He shifts and my gaze flies to his. It burns with blue intensity. Golden hoop earrings skyrocket his masculinity in my estimation. His hair is black, but not as much as mine. The varying shades of black has never occurred to me until now. Reddish-brown highlights reflect in Sloane’s hair, whereas mine is solid black at all times.
“What are you doing here?” I squeak, having had no expectations or hopes of seeing him again. Anyway, it’s a logical question. As far as I’m aware, my family hates it when I play Phoenix Rising’s music with their hard guitar riffs and Sloane’s rasping voice, so there’s no one but me who’d welcome him here. “I-I mean is…when…” Rats. I don’t know what I’m trying to say. Was he here for a booty call with…who…? None of the staff sleep on the second floor.
And, Josh, is an undercover bad boy. Mostly, he’s just a snob. He’d see Sloane as beneath him, although we all—me, Josh, Crowell, and Sloane—grew up in wealth.
My head begins to pound and a small tremble assails me. I’m coming down, I know. I need to get to my room to do my other line before I fall completely. Sweat beads my skin and my heart hammers faster and faster.
I shake.
He narrows his eyes at me. They’re so blue. So pretty. “Fuck,” he gets out. “You’re high again, aren’t you?”
I manage a nod, wondering if Crowell only gave me blow.
“Your dad’s going to be down here soon,” Sloane says, close to my ear.
He’s moved off the stairs. When did he?
With shaking fingers, I retrieve my baggie out of my pocket. I have no place to lay the line, so I just dump it down my throat and swallow, dooming myself to a hyper mood for hours.
The plastic is yanked from my hands. “Stupid little bitch,” Sloane growls with disgust.
His words and tone sting. I blink at him. “I love you,” I blurt. “I’m your number one fan. I know everything about you.”
“That why you were concerned about me and the coke?” he sneers. “You know I’m an addict.”
“A recovered addict,” I counter.
Instead of appeasing, my words annoy him more. He opens his mouth. By the way his handsome face twists, I know he’s about to say something really nasty. I stiffen my spine, bracing myself.
“Georgie, lamb, what are you doing awake?” My father’s voice sounds stricken, but his interruption reins Sloane in, so I’m grateful. “It’s late. Past your bedtime.”
As if he knows my bedtime anymore. It surprises me he remembers my name. I’m wearing neither bed clothes nor a bum-around-the-house outfit. My street attire—dressy street fashion—is a dead giveaway. His pretense of involvement in my life makes me giggle like a hysterical hyena. “It’s not even one. I can’t sleep.”
A once over and a nod, accepting my story as easily as always, distracted as usual.
I point to the man of my dreams. “What’s Sloane doing here?”
“Business,” my father barks out.
Normally, I back off. But I’m pumped. The air is charged and my blood is thrumming. “What kind of business would you have with him, Dad? You’re like ninety.”
Sloane loses his tension for a moment and laughs. My father isn’t as amused.
I fling my hands out and twirl. “I’m just kidding, Daddy,” I drawl, my words whipping around me as fast as my body is spinning.
Hands grab me. Not my Dad, though. Sloane. His rough fingertips on my bare arms singes me. He’s so tall and ripped and handsome. I want to lick the shell of his ear, tongue his hoop earrings. Sloane’s dick was delicious yesterday and I’ll bet it’s the same at this moment. I want to taste his cock like Crowell taught me.
I gaze up at Sloane. My heart is beating fast for a different reason now. Him. His scent. Musk and mystery, sex and sin. My body is so ready for him. I can’t wait to have sex. I’ll have a connection to someone. I’ll be loved.
My attraction to Sloane feels different and intimate. I’ve followed coverage of him for years. Sex with him would be more meaningful than only fulfilling something inside of me that I lack.
“Georgie, get upstairs, lamb. Sloane’s in town for two weeks. I brought him over to discuss guitar lessons for you. Be a good girl and go to your room, so I can iron out the rest of the details.”
Anger replaces Sloane’s initial shock and he glares over my head. “Says who?”
I tune out Sloane’s distaste and wrap my arms around him. Vaguely, I wonder why his shirt smells like my mother’s perfume. “Thank you,” I murmur, bouncing up and down, extra adrenaline rushing through my system at my father’s news. “I was so bummed I can’t see you onstage.” I stare into his eyes and see a brief glint of tenderness before it’s gone and his disgust returns.
I back toward the stairs and crash to my ass when the back of a step hits my ankle. Didn’t I fall and hurt something earlier?
I hoot with laughter, grabbing the bannister to haul myself up. I wave and stumble the rest of the way up the stairs.
Sloane
She’s high. Higher, after swallowing the powder.