In my life, I’ve never felt closer to another human being than I do to Georgie. If you ask her, she’ll swear the opposite is true. It’s been two days since I found her in my room. Two days since I returned a minute moral fiber that kept me from burying myself inside of her.
Two days since I agreed not to have other women here.
In many regards, her questions were overdue. She needed to hear from me that I was with her because of her, not because of her parents. My connection to Kiln, Steffie, and Jaeger had to be discussed, too. Her life has been too wild to address any of these issues before now. I understand this and I’m glad it’s out in the open.
The memory of her soft, little fingers on my arm as a gesture of comfort melts more of my resistance. Except…it seems as if I’m punishing her because now I keep my words to the bare minimum.
She’s at the table, picking over the shrimp salad that Kiln bought at a local market. I’ve already eaten, so I sit on the sofa, as if I’m her warden, flicking through channels on the TV.
My vivid imagination inflames my senses. I honestly believe I smell the vanilla I always associate with her. Notes of it are in her perfume and hair products. I’m glad these items were amongst the few possessions that had been sent to me before we left Houston.
Her chair slides across the floor and my hearing perks. I’m like a dog behind her. If she’s involved, my ears are tuned to a higher and lower frequency than any other time. Like a canine.
Her bare feet hit against the tiles in the kitchen, a hit-or-miss sticky slap. On the wood floor of the living room, where Kiln and I sit, she’s silent. Kiln gives her the once over, then returns to the TV, hands behind his head. He’s fat-ratting it, a happy motherfucker with heavily lined pockets to babysit me, Georgie, her pussy, and my dick.
I wait for Helen’s call as much as I dread it. Once she demands I send Georgie home, I’m out of her life.
That should be a good thing, but it isn’t.
Flipping another channel, my image flashes across the screen and draws my attention. I raise the volume in time to hear…”Sources close to the Phoenix Rising camp aren’t confirming the rumors, but as another concert is cancelled, fans suspect Sloane Mason is back in rehab. The other members of the band have been spotted in Florida, but the front man’s whereabouts are unknown. The question, now, is will he be allowed back into the band he founded, once his latest mistake is taken care of…”
For a moment, my hand is frozen on the fucking remote. I’m not exactly shocked by these reports, but it makes the possibility of my ouster from my band real. Resentment spikes in me and I slam my thumb against the ‘off’ button.
Strands of Georgie’s hair flutter in my line of vision, but I smell her, too. That vanilla. Her arousal. The peppermint gum she pulls from her pocket and unwraps. I even smell the acrylic nail polish of her freshly done toes.
She kneels in front of me. “Are you in trouble?”
Fuck, yeah. But not because of that fucked up report. My trouble stems from her.
Her care and concern is unbearable. This is wrong. My building need for her. She’s who I think of when I open my eyes at whatever time and close them hours later.
Wrong. So wrong.
It’s also impossible. Therefore, instead of responding to her questions, her softness, I get to my feet and bark, “fuck the paps,” before stalking out.
Chapter Fifteen
Georgie
Wake up. Dress. Sit. Eat. Read. Go. Run. Bathe. Sleep.
Sloane has forgotten how to say any other words to me except those ten. For the five days since our encounter in his room, he hasn’t shown me a bit of kindness or a spark of desire. I understand Kiln’s with us, so Sloane can’t broadcast any intimacy unless we’re alone, but even when we are by ourselves, he tunes me out.
Two additional times I attempt to offer him comfort, as headlines spread inaccurate rumors about the reasons for the band’s cancelled tour dates. He rebuffs me at every turn with the same brusque, “fuck the paps.”
My wrists are healed, though scarred forever, so he no longer has a reason to touch me and check my bandages. Not as of this morning, when he removed the last one. Now, it’s almost dinner time and I stand at the window, glancing out at the tall trees and the partial view of the Back Bay. Before the storm in 2005, the house predated the Civil War. Now, the wooden floors, painted walls, and modern décor are new, rebuilding and remodeling finally completed three years ago.
Any other time I wouldn’t give a rat’s fuck about any of that. But boredom compelled me to read the history of the house, which I found it on a bookshelf. It reminds me of an oversized diary. Someone really loves this place.
So utterly alone, I lean my head against the window pane, not even the picturesque scenery calming me. 16. The number buzzes through my mind.
I can’t escape my age. But I’m not a normal sixteen-year-old. Girls—and boys—my age bore me. I don’t know why, although, now, at this moment, I think of how my life would be if I were with friends. That’s where I should be. Shouldn’t I? Maybe, at McDonald’s. Or a movie. Or just hanging out.