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It feels … dirty and wrong and … I want it so badly it hurts.
“How drunk are you?” Cope asks after a minute, putting his fingers in my hair, his touch soft but firm. I realize he's dead serious about his question, this guy who reads Fifty Shades of Grey.
“I'm buzzed, but not as drunk as Paxton,” I say, looking into his vibrant eyes, wishing I could swim in them. I bet the water's warm. “Not drunk enough to regret this in the morning.”
“Okay,” he says simply, and then he pulls my face gently towards his. His kiss is nothing like Pax's. It's sweet and comforting, but somehow more invasive, like he could crawl inside of me and pull all my secrets out. I think about the way I felt when I first spotted him at the gas station, how all of my emotions rushed up through my skin, flooding me with feeling.
I wrap my arms around his neck, like he's my boyfriend and not some random one-night stand.
It feels good, to hold him like that. He holds me right back, putting those musician's hands of his on my bare waist. His long fingers curve around my body and make me feel grounded, steady. It's such a different rush, such a change from Paxton's cruelty that I feel little butterflies tickle the inside of my belly.
I kiss Cope and feel the warmth of his single lip ring brush against my mouth. He's a good kisser—a really good kisser—and he kisses with his whole mouth, every bit of it. Lips, tongue, a very soft brush of teeth, breath, even rubs his nose softly against mine.
Holy crap.
This is the kind of boy you fall for without even realizing it's happening. This kind, he's ten times as dangerous as Paxton Blackwell. With a guy like Pax, it's clear what he wants and why. With a guy like this … it could be anything.
I feel thankful I've never fallen in love with a man like this. Kevin was hard enough, broke my heart right in two, and he was a complete douchebag. A boy like Copeland with long fingers and soft hands, that smells like denim and laundry detergent, that tastes bright and fruity like the red drink he was sipping at the bar … he's heartache waiting to happen.
The more he kisses me, the warmer I get, the more tender my skin starts to feel, until I'm afraid that I might just crack in half completely.
“I want to come,” I whisper and Cope actually laughs, this soft, easy sound that probably melts women's panties. If I had any on, it would melt mine.
“Pax couldn't get you there?” he asks, and there's this sharpness to his voice that makes my heart hurt. “What a tool.”
Cope turns and deposits me onto my back again, pausing for just a split second to glance at the open door. Unlike his lead singer, it looks like he might actually mind being watched. But for whatever reason, he leaves the door open and sits up, tearing his white band tee over his head and tossing it aside.
His body is … oh my god.
Big strong arms, broad shoulders, a wide chest. I could tell he was the drummer just by the strength of his upper body. Unlike Pax, he's almost completely free of tattoos, with the exception of a pair of hearts right over the left side of his chest. He's still wearing sweatbands at his wrists, but I think I see some ink peeking out from there, too.
“Is there something in particular that you like?” he says and I blink in surprise. I did not expect to be asked that by a rockstar. His eyes … they pierce right through me.
“Um …” I have literally no idea how to answer that. What do I like? It's been so long since I even thought about it. I hate you, Kevin. I hate you so much. A stranger is asking me what I want, and my boyfriend of five years never bothered. “Just an orgasm,” I say because I haven't had many of those in my life. Actually, I'm not sure if I've ever had one. Don't people generally say if you're not sure, then you haven't had one? I've gotten close though—mostly by myself.
Cope chuckles again, sounding like the boy next door, that heartthrob that all the girls fall in love with because he's so damn nice. He fucks them all, never commits to any of them. That's what I see when I look at Copeland Park.
“One orgasm, coming right up,” he says as he ruffles his auburn-red hair with his hand. Looking at him, I think he's Irish or Scottish, like I am. And I like the easy, casual style of his hair. It's not all crazy and huge and gelled into spikes like some punk rocker from the eighties, just put together enough to show the world that he gives a fuck. “Lucky for you,” he says as he leans over me and I get that butterfly feeling again, “that's my specialty.”
Cope's warm breath against my ear makes me squirm, and I'm suddenly so damn glad that my wrists aren't tied anymore. I wrap them around his neck, play with the short hair on the back of his head with my fingertips. Cope kisses me like I'm his real girlfriend, not some random girl he gave money to at a gas station.
The way he holds me, it's like he's hugging me again and it feels so fucking good. If I let myself, I could fall right into his arms and never want for anything again.
With bad boys—like Paxton Blackwell—it's so easy to tell what they're thinking, what they're going to do. But the good boys … they make you feel safe before they drop you on your ass. See, told you Cope was dangerous.
The nice ones always are.
I press my lips to the thundering pulse in the sad girl's throat, feeling her heart beat against her bare chest, pressing mine close so we're skin to skin. I like that, feeling people's emotions through their body.
And this girl … she's absolutely thrumming.
I wonder what happened to her, even as I kiss my way down her neck, trail my fingers down her side. She's absolutely beautiful, like Marilyn Monroe but with red hair and green eyes. As soon as I saw her in the gas station, I wanted to be all the hell over her, worshipping her body with my hands.
And asking me for an orgasm like that? That just kills me. What else can I do but give one to her?
Fucking Paxton, that piece of shit. I would totally kick his ass if I thought it would help, but Pax is just Pax. He's been a dick since I first met him, when he was nineteen. He's an even bigger dick now, has been ever since Chloe and Harper died in that accident.
Well, since Chloe killed Harper in that accident.
Still, how could he leave this naked, trembling girl in here like that?
“You're beautiful,” I tell her because I get this sense that she doesn't hear it enough. I see a lot of girls like this, lonely and sad. They need somebody to want them, and I want to want them. I want to take care of them all. Inevitably, I let them go after the night, but I always pray that when I do, they'll find their feet.
This girl in particular, there's just something about her. When she asked for that hug backstage? Well, fuck, I was thrilled to see her there.
I help her out of her wet tank and loose bra then kiss her breasts gently, noticing the marks that Pax left in his wake of destruction, hickeys and the slight indentation of teeth. I pay extra close attention to those spots, leaving a trail of warm, gentle kisses against Lilith's pale, white skin.
Her moans are throaty and uninhibited, possibly from the alcohol, possibly from whatever emotional trauma she's been through today. I could see it reflected back in her eyes when she was onstage with Pax, this deep-seated pain gnawing at the edges of her soul.
Poor Lilith.
She tangles her fingers in my hair and hugs me close, squeezing my face to her chest, using my body for comfort. I like that. A lot. Pretty lips and nice hair, curves and breasts, those are great but it's moments like this that really turn me on.
I kiss all the way down her belly, pausing at the small strip of red hair on her pussy. It's waxed into a shape that I like to call the champagne because it looks like a champagne flute. I brush my thumb across the hair and Lilith shivers. It's crazy, how vibrant and wild her hair is against her skin. I was sure it was dyed when I first saw her, but unless she dyes her pubic hair, it's as real as those vibrant emerald eyes of hers.
“Fucking gorgeous,” I murmur against her hip, curling the fingers of my left hand around her curves and squeezing gently. Her soft flesh fills my hand, j
ust enough to grab onto, enough to cushion the hard planes of my body against hers.
I glance up and find her panting, staring up at the ceiling, her fingers still clutching my hair.
“Are you okay?” I ask and she nods, her gaze drifting down to my face.
“I'm … yeah, I'm good.” I lift myself back up, prop my face up on an elbow and stare down at her, letting the heat and weight of my body make her wiggle underneath me.
“Just tell me what you want. Whatever is, I'll do it.” I smile and her cheeks flush. “Well, with few exceptions. There are some things even a rockstar won't do to get laid.”
“Like?” she asks, breathing hard, her heart still pounding against my own.
“Oh, stuff you don't even want to know about,” I joke and then I kiss her mouth again. She responds like a flower tilting toward the sun, raising her chin, pressing against me with her whole body. Her legs fall apart, and I know what she wants. Pax teased the hell out of her; more foreplay at this point is just torture.
I break our kiss and roll onto my back, reaching up behind me to one of the small drawers on the headboard. This room back here, we all take turns using it, bringing girls back here. It's a lot easier to play around on a custom king size bed than it is on a little bunk shoved into the wall. Anyway, there are plenty of condoms in that drawer. I pull one out and glance over at Lilith. She's turned toward me now, her hands cradled beneath her head.
“You're really nice,” she says and I smile again. “Is it all bullshit?”
“Bullshit?” I ask with a raised brow, turning onto my side to face her fully, propping myself up on an elbow. “No, not at all.”
“Why did you give me money at the gas station? You knew I hadn't lost my wallet.”
I shrug.
“You needed money; I had some on me.”
“And the hug?”
I sigh and lean in, kissing this stranger's lips like they belong to me. I like to pretend that they do, sometimes. All these girls. Like maybe one of them is actually mine.
“What about it? You needed a hug; I had one on me.”
Lilith sighs, but it's a good sounding sort of a sigh.
“Want me to fuck you now?” I ask against her mouth and she nods, breathing out, the warmth of it fluttering against my lips. This girl, she smells and tastes like rain. Maybe she sat too long in the storm?
“Please do.”
I roll onto my back, unbutton my jeans, and slide the pre-lubed condom down my shaft. Lilith's more than ready when I turn toward her again, pulling me between her thighs and rolling so that she's on her back with me on top.
She closes her eyes tight, cutting me off from that gorgeous gaze. I struggle to describe the color in my own head. Something like … like rolling hills or fresh spring leaves, vibrant and alive.
But if she wants them closed, that's okay with me.
I find her opening with my cock and she gasps, panting and curling her fingers around my shoulders before I'm even in. Her nails dig into my skin, but I don't mind. I smile and kiss her mouth until she relaxes and her thighs loosen up a little against my sides.
“It's okay, Lilith,” I tell her, “we'll get you there.”
“Okay, Cope,” she whispers back, and I really like that she uses my nickname. She must've picked it up from one of the guys, or maybe she's a really big fan of Beauty in Lies. I don't think she's a groupie, doesn't act like one at all. Besides, she definitely didn't recognize me at the gas station.
Makes me like her more.
I push inside slowly, pausing when she tenses up again, and only moving forward when she calms down. It takes a few minutes, but I end up fully sheathed in her warmth, ripples of pleasure tracing across my skin as I breathe out, long and low.
“That feels good,” I say and Lilith makes a murmuring agreement in her throat, her voice soft but strong underneath, like she wants to be a nice person but she's seen too much shit. I like that, too.
I reach down and adjust her hips, adjust my position a little, making sure that when I thrust, I grind against her clit, too. It's already swollen and firm, as desperate for an orgasm as she is.
“So tight, Lilith,” I whisper against her ear and she shivers all over, tightening around me. The sensation is hard to describe, an intimate sort of hug, a caress. I keep moving with deep, easy strokes. I know the shape of my own body, the way it feels inside of a woman. I've asked, many times before. My shaft is slightly curved, so if I get the motions right, my cock stimulates the top wall of a woman's vagina just right, hits that G-spot, makes her shiver.
It definitely makes Lilith tremble beneath me.
Her pink lips part with a pop, and she makes this sound.
“Oh.”
Just that. I smile again and lean down, kissing the top of her head, pretending like the two of us have some reason to be in this room other than just sex. It's a nice fantasy anyway.
Her hips start to move with mine, and I encourage that, putting a hand on her hip, helping her rock into me so that it feels good for us both. Lilith's so wound up that it doesn't take her all that long to start gasping, thrusting hard against me, that steel band of muscle inside her taking me prisoner.
I move a little faster, listening to her heartbeat thunder through her body and into mine.
When she comes, there's this rush of relief that floods her and washes over me, too. Her back arches and she locks her legs behind me, holding me inside of her as her body flutters around mine, pulses and begs me for something that I can't give her. But I wish. I would love to come inside of this girl.
I take the next best option, kissing her deep and hard, moving my hips through the aftershocks of her orgasm and finding my own. I groan deep and rough against her mouth, coming hard inside the condom.
For a moment, I let her hold me like I'm hers.
Lilith clutches at me, and when I glance down, I see that she's crying again.
Poor, poor Lilith.
“It'll be okay,” I say as I grab the base of the condom and pull out, chucking it in the trash and fixing my jeans. And then I take her in one arm and let her cry against my chest for an hour. But after this, I have to go.
Because I'm not hers, and she's not mine.
Although for some reason, with this stranger, this time … I kind of wish she was.
I think I drift off to sleep, but not for long.
I wake with a start, and my first thought is Dad is dead.
He died.
Without me.
My heart clenches with pain and I sit up, the black silk blanket falling down to my hips. Copeland is gone; so is Pax. I rub at my eyes and then start to panic. What time is it?! How long have I been here? But when I get up on my knees and pull the curtain aside, I can see it's still dark, still raining, still Phoenix.
I breathe out a sigh of relief and pause when a knock sounds at the door.
It's the other guy, Derek, the one who found me in the parking lot. He's wearing a pair of thick rimmed glasses in black and trying not to smile. He's also pretending to cover his eyes with his hand.
“Hey there,” he says as I feel my body start to tremble. But it's not because of him. It's just … after a tragedy, sleep feels so good, like a reprieve. Waking up becomes this horror because every time you do it, you have to relive the shock and loss again, until it becomes as familiar to you as the whorls of your own fingertips.
My daddy is dead.
And he was my best friend, my rock when Mom died. When Yasmine was murdered. We were it for each other until Susan came along, until Kevin. I never should've moved away and left him when I knew he was sick.
I'm a terrible human being.
“Sorry to bug you, Cutie, but we're shipping out soon.”
“Oh,” I say, liking the feel of this bed beneath me. It's warm and cozy, and even if a hundred girls—or more—were fucked in here, I don't care. The little room at the end of the tour bus has silver striped wallpaper and a black headboard shaped like a bat with spindles
its in gaping mouth. There are records hung on the wall in different colors; I have no idea that they mean.
When I leave this bus, I'll be standing in wet clothes with a purse full of my mother's ashes. Two hundred bucks and nowhere to go. And I'm tired. And sad. And so hungry.
As if it can read my thoughts, my tummy rumbles and I clamp a hand over it, pulling the silk blanket up around my breasts. Derek drops his hand when I do, proving that he wasn't really covering his eyes up.
“You're kicking me out,” I say blandly, but he just tucks his hands into his pockets and stares at me. His hair is so … well, cool. It's silver-white on the top, darkening into black at the roots. Looking at it, I guess that maybe Copeland's hair is a faux hawk because this look is more 'mohawk'. I mean, I guess. I'm not really an expert on this kind of thing.
“Not really, not yet. You can stay for a little while longer. Or all night, if you want.”
“All night?” I ask, my heart thundering.
“If you fancy a trip to Denver?” he says with a small laugh, sliding one hand over his crazy hair. His eyes are taking me in like I'm a statue, a piece of art to be examined and appreciated. I'm not sure how to feel about that. His gaze is openly curious and tinted with a mild sort of humor. It's hard to tell in the shadows, especially with his body limned in light from the hallway, but I think his eyes are a rich hazel, warm and gold-grey and inviting.
I breathe out, tempted by his offer. If I at all thought he was serious, I would jump on it. A free ride to Denver? That would take me at least part of the way to my destination. And then maybe I could rent a car or something? No. No, you need a credit card for that. Fuck.
“I just wanted to say, if you need the shower, it's free. Also,” he kicks his foot back and taps his toe against a box sitting in the hallway behind him, “I went outside and picked up some of your stuff, anything that looked important or was in good shape. I put the rest in your car and taped the windows up with plastic bags. Won't keep the thieves out, but at least it won't rain inside anymore than it already has.”