I tremble inside and try not to be afraid, but I am. Crowell’s been horrible to me the past two days. He hit me, but the makeup is covering it. He was high, too, though.
A cold towel presses against my head and the bed depresses as Kiln sits next to me. I lay my head on his thigh, wishing for Sloane. But he’s a world-famous rock star, who hung around me as a favor to Mom and Dad.
Fog hazes my brain.
I don’t know anything right now.
Liquid sloshing into a glass grabs my attention. I lift my head and squint. “A drink?” I ask, pathetic but hopeful.
Kiln folds his arms. He’s nice looking, but he isn’t Sloane. No one is. In my murky state, I still know the Sloane in my head, isn’t the real Sloane. I’ve built him up to be perfect, and he isn’t. I don’t know how he ended up in my pathway, but I’ll cherish the time I had with him forever.
As Kiln stares at me, his look changes to desire. He pulls in a breath and sniffs. “Want a hit?”
I nod vigorously.
“You have to suck my dick for it.” He gives me a hard look. “Sloane won’t know.”
My heart sinks. Sloane won’t know, but I’ll know. I don’t feel any attraction to Kiln, but I’ve brought this on myself. I turn away from him and curl up, trembling. I have no idea where my shoes are. “I c-can’t.”
“Say that again.” He sounds is if he thinks he’s misheard.
“I can’t,” I repeat. “I’ve only sucked Crowell’s dick. He taught me,” I stress, still stricken because he disparaged my technique. I frown, remembering earlier in Sloane’s dressing room.
Kiln growls a curse. “How old are you?”
I’ve already told him. I think the moment he saw me, he scowled and barked, “How fucking old are you?” That might just be my imagination, so I just answer him.
“Seventeen in four months.” I snort, feeling prissy and irritated. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-six.”
“Sloane’s twenty-five. His birthday is in five months.” I always believed I was an expert on Sloane Mason if nothing else.
My stomach hurts. I roll around on the bed, landing on the side of my face that Crowell hit. I moan and grab my jaw. “Oww,” I complain on a whine to myself.
“Something hurt you?”
Or maybe not. “No, someone.” I lift my head, dizzy now. “Crowell,” I croak, too tired to offer the explanation I’d intended. Crowell’s angry over Sloane and furious that I spurned his marriage proposal.
Kiln moves away and a faucet runs in the bathroom. A thought occurs to me and I giggle. “You’re named for a pottery oven.” I point at him and laugh a little more.
“Girls usually like my name.” He doesn’t sound offended, more like amused. Real amusement. Wow! The sky must be falling. I relax as much as I can with my insides—my brain—looping and soaring, twisting and diving. I’m crashing a little more. I curl up again, moaning like an animal.
“Please. I’ll give you my entire allowance if you just fix me.” I’m crying again. I’ve cried a lot today and yesterday.
“Yeah? How much might that be?”
“I get a thousand dollars for each birthday I have.” I frown and sniffle. The calculations should be easy, but I can’t really think. Why does this conversation sound so familiar? He already knows this, doesn’t he? Yes, I think he does. Maybe, he’s asking because I’m strung out and he thinks he’ll trip me up.
“Sixteen thousand dollars then?”
“That’s it,” I agree.
He paces around the bed to face me. There he goes studying me again. “Told you what I want. Why worry about Sloane when I can make you feel better?”
Something about his tone is off. He’s almost sneering the words, but then he sounds condescending and even more amused. As much as I want relief, I can’t do it. “Go away,” I order, closing my arms. I’ll find a way to get away from here and call Crowell. It doesn’t matter that we aren’t together and he complains about how I suck his dick nowadays. It doesn’t matter that he hit me. My own mother did it, right?
He enjoys feeding me coke and making me beg for it, so he’ll come if I call. Maybe, I should just marry him. I could do worse.
“Here.”
Kiln’s gruff voice makes me open my eyes. He’s holding out a glass of water and a pill. “What is it?”
“Triazolam. A barbiturate.”
“A sleeping pill?” I scoop it into my hand and pop it into my mouth. He puts the glass to my lips and tips it, holding the back of my head.
“You need to come down,” he explains quietly. “Then we need to get you back to your house. All safe and sound and away from Sloane. He’s reckless and impulsive and doesn’t think about half the shit he does, until it’s too fucking late. You have to stay away from him.”
“But I love him.”
Kiln smiles softly. “No, you love who you think he is. In real life? No. You don’t know him.”
My head lulls to the side. “I know everything about him,” I say, singsong.