And she runs to him.
I watch the scene unfold on repeat.
Her arms crisscross around his neck, her long, creamy legs circling his waist as he lifts her off the ground and spins her in a circle, pressing her against the wall. Their foreheads fuse together.
She smiles.
He grins.
The only difference is—
He kisses her.
Chapter 34Annalise
I wake up the next morning feeling foggy, out of sorts, and marginally hungover. Considering I only downed half a beer last night, I’m confident the feeling is a post-performance crash.
My brain clicks back on, and the prior evening soars to the surface in ripples of strobe lights, high notes, breakdowns, and a zealous, wide-eyed crowd.
Oh my God.
We did it. And we crushed it.
My heart rate jumps, doing some kind of tango or double reverse spin beneath my ribcage. There’s a gnawing ache between my legs. A pressure that wants out. I clamp my thighs together with shame, my thoughts spiraling back to hours ago when Chase had me shoved up against a wall, his mouth an inch away from mine, his massive body pressing into me at every angle.
I felt it—the huge, hard bulge digging into my inner thigh.
Tingles race through me, plummeting south. My legs squeeze tighter. This feeling is both an angry black cloud and a hot day under a smoldering sun. I’m weeping and burning at the same time. My body reacts, and my mind rejects, allwhile my heart teeter-totters a tightrope, a thread ready to snap. I’m exhausted. Sunk and sapped.
The faucet squeals as Alex leans over the sink in the bathroom, spitting toothpaste into the basin. “Can youpleasestop squeezing the tube from the middle?” he mutters, holding it up from the threshold. “It’s not hard. From. The. End.”
I blink at him. “I’ll…try to remember.”
“You’ve been saying that for years.” He slams the cabinet shut. “Also, it’s a damn freezer in here.”
I glance toward the thermostat, still set to sixty-eight. “I thought you liked it cold.”
“Not arctic-tundra cold.” He rubs his arms. “Jesus. You’re the only person I know who goes to bed and thinks, ‘Let’s sleep in a meat locker.’”
My face sours as I inch up the mattress and tame my bedhead, reality creeping its way back to the edges of my mind. “Sorry.”
Sauntering out of the bathroom, he pulls a hoodie over his head. “Want some eggs?”
“Okay. Sounds good.”
“Cool.”
He disappears into the kitchen.
With a long sigh, I stare up at the popcorn ceiling as a light breeze shimmies in through the cracked window. It’s a beautiful autumn morning after the best night of my entire life, and I have to be at the diner in an hour, shlepping hot plates of food around all day. The notion is equally depressing and soul-crushing.
All I want to do is write. Sing. Perform. And now I’ve had a taste of it.
All I can think about is heading to Tag’s garage and creating more magic. Setting up shows. Reliving it all over again. New cities, new crowds, new opportunities twinkling with the stage lights. My eyes close, and I imagine just that.
For a little while. For a few blissful minutes.
Until Alex hollers from the kitchen, “Want any bacon?”
