“Addie.”
“Can we not talk about it?”
“I don’t know. Is she who you wrote all those songs about? Shawn gave me the CD, and those are some pretty heavy lyrics.”
His cheeks redden all the way down to his jaw, and he stares at the table while his fingers tap another beat. “How do you know I write the songs?”
I tell him about Shawn’s interview, and he groans before straightening up in the chair. “I’m not a control freak or anything, okay? I just don’t sleep. So I have all these words and notes running through my head all the time, and I put them down on paper to get them out so I can have a little bit of peace every once in a while. It’s nonstop.”
I wait because I know there’s more. There always is.
“I had a hard time being the lead singer, but if Addie was there I could focus on her, and I would be fine. When we split, I didn’t have that anymore. Since Shawn can really sing the hell out of our music, I took a backseat. I prefer it.” He laughs, but it’s not from anything funny. “I have no idea why I told you all that.”
“I’ve been told I’m a good listener.” My smile is meant to be encouraging. “You don’t want to be in the spotlight because you have stage fright. You’re working the reluctant rocker angle, huh?”
He snorts, and his posture relaxes again. “Whatever you want to call it.”
“You know, having a song written about you is incredibly flattering for a girl. If you stop writing about her, you just may take away the power that she still has in the ‘relationship,’ as it were.”
“And who should I write about instead? You?” His eyes smolder, and he leans forward. “Do you want to be my muse, Emily Portman?”
“Macy, I am nobody’s damn muse. I’ve never had a song written about me in my life, so good luck finding anything worth getting lyrical over.” I flick my hand at him in dismissal. “I’m just offering my opinion. Breakups can suck if you hold on, but moving past it can be incredibly liberating.”
He lowers his voice. “Speaking from experience?”
“Are you asking for my story now? I’m not shy. I had a Tim in New York. Things changed, and he couldn’t roll with the punches. I have no regrets because I finished school and landed this sweet gig with the magazine. I travel and hear amazing bands. I get to know people before fame settles in and they become big, fat, money-hungry cocksuckers. And I don’t stay in the same place for too long, so I never get bored. It’s the best job I could have asked for.”
“I bet the musicians you’ve shadowed have loved hooking up with you.” His face is dead serious.
“Wouldn’t know. I don’t date them.”
He swallows quickly and looks away before sitting up straighter. “I need to get back to the building and finish up some work.”
I agree and lead him out of the room. “Oh, before I forget—here are the clothes I borrowed on Wednesday.”
“It’s pretty heavy for clothes.” Reaching in to the bag, he looks at me without amusement. “You actually went out and bought me a drum pad?”
I fold my arms in sweet victory. “I thought maybe you could practice on that instead.”
“Fat chance, Portman. Use your earplugs.”
“How the hell am I supposed to hear my alarm clock, you ass?” I clap my hand over my mouth and try not to laugh. “Sorry I called you an ass at work.”
He pulls one side of his mouth up into a grin and leans forward. “I could always wake you up in the mornings.”
Slapping his arm, I push by him to open the front door.
“You’re making a bigger deal out of this than you should, you know. It’s not like I knew who you were before you showed up. I don’t get that kind of info from the landlord. They don’t tell me what the tenants’ jobs are.”
I frown, but I don’t mean it.
He laughs and holds up his empty hand. “It’s not my fault you chose my band.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t have such a filthy name. I probably wouldn’t have picked you otherwise.”
His smile is sly, and he scratches the back of his neck. “Most people don’t get it.”
“Well, I have use of the Internet. Crazy, I know.”
“If it’s any consolation, we were going to name the band after my ex, but See You Next Tuesday was already taken.”
The laugh that escapes me is too loud and too real. “Shut up and get out of here, Mace.”
“Shawn told me to let you know that we’re headed out to the Mooseknuckle tonight for drinks. You can come, if you want. We’ll be there around nine.”
I tell him I’ll see him there and turn to go back inside.
Chapter Eight
From the Private Journal of Tyler Macy
She’s frustrating me, but not in the way I’ve been used to. Most girls around here are easy to impress. They’re ready and willing after a show.
She doesn’t want to have anything to do with anyone like me.
And maybe it’s a challenge.
Maybe I like that she doesn’t want me.
It’s not like it will keep me up at night. I have enough bad memories to do that.
—M
Chapter Nine
This bar is crowded, but so is every other place around here. I’m starting to get used to it. My saving grace is that I can see the top of Hollis’ hair glowing orange under the lights. I make a beeline straight toward the table where she’s banging her hand and yelling, “Shots!”
The boys are around the table, laughing at her and doing shots. Tyler winces when he bites into a lime. Jonathan holds another between his teeth, leaning in to kiss his wife. When he comes back up, it’s gone, and Hollis pulls it from her mouth with a high-pitched laugh. Carrie is staring at them like she is daydreaming about setting them on fire. Shawn is nowhere near her, his back turned like she’s not even there.
“Hey.” I wave to the group, and they welcome me in turn. Tyler is setting up another shot and licking his hand for the salt. I’m staring, but I can’t help it. His tongue is really, really red. I know he notices because he looks up at me while he’s bent over to pour the salt, and his eyes angle to stare directly into mine.
“Want some?”
“What?” I have to blink because I’m pretty sure he licked his lips when he said that. I could be mistaken. There’s salt involved, after all.
Hollis leans in. “Do you want some?”
The bass in the bar is loud, but I swear I can hear my heartbeat in my ears.
“Tequila. Do you want some tequila?” She passes over a full shot, and I wish I could, but I’m not supposed to.
“Can’t. I’m on the clock.”
Jonathan laughs way too loud. “This isn’t a business meeting. You’re not on the clock, trust me.”
I haven’t had a proper dinner, but the thought of loosening up a little overrides my good judgment. I reach for the glass. Tyler slides the salt my way and follows behind with a lime between his fingers. “Lick, swallow, suck. Don’t do it wrong, if you’re used to doing it in a different order.”
“You’re an ass. I’m allowed to say that because I’m off the clock.” Salt and liquor burns the entire way down my throat, and I can pinpoint when it hits my empty stomach. I don’t have enough time to worry about it before I bite into the lime and throw it onto the table with a flourish, holding both hands up like ‘what now?’
The guys are watching with amused looks on their faces. Carrie still hasn’t spoken, but she doesn’t need to since I can read her like a book. Shawn leans over the table and raises his hand at a passing waitress. “She’s gonna need three more.”
It’s a bad idea, it really is, but I’m too far gone. By the time my conscience starts to whisper below the heavy beat and loud riffs, I’m sitting on the stool with my eyes closed and swaying.
“We should dance,” Hollis says in my ear, her arms wrapped around my shoulders like we’re the closest of girlfriends and this is just another night out.
I laugh, settling in
to her side and letting her hug tighten. Her chin is on my head when I answer. “I don’t dance.”
Tyler’s beer bottle hits the table hard enough to make us both jump. He squints and shakes his head. “Liar.”
“I’m not a liar. I don’t dance.”
“Listen, Peach. You do ballet up there. I’ve seen your place.”
Jon and Shawn are suddenly very interested in this exchange. Carrie leaves for the bathroom, and Hollis releases me and tilts her head in question.
“Don’t call me that, Tyler. I don’t dance anymore. I use that barre for exercise. It’s a little hard to dance when you have a busted knee.” I hate talking about it, but if the truth will shut him up, it’s worth it.
Jon nudges Shawn, and they both look at the guy staring at me from across the table. “That’s fucked up, Mace. Why were you in her apartment?”
“Who do you think set up the mirror?” He’s still looking at me like I’ll stand up and tell him it’s a joke, but this is real. I’ve never found it amusing.
There’s too much tequila in my system, and his eyes are on me, unwavering, fingers still wrapped around the neck of the beer bottle.
“Fine.” I slide off the stool and grab Hollis by the wrist. She doesn’t object. Jon, on the other hand, is watching his wife cross a crowded dance floor into a sea of bodies with me. I can’t tell if he’s pissed, worried, or thinks he’s about to get a show.
Hollis smiles and pulls me close, laughing while we move. It feels nice, like I’ve won some kind of bet. Tyler looks like an asshole, or maybe I look weak and immature. I’m not dwelling on it because Hollis has her hands on my hips, and I’m laughing hysterically with my wrists resting on her shoulders like we’re a couple of ninth graders at Homecoming.
“I’m a terrible dancer,” she yells into my ear.
I’m about to tell her that I am, too, now, when she’s roughly pulled away from me and twirled into her husband’s arms. They’re so cute it makes me want to throw up. Or that could be the liquor. I’m not too sure which it is, but my head is spinning, and I feel a little lopsided before a pair of hands grab me by the waist and pull my back against someone’s chest.
“Easy now.” Tyler is holding me upright, and I’m not complaining. “You’re a lightweight.”
“I didn’t have time for dinner.” I’m pretty sure my speech is slurred, and maybe I should have stopped at the second shot. Or third. Though I can’t feel my fingers, I can definitely feel the throbbing in my knee.
When I bend to rub it, Tyler leans down with me, chest arched over my back and lips by my ear. “I was messing with you. You didn’t have to dance.”
“Of course I did. You were calling me out. I couldn’t let you win.”
He chuckles and breathes softly. “I’ll take you home.”
Home sounds fantastic, so when he turns around, drops a little lower, and motions for me to get on his back, I don’t hesitate. It feels good to be carried, and I’m so tired. This is not how I thought the night would turn out.
Tyler carries me the entire way back to the apartment, during the ride in the elevator, and through the door. He lets me down inside my room, and I limp pathetically over to my bed, flopping backward on the comforter.
“You need food.”
He won’t find much of anything in my refrigerator. Maybe a yogurt.
“There’s bread,” I call weakly and lie back down to get my bearings. “This is why I don’t drink,” I whisper to no one in particular.
He’s at my side with a peanut butter sandwich and some aspirin, which he follows with a glass of water. I feel like I’ve never been this hungry in my entire life. Once the food is gone and I’ve taken the pills, I sink back onto the bed and close my eyes.
“You’re a cheap date and a lousy drunk.” The mattress sinks under his weight.
My eyelids are heavy when I try to open them to locate his whereabouts.
“Not a date.”
“No. Of course not.”
I yawn and stretch, sliding up the bed on my back until I can locate a pillow. The food is helping, but I’m still nowhere near sober. “I’m so tired, Mace Face. Aren’t you tired? Don’t you want to sleep?”
He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, his body blocking out the light from the street below, and his silhouette is glowing. I’m fighting it, but I’m not in any position to be strong.
“I need to get out of these clothes.” I try to sit up, but he leans over and tugs my wrists to bring me upright. My arms are starting to feel less like logs, but I’m still sleepy. “Can you help?”
“I should probably go.” His voice is low and quiet, like he can’t speak any louder in the dark.
“Stay here. We’ll sleep. You’ll like it. Sleep is great. Awesome, even. It’ll be the best you’ve ever had.” I laugh at my own innuendo and glance up to gauge his reaction.
“Shameless.” He’s chuckling while he helps me take off my shirt, and I lie down to shimmy out of my jeans, throwing them over the other side of the bed. Then I turn over to crawl beneath the sheets. They feel so good against my overheated skin, beneath the tank top I’m still wearing. I pat the bed and crack an eye to see Macy still leaning over, watching me curiously.
“Get in. Come on.”
There’s a hesitation in his response when he agrees. “I don’t want you choking in your sleep or whatever.” The answer makes me laugh because it’s such a lame excuse, but if I keep him here, then he can’t drum my good night’s rest away.
His belt clangs and denim and cotton rustle, but he’s silent when he crawls in next to me. His body is warm, and he smells like the bar. Also like candy and fresh water. I turn over and shimmy back until I make contact with his chest. I don’t have to ask—he just curves into me and wraps an arm around me.
I’m just on the edge of sleep when I feel it. My entire body tenses, and I freeze, holding my breath just in case I’m wrong. The warmth and weight against my back is too real in this moment, and I’m not sure what the protocol is. If I were clear-headed, I might have an answer. His fingers are tapping against my side, and I’m trying to decipher the rhythm when I feel it again.
It takes nothing to press back against him, and his fingers stop their movement, curling into my side as he exhales.
“Tyler . . .”
“Just stop moving.”
We both sit in silence, and I listen to my heartbeat while it races. There’s a tightening in my stomach when I squeeze my thighs together. The movement pushes me closer, and he starts to angle away, mumbling something about going home when I turn and reach up to stop him.
“Wait.”
He does, his whole body rigid. “You said you wanted to sleep.”
“I do.” Everything in me is saying I need to let him go, but I’m ignoring it. “Come here.” We’re nose to nose on my pillow, and I can see his features in the darkness, mouth set and eyes trained on mine. My fingers run a soft line over the shell of his ear, across his earlobe, and against the pulse point on his neck. His hands aren’t touching me, but I want them to, and I can’t stop hoping.
He gives a small smile. “It’s the tequila. It’ll pass.”
I blink and whisper that I’m not that drunk anymore, but he doesn’t seem to be buying it. Even though I’m terrified, I can’t ignore it anymore. He gets to me. Under my skin. I’ve been thinking about him, and I’m not supposed to. He’s here in my bed, and I’ve never been one to pass up a great opportunity. “Kiss me,” I whisper.
In the darkness, his eyes wander my face. I can feel his hesitation when I lay my fingers against his cheek, but when he lifts up the tiniest bit, I know he’s going to do it. He hovers over me and waits, like I’m going to say it’s a joke and he’s an idiot and he should get out my bed, but I don’t. When he’s convinced I mean it, he bows his head and does what I’ve asked.
Our lips meet, and I’m too fast, too aggressive, tasting his candy-flavored tongue and wrapping my hands around his neck. He breathes out, and I br
eathe in, and he’s finally touching me, one hand on my side and the other against my face. I want his weight. I want him higher or lower or just more. It elicits a short, high pitched sound when his palm tightens at my hip, and he pulls back like he’s touched something blue-flame hot.
“Stop, stop.” He’s breathing heavy and staring at me with the widest eyes, but I don’t want it to stop. I wrap my legs around his and try to angle upward, but he’s talking low and closing his eyes. The only thing I decipher is a quiet ‘what the fuck.’
“Be still,” he whispers, and I am, unsure and almost embarrassed. “Wait, Emily. Just hold on.” He licks his lips and backs up a little to press both palms against the skin that peeks out from between my tank top and underwear. He’s breathing heavy and running his fingers higher, covering my breasts before trailing down again. “Jesus.”
“What?” I’m shaking, wondering what he could be thinking when he leans down and kisses me again. There’s a sound from his mouth that makes every muscle in my body tense when the kiss deepens and his weight settles on me, hands pulling and reaching, trying to touch everywhere he can. He’s between my legs, and I’m wide open. Fuck being professional. I can’t do what’s right when he’s there and I can feel him between the cotton that separates me from what my entire body is craving.
My hands are in his hair, on his back, touching his spine until they brush the waistband of his boxers, and I lean up, my lips no longer on his. His kisses are soft and breathy against my neck and lower, hands slipping higher until his thumbs brush my nipples, palms curving to knead and squeeze. I’m pushing up to where he’s pressing down. Into his chest. Against the top of his boxers.
“Macy.”
His hips roll forward, and I’m breathless, arching to meet him. He rests his ear against my chest, and my heart is hammering under the weight, but I’m still pushing. I don’t want to ask. I just want him to do it. When he turns his lips to slide lower and replace his hands on my breasts, I can’t help but squeeze his flesh, digging into the top of his ass cheeks, pressing his dick against me again. My hips lift higher, and I can feel the tip against my entrance. The only thing stopping us from being together is the cotton barrier between us, but he pushes forward. I can feel it pressing into me, far enough to let me feel him.
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