I don’t know. I just don’t.
I could leave the hotel. Get home. Bring a knife to my room, since I have no idea where a straight razor might be, and slit my wrists. I’ve thought a lot about various methods to end my life, going so far as to plan a place to do it where I’d create the least mess in the aftermath.
Would I find blessed peace? Would my mom and dad? They tell me I’m all but grown up. Yet, the man I want to be with would ruin his life if he has sex with me.
Where’s the fairness in that? Sex is sex is sex. Just because Sloane’s nine years older than me doesn’t mean he’s coerced me. I know what I’m doing and who I want just as much as I would if Sloane was only two or three years older than me. Or, if I was eighteen.
My phone rings again and I lift it out of my bag with a sigh. Crowell. I shove it away. He’s boggling my already confused mind. One minute he’s pushing me away and throwing his girlfriend in my face, and the next he’s reeling me in, dangling escapism in front of me. The fucker is doing it on purpose because he knows me so well.
Ignoring Crowell empowers me, but I’m so worried I’ll jeopardize what we have for a few hours with a man who’ll leave in a few days. A little bit of Crowell is better than a whole lot of loneliness.
I’m tempted to tell Josh. Or, better yet, call Cash and let him and his MC people come for Crowell.
Maybe, then, I’d have peace…?
Or is death truly the answer? Do I want to die?
If I don’t, just what do I want? Besides Sloane, I mean. Whatever else it is, I have to figure it out on my own if I don’t go with Crowell.
On cue, the phone rings again and I growl in frustration. Persistent fuck. What’s his problem? He has Lana. That decides me. He’ll have to wait, so I can have my time with Sloane. Either Crowell will get over it and still want me tomorrow. Or he won’t.
The thought frightens me, but I push my fear aside and peel off my clothes, heading to the shower. I’m not sure what I’ll wear. I thought Sloane and I would spend the night in bed, so I brought a few nighties. I’d intended to put on each one before making a final decision. There’s my hair stuff and my makeup. My iPad stuffed to the side and in its case. My wallet. I didn’t even bring a change of clothes, intending to wear the ones I just took off back home.
Turning the water on, I wait a moment until the steam rises. The wet heat feels so good against my skin and a tiny bit of pleasure bursts inside of me. I began to hum one of Phoenix Rising’s biggest hits, a melody about a boy who had everything, but allowed it to slip through his fingers.
No one has to tell me it’s Sloane’s story. The saddest part is he cut the track before he’d almost lost everything, including his life. My heart slams at the thought of how differently the time he overdosed could’ve turned out. He’d just been an untouchable celebrity to me then, but his death would’ve crushed me.
I pause beneath the spray and twist my body to the melody in my head. This song is filled with pain and the meaning becomes clearer. It’s about the loss of the girl who gave him the guitar.
The thought snatches away my last enjoyment. I lean my head against the shower wall, hurting for him.
A moment goes by before I continue cleaning myself. I lather up with the hotel soap, but use Sloane’s shampoo and conditioner for my hair, reveling in the thought that I have his scent on me. Brushing my teeth removed the taste of his cum from my tongue. I wanted to have fresh breath for when he fucked me the first time.
With a disappointing sigh, I finish up and step out. A scream catches in my throat. Kiln hands me a towel, his blue-green gaze roaming over my body. His shaved head helps to keep the focus on his pretty eyes. He’s pretty, too. Too bad he’s such a dickhead. Tall like Sloane but with thicker, bulgier muscles, as if he’s a professional bodybuilder. Or a ‘roid user.
He has no fucking business being in here with me. Glaring at him, I cover myself, then bend and retrieve another towel to wrap around my head.
“What do you want?”
I have bitchy, bratty, whiny sixteen-year-old down pat. It’s the only way I can get a reaction from my mother. Appropriate behavior is deemed by her moods. When she’s condescending, I’m bitchy. When she’s dismissive, I’m whiny. When she’s expressionless, I’m bratty. But I swear I’m going to try to act like an adult. Behave and express myself in a different way. Maybe, then she’ll at least take me on shopping sprees again. Now isn’t the time to change my behavior, however. Not when Kiln hasn’t left. I roll my eyes.
“What the fuck do you want?”
Apparently, I’m really amusing because he smiles. “You. Gone. So what’ll it take?”
“What do you mean gone?” I scoff.