I never understood why people made such a big deal out of sex, but maybe now I get it.
I’d nearly convinced myself I was some kind of freak of nature. Shawna says I’m probably asexual. That I just wasn’t built like everyone else was.
Last night blew that idea out of the water, that’s for sure. Even now, just thinking of his lips on me, my body stirs, blood rushing hot and insistent. My heart thunders in my chest, memory sparking into want.
I’m almost afraid to face him in the daylight, to see if the spell holds when the moonlight’s gone. And yet I want to. I need to. I need to see where this goes, if he feels what I do.
Finally, I work up the nerve to turn my head, ready to see him, ready to tell him, clumsy and unpracticed as I am, that I want to know him.Reallyknow him.
But the bed beside me is empty.
There’s a clear indent in the pillow where his head rested, but the sheets are already cool. Other than the damp spots dotting the bedding and the waste bin filled with used condoms and wrappers, there’s no trace of him.
Panic flares sharp in my chest. I drag on a pair of shorts and run, stumbling, down the stairs two steps at a time. Shawna’s in the kitchen with her boyfriend and a couple of others, mugs of coffee in their hands, eyes flicking towards me in unison. There’s a mixture of expressions ranging from amused to curious to concerned, but none of them knowing. Without asking, I know he isn’t here, and they haven’t seen him.
His shoes are gone from their space next to mine inside the back door. So is the guitar he’d sat down by the fire pit last night.
I run back upstairs, searching the room, turning over everything. There has to be something–a note, a scrap of paper, anything to prove he was real. But there’s nothing here.
Nothing but the hollow ache in my chest as the truth sinks all the way down to my stomach.
He just…left?
My heart aches with the realization that I might never see him again, and that he likely didn’t feel the way I did about what happened between us last night.
I try to rationalize my pain away, telling myself it’s probably for the best. I’ve got a big future looming, only a week away. It’s not like I can afford a distraction from my purpose.
I don’t even know his name, but I’ll never forget him. I’ll spend the rest of my life remembering the way he made me feel.
ONE
JESSE
The noise backstage hums with activity, but it’s like static. A chaotic symphony of roadies shouting, cases slamming, and gear being packed up in a rushed frenzy. My ears are still ringing from the set, but it’s a familiar ache, one I’ve grown used to after nearly six years on the road. It’s the last night of a series of homecoming headliners after wrapping up the European leg of our tour, and it feels good to be done for a couple of weeks. Not that I’m complaining. I love that I get to be on stage like this for a living. This is my first tour sober, and, if I’m being honest, it’s been a lot harder and more exhausting without the drugs to blur the edges and get by. It’s… different. More involved. Louder. Busier. More intense.
Naz bumps his shoulder into mine as we cut through the dimly lit hallway, sweat dripping down his temples.
“So what now? You crashing early like a good boy, or…”
I arch an amused brow at him, feeling the familiar tug of temptation. “Or?”
He shrugs, a wicked gleam in his eye that I recognize. Naz doesn’t want to stay in, however exhausted he is. We all get restless in different ways. He craves the neon lights, thumping bass to drown out the rest of the world, the thrill of someone’s mouth on him before sunrise. He’s being polite, trying to gauge my mood.
“Let’s go to that club you like,” I suggest, more to appease him than anything else. I’m not sure I’m really in the mood, but I don’t particularly want to be alone, either. And I don’t want to keep the guys from decompressing in their own ways. It’s not their fault I haven’t settled on a new outlet for all my restless energy yet.
His eyes flick over me skeptically. “You sure? It’s not exactly your scene anymore.”
Not my scene anymore.
My stint in rehab isn’t something the guys bring up often, but it hangs awkwardly between us and probably always will. It’s a stark reminder of how hard I’ve worked to get this far, learning how to exist without pills or powders or drinking until I blacked out every night. Living life without a crutch, especially given our lifestyle, is a never-ending test of my willpower. This tour has been one long test, one I’ve passed with flying colors–so far. I can’t say it’s been easy. The consequences of numbing myself just to get by for years have made living life on the road, promoting, performing, and being constantly surrounded by crowds of people that much more overwhelming. There’s no quiet in this life.
I sling my arm over his shoulder, the gesture more for my comfort than his. “We’re all good. I don’t need booze or blow to have a good time. Promise.”
Partying and peer pressure were never the problem. It was finding quiet inside my head, calming the impossible itch of my own skin. I’m not tempted by the people around me having a good time. In fact, when someone gets really fucked up and shows their ass, it’s an effective reminder of how the drugs turned me into someone I never wanted to be.
From the moment we step into the club, I know tonight will test me more than I thought it would, though. The music slams into me like a wall. Everywhere around me is thick with bodies, lights strobe off mirrored tiles, smoke curls through the air and settles on my skin, in my eyes, over my taste buds and up my nose. It’s overstimulation to the max. Even upstairs in the restricted VIP section, where the rich and recognizable get corralled and cordoned off from the masses, I feel a familiar sense of claustrophobia wash over me.
I hate this.
