He grips my arm. “According to the ID I provided to you, you were eighteen.”
It’s a grudging admission in a very Crowell-way that he’d be in trouble if any of my activities from the previous night were discovered. Not only had he provided me the means to get into the party, but I’d been waiting in that room to do to Crowell what I’d ended up doing with Sloane.
As drug payment, though, Crowell wouldn’t have reciprocated.
Releasing me, he tugs a hand through his hair and heaves in a breath. “We’re done as lovers, George.”
He’s a good guy. He doesn’t deserve a guilt trip from me. I nod. “Okay.”
My voice is level and steady, even as my despondency spreads through me like a choking vine. I so want to be like Mom, who doesn’t show any emotion but acceptance in public. On the rare occasions she cries or loses her temper, no one knows but me. Because I go to her closet and stand in her doorway until she waves me in.
“I’m sleepy,” I lie to Crowell. “So, um, see ya.” I don’t wait for him to answer. I shut the window and turn too fast. Dizziness slams into me all over again.
I’m glad it’s Saturday. I’ll be able to sleep all day before preparing for the…concert!
OMG, Crowell has the tickets. He was taking me. But, now…OMG…I’m going to miss seeing Sloane Mason onstage.
All because of some stupid, older girl.
I’m really feeling sick now. I’ve been in love with the front man and lead guitarist for Phoenix Rising since I was ten.
Memories of his taste and the way he tongued me and spoke to me, will sustain me through the dark days ahead. Still, I’m greedy. I want to see him in concert. Now…
With a frustrated growl, I yank the door open, my stomach dropping at the vast, white marble hallway, split quadruple to lead to all corners of my parents’ huge house. It’s silent and quiet and scary. I hate it and I don’t know why. I grew up here, but the air seems crushing and oppressive.
We all ignore each other. There’s not a lot of joy amongst us.
Patting my pockets for my tiny baggie and satisfied when I find it, I go forward. I’m doing a line as soon as I reach my room. It takes away the emptiness, the loneliness, and the fear.
In the double-story foyer where all the hallways meet up, I freeze. A man is walking down the curving staircase. He pauses when his gaze lands on me.
I can’t speak. I can’t think. I can hardly breathe. An inferno is building inside of me and my entire being trembles. I’m about to seriously fan girl.
Not two feet away from me, looking like the rock god he is, stands Sloane, like I’ve conjured him up or gave him a way to contact me. His shaggy dark hair is tousled, like he’s just gotten out of bed or a woman’s fingers has been riffling his silky strands. It was in similar disarray after he licked me last night thanks to my hands in his hair.
He wears a T-shirt I’ve coveted for a very long time. It’s his band’s Limited Edition shirt with a Phoenix rising from a flaming guitar. Supposedly, it’s been designed specifically for this tour. Supposedly, too, Sloane, himself, designed it to symbolize the latest—the last—chance his managers, band members, and record execs is affording him.
They’d be stupid not to. He’s the money maker.
Ink decorates both of his muscled arms. A red lead guitar with black frets cover his left arm while his right has a black one with white frets. Both travel from his wrists and disappear beneath his short sleeves. Though his back is covered, I know those guitars merge into a Phoenix rising from flames. One of my favorite photos of Sloane is a magazine cover where he’s stretching out his arms and offering the full effect of the entire tat.
That photo is framed in my sitting room and stuck in every scrapbook I’ve devoted to him. His body alone is a work of art, the sinews and muscles a sleek, ripped canvas that I want to spend hours exploring.
His abs outline the black material. Or, maybe, I’m just imagining I can count the ridges of his six pack. I’ve gotten my hands on as many of his photos as possible and studied each of them closely.
Even the European ones, where he’s naked. His was the first dick I ever saw. Three years ago when I still called dicks penises.
Imagining his nude body, I drink in the sight of him. His presence. His nearness. The leather bracelets on each wrist make an innocuous body part—wrists—smokin’ hot. My lids lower and I shift my weight at the bulge in his crotch. Desire zips through my body. My nipples tighten and between my legs heats and moistens. Instead of focusing on his reason for being in my parents’ house, I remember our encounter.