everything about him through a screen.
“I’m not sure you want to play this game there, rock star,” I say, adjusting my neck on the tub. “You heard my villain origin story, right?”
He chuckles, the sound seeming to have a direct line to my clit. “Okay, I see your trauma and raise you: my ex-girlfriend fucked my dad while I was on the Argonautica tour. Well, while we were on that tour. She was sleeping in my hotel room at night and fucking him in his suite every morning.”
My eyes pop open, images of his ex, with her shimmering copper hair and model figure, swimming through my mind. “Sylvie Michaels? With your dad? And you still talk to him?”
Shrugging, he drops my foot and stretches his arms out over the sides of the bathtub. “That relationship was more of a PR stunt than anything else.”
He watches as I chew my bottom lip, then leans forward to grab my hips and pull me toward him.
Water splashes around us as I land on my knees, straddling his hips; his cock brushes against my pussy, and arousal spins tight in my stomach, excited by the position.
“There was no overlap, if you’re wondering.” He speaks against my mouth, our breaths mingling and getting lost in the steam.
“I wasn’t, but good to know.”
It hits me that I definitely should’ve been wondering, but for some reason, all logical thought seems to cease when I’m around him.
That feels like a red flag, but with rose-tinted glasses, I find it difficult to care.
Regrets are for the future self.
Brushing the hair off my shoulder, he dips his head, pressing a kiss to my collarbone. “You didn’t try to cover yourself when I came in, you know?”
I blink, pulling back to ask what the hell he’s talking about, and then it hits me.
My scars.
They hadn’t crossed my mind even once since he appeared in the bathroom.
For what feels like the first time since I got them, they weren’t the dominant thought ruling my brain.
The realization is as terrifying as it is freeing, so I don’t give it too much time to expand into worry.
In answer, I cup his jaw in my hands and tilt his head back, fusing our mouths together in a gesture of thanks.
39
Balancing my guitar pick between my teeth, I quickly jot a note down on the napkin beside me, closing my eyes and letting the melody breathe through me before I forget it.
When I open them back up, I see a flash of pink hair across the street, and my heart does this weird flip inside my chest at the sight.
Rubbing at my pec, I disregard the implication, watching as Riley ignores my presence and heads straight inside the art gallery.
Irritation crackles in my bones, and I slide my guitar strap over my head and push to my feet, crossing over to where she’s just gone inside. Peering in through the slightly tinted windows, I scan the main lobby, releasing a breath of relief when I spot her standing in the back corner.
Alone.