"I don't need your help."
"Consider it a perk of our mutual friendship."
"Fine." I get back in the car. My knee doesn't hurt at all. And what the hell could he possibly know about scrapes that I don't? I'm an ER scribe. He's a rock star. It's clear which of us has the experience.
He slides into the driver's seat. "So, where do you live?"
"Sawtelle and Idaho. The complex on the left."
He drives without any need for directions. We pull into the garage, and I lean over Miles to punch in the code. This time, I'm acutely aware of how close my chest is to his face. His lips are about two inches from my top. His exhale sends a shiver straight down my spine.
Deep breath. I can handle this. I push all my lust away and direct him to a parking spot. Then it’s to my apartment on the third floor.
It's a mess. There are clothes all over the bed and the floor, including several pair of underwear. I kick them under the bed.
Miles scans the walls of my tiny studio apartment, taking in the movie posters breathing a hint of life into the otherwise drab, beige room—all three original Star Wars movies, plus Jurassic Park, The Matrix, Dark City, and The Terminator.
My queen bed is about two feet from my desk. The kitchenette barely fits one person.
So it makes sense that Miles is standing a mere foot away. But my heart is still beating awfully fast.
His lips curl into a smile. "I like your décor."
"I'm sure you've seen plenty of women's apartments with much better décor."
"I still like yours." He sits me on the bed. "First-aid kit?"
I point him to the bathroom. He disappears for a moment and returns with a bottle of rubbing alcohol, a bag of cotton balls, and a wide bandage. I don't even remember buying half those things. They must have been Rosie's. She doesn't need them anymore.
“You don’t have any antibacterial cream?” he asks.
“I didn’t even know I had this,” I say.
“That’s responsible.”
“I don’t need a lecture from someone like you.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Someone who knows how to dress a wound?”
“And how did you learn how to dress a wound?”
“Fair point.” He uncaps the rubbing alcohol, presses the cotton ball over it, and tilts the bottle. His eyes find mine. "This is going to sting."
"I know."
Miles drops to his knees, kneeling in front of me like he's about to pull off my panties and plant his face between my thighs. Not that I'd ever imagine anything like that.
Ow. Ow. Ow. It doesn’t just sting. It burns like hell.
Miles pats my knee dry and slides a bandage over my scrape. His fingertips trail along the inside of my calf for a moment, then his hand is back at his side.
His eyes meet mine. "Better?"
"It was always fine."
He pushes himself up to his feet. He plops on the bed next to me, his jean-clad thigh pressed against my bare skin. "You have a cell phone?"
"Yes."
He motions for me to hand it over. For a second, I hesitate. But Miles is friends with Drew, and Drew is friends with Kara. I'm sure, if he were really motivated, he could get my phone number.
I pull my phone from my purse and place it in his hands.
He taps the screen for a moment and hands it back. There he is, in my phone, Miles Webb. The notes section reads Sex God.
"Charming," I say.
He stares at me like he's thinking about what we could be doing on the bed. Or maybe I'm projecting.
"Let me know if you need anything," he says.
"What would I need?"
"To satisfy your curiosity."
I hug my phone to my chest. Time to put an end to this flirtation. I clear my throat and throw my shoulders back. "Listen, Miles. I'm sure you're a great guy in a lot of ways, and I'm sure I'll see you again, what with our mutual best friends."
"True." His voice is calm, totally unfazed.
"But, I’d appreciate it if you'd stop flirting with me. I'm not interested. I'm not interested in anything besides acing my senior year and getting into a great medical school."
He makes eye contact. "I don't believe you."
"Where the hell do you get the confidence?”
"You may not realize it, but every time I look at you, you're staring at me. Staring at me like you're thinking about what you want to do to me."
I know what I want to do to him. I want to punch him in the face and tell him to go screw himself. I fire up an insult and turn to face Miles. But when our eyes connect, my mouth goes sticky.
"Like right now," he says.
"You're mistaken."
"No. There's no mistaking your interest."
"I'm sure you're used to women throwing themselves at you, but it's not happening. I don't care how perfect your eyes are, or how strong your shoulders are, or if you have piercings that will drive me out of my mind. It's. Not. Happening."
"But you have been thinking about it."
I'm hot everywhere. There's this electric current coursing through my body, begging me to take him up on his offer. The damn thing has no respect for my wishes. This guy is as cocky as the day is long. There's no way I could trust him with my first time.
I take a deep breath. "Just keep the flirting to yourself."
He stands, his eyes still on mine. "Not if you keep staring at me."
A rush of heat spreads through my body, but I fight it. I meant what I said. I don't care how hot Miles is. I don't have the time or energy for any guy, much less one who’s clearly bad news.
"I'll keep my eyes to myself," I say.
He shifts off the bed. "I'll believe it when I see it."
"Believe it."
His lips curl into a smile. "I hope I never have to." He opens the door, glancing at me on his way out. "Meg, I'm not believing."
"I'll work on it."
His voice gets lower. "I really hope you don't."
The door closes, and I collapse on the bed. My heart is pounding against my chest. My lungs are totally void of oxygen. Miles Webb, the gorgeous, asshole rock star, wants me. He could have any buxom groupie he wants, and he wants me. Gawky, wallflower me.
CHAPTER THREE
My phone buzzes, snapping me out of my poetry class-induced boredom. It’s Miles.
Miles: How about a picture of your wound?
This is my elective, the class I chose just so I could take it with Kara. She’s sitting next to me, sipping a can of black tea, and scribbling notes with a pen.
She glances over at me and shakes her head. "I've seen that look."
"Shouldn't you be hungover?"
She certainly doesn’t look any worse for wear. Her hair and makeup are perfect. Her jeans and blouse are wrinkle-free. Her deep navy nails match her backpack.
"Lucky me, my friend told me to have a glass of water." She pulls a can of green tea from her backpack and places it on my desk. "I know how to repay the favor."
I pop open the can and take a long sip. It's crisp, clear, refreshing.
I reply:
Meg: No way you're getting any pictures of me.
Miles: Suit yourself. I was going to send you something very nice in return.
Meg: Like what?
Miles: A picture for a picture.
A blush spreads across my cheeks. He can't mean...
"How is Miles?” she asks.
I shrug and slide my phone into my lap.
"Sweetie, whatever story you’re selling, I’m not buying it.” She taps her pen against her paper. “Did he keep flirting after you dropped me off?”
The professor is explaining some poetic device with absolutely no enthusiasm. You'd think a guy who devotes his study to such a romantic art form would have a little passion, but no.
"No. It was a total non-event," I say.
“Then why do you have a Band-Aid the size of my face on your knee?” She points to the bandage on my leg.
“I f
ell. No big deal.”
"Swear he didn't give you a hard time."
Miles. Hard. Time. That image of him—naked and kneeling on the bed—flashes through my mind again. It's burned into my brain.
I shake my head. "He's fine. Not gonna be my best friend, but I won't cry if you want to do something with him and Drew. Not a double date but—"
"We’re just friends.” She looks at me carefully, examining me. “You swear Miles didn’t try anything?”
“I’m twenty-one. I can handle being alone with a man.”
“He goes through three girls a week.”
“Maybe I’m the one who wants to use him for sex,” I say. “Maybe I’m the one he needs to be careful around.”
Kara raises her eyebrow as if to say please. Her voice gets sing-song. “Not buying it.”
“Whatever. I don’t need you protecting me either way.”
She shrinks back, wounded. “Okay, you’re a grown-up and you can make your own decisions. But think hard about any decision that involves spreading your legs for Miles.”
Well, now my concentration is totally shot.
“I will. Thank you for the concern.”
“Maybe think about it while you’re alone in your bed, where there’s no danger of—”
“I got the point.”
I don’t blame her for her caution. I've been awfully fragile ever since Rosie died.
But I don’t want to be the friend who needs taking care of.
I change the subject to something more pleasant. "Jurassic Park is playing at the Nuart Friday at midnight."
"I'm there."
***
All day, my phone burns a hole in my pocket. It taunts me, even during my bio test. No reply from Miles. I make it through the end of my shift at the ER and back home before I give into my curiosity.
I take a picture of my skinned knee and send it to him.
Meg: Don't complain to me if you think it's gross.
He replies quickly.
Miles: Right back at you.
My phone buzzes with a new picture message—the back of his hand. His knuckles are battered and covered in scar tissue. He got into a lot of fights once upon a time.
Meg: That's not what I thought you'd send.
Miles: Imagining some place a little lower and lot more exciting?
Meg: Not necessarily.
Miles: You have to earn that.
Meg: No, I have to go study.
Miles: It's almost eleven.
Meg: Just got off work at the ER. No time to waste.
Miles: Must be tiring working so hard.
Meg: I like to stay busy.
Miles: You’re really slow for someone who works in an ER.
Meg: Whatever. I’m used to wounds, not walking in on people having sex.
Miles: You were taking your time getting a good look.
Meg: No. I was surprised. Goodnight.
Phone on silent, I devote my next two hours to my bio textbook. When I'm finally done, my cell is sitting there on my desk, face down, teasing me like it has some kind of message waiting.
I turn it over.
Miles: Sweet dreams.
Sweet dreams. A wonderful idea. I get ready for bed and collapse under the sheets. But the second my lids press together those images flashes in my mind. Miles, naked and kneeling on the bed.
Maybe it’s not such a bad idea, sleeping with Miles. He’s certainly attractive enough. And I could certainly use the distraction.
It’s possible he’s more sincere then he lets on.
I grab my phone.
Meg: Did you mean what you said in the car?
Miles: I only say things I mean.
Meg: About sleeping with me.
Miles: Is that an invitation?
Meg: Just a hypothetical question.
Miles: Hypothetically, I can be at your apartment in twenty minutes flat.
Meg: Funny.
Miles: Of course I meant it. You’ve been thinking about me, haven’t you?
Meg: I didn't say that.
Miles: I read between the lines.
Meg: Nevermind. I'm going to bed for real.
Miles: I'll be your first.
Meg: I didn't say I was a virgin.
Miles: Hypothetically. If you're tired of waiting, if you're curious, if you really want your first time to be out of this world good. Then I'm there.
Meg: Really?
Miles: It's just an offer.
Meg: I'll think about it.
***
My phone is silent for a few days. No word from Miles. Either he's screwing with me or he's only interested in what's between my legs. Doesn't matter to me. We're friends by association. Nothing more. Nothing less.
Late Thursday night, his song comes on the radio. In Pieces, the one that's filled with the kind of grief that tears you in half.
Three weeks now.
Can't sleep.
Gaping hole in my chest
shows no signs of recovery.
My heart pounds against my chest. My breath catches in my throat.
That word, a joke, you laugh.
"Running away again, kid?"
A minute here
and then you're gone.
I close my eyes, willing my thoughts to go anywhere but that awful memory.
It doesn't work.
I'm in that hospital room, watching doctors try to save my sister. I can see her blue lips, feel her cold hands. They're freezing, no grip, no signs of life at all.
Lights out.
Can't sleep.
Three weeks now.
Walls closing in.
Heavy head,
but no one else can see.
She's dying. I watch her die again and again. The same stupid dream I have every night. The reason why I can't allow myself a single minute of free time. Because my thoughts go back to her and all the ways I failed her.
An opiate overdose.
I had no idea.
How could I have no idea?
(No one ever did).
A lost cause still,
worse than before.
No signs of recovery.
She's gone. It's been three months, and it still hurts so bad. How is it possible that Miles went through something like this? He's so calm, casual, and unaffected. Not the type of guy who knows this kind of pain.
I try to turn my focus back to my studying, but I can't. The question eats at my mind. How is it possible that Miles, the cocky player, is the same guy as Miles, the wounded poet?
Meg: Can I ask you something?
Miles: You're up late.
Meg: Always am.
Miles: Shoot.
Meg: Do you write the lyrics for Sinful Serenade?
Miles: All but one song.
Meg: In Pieces?
Miles: Nope. That one is 100% Miles Webb.
Meg: Really?
Miles: You getting at something?
Meg: It's hard to imagine you going through something like that.
He doesn’t reply. Five minutes pass. Then ten.
Meg: I only mean, because you're so casual about everything.
Meg: And the way you plow through groupies.
Miles: I don’t plow. I make sure every girl I’m with enjoys herself.
Meg: I didn't mean it like that.
Miles: Make sure every girl comes.
Meg: I believe you.
Miles: More than once, ideally.
Meg: I'm sure you're very good in bed. It's just...
Miles: Spit it out.
Meg: The guy that wrote that song. You're nothing like what I imagined.
Miles: What did you imagine?
Meg: Someone sensitive. Someone who hurts deep down inside.
Miles: Who says I don't?
Meg: You don't seem like the type.
Miles: Are you this rude to all your friends or only me?
Meg: We're not really friends.
Miles: Apparently not.
My cheeks flare. That isn't how I mean it.
I stare at my screen. There's a heaviness in my chest. I barely know the guy. He's been nothing but smug every time I've seen him, but I still feel awful. If someone tried to convince me I didn't know what pain felt like, that I wasn't wrecked by losing the person I loved more than anything...
I'd punch that person right in the face.
I don't talk to anyone about Rosie, not really. And here Miles went and wrote a whole song about losing someone. He told the whole damn world, and I went and accused him of making it up.
Meg: I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that.
Miles: I've heard worse.
Meg: I didn't mean any offense. I swear.
Miles: I'm sure you'll find a way to make it up to me.
CHAPTER FOUR
Friday drags. Class all day. Work all night.
I don't check my phone until I'm at home, changing and scarfing down a bowl of cereal.
Kara: Sweetie, I'm so sorry, but Miles and Drew invited themselves to the movie. I can tell them to get lost.
A sigh escapes from my throat. Midnight movies are supposed to be our thing. A time to relax. Not a time to get all tied up in knots because my body can't help its attraction to a certain player rock star.
I can’t ask him to leave. That’s admitting defeat.
Meg: That's okay.
Kara: So you’re not going to cancel on me at 11:59 because you’re “too tired”?
She knows me too well.
Meg: I'm not going to let him ruin my favorite movie.
Kara: You can have my pick Sunday.
Meg: And next Sunday.
Kara: Deal. Do you really want to use Miles for sex? Because I can make sure you two get a chance to be alone.
Meg: I’m not sure.
Kara: I want it on the record that it’s a terrible idea. But he’s super fucking hot. Like hotter than the sun. I don’t fault you for wanting him.
Meg: It’s on the record.
Kara: So?
Meg: I want the option.
Kara: OMG! You have to promise details.
Meg: Aren’t we a little old for that?
Kara: Not at all, Sweetie. I’ll make sure it happens. And I am sorry. When I mentioned the movie to Drew, he got so damn excited. I couldn’t tell him no.
Meg: It's not because you like him.
Kara: Not at all. I'll bring you a can of tea.
Meg: I'll make sure Drew has the chance to walk you home.
Sing Your Heart Out Page 2
