by Katie Porter
I freeze, air caught in my lungs. He hasn’t broken out that nickname in a very, very long time. Maybe not since I hit my teens. It’s been less specific stuff. It doesn’t feel good to hear it now, with the bitterness that never leaves him now. “Yeah, Dad?”
“Bloody hell, Harlow, aren’t you even going to try to tell me the truth?” He coughs and waves me closer. My knees feel like they’re going to shake right out of my jeans. “I know you’re going to Paris. For The Skies.”
“Dad...” My voice is just as lost as I am. Tears that were at the back of my eyes break loose. I shake my head. “I mean... How?”
His mouth curves in a wan smile. “You and Alec aren’t the only people in this house. Jesus, you two are like a couple of aristocrats in the royal court. Fucking and hiding it. You think you’re getting away with some big intrigue, while everyone is gossiping about you?”
“No.”
“Oh, yes.” He leans toward me. “How could you, Harlow? My own flesh and blood. My only flesh and blood—”
“If I’m your only flesh and blood, that’s something you’ve done to both of us. You’ve isolated us, and you’ve hidden me from everything. I have no idea what kind of family you’ve retreated from.”
“No one that we need.” His face is white, with those hectic red circles high on his cheeks.
I take in a careful, deliberate breath and do my best to speak calmly. Neither of us can afford for this to escalate. “Then you don’t get to use that against me. I’m sorry you’re alone. But you know what, Dad? I’m sorry that I’m alone too, and I choose to change that.”
“With that bastard?”
“You’re treating him like some enemy even while you’re staying in his house. You’ll use him but you don’t talk to him. You sure as hell don’t want to go back to your hoarder house in the Castro.”
Dad shakes as he points a finger at me. Spittle gathers white at the corners of his mouth. “Alec owes me.”
“He owes you nothing. You quit.” I press two fingers between my eyebrows. I keep losing my shit. It’s not helping. “I have to go.”
“You don’t have to.”
I fold my lips in around my teeth, the better to hold my words in. He’s right. I don’t have to go. I want to. I want to go see Alec in concert, to see him at the top of the world. I don’t think it’s too much to ask to leave this prison, either. It makes me shake to hold the poison in. But better Dad than me. I’m young and well, and he’s neither.
I return to the lonely island that is his bed. This time I hug him. He doesn’t smell like the man I used to know. Hospitals and sickness are stealing him from me. I kiss his cheek. I hold on tight to his narrow shoulders. I try to ignore how long it takes for his hands to find my back, for him to hug me in return.
“I love you, Dad.”
And then I leave, ignoring that he doesn’t say he loves me in return. I pretend it’s enough that he didn’t outright ask me to stay. I grab my suitcase and wheel it behind me. I fumble with the key at the front door because my hands are shaking.
I make my train. It’s perversely anti-climactic compared to the scene I replay for two hours while staring out the window. I stay in a haze as I check into my hotel room and arrive at the venue, a small historic theater in the Ninth arrondissment.
I’m early, but a line of people already wait outside. They’re bundled into coats and scarves against the early winter chill in the air. Most of them are chatting excitedly. I stand across the street to watch, eating a pastry I picked up along the way. I can’t tell if the fans arrived together or if they’ve all been bound by the thrill of seeing the band return. How many fans remain? How many will fill the venue? The Skies were huge, but time can erase pop culture damn fast.
Wind coils down the back of my coat as I try to imagine what this is like from any perspective other than mine. Alec is inside getting ready. His fans are here, people who thought they'd lost their idols. Now those idols have returned. How nervous are they all, that it’ll all go to hell?
Except Dad, who is probably watching the internet and hoping for shitty reviews. He’s the homebound one who walked out on this opportunity two and a half decades ago.
The specter of his bitterness and pain has followed me to France. I shiver, pulling my scarf tighter around my neck. The afternoon is as grey as my mood. Maybe I shouldn’t go in. Disappearing into the lights of Paris doesn’t sound so bad. Then I won’t taint Alec’s night with the lingering poison of my father.
Eventually I get too cold and feel too sorry for myself to stand outside any longer. A gothic heroine, I am not. I give my name to a security worker and slip in the side entrance of the theater. Heavy bass notes lead me toward the stage. The lights are up all through the theater. Dazzling gilding gleams. Red velvet seats ring two levels of balconies, but the central horseshoe is empty. General admission will be standing room only.
The whole band is on stage. Alec holds a mic front and center, Lee grips the neck of his guitar, and Nicholas absently twirls a drumstick. Ian is the only one playing, and they’re all facing him rather than the empty theater.
He stops abruptly in the middle of a chord. “Fuck.”
Alec’s posture is loose, his hips shot forward. I’m surprised he can be that relaxed. “No pressure though, mate. Doors only open in an hour.”
Ian flips him the bird, his smile wry. He starts playing again, this time a fraction faster. Lee nods in satisfaction. One by one they join in on the song. Alec is the last one to start, when verses begin to pour from his beautiful mouth.
I slide toward the shadows. I don’t want them to see me. It’s suddenly too much that I’m here. I left Dad. Now I’m stepping into this intimate moment between men who have a lot to work through—if they ever do. Except I move too quickly and catch their eye.
They keep playing. They’re more professional than to stop in the middle. Lee and Ian only glance at me and go back to doing their thing. Nicholas glares. I don’t blame him. The gossip magazines have covered the depths of his animosity with Dad. If even a quarter of it has been true, he’s probably wondering what the fuck I’m doing here and when I’ll go away. Especially since he’s taking turns between staring daggers at me and drilling holes into Alec’s back.
Alec doesn’t seem to care about Nicholas, not at this moment. He’s singing right to me. It’s one of their sexier, darker hits, with a chorus about going too far. I can’t look away from his intensity and his slate-blue eyes. He’s wearing dark jeans and Doc Martens and a Henley that clings to his lean shape.
He knows exactly what he’s doing to me too. A smile plays around his mouth. He full-out smolders, an intentional tease. I’d call it toying if I didn’t know he is fully willing to fuck me until I’m a melted puddle of nerves. The lyrics climb under my skin and swim through my veins. I want to go under with him. I want to dive into our mistakes. Again. Further.
We don’t need to come up for air.
He’s done singing before the band is done playing. After placing the mic back in the stand, he pushes his hair back but it falls immediately back into his eyes. I grin down at the hardwood floors.
The last thump of the drum hits the bare room. “Is Silas coming too?”
“No,” Alec answers without turning to look at Nicholas. “I didn’t invite him.”
“Just his daughter.” Nicholas puts his hands on his knees, drumsticks dangling.
“Yes.” Alec turns. “She’s my guest.”
My chest contracts. I don’t want to be this person, this messy shithead who ruins things. This is the legacy I’ve inherited and the reason I’ve been so obsessed with learning my history. But maybe it won’t change anything. Maybe all I can do is move forward and be better.
I cross the floor and put a hand on the edge. “Hi, Nicholas. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
He lifts an eyebrow in a classic villain arch. “None of it good, I assume.”
“Depends on the source. He tends to say nice things,” I say, p
ointing at Alec. What doesn’t need pointing out is where the negative stuff comes from.
“Usually,” Alec says dryly.
Ian swings his bass off from over his shoulders and puts it on a stand. “That’s because Alec can’t get over the many, many times Nick trounced him at snooker.”
“Snooker?” I echo, a little lost.
“It’s like pool.” Alec points an accusing finger at Ian. “He did not trounce me. We’ve been neck and neck for years. I almost had him... on quite a few occasions.”
“You say that now, but I don’t see you cueing up for a new game.” Nicholas spreads his hands wide in gentle antagonism.
Bless Ian. His mention of snooker chases the tension away. Alec and Nicholas are both smiling, with Alec egging on his friend and talking about an evening tournament after the gig. Roadies and techs slip out of the wings to assist with the instruments. I fold my arms on the edge of the stage to watch as they joke around even while they work. There are a few more adjustments to perfect. Instead of another full song, the band only plays bars and chords. Alec sings weird little warmup phrases that mean nothing.
Eventually they’re satisfied, though Alec is the pickiest. I’m kind of relieved that once everything is done and he’s pleased, he takes significant time to talk to the techs and thank them, even though it means I’m twiddling my thumbs and waiting. Well. Twiddling with my phone.
Scrolling social media means I’m not looking up when Alec comes over to meet me. I see his booted toes first. Then, because I’m kind of a headcase, I keep looking at my phone while trying to hide my smile.
“I know you see me,” he says with a cheeky tone.
“Oh?” I strive for equal airiness. “Like my world revolves around you? What makes you think that?”
He kneels, then taps my phone. “You just scrolled by a puppy video without liking it.”
I laugh and look up. His eyes are bright. He scoots off the stage and we’re standing close together, in our own little world. “Busted,” I say. “Maybe I think the rock star needs to be taken down a peg or two.”
He steps even nearer to me. There’s an envelope of electricity around him tonight, or maybe that’s just what my body feels when he comes close. He touches my cheek. “I’m only a rock star to you.”
“And half the world.”
He disagrees, making a noise and shaking his head. “No. The world has passed us by. That’s what happens when we leave for twelve years. We have fans, and I have money, but that’s not the same thing.”
I shouldn’t be this close to him, not in public. But I don’t want to back away. I can’t stand the idea of stepping outside this current of energy between us. It’s all I can do to resist tracing the knit of his Henley.
“Yes,” I agree. “You’re my rock star.”
I mean it in every way he could interpret that. Every way he could take it to heart. I can’t find it in myself to say anything more, or to put a kind of name on these uncertain, frightening feelings. I don’t know how to cope with it.
But I can say this. “Do you want to revisit your groupie-fucking rule?”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Alec
“I STILL DON’T FUCK groupies.” I lace our fingers together and lift our bound hands. My mouth finds the delicate skin at the inside of her wrist. Her heartbeat is racing. Fitting, since mine is too.
She cocks an eyebrow. “What a shame.”
“Lucky for me, you’re not a groupie.”
Her gaze darts over my shoulder before returning to lock with mine. She tsks. She hasn’t pulled her hands back though. “I have a feeling that Nicholas and maybe Lee would be happy to see this right now. They’re not exactly shooting me ‘eat shit’ looks, but they don’t look super happy either.”
I chuckle. It’s hard to be serious when I feel this goddamned good. I lead her away from the stage, toward the back of the theater. The hallway brick is painted deep red. I’ve always loved this Parisian atmosphere. “Being a groupie implies blind loyalty. Do you think you can watch tonight’s show without criticizing anything?”
“Would you want me to?” She talks with a laugh in her voice. “You’d think I’d been abducted by aliens if I went all starry eyed.”
I sweep her into the small dressing room I’ve taken for the night. It’s barely more than a closet. The backstage of this theater is practically a warren. In the dressing room, a small leather loveseat is positioned opposite a mirror with a ledge instead of a makeup counter. The lighting gives the cream walls a yellow tinge. Black and white no-nonsense tiling covers the floor.
I’ve been in fancier dressing rooms. Plush couches. Walls covered with soft silks. Giant star-sharped lights. Even on my solo tour, I had bigger and posher.
None of that matters, because Ian’s Patagonia jacket is slung over the end of the couch. Not the coolest. Ian never has been cool, and he’d be the first to admit it. But that jacket means he’s here. Lee and Nicholas are here. This is The Skies in Paris.
Harlow stands in the small room, her hands in her back pockets, and surveys it by turning in a circle. She shakes her head. Her smile is arch. “I have to admit, the glamour is... somewhat lacking, Mr. Rock Star. We need to up your game.”
From behind, I fit my hands around her hips and sneak up beneath her coat until I find bare stomach. “This is the real-life grind of a comeback. You should be appreciative. You’re getting a peek behind the curtain.”
“I think we can make life behind the curtain a little... sexier.” She turns and winds her hands into my hair. She tugs. Sweet pain stings my scalp and I think about biting the base of her throat. The pink tip of her tongue dips out. She wets the corner of her upper lip. “The rest of the band doesn’t come back here?”
“They won’t. Not until after they eat dinner.”
“And they won’t be looking for you?”
“I never eat before a show.” I don’t know if it’s superstition or my dislike of feeling weighed down, but it’s never worked for me. I smile in a way that feels wolfish. “Any reason?”
She steps out of reach. With another step she’s at the door. She flips the lock. It’s not much but it’ll slow down anyone who tries to come busting in. Combined with the dark velvet look in her eyes, the quiet snick is enough to set my blood on fire.
“Let’s discuss that groupie question.” She shucks her scarf first, unwinding it and tossing the soft knit onto the loveseat. Her coat drops to the floor. The black of her jeans has washed to grey, and one knee is worn through. My fingertips itch to curl around her leather and silver belt. It looks sturdy enough to hold her as I fuck her hard.
I make myself shake my head. “Afraid not. You’re not showing enough skin to qualify.”
She runs her fingertips over the neckline of her blouse. The buttons are open past her cleavage, and it’s more than obvious that she skipped wearing a bra. Shadows dance beneath the inside curve of her perfect breasts. “Are you sure about that?”
I want to undo her, to strip away her arrogance and find what she’s hiding underneath. Like knows like. Here I’m the most guarded and on edge I’ve been in longer than I can remember. At this moment, just before I'm reunited with The Skies, I’m falling apart. I want to crash against her.
I use her belt to yank her against me. Her breasts flatten against my chest and my thighs frame hers. She’s warm to the touch. I unbuckle her belt. The tinkling sound and our fast breaths are the only noises in the small room.
She finds purchase on my shoulders. “Alec.”
I slide my hand down the front of her jeans and catch hold of lace and netting. I twirl it around my fingers to gently tug. “Panties? If you want me to fuck you like a groupie, you should be more accessible. I know you’re capable.”
“You don’t seem to have a hard time getting to me.”
I bite her neck because my other option would be snarling like a beast. I like the gasping tone to her words, the way she sounds like I’ve sent her flying. I feel like I�
�ll float away on the barest wisp of air from her lips.
I edge beneath her panties without bothering with her jeans. I cup bare, slick flesh. She lifts on her toes and settles her body exactly where she wants me. I squeeze. I’m holding her core, her life.
“You’re already so wet. Soaking for me. How does that happen when we haven’t even kissed?”
“You could fix that.” She lifts her mouth toward mine. A hint of distance remains between us, as if she doesn’t want to be the one to close the gap. An eternity lingers in that atom of space.
“I could.” I say. I slide over her wet, polished skin. “You waxed?”
“One of those things I’ve never gotten around to before. It seemed like the thing to do before traveling to Paris to meet the lead singer of a band.”
I pet her folds and delve between. I play in her oils. Her softness beckons. I want my cock deep in her body. I want to bury myself in her. Instead, I lick her neck and rub my fingers between the lips of her pussy. She squeezes even closer to me. This is for her. I want her fixated on me. Only me.
My greediness may never get enough of this woman.
I seek out the tight knot of her clit. She’s swollen there, slick and eager. She gasps when I catch it between two fingers. I chuckle in her ear when she scratches the back of my neck.
Her hips squirm. “Bastard.”
“I’m enjoying myself.”
She catches my earlobe between her sharp little teeth. “Fuck me. No more teasing.”
I shift and slide my middle and ring finger into her tight, hungry cunt. She groans again, rocking down on my hand. Her hips work. When her head drops to my chest, her hair forms a curtain around her face. I push it back with my free hand. I need to see her as I twist her inside out. Her cheeks hollow. She says my name again, and not in a happy way, but like her body is betraying her.
I’m not giving her what she asked for, but I do intend to give her what she needs. I work her clit softly with my thumb, tracing around and around until she’s coming apart and begging in an incomprehensible stream of words. Her knees go weak. I lock my arm tight around her hips to spin us.
