A moan slips out of me, half from surprise, half from effort. I try to let myself feel it, to sink into the rhythm, but something’s wrong. The pleasure doesn’t come, no matter how I move. Steven’s groans sound content, satisfied, but I feel like I’m somewhere else entirely.
I watch his face, trying to keep up, but then—without warning—his blond hair darkens to brown in my mind, his pale eyes turning hazel. My chest tightens.
“Stop. Please!” The word rips out of me louder than I expect.
My hands press against his shoulders, forcing him to still. He freezes, then pulls back, sitting on the edge of the bed and yanking the sheets over his lap. “What?”
“I don’t...” My throat burns.
“What’s wrong?” he repeats, this time more carefully.
“I don’t know.”
Steven reaches for me, his thumb and forefinger gently lifting my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze. “Nova... you’re crying.”
I shake my head quickly, clutching Mr. Twinkle Mao to my chest. “I’m not.”
“Yes, you are,” he says softly, firm but kind.
“I...” The word breaks off in my throat.
He cups my face and presses a tender kiss to my lips. “We don’t have to do anything if you’re not feeling it, babe. You could have told me right away.”
“Yes. Sorry, I—I’m just a bit tired,” I lie.
“It’s all right. Shall we sleep?”
I nod, grateful for the escape, and he pulls me against him. We settle under the sheets, his arms warm and protective around me. Soon, his breathing slows, deepens—the rhythm of sleep.
But my eyes remain open, fixed on the faint glow of the stars scattered across my ceiling. The next song on my playlist drifts through the quiet, each note tangling with my thoughts until my chest feels heavy with confusion.
All I know is this: I need to talk to someone. And I need to do it as soon as possible.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Vincent Cooper
PAST (2018)
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I'm not a really good classical guitarist by any means, but what I learned from this is a way of working very slowly on solo pieces and I enjoyed working on these pieces of John's. They were not written for solo guitar but a lot of them were easy to adapt.
Marc Ribot
I climb up the ladder and swing myself through the window into her room. Stevie Nicks’sEdge of Seventeenblasts through the speakers, filling the air with its sharp guitar riff. Her song. She declares being the biggest fan ofThe Chain, but no one screams “But the moment that I first laid eyes on him. All alone, on the edge of seventeen.” like she does.
I trip over a pair of boots left carelessly on the floor. “Ouch!”
I hit the ground with a thud but somehow manage to keep the Gott’s Roadside envelope safe.
Nova stands in front of her closet, wearing only her bathrobe, damp hair falling loosely around her shoulders. She watches me with amusement. “Is everything okay?”
I nod, scrambling to my feet and setting the food down on her desk. Then I collapse onto her bed after kicking off my shoes. “This room’s a battlefield.”
“I know, but it’s the only way I can always find what I need. I can’t be tidy unless everything’s messy.” She laughs, sitting down beside me, comb in hand.
“My parents are out to dinner, so I grabbed us some food,” I murmur, closing my eyes. Her bed’s soft, warm, and smells like her shampoo. I could stay here forever—in her world.
